Frontier Fantasies
A couple of days ago, Katie and I went running on the Arizona Trail, sprinting up rocky hills and slipping around shady, snow-covered corners. Katie told me that every time she stands at the outlook point with the rusty trailhead sign she is overcome by Laura Ingalls Wilder fantasies, imagining herself at that same trailhead in the 19th century. In the fantasy, Katie/Laura steps out of the chuck wagon in her flannel gown and long underwear to take in the splendor of Southern Arizona. After breathing in desert air for the first time, warm sun on her face, she promptly returns to the wagon, pulls out her diary, and writes: “February 23, 1876: Arizona!”
During our run I also learned that young Katie had elaborate daydreams in which she brought historical figures to school for show and tell—Laura Ingalls being one of the featured guests. She would protect the fragile historical figure, warning eager students to be gentle, “Laura Ingalls has never seen television before, be careful with her.”
But I think my favorite of Katie’s frontier fantasies is the dream that her and her true love would someday go on a romantic trip, perhaps even a honeymoon, out West to see the chuck wagon ruts. Nothing warms my heart quite like the thought of a young Katie (or, let’s face it, our current day Katie) day-dreaming about seeing those ruts.
Lately, I am lamenting the loss of things that were never really mine—imagined directions for my life that I wanted badly and could see clearly. I know that imagination can be dangerous, that is can torment people with a deep longing for impossible things. But there are impossible things that fill people up in good ways, the best ways, steadily supplying thoughts of hope and grandeur and solace. I think that recognizing the things that people long for can make us love them more. It’s certainly the case with Frontier Katie.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
48.
Taking a Moment
Before every major birthday, I have taken a moment to reflect on the magnitude of the event. On the eve of my thirteenth birthday, I wrote a profound farewell to my youth in my Hello Kitty diary, paying homage to my childhood as I faced that first bold step into my teenage years. I stayed up late on a school night and wrote until my pink Sony cube alarm clock said 11:59. I watched the numbers and waited, feeling both ready to be different and terrified of it.
At seventeen, I wrote a similar farewell, again reflecting dramatically upon the sunset of my childhood and the dawning of a new, adult era. “November 15, 1995. Well this is it. In approximately two hours and fifteen minutes the childhood of Kelly Myers comes to an end.” I went to bed that night facing what felt like an unavoidable, inalterable transformation. “I’ll be eighteen years old when I wake up and there is nothing that I can do about it.” (It didn’t end there. I went on to quote Shakespeare—something about stages and performances. Really nerdy.)
Somehow, my thirtieth birthday came and went less dramatically. There was no diary countdown, no dramatic farewell. I was sound asleep at midnight. It was a little bit like the first time me, Case, and Meg slept in on Christmas morning. After years of getting up at dawn and racing down the stairs together, there was finally a year (not that long ago, if I’m being totally honest) when we just slept.
Even though there wasn’t a diary involved, I did take a moment to think about my 20s before falling asleep. If there’s an epiphany to be had, it’s that my window of self-doubt has narrowed, which means that I question myself less broadly, but what I do question is focused and deeply rooted. In my old diaries, I was searching and hoping in sweeping ways, trying out different personalities and aspirations and needs. At some point, though, the searching shifted and I started to make choices—big ones that I have been reliving for years and little ones that I didn’t even feel. As I sat in my house, my dog curled up on my lap, I realized that I’ve reached a point in my life where I have built the majority of my immediate world. The choices that I have made over the last ten years are all around me, lining my physical and emotional spaces.
Lee called on the night before my birthday and just before hanging up he said he would talk to me when I’m 30. He said it at the right moment and in the right way, just like Julie would have said it, just like my family would have said it. I fell asleep thinking about my people, feeling appreciative of all that is consistently good in my life.
Before every major birthday, I have taken a moment to reflect on the magnitude of the event. On the eve of my thirteenth birthday, I wrote a profound farewell to my youth in my Hello Kitty diary, paying homage to my childhood as I faced that first bold step into my teenage years. I stayed up late on a school night and wrote until my pink Sony cube alarm clock said 11:59. I watched the numbers and waited, feeling both ready to be different and terrified of it.
At seventeen, I wrote a similar farewell, again reflecting dramatically upon the sunset of my childhood and the dawning of a new, adult era. “November 15, 1995. Well this is it. In approximately two hours and fifteen minutes the childhood of Kelly Myers comes to an end.” I went to bed that night facing what felt like an unavoidable, inalterable transformation. “I’ll be eighteen years old when I wake up and there is nothing that I can do about it.” (It didn’t end there. I went on to quote Shakespeare—something about stages and performances. Really nerdy.)
Somehow, my thirtieth birthday came and went less dramatically. There was no diary countdown, no dramatic farewell. I was sound asleep at midnight. It was a little bit like the first time me, Case, and Meg slept in on Christmas morning. After years of getting up at dawn and racing down the stairs together, there was finally a year (not that long ago, if I’m being totally honest) when we just slept.
Even though there wasn’t a diary involved, I did take a moment to think about my 20s before falling asleep. If there’s an epiphany to be had, it’s that my window of self-doubt has narrowed, which means that I question myself less broadly, but what I do question is focused and deeply rooted. In my old diaries, I was searching and hoping in sweeping ways, trying out different personalities and aspirations and needs. At some point, though, the searching shifted and I started to make choices—big ones that I have been reliving for years and little ones that I didn’t even feel. As I sat in my house, my dog curled up on my lap, I realized that I’ve reached a point in my life where I have built the majority of my immediate world. The choices that I have made over the last ten years are all around me, lining my physical and emotional spaces.
Lee called on the night before my birthday and just before hanging up he said he would talk to me when I’m 30. He said it at the right moment and in the right way, just like Julie would have said it, just like my family would have said it. I fell asleep thinking about my people, feeling appreciative of all that is consistently good in my life.
Friday, November 2, 2007
47.
Aging Poets
“Do you know how long it takes for any one voice to reach another?”
I’m not sure what I was looking for tonight, but I know that I was hoping to be filled with something new. One night in college I happened to wander into the Soda Center when Carolyn Forche was reading and she simply stopped time for me. I honestly did not know that words could do that. “What you have heard is true.” Stopped time. Life in my body felt different.
And then another poet came to campus. She visited my Aristotle in Modern Literature class and sat right next to me—I could have touched her shoulder with my shoulder. We had been studying Aristotle’s Poetics, memorizing and scrutinizing Aristotle’s carefully laid out formula for how poetics work. But the moment she sat next to me, poetics buzzed in my body in a way that Aristotle could not contain. That night she read her poetry with such force that we all shook a little—the people, the chairs, and even floor seemed to shake slightly when she was reading. As I sat there, I did not want it to end, and, at the same time, I wanted badly for it to end so that I could begin to live my life with this experience. Tonight, thirteen years later, she came to Tucson, again to read her poetry.
With all of the vulnerability and rejection of the job market, I went to her tonight feeling depleted. I needed for her to shake me, to stir the poetics, to tip me back in my chair and remind me of the force of the female body. But somehow in the last thirteen years she has become an old woman. She stayed seated and her voice did not carry. I could not hear her.
My poets are aging. The forces that originally brought me to writing and the teaching of writing are growing quieter. I owe it to them to try to shake the ground a little.
http://www.blueflowerarts.com/cforche.html
“Do you know how long it takes for any one voice to reach another?”
