Just a Speck On the Map

Oakdale is not a place you go to; it is a place you leave from.

And yet, nonetheless, you found yourself here; somehow, perhaps, you took a wrong turn. Or maybe, just maybe, you encountered it as a tiny speck on the map and were struck by a dumbed, irresistible curiosity. Somehow in some way, you made it here.

It was meant to be. 

And you found it to be that always-gonna-be-there-never-gonna-change kinda place. It didn’t have the alternativeness of the Bay or the Rush of the Oversized Apple. Oakdale, instead, moved with a near-suspended, otherworldly pace. Even with time’s apparent passage, little changed, little disclosed itself as unfamiliar or new.

Oakdale also challenged - you later realized, on the drive home – your notion of ‘place;’ as you recall, nothing happened while you were there, really.

What was happening didn’t much matter even, but what did was what was not. Vast, sweeping, open spaces, long, rolling pastures, and contented, seemingly immortal, cud-chewing cattle featured prominently in a very real portrait of sheer eternity. What mattered, you realized, was what was between the stuff: the interstices, the absences.

At first you were unimpressed, though Oakdale wasn’t phased. Even if it is the Cowboy Capital of the World, it struts the motto around humbly, just as soon as it discards it. And yet, in these underwhelming moments, you found contentment: a unprecedented but palpable kind that you’ve since lost the words for. Because, you realized, it was incommunicable. And, the more you talked about it, the loonier you seemed. So you just held onto it, privately.

Likewise, you witnessed how Oakdale’s bountiful, yellow-summered pastures and endless serpentine-highways happily obscured the outside. While you forcibly cursed the spotty internet, you were taken by the force of the environs, that is, once you put down your phone.

But where were you exactly? In a Cowtown whose main bragging rights involve being nicely-situated between San Francisco and Yosemite, equidistant from Bakersfield to your South and to Sacramento, the capital?

Why did you come here anyways? You weren’t here for the thrills or distraction. Or to witness sublime metallic monuments that stand as testament to human overcoming. You knew you wouldn’t find them here.

And yet, you gave it time. At first a few hours. Then a day. Then a week. Or a month. You couldn’t remember, really. The place somehow, beyond explanation, enraptured you. In your free time, you swam in meandering streams, walked thoughtfully and solitarily down the main corridor. And you dined, testing as many scrumptious, vibrant Mexican food restaurants as you found (numbering in the teens), in between trips to satisfy incorrigible urges to test the local beef – known miles around.

Oakdale’s heat was its darkside, -you found - if it had one, and so many had to weather it. Countless laborers defied its wrath for pitiable remuneration to furnish luscious strawberries, plump tomatoes, or even crunchy walnuts for prime storefront presentation. The images were indelible, and since all you’ve done is chide your friends for their callous purchase of the cheapest goods by the companies with the poorest labor records.

In some ways, Oakdale smacked of so many other small towns. A dysfunctional mainstreet clocktower rose stereotypically above. And you passed a few of the local parks inhabited by the shelter-less, the exposed and the discarded. You chuckled even at the illuminated church marquees, and thought better than to critique “pray-conditioned” to say “prayer-conditioned.”

But mostly, you found endearing the kind, dutiful staff who stirred each morning to staff the local library, if for no other reason than to prevent a handful of obsessive regulars from abusing their computer privileges for exploring ‘the fringes’ of the WWW.

On what seemed like a whim, you snuffed Starbucks, if only that once (you’d do it again) for a place that caught your eye: Cafe Bliss, where you sat and relaxed and enjoyed a heavenly, brown-sugar-coated blueberry muffin, the plumpest ever (most likely), untroubled by mid-afternoon planning of how to weather the looming, treacherous rush-hour herd’s pilgrimaged traffic.

This is how life is lived here, and the rhythm enchanted you, lulled you, cribbed you, coddled you.

Eventually, you had to leave, reluctantly, bidden by your ostensible ‘duty’ to the world. And while you did ache for home - come to think of it - you realized that you felt an even more ineluctable pang of nostalgia for this place you’d met so long ago (or was it?).

A sudden, slight breeze blew across your face and made the nearby dry brush whisper so softly. You stepped outside of your parked car on the shoulder of a dirt road and walked the broken dirt, and you wondered if you’d ever encounter a place like Oakdale again.

And you accepted, lamentably, that you wouldn’t. Such nirvana shows itself but once.

But for you, and for others, Oakdale will always be there, be here. It won't be pained if you spurn it; all you need do is return, and the longing will cease nearly instantly.