I’m not sure what I was looking for tonight, but I know that I was hoping to be filled with something new. One night in college I happened to wander into the Soda Center when Carolyn Forche was reading and she simply stopped time for me. I honestly did not know that words could do that. “What you have heard is true.” Stopped time. Life in my body felt different.
And then another poet came to campus. She visited my Aristotle in Modern Literature class and sat right next to me—I could have touched her shoulder with my shoulder. We had been studying Aristotle’s Poetics, memorizing and scrutinizing Aristotle’s carefully laid out formula for how poetics work. But the moment she sat next to me, poetics buzzed in my body in a way that Aristotle could not contain. That night she read her poetry with such force that we all shook a little—the people, the chairs, and even floor seemed to shake slightly when she was reading. As I sat there, I did not want it to end, and, at the same time, I wanted badly for it to end so that I could begin to live my life with this experience. Tonight, thirteen years later, she came to Tucson, again to read her poetry.
With all of the vulnerability and rejection of the job market, I went to her tonight feeling depleted. I needed for her to shake me, to stir the poetics, to tip me back in my chair and remind me of the force of the female body. But somehow in the last thirteen years she has become an old woman. She stayed seated and her voice did not carry. I could not hear her.
My poets are aging. The forces that originally brought me to writing and the teaching of writing are growing quieter. I owe it to them to try to shake the ground a little.
http://www.blueflowerarts.com/cforche.html
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
46.
Halloween
Alright, when did I become the crazy lady who dresses up her dog on Halloween and waits by the door, huge bowl of candy under her arm, peeking anxiously through the blinds? When did I become the person who says, in a high-pitched voice, “And who do we have here?” I just said that: “And who do we have here?” By “we” do I mean “And who do me and my small dog dressed in a wee leprechaun outfit have here?” Seriously, what am I doing with my voice? I can’t seem to just say, “Oh you’re so cute.” Instead, there is giggling and “ooooohing” happening: “Ooooohing, you’re so cute!” I’m basically squealing.
And holy crap, I just said, “Hey, where’s my trick or trick?” to a little Thomas the Tank Engine. Who am I?
During my first semester teaching at the U of A, I dressed all in orange, put on a headband with two ghosts on springs, and brought a giant bag of candy to my 8:00 class. This morning at 8:00 I met with a group of my Business Writing students and they gave me a full run-down of their client project proposal. Really, the “And who do we have here?” excitement makes sense. I don’t know who to be on Halloween, so I’m performing the role of the women who used to give me candy when I was kid (or a teenager, because let's face it I went trick or treating way beyond the appropriate age). I don’t want to be the crazy candy lady or the all-business teacher lady—I want to be somewhere in between, preferably wearing a springy headband.
Alright, when did I become the crazy lady who dresses up her dog on Halloween and waits by the door, huge bowl of candy under her arm, peeking anxiously through the blinds? When did I become the person who says, in a high-pitched voice, “And who do we have here?” I just said that: “And who do we have here?” By “we” do I mean “And who do me and my small dog dressed in a wee leprechaun outfit have here?” Seriously, what am I doing with my voice? I can’t seem to just say, “Oh you’re so cute.” Instead, there is giggling and “ooooohing” happening: “Ooooohing, you’re so cute!” I’m basically squealing.
And holy crap, I just said, “Hey, where’s my trick or trick?” to a little Thomas the Tank Engine. Who am I?
During my first semester teaching at the U of A, I dressed all in orange, put on a headband with two ghosts on springs, and brought a giant bag of candy to my 8:00 class. This morning at 8:00 I met with a group of my Business Writing students and they gave me a full run-down of their client project proposal. Really, the “And who do we have here?” excitement makes sense. I don’t know who to be on Halloween, so I’m performing the role of the women who used to give me candy when I was kid (or a teenager, because let's face it I went trick or treating way beyond the appropriate age). I don’t want to be the crazy candy lady or the all-business teacher lady—I want to be somewhere in between, preferably wearing a springy headband.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
45.
Crafty Animals
I’m dogsitting for Katie and Matt this weekend, which means a weekend-long dog party with Jeb, Cielo, and Short Dog. If I’m being honest, the dogs are a little needy—a twinge emotional and perhaps a hair neurotic. I’m a poor substitute for Matt and Katie, the cross-eyed old lady who shows up in homeroom when everyone was hoping for the hip young guy with the spiky hair and sweater vests. No matter how many times I wrestle Jeb or rub Ciel’s belly, they just look at me from across the room and sigh: Oh, you’re still here.
For the last two and a half hours, Jeb has been chasing the same lizard. I watched them for awhile and I swear the lizard is deliberately messing with Jeb. At one point it was hiding at the top of a tree stump and when Jeb got within an inch of the spot, it sprung into action, executing a Mountain Dew X-treme leap off the edge, landing perfectly between two pieces of bark. There’s something going on with this lizard, honestly, no one’s that good. Wedged between the bark, the lizard breathed heavily, clearly calculating its next move. This is spy tech lizard—or the spy tech lizard training ground. It’s hard to imagine how a lizard could get wilier than this one, but I’ll remain open to the possibility. Jeb just came in for water, every part of his body shaking. The lizard is clearly winning.
Last night when I was at the movies, the dogs banded together to lash out at me—and I know that Short Dog was the leader. I have a history of animals T.P.ing my house, starting with Abe Froman in New Hampshire. After making the fateful mistake of leaving Abe alone for a night, I came home to find that he had busted out of his cage, grabbed the toilet paper with his very small hands, and darted madly around the house. He was exhausted when I got home, stretched out on his belly under the couch. Last night I arrived home to a similar scene—an entire roll of toilet paper spread out through every room of the house. When I finally found the roll it was wedged in a small nook between two pillows at the top of the couch: Short Dog. I like to think that when I left Short and Abe alone together, they had long conversations, sharing stories and talking about world events. As I went from room to room scooping up toilet paper, I made a series of loud, sarcastic comments (“Oh no, you are right Milo—the one thing that I was hoping to do tonight was to collect streamers of toilet paper tossed wistfully around the house. Honestly, I can’t imagine a better way to end an evening”), but ultimately I’m considering it a tribute to Abe Froman. His legacy lives on.
I’m dogsitting for Katie and Matt this weekend, which means a weekend-long dog party with Jeb, Cielo, and Short Dog. If I’m being honest, the dogs are a little needy—a twinge emotional and perhaps a hair neurotic. I’m a poor substitute for Matt and Katie, the cross-eyed old lady who shows up in homeroom when everyone was hoping for the hip young guy with the spiky hair and sweater vests. No matter how many times I wrestle Jeb or rub Ciel’s belly, they just look at me from across the room and sigh: Oh, you’re still here.
For the last two and a half hours, Jeb has been chasing the same lizard. I watched them for awhile and I swear the lizard is deliberately messing with Jeb. At one point it was hiding at the top of a tree stump and when Jeb got within an inch of the spot, it sprung into action, executing a Mountain Dew X-treme leap off the edge, landing perfectly between two pieces of bark. There’s something going on with this lizard, honestly, no one’s that good. Wedged between the bark, the lizard breathed heavily, clearly calculating its next move. This is spy tech lizard—or the spy tech lizard training ground. It’s hard to imagine how a lizard could get wilier than this one, but I’ll remain open to the possibility. Jeb just came in for water, every part of his body shaking. The lizard is clearly winning.
Last night when I was at the movies, the dogs banded together to lash out at me—and I know that Short Dog was the leader. I have a history of animals T.P.ing my house, starting with Abe Froman in New Hampshire. After making the fateful mistake of leaving Abe alone for a night, I came home to find that he had busted out of his cage, grabbed the toilet paper with his very small hands, and darted madly around the house. He was exhausted when I got home, stretched out on his belly under the couch. Last night I arrived home to a similar scene—an entire roll of toilet paper spread out through every room of the house. When I finally found the roll it was wedged in a small nook between two pillows at the top of the couch: Short Dog. I like to think that when I left Short and Abe alone together, they had long conversations, sharing stories and talking about world events. As I went from room to room scooping up toilet paper, I made a series of loud, sarcastic comments (“Oh no, you are right Milo—the one thing that I was hoping to do tonight was to collect streamers of toilet paper tossed wistfully around the house. Honestly, I can’t imagine a better way to end an evening”), but ultimately I’m considering it a tribute to Abe Froman. His legacy lives on.
Monday, October 22, 2007
44.
Dress Up
A few years ago, I bought a pair of huge, round, orange-rimmed sunglasses—not because I thought that I could pull them off, but because I really like to the idea of that person, the version of myself who can jauntily throw on a pair of outrageous sunglasses and stroll out the door, carefree and fabulous. On the real life me, those sunglasses look ridiculous, but they are connected to this idea of myself that exists vividly just outside the realm of reality, one that I have held onto for years—desperately at times. As my mom and sister will remember, when the orange sunglasses went over the side of the paddleboat and into the lake, I did not hesitate to throw my body overboard. I dove down after them and opened my eyes under lake water until I saw them. The whole thing lasted a total of about four seconds and as I climbed back into the boat there was a moment, before the laughing, where my mom and sister just stared at me, frozen in a shared state of utter confusion.
There is this long-lived part of my personality that feels compelled to wear mildly strange and surprising things on my body. It’s not a constant compulsion, but it has surfaced consistently every few years. The first incident I can remember was in sixth grade when I insisted on wearing big plastic earrings shaped, in perfect detail, like pieces of popcorn. I loved them, but more than that I loved the idea of me in them. They were just weird enough, hinting at an inner weirdness that I imagined people would find irresistibly charming and unique.
When I was a kid I used to have a little trunk—and later a huge cardboard box—full of “dress up” clothes, grown up dresses and jackets and costume jewelry and hats. The thought of that dress up box still thrills me, butterflies in the stomach thrills me. It held the possibility for transformation. I would go upstairs, close the door, and try on grown up lives. Sometimes I would play with other people, but mostly I would slip into the clothes by myself, imaging, even acting out, the lives I was trying on. They weren’t often very glamorous lives, just different. They were always me somehow, but they were different versions of me.
I can see now that have spent a lot of time living between myself and imagined versions of myself. I think that such imagination is essential for growth and aspiration, but there has to be a balance, an appreciation of all that I am in this moment, along with hope and desire for new elements of my personality. I guess the big picture thing here is that I’m living the part of my life that I used to act out in the dress up clothes. I’ve reached a point where my imagined self and current self are coming face-to-face more dramatically than they have before, which means I have to be honest in new ways about who I am and what I want and why I want it. That doesn’t mean letting the orange sunglasses go overboard, but it does mean looking more carefully at the fears and desires that they represent.
A few years ago, I bought a pair of huge, round, orange-rimmed sunglasses—not because I thought that I could pull them off, but because I really like to the idea of that person, the version of myself who can jauntily throw on a pair of outrageous sunglasses and stroll out the door, carefree and fabulous. On the real life me, those sunglasses look ridiculous, but they are connected to this idea of myself that exists vividly just outside the realm of reality, one that I have held onto for years—desperately at times. As my mom and sister will remember, when the orange sunglasses went over the side of the paddleboat and into the lake, I did not hesitate to throw my body overboard. I dove down after them and opened my eyes under lake water until I saw them. The whole thing lasted a total of about four seconds and as I climbed back into the boat there was a moment, before the laughing, where my mom and sister just stared at me, frozen in a shared state of utter confusion.
There is this long-lived part of my personality that feels compelled to wear mildly strange and surprising things on my body. It’s not a constant compulsion, but it has surfaced consistently every few years. The first incident I can remember was in sixth grade when I insisted on wearing big plastic earrings shaped, in perfect detail, like pieces of popcorn. I loved them, but more than that I loved the idea of me in them. They were just weird enough, hinting at an inner weirdness that I imagined people would find irresistibly charming and unique.
When I was a kid I used to have a little trunk—and later a huge cardboard box—full of “dress up” clothes, grown up dresses and jackets and costume jewelry and hats. The thought of that dress up box still thrills me, butterflies in the stomach thrills me. It held the possibility for transformation. I would go upstairs, close the door, and try on grown up lives. Sometimes I would play with other people, but mostly I would slip into the clothes by myself, imaging, even acting out, the lives I was trying on. They weren’t often very glamorous lives, just different. They were always me somehow, but they were different versions of me.
I can see now that have spent a lot of time living between myself and imagined versions of myself. I think that such imagination is essential for growth and aspiration, but there has to be a balance, an appreciation of all that I am in this moment, along with hope and desire for new elements of my personality. I guess the big picture thing here is that I’m living the part of my life that I used to act out in the dress up clothes. I’ve reached a point where my imagined self and current self are coming face-to-face more dramatically than they have before, which means I have to be honest in new ways about who I am and what I want and why I want it. That doesn’t mean letting the orange sunglasses go overboard, but it does mean looking more carefully at the fears and desires that they represent.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
43.
Moving
My friend Anna has talked about how she feels the need to travel on a bodily level. When she stays too long in one place she can feel the next place pulling her—and, from what she has said, it seems like she can feel it in her skin.
In the last year, two of my friends announced that they have moved into the house where they will spend the rest of their lives, one in California, the other in Alaska. In each case, they played a role in the construction of the home, pouring themselves into the fiber and foundation of the place in a way that they tell me feels permanent. There is a part of me that likes the idea of a home that holds that much of me, but mostly I feel deeply unsettled by the thought of such stability.
I’m caught somewhere in between, a place that demands a blend of movement and home. It’s like the snails. For twenty-six years I believed, strongly, that snails shed their shells. I was convinced that they had a system of shedding and replacing that kept them outfitted in the right size and shape of shell. For decades, I imagined snails moving easily up hills, down sidewalks, across yards, always motivated by the hope of a better place—a home perfectly fitted to their bodies. It was a theory I developed when I was kid and saw all those empty snail shells in the ivy at Nanny and Uncle Tommy’s house. It made sense then and it makes sense now.
I’m not sure when I’m going to get to stop moving and I don’t know that I want to, but I do know that I need to keep home close to my body as I go.
My friend Anna has talked about how she feels the need to travel on a bodily level. When she stays too long in one place she can feel the next place pulling her—and, from what she has said, it seems like she can feel it in her skin.
In the last year, two of my friends announced that they have moved into the house where they will spend the rest of their lives, one in California, the other in Alaska. In each case, they played a role in the construction of the home, pouring themselves into the fiber and foundation of the place in a way that they tell me feels permanent. There is a part of me that likes the idea of a home that holds that much of me, but mostly I feel deeply unsettled by the thought of such stability.
I’m caught somewhere in between, a place that demands a blend of movement and home. It’s like the snails. For twenty-six years I believed, strongly, that snails shed their shells. I was convinced that they had a system of shedding and replacing that kept them outfitted in the right size and shape of shell. For decades, I imagined snails moving easily up hills, down sidewalks, across yards, always motivated by the hope of a better place—a home perfectly fitted to their bodies. It was a theory I developed when I was kid and saw all those empty snail shells in the ivy at Nanny and Uncle Tommy’s house. It made sense then and it makes sense now.