A stinging revelation struck you as you the radio blared and you skipped town, and you haven’t been able to shake its since. It wasn’t just that you missed Oakdale. That didn’t seem to matter, even. But what did matter and what ate away at you was not your yearning for Oakdale, but that Oakdale, over time, had developed a profound, unconditional, unmistakable yearning for you.

Journal Entry 06/15

Today, I visited Staten Island, which, according to several, is far more Unionized than other places here. It has a bad rap, apparently, but the pace there is far closer to one I'm more familiar with and comfortable in. There was a lot more space too, and the people strolled as though they were unconcerned by being judged to be subpar to what the rest of the city had to offer.

My first view of the place came while on the ferry, complimentary of the city, which has, for whatever reason, decided to generously subsidize all ferry rides. More than likely, there are political and commercial reasons for the decision, but if it makes good financial and social sense, then all the better to eroding the face of a world turning inwards, into the private realm. One could see ships docking off of the immediate shores of the city, barges joined with various cruise ships, transit ships and other kinds of ships, assisting them in their complicated navigation of the heady, generally-occupied bay.

As we docked, I hurriedly escaped the hatches in a herd alongside hundreds of others, with the occasional 'subversive' trying to push their way ahead (for some inexplicable, largely un-explicable reason). From there, the ferry terminal opens to the main political buildings of the city, what here are called "Staten Island Borough Hall," and while I'm unclear of their specific political purview, the terminology nevertheless intrigues for its apt definitional precision; that is, because Staten Island is not a city, but a borough.

After walking solitarily behind one other girl for a few minutes, I readily found my bus stop but ambled around to search out a grocer that might have some rations, the likes of which I was low on myself. The one I found was modest but clean, a place where half of the things were still packaged, little reeking of the ready-to-please quality of the rest of the stores in the city (especially the Hipster ones).

Following a short wait, I boarded a bus bound for the other side of the island, crossing it through one of the main paths "Victory Boulevard," whatever that might have meant. Along the way, I saw various humble, honest storefronts, identified in English or Spanish, none of which stank of the pretentious perfidy of the high class places found in the rest of the Burroughs (although I'm sure they were there to be found). Columned, colonial villas and large, wooded parks disclosed themselves on the ride as well, and I was generally happy to experience a sense of peace that I haven't since departing the Valley.

As we neared the library, I queried the bus driver on the proximity of the stops to the only open library on the Island (on a Sunday afternoon, admittedly, but I'm incorrigible). Promptly, a fellow bus rider reported "Two stops down, you can take two more," for which I thanked her and seated myself again. The Island seemed to exude a different kind of warmness about it.

On my way home, after a trip to Starbucks and a visit to Adorno lane, I climbed up the next 62 once again, and sat next to an attractive girl who boldly sported sweat pants in broad, Sunday daylight. Oh how I wanted to know such a strong, uncompromising character. But like any good New Yorker (or tourist who's trying to fit in), I suppressed my inner desire to make contact and contentedly sat next her, making obligatory glances to my phone to indicate my level of competency with the social moreys of the day.

The ferry ride home happened in a similar way, but only after one of the most beautiful vistas opened up before me: the view of the city, and its surrounding metro areas. But then I thought to myself: was it monstrous or wonderous? And I settled on monstrous, but for the Marx in me: accumulated, extracted, stolen capital stored in concrete, metallic form to be lauded, shown and mindlessly strewn about town in innumerable postcards, paintings, posters and photos, reproduced in a spectral way probably incomparable to any other city in the world.

And so it is living in this city, or for the time being that I am. New York is no great place, but it is a place, and I am here. It terrifies me, strikes wonder into me, and is far bigger than anything I could really manage. But I will try to make do, as I always do.

Love,


Joe

The Patchy, Verdant Gardens of Oakdale

To some degree, everyone is a gardener here, like being a guitarist in a bad.

On the weekends, people congregate outside, each on their own revealing green plots. These verandas vary: some are trimmed finely, planned and lacking any undesirable growth; others betray unyielding browns and pale yellows. In spite of our naturally dry environment, natural growth is hardly considered garden worthy.


All the while, we entertain a neurotic fascination with these mini parks, stoked from without by the scrutinizing eyes of others and impelled from within by a deep yearning to be remarkable.

What is arrayed around the green distinguishes houses. Light flowers, colored pink or purple. Sometimes marigolds, carnations, or lilies even inhabit these sparse, rural installations.

If one is lucky, one might take a stroll by a house with roses; if one is luckier, there will be an bouquet of colors - bold pinks, deep blues, pale yellows, sanguine reds - that suggest fragrances that cannot compare to anything else we might make.

Still, the people here exhibit an odd antipathy toward putting grass to work for rest or respite. It is considered abnormal to use them aside for objects of visual or olfactory delight.