I’m not sure when I’m going to get to stop moving and I don’t know that I want to, but I do know that I need to keep home close to my body as I go.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
42.
Vowels
At the table next to me, three friends have gotten together for a Sunday morning Scrabble game. I walked by their table just as one of the guys was announcing that if he ever has a daughter he's naming her A-E-I-O-U.
At the table next to me, three friends have gotten together for a Sunday morning Scrabble game. I walked by their table just as one of the guys was announcing that if he ever has a daughter he's naming her A-E-I-O-U.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
41.
Abandonment, Two Tables Over
Today in Bentley’s a guy put on big round headphones that covered each ear entirely and just let loose. He threw his head back and forth, curly mass of hair swaying side to side. He tapped his toes in a full-legged way, jazzercise toe tapping, running in place. He drummed every inch of the table, fingertips grazing the wood. He rocked back and forth in the chair, a movement that went from the top of his head, through his neck, chest, waist, thighs, shins, and feet. It was a perfect embodiment of abandonment, of a body giving itself over to something. We were sharing the same space in totally differently places. I watched him, peripherally, laughing a little to myself and wishing that I could hear what he was hearing.
Today in Bentley’s a guy put on big round headphones that covered each ear entirely and just let loose. He threw his head back and forth, curly mass of hair swaying side to side. He tapped his toes in a full-legged way, jazzercise toe tapping, running in place. He drummed every inch of the table, fingertips grazing the wood. He rocked back and forth in the chair, a movement that went from the top of his head, through his neck, chest, waist, thighs, shins, and feet. It was a perfect embodiment of abandonment, of a body giving itself over to something. We were sharing the same space in totally differently places. I watched him, peripherally, laughing a little to myself and wishing that I could hear what he was hearing.
Monday, May 28, 2007
40.
Whales
I am worried about the whales. At first I was thrilled, moved even, by the thought of humpback whales in my hometown. From my place in the desert I read about the whales, personifying and romanticizing their journey, even reveling in their refusal to follow the siren song back out to sea. Today they have moved to the Bay Area, another place I have called home, and are circling under the Benicia Bridge where we used to send pennies sailing out of car windows for good luck. Mom and dad started the tradition when they were in college and now two whales are circling above decades of pennies, unwilling to swim westward.
But it isn’t romantic. Their skin is drying out and sloughing off—too much fresh water in the pores. And people are lining the shores, cell phone cameras at the ready, applauding any slight movement. As much as I want there to be luck and magic in the story of whales in the river, mostly I see two animals who have become uncomfortable in their own skin.
I am worried about the whales. At first I was thrilled, moved even, by the thought of humpback whales in my hometown. From my place in the desert I read about the whales, personifying and romanticizing their journey, even reveling in their refusal to follow the siren song back out to sea. Today they have moved to the Bay Area, another place I have called home, and are circling under the Benicia Bridge where we used to send pennies sailing out of car windows for good luck. Mom and dad started the tradition when they were in college and now two whales are circling above decades of pennies, unwilling to swim westward.
But it isn’t romantic. Their skin is drying out and sloughing off—too much fresh water in the pores. And people are lining the shores, cell phone cameras at the ready, applauding any slight movement. As much as I want there to be luck and magic in the story of whales in the river, mostly I see two animals who have become uncomfortable in their own skin.
39.
Delivery
Today I spent thirty minutes composing an email to a big deal art scholar who has written tons of books and happens to be the curator of the Warburg Institute photograph collection in London. She is a huge big deal and I want very badly to meet her when I’m there—so badly in fact that I spent thirty minutes composing one paragraph. To my utter horror, I just realized that I ended the email with: “Thank you for you time.” I labored over every word, reading each sentence out loud several times to ensure flow and accuracy. Thank you for you time, Elizabth McGrath. I hope you have a sense of humor.
Today I spent thirty minutes composing an email to a big deal art scholar who has written tons of books and happens to be the curator of the Warburg Institute photograph collection in London. She is a huge big deal and I want very badly to meet her when I’m there—so badly in fact that I spent thirty minutes composing one paragraph. To my utter horror, I just realized that I ended the email with: “Thank you for you time.” I labored over every word, reading each sentence out loud several times to ensure flow and accuracy. Thank you for you time, Elizabth McGrath. I hope you have a sense of humor.
Friday, May 25, 2007
38.
Intersections in Time and Space
I was feeling down today, just heavy and tired like I wasn’t entirely in my body. The days are getting hotter and hotter, which carries its own kind of weight—the knowledge of impending and inescapable heat that will lean into this city for the next five months. After a lot of slow movement around the house, I went outside to chase Milo and Barley around the yard, only to find that as the sun was setting a breeze had kicked things up into something like running weather. I hopped into my sporty orange shorts, grabbed my shoes, stuck my ipod in my bra, and ran out the door. As I was running down Olsen, weaving through one of the spots where the sidewalk disappears, a yellow swallow tail butterfly flew directly in front of me and there was this flash of a moment where I could see the pattern of its wing perfectly, right in front of my face. I swear I could feel the force of it, something projecting sideways into my body as we passed. We were one split second from collision, another split second from missing each other completely. And for a full moment all I could see was the pattern of the wing.
A couple of blocks later, I was running down Third Street and Shelley was running up. Another perfect intersection—a couple of moments of hesitation and one of us would have turned and we would have continued to run, tracing each other’s footprints unknowingly. Shelley always renews me. We ran much faster than I would have on my own, and maybe even faster than I knew I could. We went to her new house to water the huge tree that is producing pine cones in a desperate thirst. Neither of us had ever heard of pine cones as an act of desperation. Pine cones have been hiking treasures and bird feeders; they have been placed on mantles like trophies or decoratively in baskets, but they have never been a sign of dangerous thirst. And if I hadn’t been heading downhill at just that moment when she was heading up, I would have missed knowing that.
I was feeling down today, just heavy and tired like I wasn’t entirely in my body. The days are getting hotter and hotter, which carries its own kind of weight—the knowledge of impending and inescapable heat that will lean into this city for the next five months. After a lot of slow movement around the house, I went outside to chase Milo and Barley around the yard, only to find that as the sun was setting a breeze had kicked things up into something like running weather. I hopped into my sporty orange shorts, grabbed my shoes, stuck my ipod in my bra, and ran out the door. As I was running down Olsen, weaving through one of the spots where the sidewalk disappears, a yellow swallow tail butterfly flew directly in front of me and there was this flash of a moment where I could see the pattern of its wing perfectly, right in front of my face. I swear I could feel the force of it, something projecting sideways into my body as we passed. We were one split second from collision, another split second from missing each other completely. And for a full moment all I could see was the pattern of the wing.
A couple of blocks later, I was running down Third Street and Shelley was running up. Another perfect intersection—a couple of moments of hesitation and one of us would have turned and we would have continued to run, tracing each other’s footprints unknowingly. Shelley always renews me. We ran much faster than I would have on my own, and maybe even faster than I knew I could. We went to her new house to water the huge tree that is producing pine cones in a desperate thirst. Neither of us had ever heard of pine cones as an act of desperation. Pine cones have been hiking treasures and bird feeders; they have been placed on mantles like trophies or decoratively in baskets, but they have never been a sign of dangerous thirst. And if I hadn’t been heading downhill at just that moment when she was heading up, I would have missed knowing that.
37.
Barley
Abe's pissed and Milo is blind with jealous rage, but I'm enjoying a weekend of Barley bliss. His ears are the central source of my bliss...and maybe of all bliss in the universe.
Abe's pissed and Milo is blind with jealous rage, but I'm enjoying a weekend of Barley bliss. His ears are the central source of my bliss...and maybe of all bliss in the universe.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
36.
Affirmations
Today, like most days, I rode my bike over to campus. But today, as I was stopped at the 3rd street stoplight, I looked over and there was a sign on the streetlight that said: "You are beautiful." As I was standing there, by myself, I looked to my left, then to my right, then back at the sign and said "Well thank you."
And then I rode my bike to Rincon Market to buy salmon from Yuri. He remembered me right away (come to find out, he has a perfect chronological memory of everything that has happened over the last five years) and he wondered why I was there alone. Before I had time to answer, he came out and gave me a big hug--this is not something that we do--but he felt compelled to give me an “it will all be okay embrace.” Things are actually pretty good, but I threw myself, full-body, into that hug. And when Yuri told me that he was sure good luck was coming my way, I threw both arms up in the air and promised him that I will soak it in.
Today, like most days, I rode my bike over to campus. But today, as I was stopped at the 3rd street stoplight, I looked over and there was a sign on the streetlight that said: "You are beautiful." As I was standing there, by myself, I looked to my left, then to my right, then back at the sign and said "Well thank you."
And then I rode my bike to Rincon Market to buy salmon from Yuri. He remembered me right away (come to find out, he has a perfect chronological memory of everything that has happened over the last five years) and he wondered why I was there alone. Before I had time to answer, he came out and gave me a big hug--this is not something that we do--but he felt compelled to give me an “it will all be okay embrace.” Things are actually pretty good, but I threw myself, full-body, into that hug. And when Yuri told me that he was sure good luck was coming my way, I threw both arms up in the air and promised him that I will soak it in.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
35.
Not superstitious
Luckily, I am not superstitious. Sure I broke a $4 Target door mirror three years ago this July, but that didn’t faze me for a second. And today, when I dove into the street, twice, to avoid crossing the paths of what really looked like (two different) black cats, it was simply time to cross the street. The first one had little white feet, but the second one was the real deal—not that I care. I have never run faster in my life--and I totally won--but, of course, it doesn’t matter because I am not superstitious.
(And I certainly did not deliberately use the phrase “not superstitious” three times because it’s lucky, what with the whole “good things come in threes” business.)
((I actually used it four times because when I was in junior high I revised the “good things come in threes” to “good things come in fours” so that I could be different.))
Luckily, I am not superstitious. Sure I broke a $4 Target door mirror three years ago this July, but that didn’t faze me for a second. And today, when I dove into the street, twice, to avoid crossing the paths of what really looked like (two different) black cats, it was simply time to cross the street. The first one had little white feet, but the second one was the real deal—not that I care. I have never run faster in my life--and I totally won--but, of course, it doesn’t matter because I am not superstitious.
(And I certainly did not deliberately use the phrase “not superstitious” three times because it’s lucky, what with the whole “good things come in threes” business.)
((I actually used it four times because when I was in junior high I revised the “good things come in threes” to “good things come in fours” so that I could be different.))
34.
Laundromats
I hate laundromats, but I want so badly to like them. There is something appealing, in theory, about going to the laundromat by myself—some sense of liberation when I enter and accomplishment when I leave. And there’s the hope that my lack of homestead stability might feel a little hip, because in the movies laundromats are often very hip. Irresistibly attractive, mildly rebellious characters steal stuff from them; young single people have interesting conversations in them; the main character sits near the full wall window during a melancholy moment, looking out while music plays and clothes tumble noiselessly in the background. The laundromats in my head are New York City cool, but in real-life Tuscon they are very sad places to be. My sassy-single attitude fades quickly into sad-and-alone as I sit on a bench chained to the wall in two places.
I keep going back to the “Suds for Your Duds” laundromat because I honestly can’t believe that a place called “Suds for Your Duds” could be as depressing as it is. But laundromats are spaces that demand honesty. Standing in an open room that is every shade of beige, folding our underwear, there is simply nowhere to hide. Looking at the people around me, my sad-and-alone fades quickly into thankful and a bit ashamed.
At Suds for Your Duds, every dryer is named after a different flower. Johnny Jump-ups, aloe, alyssum, hibiscus, lotus, wisteria, pansy, fushia, clematis, azalea, peony, gardenia, germanium, magnolia, heather, honeysuckle. My clothes are being dried by “Camilla,” “Dahlia,” and “Gladiolus.” I wish I’d gotten gardenia. I didn’t realize it was important to me until now. When my clothes are dry, I will leave with two heavy, warm baskets and, as I crawl into bed, I will make a loud aaaaaaahhhhhhhh noise, breathing deeply through my nose. I’ll fall asleep and try not to think about laundromats.
I hate laundromats, but I want so badly to like them. There is something appealing, in theory, about going to the laundromat by myself—some sense of liberation when I enter and accomplishment when I leave. And there’s the hope that my lack of homestead stability might feel a little hip, because in the movies laundromats are often very hip. Irresistibly attractive, mildly rebellious characters steal stuff from them; young single people have interesting conversations in them; the main character sits near the full wall window during a melancholy moment, looking out while music plays and clothes tumble noiselessly in the background. The laundromats in my head are New York City cool, but in real-life Tuscon they are very sad places to be. My sassy-single attitude fades quickly into sad-and-alone as I sit on a bench chained to the wall in two places.
I keep going back to the “Suds for Your Duds” laundromat because I honestly can’t believe that a place called “Suds for Your Duds” could be as depressing as it is. But laundromats are spaces that demand honesty. Standing in an open room that is every shade of beige, folding our underwear, there is simply nowhere to hide. Looking at the people around me, my sad-and-alone fades quickly into thankful and a bit ashamed.
At Suds for Your Duds, every dryer is named after a different flower. Johnny Jump-ups, aloe, alyssum, hibiscus, lotus, wisteria, pansy, fushia, clematis, azalea, peony, gardenia, germanium, magnolia, heather, honeysuckle. My clothes are being dried by “Camilla,” “Dahlia,” and “Gladiolus.” I wish I’d gotten gardenia. I didn’t realize it was important to me until now. When my clothes are dry, I will leave with two heavy, warm baskets and, as I crawl into bed, I will make a loud aaaaaaahhhhhhhh noise, breathing deeply through my nose. I’ll fall asleep and try not to think about laundromats.
Monday, May 14, 2007
33.
Truly Amazing People
From Eugen Herrigel’s Zen in the Art of Archery, quoted in Yamada Shoji’s essay “The Myth of Zen in the Art of Archery”:
"We entered the spacious practice hall adjacent to the master’s house. The master lit a stick of incense, which was as long and thin as a knitting needle, and placed it in the sand in front of the target, which was approximately in the center of the target bank. We then went to the shooting area. Since the master was standing directly in the light, he was dazzlingly illuminated.