These observations, however, really only hold within the confines of the 'urban' sphere of town, outside of which gardens and flora are all but use. But in town, in town, gardens are all about the aesthetic, the beautiful, the captivating the wonderful, the sublime and the useless.

How 'bout Another, Partner?

Weekends here are spent in many ways, with bar attendance as a strong candidate for most popular, at least amongst a mainly middle-aged crowd.

Like so many of the businesses here, these establishm
ents display themselves proudly and comfortably within the produced (and felt) image of the town as being a cow town, something from which they can themselves derive profit and sustain their own activities on into the future.

Few of these places could be called pubs, and the closest thing to a dive bar here is a warm, friendly joint called, simply "the Cowtrack" (one word, don't get it wrong). Rumors abound about how rough and tumble the different establishments are, but Oakdale is only really so rough and tumble. Increased security might extend this image, but basically Oakdale remains a warm if slightly off-kilter (but not maligned) drunk, that is, in this place without a place.

Protecting Oakdale From Itself

Living in Oakdale means living much living alone: that is, aside from chance encounters between entering and leaving one's car and what happens outside of work contexts (which are themselves restricted to the need to complete certain duties, with little room for play), there is relatively contact with people that are unfamiliar, whose very presence and story is likely very familiar to oneself, the function of habit and routine movement and engagement.

It is this personal distance that serves as the cyclically reinforcing basis for the distrust that pervades this little town.

In my opinion, it is very clearly based on a sense that we are all relatively similar, living in a homogenous community of people with basically the same beliefs such as ourselves that we maintain a sense of distance, of distrust. We assume they are like us, meaning there difference itself is thrust aside entirely, evaded or ignored or deliberately covered.
It is possible, though not certain, that this disposition, however, also caries with it something much darker, more reproachable and even unsettling: the deep disapproval, even ostracization; that is, an unwillingness, a disinterest in engaging with difference in any serious or profound or self-sacrificing manner, preventing us from relating to one another in any serious way, holding even our neighbors in suspicion.

One of my enduring curiosities is whether this kind of marginalization is merely typical of rural settings like this or if it is part and parcel of being human, as we may tend towards our own, preserving and preferring a sense of group identity and community.

A strong distrust of others, in fact, seems essential to any appreciation of the rural, as it originates in the very sense that a previous community has been/was incapable of providing for its members and thus needed to be left behind or replaced. Or, it comes from a longstanding inability to deal with established communities of people and instead prefers to remain in areas undepicted, unrepresented.

In either or whatever case, this way of living calls into question the presumption that being human means living in and coming from a part of some community, or merely qualifies the essential nature of that community.

Or, perhaps, in another way, what it instead signifies is that our community idolizes something possibly inimical to itself - complete and probably under-evidenced self-reliance, an ideology that nevertheless persists and explains our doubts about the ability of the state to make good on the desires of the people.

Such is the state of trust in this place without a place.

Oakdale, You Look Stunning This Evening

For the most part, this place is deficient in stores that relay concerted supplies of clothes or 'modern' apparel. There is such thing here as a Kmart, a beast of a dying breed apparently, and we've so far successfully repelled the vigilant and penetrating gaze of the eye of Walmart. But we have our ubiquitous Walgreens and CVSs, like everywhere else.

The only store more common here than drug stores are dollar stores. We lack several other kinds of arguably necessary establishments, but there is always room for another, nearly identical, establishment that vends questionable items at questionable prices. The sad side to this story is that many of us need these prices, and this town just doesn't provide opportunities for alternatives, and perhaps doesn't want to admit to it, for its own separation into a wealthy (East Oakdale) and less well-supported (West Oakdale).

Stereotypically, there isn't any dearth of, for lack of a better name, "Western Wear." Whole stores are dedicated to its sale and to perpetuating the spectacle of the lone cowboy, not to mention flea markets and even general apparel venders. Owning cowboy boots and some kind of hat is nearly obligatory, even if these purchases are often very costly and should really only be incurred for specific and utility-oriented ends. Then again, this same aesthetically-indulgent trend displays itself in the incessant presence of climate-change-defying (denying) lifted/unlifted trucks that roam this land.

Such is fashion and fare in this place without a place.

Are You Cowboy Enough?

Towns, like salespeople, must promote themselves and their products in a particular way so as to find buyers or to convince unwitting passersby that they themselves should be buyers lest they live hereafter unfulfilled lives.

Oakdale, like so many products (or towns), has its own brand, and this brand is circulated, inserted, announced, presented and reiterated in so many ways over time - in more lasting and ephemeral ways - and this explains the prevalence of the "Cowboy Capital of the World" image that fuels its sense of self.