The target, however, was in complete darkness. The singly, faintly glowing point of incense was so small it was practically impossible to make out the light it shed. The master had said not a word for some time. Silently he took up his bow and two arrows. He shot the first arrow. From the sound I knew it hit the target. The second arrow also made a sound as it hit the target. The master motioned to me to verify the condition of the two arrows that had been shot. The first arrow was cleanly lodged in the center of the target. The second arrow had struck the nock of the first one and split it in two." (82)
I like this passage for two reasons. First, it reminds me of the cartoon version of Robin Hood where Robin splits an arrow, officially knocking the socks off Maid Marian. But mostly I like what Shoji says about the passage. He sums up the story with the statement: “Anyone would be moved by this story.” In the essay Shoji is basically mocking the emotional effect of Herrigel’s story, as he proceeds to illustrate the improbability of such a feat through both statistical and cultural evidence. But all his evidence aside, I’m still moved by it and I’m holding on because the thought of a person stepping into dark space, lit only by a needle-thin light, pulling out two arrows, and directing them swiftly, perfectly through the same small tunnel of air seems like something worth holding onto. It’s one of those stories that make us wonder and hope and imagine new possibilities for ourselves and for the parameters of our lives. And why not? Why not let this person transcend the rules and understand a dark space in a defiant way?
And then there’s the image of Beej crossing that finish line, running faster than anyone else out there. Ab wrote about it so beautifully she made me cry. Her husband ran and ran with no one in front of him, legs burning from all those previous runs, stomach aching, and yet he kept running and crossed the finish line before anyone else. Until today, I had never really stopped to think about what something like that might feel like. I guess I’ve imagined myself winning a race in a Hollywood movie sort of way, but never in the real life way that Beej made me think about today.
And then there's Ab (see comment).
There are truly amazing people creating stories all the time—stories that, as far as I’m concerned, are worth holding onto.
From Eugen Herrigel’s Zen in the Art of Archery, quoted in Yamada Shoji’s essay “The Myth of Zen in the Art of Archery”:
"We entered the spacious practice hall adjacent to the master’s house. The master lit a stick of incense, which was as long and thin as a knitting needle, and placed it in the sand in front of the target, which was approximately in the center of the target bank. We then went to the shooting area. Since the master was standing directly in the light, he was dazzlingly illuminated.
The target, however, was in complete darkness. The singly, faintly glowing point of incense was so small it was practically impossible to make out the light it shed. The master had said not a word for some time. Silently he took up his bow and two arrows. He shot the first arrow. From the sound I knew it hit the target. The second arrow also made a sound as it hit the target. The master motioned to me to verify the condition of the two arrows that had been shot. The first arrow was cleanly lodged in the center of the target. The second arrow had struck the nock of the first one and split it in two." (82)
I like this passage for two reasons. First, it reminds me of the cartoon version of Robin Hood where Robin splits an arrow, officially knocking the socks off Maid Marian. But mostly I like what Shoji says about the passage. He sums up the story with the statement: “Anyone would be moved by this story.” In the essay Shoji is basically mocking the emotional effect of Herrigel’s story, as he proceeds to illustrate the improbability of such a feat through both statistical and cultural evidence. But all his evidence aside, I’m still moved by it and I’m holding on because the thought of a person stepping into dark space, lit only by a needle-thin light, pulling out two arrows, and directing them swiftly, perfectly through the same small tunnel of air seems like something worth holding onto. It’s one of those stories that make us wonder and hope and imagine new possibilities for ourselves and for the parameters of our lives. And why not? Why not let this person transcend the rules and understand a dark space in a defiant way?
And then there’s the image of Beej crossing that finish line, running faster than anyone else out there. Ab wrote about it so beautifully she made me cry. Her husband ran and ran with no one in front of him, legs burning from all those previous runs, stomach aching, and yet he kept running and crossed the finish line before anyone else. Until today, I had never really stopped to think about what something like that might feel like. I guess I’ve imagined myself winning a race in a Hollywood movie sort of way, but never in the real life way that Beej made me think about today.
And then there's Ab (see comment).
There are truly amazing people creating stories all the time—stories that, as far as I’m concerned, are worth holding onto.
Friday, May 11, 2007
32.
Hair Loss
The sparkly-eyed old man at Bentley’s insists that I am writing a Master’s thesis in Biology. About once a week he comes up to me to refresh his memory about my work in Biology and the progress I'm making with the writing. Each time I remind him that I’m in the English department, which immediately reminds him of the emblem book he borrowed from me, which leads to a brief conversation about his experience and my frustration with Latin. Today, however, the conversation went somewhere else. I told him that I’m in the English department, writing a dissertation, and he proceeded to tell me about a woman he knew in the English department who, in the process of writing her dissertation, lost all of her hair. Apparently, it wasn’t the kind of thing where each day a few more strands fall into the sink. This woman’s hair fell out all at once. All of it, just gone. So now, on top of the self-doubt, stomach aches, and sleep deprivation that have come with writing a dissertation, there is the looming threat of sudden and complete hair loss. The fear that one day I will wake up and find myself hairless.
He did assure me that the hair grows back. Eventually.
The sparkly-eyed old man at Bentley’s insists that I am writing a Master’s thesis in Biology. About once a week he comes up to me to refresh his memory about my work in Biology and the progress I'm making with the writing. Each time I remind him that I’m in the English department, which immediately reminds him of the emblem book he borrowed from me, which leads to a brief conversation about his experience and my frustration with Latin. Today, however, the conversation went somewhere else. I told him that I’m in the English department, writing a dissertation, and he proceeded to tell me about a woman he knew in the English department who, in the process of writing her dissertation, lost all of her hair. Apparently, it wasn’t the kind of thing where each day a few more strands fall into the sink. This woman’s hair fell out all at once. All of it, just gone. So now, on top of the self-doubt, stomach aches, and sleep deprivation that have come with writing a dissertation, there is the looming threat of sudden and complete hair loss. The fear that one day I will wake up and find myself hairless.
He did assure me that the hair grows back. Eventually.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
31.
The April chicken of doom has maintained a steady hold on me--so much so that I just realized it's time for a new chicken. When I finally came to the new chicken time realization, I was elated and entirely ready to embrace a new, less aggressive and controlling chicken. I carefully turned the page, only to find:
It's an evil chicken dynasty. I am living in the heart of an evil chicken dynasty and I simply have to accept it.
(I just realized--weeks later--that this chicken is a "Sicilian Buttercup." Of course it is. Sweet lil Buttercup.)
It's an evil chicken dynasty. I am living in the heart of an evil chicken dynasty and I simply have to accept it.
(I just realized--weeks later--that this chicken is a "Sicilian Buttercup." Of course it is. Sweet lil Buttercup.)
Thursday, May 3, 2007
30.
One thing I already know I will miss about Tucson:
http://www.azstarnet.com/allheadlines/180963.php
It's not the eating of cacti that I will miss, but the detailing of cacti-eating strategies and recipes as a normal feature in the local newspaper.
http://www.azstarnet.com/allheadlines/180963.php
It's not the eating of cacti that I will miss, but the detailing of cacti-eating strategies and recipes as a normal feature in the local newspaper.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
29.
Dissoi Logoi
The man at the table next to me seems to need this music as much as I do tonight. The two other times I’ve been here, I enjoyed the music in a simpler way; I arrived feeling open to the possibilities within it, ready to be moved. But tonight I came here needy, which is probably why the music doesn’t sound as full as it did before and probably why it feels scattered. I’m looking for something that these people can’t give; I am looking to them with a desperation that they cannot answer.
I am surrounded by tension everywhere I turn—even the fiddle player is upset tonight. He is unhappy with the new system that a woman named Margaret (who plays a long, shiny recorder) has introduced for playing the songs. Between songs he either makes sudden, cutting comments directed at no one in particular or he keeps his head down and plays softly to himself until the next song begins. I’m started to think that I bring tension with me, that I drag a long history of missed moments and hurt feelings into and out of each place I visit.