A brief reference to an aspect of Oakdale's short history is relevant here. Before being the Cowboy Capital and having to vie for the title with a city from another state, the city carried the moniker "The City of Almonds" because, understandably given that the city was surrounded and practically besieged by acres and acres of immense and orderly orchards (as described here), the town should carry a name that fit itself.

At some point, however, the city appeared to decide to absolve itself of any dedication to its real and main commodity and instead develop a different kind of marketing, self-promotional mechanism that may have fit more into external inclinations towards a stereotypical sense of a 'western town.' Although I need substantiate this suspicion more, it is in response to external desires and a need to improve commerce that drove and continues to drive Oakdale to present itself as fitting within a particular discourse of "the West" that emphasizes its affiliation with the lineage of lone, isolated cow-wrangling rough-and-tumble figures. Sure, there is a cattle industry here as well [more figures on its predominance], but it is worth noting that a sense of what makes a town sell becomes its image and even crowds out any more substantive appreciation for what and how it actually is.

Many places are like this: SF draws on certain communities, symbols and images in order to draw tourists and others, and New York and any modern city tied into global flows of capital desire to participate in consumption and commerce (to some extent); but this desire has, in many places, distorted the key formative and identity-determining aspects of a place into participating in tried and already-dominant hegemonic values that interfere with a different kind of development of self.

In fact, it has been telling itself that it is the Cowboy Capital of the World for so long, it has forgotten its own origins, has become caught up in the spectacle, the signs themselves, and forgets what produces them.

Meanwhile, few really consider the offensive implications of basing a town on any such symbol.

Such is the Image that attempts to make a place of this place without place.

As the Water Runs: Irrigation, Canals, and Ponds

Oakdale could not be without its produce, and the fields on and with which this produce is grown are thirsty beyond comparison, necessitating the formulation of an expansive array of water-supplying, water-catching, water-distributing and water-farming systems. These systems are many and complex. They involve well-thought out plans for utilizing water in the most efficient way possible.

In some cases, canals carry water to all of its necessary destinations, and these canals take many forms. Some are well-dug, intentionally-constructed and relatively permanent concrete structures, sometimes taking a prominent V-shape, and angled to ferry its liquid contents from its point of earth-contact to its resting home in the earth once again. Others are less clearly-defined and meander in amorphous, sometimes-curvilinear shapes on their way to deposit their water in the ground. Even other water systems clandestinely supply their beneficial nutrients via underground water-system or more patent drip water systems. There really are too many to count. But what all of these different amphibious equipments suggest is a shared participation in the reality of water as a key resource for these (and all) parts, in one way or the other.

Nearly all of this water originates in the Sierras, our nearest mountain range, where regular (but decreasing snowpack) annually thaws, furnishing (normally) ample supplies of water for any use.

Unlike many surrounding Central Valley areas, Oakdale sits atop a wealth of full, quenching underground reservoirs, and is happily seated adjacent to a quickly running river, the Stanislaus.

But, like many precious resources, water is heavily sought-after, and irritation district official bodies and their representatives carry much power and influence here (not to mention, high pay). This is understandable given that their decisions affect the locals, those who might eventually consume the produce, Bay area residents (who may drink the water or purchase the produce), not to mention so many others unrecognized or ill-accounted for. Such decisions require much time and thought and the seriousness of the issues has, as as of late, engaged many more sectors of the community in political matters than previously, which is probably, on the whole, a positive matter itself.

As getting together to talk about a shared issue, a problem held in common, is never, in-itself, bad practice.

These features of the local environment speak to the reality that water is as important as the thing which seeks to transport it. Without the proper systems, or people to inhabit and operate them, we might be produce-less, parched and even worse, in a place even more rapidly desertifying.

Business is as Busyness Does

Industry in Oakdale is a patchwork of produce and cattle-based agriculture, supported by a sizable service industry and a number of other stores. Their presence provides reason and commerce for the town, even if much of what is actually raised and grown is trucked and bartered elsewhere. Labor in these industries offer the people that inhabit this place with their identity, not to mention a sense for what defines them as denizens of the Central Valley, the "Heartland" of California so to speak.

Formerly, Hershey's populated the town but has since ceded its factory to more modest owners, while lea
ving its own once-prominent Visitor's Center as evidence of its decline and final escape to the South. Nevertheless, the town hasn't soon forgotten its presence, event for the depressing example the Center left: every year during early summer (and about the time when the Cowboys come out), the town holds an event which is now called "Cowboys and Chocolate," containing within itself both the admission of the decay of the city and its ostensible, aspired-for promise of resilience and overcoming even in light of foreboding economic circumstances.