I came here tonight looking to these musicians to lift me out of all of the tension. To Irish waltz me right out of my chair and into a place where people aren’t so angry and hurt and disappointed because of me. It isn’t working.
Thousands of years ago, in the Pythagorean theory of the cosmos, the universe was thought to be made up of opposing forces (the monad and the dyad) that were all the time clashing. For them, kairos was the force that could bring harmony between the two; it was the moment or opening that can create balance. Without the opposing forces, the opportunity for harmony could not exist. There can be no stabilization without destabilization. Opposition, conflict, tension are essential elements in movement and growth.
The trick, I guess, is to see the openings and act on them rather than becoming stalled in the tension. I have been working really hard to let tension roll off of me; I close my eyes and imagine the negativity rolling down my neck and off my arms in quick, steady streams. But maybe I’ve been missing the bigger picture—that Pythagorean vision of the universe where negativity is one essential piece of the cosmic puzzle. I have been waiting for good things to sweep in and fill me up, but maybe the real growth happens in those spaces that are most difficult to inhabit, spaces where tension becomes opportunity, a site and source for change.
The man at the table next to me seems to need this music as much as I do tonight. The two other times I’ve been here, I enjoyed the music in a simpler way; I arrived feeling open to the possibilities within it, ready to be moved. But tonight I came here needy, which is probably why the music doesn’t sound as full as it did before and probably why it feels scattered. I’m looking for something that these people can’t give; I am looking to them with a desperation that they cannot answer.
I am surrounded by tension everywhere I turn—even the fiddle player is upset tonight. He is unhappy with the new system that a woman named Margaret (who plays a long, shiny recorder) has introduced for playing the songs. Between songs he either makes sudden, cutting comments directed at no one in particular or he keeps his head down and plays softly to himself until the next song begins. I’m started to think that I bring tension with me, that I drag a long history of missed moments and hurt feelings into and out of each place I visit.
I came here tonight looking to these musicians to lift me out of all of the tension. To Irish waltz me right out of my chair and into a place where people aren’t so angry and hurt and disappointed because of me. It isn’t working.
Thousands of years ago, in the Pythagorean theory of the cosmos, the universe was thought to be made up of opposing forces (the monad and the dyad) that were all the time clashing. For them, kairos was the force that could bring harmony between the two; it was the moment or opening that can create balance. Without the opposing forces, the opportunity for harmony could not exist. There can be no stabilization without destabilization. Opposition, conflict, tension are essential elements in movement and growth.
The trick, I guess, is to see the openings and act on them rather than becoming stalled in the tension. I have been working really hard to let tension roll off of me; I close my eyes and imagine the negativity rolling down my neck and off my arms in quick, steady streams. But maybe I’ve been missing the bigger picture—that Pythagorean vision of the universe where negativity is one essential piece of the cosmic puzzle. I have been waiting for good things to sweep in and fill me up, but maybe the real growth happens in those spaces that are most difficult to inhabit, spaces where tension becomes opportunity, a site and source for change.
Monday, April 30, 2007
28.
Chalk Art
Over the weekend I went to the Chalk Art Festival in downtown Tucson. It’s pretty much what it sounds like: a festival of artists creating chalk masterpieces on the ground outside the public library. The artists arrived early with tents and every size and color of chalk. They had all picked out a piece of art beforehand, so by the time I arrived each piece had been carefully blocked out and was well underway. The artists were down on their hands and knees, some wearing rubber pads shaped like Armadillos, all of them lost in small clouds of dust. Their clothes were covered in chalk splotches; their hands had become a solid color and many of them had chalk streaks running all the way up to their armpits. They were recreating beautiful, dramatic art. A Botticelli woman, a war general, a silhouette of a pregnant woman. Hundreds of bright colors, perfectly blended and smudged on the brick ground.
And then, in one huge push of wind, the sky opened up and sheets of water poured down on us. Sideways rain swept easily under the tents, pulling the chalk up off the ground, creating storms of color. The images went from perfect Renaissance precision, to abstract chaos, to puddles of dark, dull shades of blue.
At first, many of the artists worked through the rain, continuing to blend and sculpt the color. One man refused to get up, even after all of the other artists had abandoned their work, this man stayed on the ground, hovering over the last remaining lines. People gathered around him to protect his work, their backs soaking wet.
It was one of those things that is both beautiful and horrifying all at one—Annie Dillard watching the life drain out of a frog. All of that fantastic color streaming away between the bricks.
Over the weekend I went to the Chalk Art Festival in downtown Tucson. It’s pretty much what it sounds like: a festival of artists creating chalk masterpieces on the ground outside the public library. The artists arrived early with tents and every size and color of chalk. They had all picked out a piece of art beforehand, so by the time I arrived each piece had been carefully blocked out and was well underway. The artists were down on their hands and knees, some wearing rubber pads shaped like Armadillos, all of them lost in small clouds of dust. Their clothes were covered in chalk splotches; their hands had become a solid color and many of them had chalk streaks running all the way up to their armpits. They were recreating beautiful, dramatic art. A Botticelli woman, a war general, a silhouette of a pregnant woman. Hundreds of bright colors, perfectly blended and smudged on the brick ground.
And then, in one huge push of wind, the sky opened up and sheets of water poured down on us. Sideways rain swept easily under the tents, pulling the chalk up off the ground, creating storms of color. The images went from perfect Renaissance precision, to abstract chaos, to puddles of dark, dull shades of blue.
At first, many of the artists worked through the rain, continuing to blend and sculpt the color. One man refused to get up, even after all of the other artists had abandoned their work, this man stayed on the ground, hovering over the last remaining lines. People gathered around him to protect his work, their backs soaking wet.
It was one of those things that is both beautiful and horrifying all at one—Annie Dillard watching the life drain out of a frog. All of that fantastic color streaming away between the bricks.
Friday, April 27, 2007
27.
A Little Help
Today I rode my Rock Hopper (which is so smooth these days after Matt intervened in the tire crisis) over to Bentleys to get some work done. Bentley’s is close, but it means crossing Campbell, so I always dread the ride. When I got there today I realized that I had forgotten my wallet. I wanted to throw my head back and yell “WHHHHHHHY?” but I was very discrete. I simply packed up my stuff and headed out the door. As I was unlocking my bike, a woman who works there ran out and stopped me. She said, “Are you by any chance leaving because you left your wallet at home?”
Surprised me: “Yes, actually I am.”
Lovely woman: “Oh no, don’t go. We’ll take care of you. After all, you come in here A-LOT.”
Maybe it’s a little sad that I’m there so much, but really the whole exchange just thrilled me. It means I have a Cheers place (except they don’t actually know my name). Maybe I’m not known there, but I’m noticed. The place was really crowded, but she noticed that I arrived and left quickly and she wondered about it. I’m a regular and therefore I’m to be taken care of when I need it. So much of graduate school revolves around self-sustainability, building up walls and perfecting systems of self-preservation. Today I was reminded of how good it can feel when people step in and help me.
Today I rode my Rock Hopper (which is so smooth these days after Matt intervened in the tire crisis) over to Bentleys to get some work done. Bentley’s is close, but it means crossing Campbell, so I always dread the ride. When I got there today I realized that I had forgotten my wallet. I wanted to throw my head back and yell “WHHHHHHHY?” but I was very discrete. I simply packed up my stuff and headed out the door. As I was unlocking my bike, a woman who works there ran out and stopped me. She said, “Are you by any chance leaving because you left your wallet at home?”
Surprised me: “Yes, actually I am.”