Opposing the unceasing onslaught of mass-produced fast food are a constellation of home-grown cafes and restaurants that play to an array of tastes. They fit into two main categories: those that play to the parodical and self-effacing Cowboy image and 'Mexican food' joints. Although a more thorough and expansive approach is in order to really justify a claim, Oakdale has often been said to have some high-quality, highly-pleasing Mexican cuisine.

But like so many cities, the spectacle of various highly-routinized, highly-franchised fast food restaurants that mass produce commodity-like food abuts many of the other locally-initiated gastronomic endeavors, leaving in their wake failed business after failed business

And while my own proclivities disincline me from partaking, this place as well entertains a number of meat-centric eateries, focused on aggregating, broiling, baking and serving various cuisines that participate in the spectacle of Oakdale as a 'cow'town.

Divinely Electrified Revelation, Oakdale's Church Signs

Religious institutions are a crucial part of the life of this place. Places of worship are routinely visited by lay and devout members of various faiths, and they serve also as necessary sites of social intercourse and generally relaxed engagement.

Churches of all stripes of Christianity reside here but there are so few that might fit outside of this narrow category.

Given their significance to the overall character of the town, the establishments furnish and encourage many of the creative efforts contained within it. Many musicians find their first notes in pious contexts, with, to a lesser extent, participation of artists and writers.

Even more amusingly is how devout comedians (or just lay people with a penchant for witticisms) find their outlet in electrified Church, simultaneously a way for the Church and the author to display themselves while serving as a hopefully-engaging means for increasing future service attendance and participation.

Each display is unique, and they are regularly updated - nearly weekly - with some of the latest in divinely-inspired insights and pithy knowledge. Some are less self-conscious than others, and with a few, you can really see how they provide parishioners with the opportunity for their own chance at comedic or prophetic stardom.

Sometimes the messages they are quirky. Othertimes they are corny. Occasionally they are confusing. But always, they are a sight to see.

And such is the will of God in this place without a place called Oakdale.

Moving on Forever: The Orchards of Oakdale

Knowing the rural involves first coming to terms with the noteworthy symbols that make up its circulated spectacle. In popular culture, two of these symbols are the orchard and the pasture, but coming to understand what they might signify and how they differ, not to mention what it feels like to be around and describe them shows how limited such portrayals have so far been.

The orchards, pastures and fields that surround Oakdale are a standing testament both to its profound faith as well as its indefatigable working spirit. These plots are to be found in patchworks in every possible direction, on the outskirts and even very nearby town.

Produce and livestock of all kinds inhabit these places, giving them a checkered, quilted appearance from above. Almond, walnuts, grapes, and a variety of other fruits and vegetables sustain this place (and its agri-coffers), while the warmer weather encourages the cultivation of heat-tolerant plants. Numerous cattle ranches can be founded patterned alongside endless rows of budding or aged and matured trees, the likes of which mirror and emulate the endless of mosaics of Escher. But I think these rows - their neat construction and seeming endlessness - are responsible in part for the enduring Christian sentiments that appear to buoy and anchor this place (and are buoyed and anchored by it).

By this, I mean to say that apparently infinite stretches of road, electricity relay towers, pasture and crop formations imply a kind of eternity in presence and aesthetic that cannot help but utter poems of and prayers from those that live on and around the land (or those that witness it themselves). But this is not to establish cause: just to muse on an odd parallel in their prevailing values.

These patches can be viewed easily enough as long one has a car or a bike (even a tractor); just don't expect to get anywhere quickly, as a parked yellow bus or monstrous trailer might occlude your scenic progress.

 Importantly, orchards and pastures exhibit crucial differences aesthetically and functionally. Orchards are orderly, defined, rigorously planned and plotted rows and columns of trees that cover massive expanses of otherwise uninhabited dirt. Pastures, however, are open fields, the kind for cows or horses to graze on: the sort that unfold to provide sublime views of the world beyond.

Every now and again however, there are stark and beautiful marriages of these distinct geographical features of rurality. One example is pictured here, and special scenes like this one uniquely emerge with the early days (or pre-days) of Spring, heralding its arrival and warning all of its impending showers. The green patches that are found lining and dividing trees are soft and sparse but often appear just as ordered as the trees themselves, instigating us to wonder if they are just young trees aspiring to be like their much older brethren.

Originally, in fact, and as dated photos suggest, Oakdale was the Almond Capital of the World, and while such a moniker is nothing to scoff at, city promoters endeavored for more, finally settling on a much more grandiose (and difficult to substantiate) "Cowboy Capital of the World," which it defended in a brief but noteworthy standoff with a Texas town for the title (decided by and over rodeo ticket sales).

Oakdale would be nothing but for Orchards and Pastures, and these features nourish many local families through the production of countless items of produce and the generation of milk; but even more notably, they provide the means by which we are able to show ourselves in regional, national and international markets. The Central Valley's rural productive apparatus sustains a significant portion of the California economy to say nothing of how Oakdale plays a partial but significant role in this commerce, the way in which these features of land are utilized and deployed, aside completely from their aesthetic presentation and potential.

On the Road to Town

Oakdale's streets are as diverse as the different kinds of weeds one might fight bordering their paths.

In town, most are well-paved, cared-for and maintained. Newly laid eggshell white paint glares at drivers as their cars speed by, diverting their attention for just a moment's glance. There are exceptions, though; rundown paths line the town the town, and distinguish areas of blight.

Even in the large, top-heavy vehicles that assertively roam this place, one can feel the grit, the holes, the imperfections. No street is immaculate here, just some better at staving off a final judgment of "broken" than others. Woe goes to more public investment in infrastructure.

Outside of town, roads, like many public utilities, have been left derelict. Some more well-tended-to than others, many of them are crumbling, scattering, and in need of attention. They meander in and around an assortment of farms, pastures and meadows, reminding us both of what they are for and the sheer impossibility of any plans of escape for the denizens of this place.

The exception to this rule is the road that enters town from the north and departs it to the west, to the Golden Gate. This foundational tanned trail gives Oakdale one of its raison d'être so to speak. The road curves and winds as it becomes Oakdale, travels along our slow, stalled main streets and escapes again to the wonder of the rolling yellow hills of rural California. 

Roads and paths that puncture, border, criss-cross, grid and set Oakdale also echo a feeling of infinity that similarly characterizes the Orchards and Pastures (fields) that lie on the town's fringes or (sometimes) very near town. Often, towering electrical relays pair with roads and accompany them on their long, seemingly-endless stretch.

These roads give Oakdale is outline - pencil-marks - from which the rest has been colored and filled in.

A Storming Self

Sometimes we have existential shocks: failures on the part of our environments to provide for us or our own inability to meet the expectations or desires we have for ourselves. These are difficult, challenging and terrifying moments, even if they aren't physically threatening or harmful. But they are nevertheless key and changing, watershed moments in our lives that may throw us off the paths we have previously been on. Weathering them is no easy task, and they may shake the very existential foundations upon which we've been living for as long as we have. But they are not insuperable, and we must draw on our past habits and conventions but deploy them in new and novel ways to ferry us through such bleak, dark waters.

Often, we overcome and persevere (although there are many instances where this may not be the case), but how we do so is important, is key.

Watch Out For the Scabs

It is no doubt easy to fault a place like Oakdale for it's well-intentioned but often off-the-mark political zeal, but every so often an event takes place that defies this slightly off-color character and intensifies and deforms the existing climate of debate. Even where there is the opportunity for intelligent and reasoned political conversation, cringe-inducing, grimace-producing statements often surface. These facts are noteworthy if for no other reason than because politics as a topic of conversation is otherwise avoided entirely, granted that this taboo is by no means unique to this place.

But the way in which it implies a consensus is expressed in the kinds of demonstrations that do arise, when they do. For when there is any kind of statement, it is something objectionable or galvanizing and rarely anywhere in between. But I do desire to defend Oakdale here, as the kind of activism this picture displays is not reflective of its character but is evidence of a more pressing need for political institutions to provide reasonable and healthy avenues for participation and expression, lest efforts like this capture and absorb any kind of extant displeasure with the 'status quo.'

What's additionally disconcerting about the picture included is not the predictably stomach-churning portrayal of Obama-as-ruthless-dictator (and the attendant sidelining of all legitimate and supportable criticisms we might make of him and the policy atmosphere that follows him) but the signature by which we might be able to identify the author of this attempt at two-people-chair-and-a-stand activist method: "LaRouche." His named is emblazoned on the bottom strip discretely but nevertheless undeniably as if this is his most famous painting. Interestingly, this image does have its own particular history: first authored in 2008 in the lead up to the election. it nevertheless remains an odd contribution to a checkered American popular political discourse, attracting criticism from the likes of both Limbaugh and Stewart.

But he also represents, in a very concrete way, the saturation of money in political affairs, and the penetration of these efforts into Oakdale. Meanwhile the presence of these 'activists' invites the image of being popularly-organized, reassuring and affirming us in our patriotic sentiments in a time of doubt about our ability to actually participate or to have the ability or care to. Unfortunately, these ostensible moments of popular expression and freedom-affirming instances of speech, sadly remain soaked in the ocean of money that has drowned popular participation and washed onto shore nothing but concern over the stability and justness of the institutions we defend.

Still, this single photo can only say so much, and while it is tempting to say that this tendency towards provocative and radicalized punditry that would make headlines as uttered by any politician is a mere byproduct of an underdeveloped political culture or 'backwards' opinions, I would instead volunteer the position that this kind of political action is little reflective of Oakdale and only preys on it, substituting conspiracy theory-like partially-formed (inchoate) opinions for opportunities for actual consciousness-raising learning opportunities that might spark serious political conversation or at least sustain what is already happening. Perhaps talking about these issues more might even illuminate how marginal LaRouch and company really are (while their solitary presence on the side of the road seems to imply a kind of ubiquity), or, in the process, we might all finally come to realize ourselves as basically being Political Animals.

Writing is Like...

My space to work out some of my most complicated, nagging thoughts, not to mention a meditative opportunity to reflect on and examine some of my assertions, beliefs, assumptions, sentiments, feelings, plans, thoughts and relationships in a way that I might appreciate new, novel and perhaps helpful and informative perspectives. There is never any promise with this activity that I will come to any epiphanic conclusion; but conclusions are never good substitutions for trails of thoughts, pathways of reflection, alleyways of contemplation. Finding the ideal conditions for expressing and articulating thoughts is what is writing is about, limiting the form to a medium of a certain kind, much like painting. And, in my arrogance, I want to say that it is a preferred form: that, unlike painting or music, it provides us - its presumed users - with a level of precision, detail and pointedness (that is, in the most skilled and diligent of its users) hardly found elsewhere. But this, I think, is an unjustified conceit: it is merely another way to represent 'reality' or to muse on the features and aspects of the world, which many have long purported it to reflect and mirror cleanly: a whole issue on its own.

For now, all I care about is that writing is like prayer for me: my genuflection to a god that, in our creation, could be.

(Self) Transported

While walking in Oakdale, you might cross one person, someone you've likely never met before that likely lives just a block or two down from where you wake and sleep. Your interaction will undoubtedly be awkward, them dressed in sweat pants and being dragged along by a dog they can't seem to let go and you witnessing this in full force and view. As you pass an unnecessarily large illuminated marquee proclaiming the divine existence and authority of THE DIVINE BEING (hereafter TDB), wondering all the while why such a divine being needs that kind of publicity if he/she/zhe were all that divine anyways.

But that's aside from the point, and if you look too closely anyways, you must just be struck by a marauding truck, some monstrous beast of a vehicle that exists nowhere else on the planet except for warzones and this city, and while it careens on by, defying every extant cost-efficient, friction-reducing design and engineering recommendation, one can't help but sympathize - if just for a moment - with how cool it might be. But for every moment, there are ten others that stink of environmental degradation, general noisiness, obnoxiousness and unbridled masculinity. So this is what people think of you.

As dusk wears on, fewer people stroll the sidewalks, and more white and red lights dominate the streets. This is when one must be hyperviligant, observant on all sides of lurking beasts: you never know when one might pounce.

...

For a moment after passing the bike-topic mini-mountain hastily constructed outside of a 7-eleven in anxious anticipation of a slurpee, you recognize something that had been there all along but that from which all of the other sights and sounds had been distracting you: the profound stillness in the air, a cold coming on slowly but not forcibly or meanly, greeting you on your walk home from school or work (or both), casually talking up your flank as you tiredly shoulder the increasingly burdensome bag that you can't seem to empty too quickly of books. But that is your lot, you know, and you accept it, even welcome it. To cafes, to bars, to places where it really isn't socially acceptable to sit and read; even propriety doesn't stand in your way, old friend, you bookish one you.

This is how you end your days, sometimes how you begin your days, and you look forward to its anchoring function in your life, the time when you can think, reflect and ponder, make sense of and order your life, like you order your days with calendars and clocks; if only existential desires might fit the same kind of form. And you try to do that very thing, with varying levels of success. Let's see how it works this time.

Oh how common is such a world.

Art Blog Introduction Statement: Oakdale Project (aka Reflections On A City Without a Place)

What is in a Place anyways?

It's hard to say what any place is really about, so I'm not even going to try to do that here. I'm just going to leave some of my impressions of a place that I've gotten to know just a little bit too well, and I want to document some of my history with it.

The traces left here are little testament to all that I've experienced and done while living here and really only an introduction to a way of life, in some ways similar to ways of life elsewhere and in some ways distinct and remarkable. I do not purport to say or accomplish much with these transient, experiential ramblings, but I do hope something is 'gotten' or 'learned' or 'appreciated,' if all this means is that you liked the pretty pictures or how I used a verb in a certain way.

Otherwise, I do not have much more to say, aside from: Thanks for Stopping By and...

Welcome to Oakdale

(and please do feel free to leave traces of your thoughts, too: those are really what I care about)

The Art of Summer Survival; The Pools of Oakdale

Summers

 Oakdale summers are hot summers; we are not talking eighty to ninety degree warms days punctuating otherwise pleasant, breezy, coastal weather. These are triple-digit summers, the kind we're later proud-to-brag-we-endured summers. Talking about the heat and cautioning others about it- and how we might avoid it - comes to replace 'take care' or 'have a good day.' Instead, we're left with: "stay outta the heat."

These are typically dry times, too, which is supposed to make the climate more bearable. All the same, the offending, imposing heat incinerates any possibility of real interaction with the outside environment. Taking walks involves covering every exposed part of skin, swiftly moving from dark shade-patch to light tree-cover and carrying gallons of water for fear of dehydration.

But it is not as though we actually have to face these treacherous conditions. One can, if they have the privilege of not working in the environment (which so many people do not), just stay inside. And, once done, the rest will too.


Pools

But we like to be outside. To cope, we've institutionalized pool-ing here. Pools serve as an oasis, a recreational opportunity to brave the warm weather, with a relatively certain promise of a cool outlet for these desires.

Pools come in an assortment of shapes, depths, colors, designs, layouts and yard-situations. They are, in a way, the symbol of upper-middle-class success. "We've made it, so let's get a pool."

There are 'doughboys', impermanent pools that sometimes pre-purchasedly inhabit the monstrously immense warehouses of Costco. Doughboys are smaller but a nice compromise, still providing a much needed sanctuary from an otherwise untimely heat-induced fate.

Inset pools have a longer life, and can often reach a greater depth, emanating a sort of religious permanence and a kind of human defiance of the local environmental conditions; it is, as well, a way of bringing and safeguarding water, what is absent, to the home, not even to be consumed but to be leisured in.

Spas and Jacuzzis are mainly nighttime affairs. They play on our bodies ecstatic and comfort-seeking obsession associated with being warmed to a certain temperature. The relax, calming effect of the Jacuzzi simulates that of the Sauna and doesn't require the same level of investment. It is also, status-wise, how one moves from solely having pool; that is, having the ability both to cool on warm days and to warm on cool nights.

Insulating its parishioners from the actual state of the local climate is as much part of enjoying pools as is any recreational activity facilitated by their presence, and the presence of water. It also seems to remind us of a primordial relationship with the stuff that we will never be able to escape, as much property values and urban flight encourage it.


Rivers and Reservoirs

In addition to constructed pools, there are numerous rivers, creeks, reservoirs, and 'naturally'-occurring bodies of flowing or still water. They are to be found both in town and outside of it, and if you move further away, you might even find a dam or two.

These might weave in and around roads or border long expanses of fields and orchards. Often, they are drawn from for irrigation purposes.

It is also widely known that Oakdale survives and thrives largely on the presence of an underground reservoir of clean, flowing water, without which, we might be be in the same situation in which unknowingly citizens of LA or San Francisco find themselves: up a creek (but really, just dependent on more hinter-landing batteries of thirst-quenching water).

Note: I've included a few photos here, but more will follow

Rain, Rain (Please don't) Go Away: Come Again Another Day

Rain in Oakdale brings a new and different kind of reassuring, if unanticipated calm, and especially now. For some time, California has been experiencing routine and persistent droughts, as if someone on high is holding out on us.

This issue, while an inconvenience to many, is felt all the more acutely in places like Oakdale, where industry is primarily agricultural, and our very subsistence, not to mention general economic improvement largely rests on a key variable over which we have no control.

If there is no rain, there is no Oakdale: the grass would permanently yellow, crops would wilt and perish, and animals would thirst.

Many who live in town are nevertheless often caught unprepared and the normal sartorial precautions one might expect to witness elsewhere are not even given a second thought (as if it were an affront to our sense of personal survivability to actually outfit ourselves in appropriate ways).

Nevertheless, we press on, while the rainclouds pour and the streets fill, patently surprised at the presence of a thing that they are incapable of swallowing: somehow we make it through.

Many are annoyed, but those of us who are doomed to be kids at heart no matter what our age still take pleasure in pushing headlong in pooled bodies of parking-lot street water, lamenting its inevitable dissipation by the unfun gods of City Park and Rec.