Lovely woman: “Oh no, don’t go. We’ll take care of you. After all, you come in here A-LOT.”
Maybe it’s a little sad that I’m there so much, but really the whole exchange just thrilled me. It means I have a Cheers place (except they don’t actually know my name). Maybe I’m not known there, but I’m noticed. The place was really crowded, but she noticed that I arrived and left quickly and she wondered about it. I’m a regular and therefore I’m to be taken care of when I need it. So much of graduate school revolves around self-sustainability, building up walls and perfecting systems of self-preservation. Today I was reminded of how good it can feel when people step in and help me.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
26.
Fits of Disappointment
I didn’t get the summer fellowship that I really wanted and really thought I deserved. It’s that last part that’s the hardest. I honestly thought that I deserved it. If I had just thrown the application together at the last minute, I would have something to blame and I wouldn’t have to feel so bad. There would be the “if only I had tried harder…” escape route. Now there’s just the knowledge that I threw myself into it and there were at least five people who were better. I’m taking it incredibly personally and for that I blame the dissertation.
For me, writing a dissertation has made my world increasingly small. The process demands isolation, but it also insists upon a constant narrowing of focus that systematically shuts doors to people and possibilities that were once available. The more embroiled I become in ancient Greece, the more I feel the parameters of both my academic and social worlds drawing in. Within such a space, with academics making up so much of my world, of course the fellowship news is personal. I haven’t insolated myself with enough distraction, so any sort of rejection goes straight for my guts.
In the moment of reading the rejection email, instead of having the wind immediately knocked out of me, I decided to fight it, to push back. I had been trying to fix my bike tire for days, so when I got the email, I went straight over and poured all of my energy into that tire. I didn’t want to be idle or passive or defeated—I needed to be doing something productive that had a clear and satisfying end in sight. After about an hour I had tried everything I could think of, used every tool I own, was covered in grease and dirt, and still couldn’t fix it. Finally, in a dramatic fit of disappointment and anger and helplessness, I collapsed on the ground—forehead against the wood—sobbing.
It lasted about fifteen minutes. A complete, though compact, meltdown that lasted fifteen minutes start to finish. I got up, wiped off my eyes with a wad of toilet paper, grabbed my books, and went to Bentley’s. Within about a half hour I found an Erasmus piece, two Renaissance emblems/epigrams, and a picture of a sculpture, all of which I had spent months searching for. In fact, over the weekend I spent an entire day searching for the Erasmus adage (there are 4,251 of them)—and then suddenly I understood what 1.7.70 meant and there it was. Within an hour I went from dramatic academic defeat to heart-pounding discovery and break through.
That’s just the way this process is working for me. And, if I’m being totally honest, I love the drama of it all. There’s a part of me that loved writing that sentence about how my “dissertation has made my world increasingly small.” It’s so completely melodramatic, and it’s sort of crap. My world isn’t really small. I tend to make it small, walling myself into routines that limit my movement to comfortable, worn spaces. Or I romanticize it as small because there is something really appealing (to me) about the image of the scholar tucked away behind walls of books, lost for hours in that state of fluctuating frustration and discovery. I’m exactly where I want to be—and that’s the real reason why I took the fellowship news is so hard. I want this so badly; I want to be good at this work, and I want it down to my core. The thought, the very suggestion, that I might not be good at it makes my legs buckle.
I didn’t get the summer fellowship that I really wanted and really thought I deserved. It’s that last part that’s the hardest. I honestly thought that I deserved it. If I had just thrown the application together at the last minute, I would have something to blame and I wouldn’t have to feel so bad. There would be the “if only I had tried harder…” escape route. Now there’s just the knowledge that I threw myself into it and there were at least five people who were better. I’m taking it incredibly personally and for that I blame the dissertation.
For me, writing a dissertation has made my world increasingly small. The process demands isolation, but it also insists upon a constant narrowing of focus that systematically shuts doors to people and possibilities that were once available. The more embroiled I become in ancient Greece, the more I feel the parameters of both my academic and social worlds drawing in. Within such a space, with academics making up so much of my world, of course the fellowship news is personal. I haven’t insolated myself with enough distraction, so any sort of rejection goes straight for my guts.
In the moment of reading the rejection email, instead of having the wind immediately knocked out of me, I decided to fight it, to push back. I had been trying to fix my bike tire for days, so when I got the email, I went straight over and poured all of my energy into that tire. I didn’t want to be idle or passive or defeated—I needed to be doing something productive that had a clear and satisfying end in sight. After about an hour I had tried everything I could think of, used every tool I own, was covered in grease and dirt, and still couldn’t fix it. Finally, in a dramatic fit of disappointment and anger and helplessness, I collapsed on the ground—forehead against the wood—sobbing.
It lasted about fifteen minutes. A complete, though compact, meltdown that lasted fifteen minutes start to finish. I got up, wiped off my eyes with a wad of toilet paper, grabbed my books, and went to Bentley’s. Within about a half hour I found an Erasmus piece, two Renaissance emblems/epigrams, and a picture of a sculpture, all of which I had spent months searching for. In fact, over the weekend I spent an entire day searching for the Erasmus adage (there are 4,251 of them)—and then suddenly I understood what 1.7.70 meant and there it was. Within an hour I went from dramatic academic defeat to heart-pounding discovery and break through.
That’s just the way this process is working for me. And, if I’m being totally honest, I love the drama of it all. There’s a part of me that loved writing that sentence about how my “dissertation has made my world increasingly small.” It’s so completely melodramatic, and it’s sort of crap. My world isn’t really small. I tend to make it small, walling myself into routines that limit my movement to comfortable, worn spaces. Or I romanticize it as small because there is something really appealing (to me) about the image of the scholar tucked away behind walls of books, lost for hours in that state of fluctuating frustration and discovery. I’m exactly where I want to be—and that’s the real reason why I took the fellowship news is so hard. I want this so badly; I want to be good at this work, and I want it down to my core. The thought, the very suggestion, that I might not be good at it makes my legs buckle.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
25.
Alarming News from My Breakfast Cereal
As I was pouring the milk over my bowl of Life cereal this morning, I noticed that the happy cartoon cow was informing me that this milk “Tastes fresh longer.” That’s horrible news, cartoon cow. I don’t want my breakfast treat to taste fresh longer, potentially beyond its true point of freshness. When the curdles are a-brewing, let’s be really honest about it—I WANT TO KNOW. That moment when you realize that the milk has turned and have to sprint across the kitchen to spit out the Frosted Flakes is a truly horrible moment, but ultimately you spit out the contaminated Flakes and move on with your life. Tastes fresh longer? Happy cow, I don’t want to lose myself in a world of pseudo-freshness. I want to be able to have a trusting relationship with my breakfast cereal. But there's a wall there now. My trust has been shaken.
As I was pouring the milk over my bowl of Life cereal this morning, I noticed that the happy cartoon cow was informing me that this milk “Tastes fresh longer.” That’s horrible news, cartoon cow. I don’t want my breakfast treat to taste fresh longer, potentially beyond its true point of freshness. When the curdles are a-brewing, let’s be really honest about it—I WANT TO KNOW. That moment when you realize that the milk has turned and have to sprint across the kitchen to spit out the Frosted Flakes is a truly horrible moment, but ultimately you spit out the contaminated Flakes and move on with your life. Tastes fresh longer? Happy cow, I don’t want to lose myself in a world of pseudo-freshness. I want to be able to have a trusting relationship with my breakfast cereal. But there's a wall there now. My trust has been shaken.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
24.
The Popular Girls
Today I had to go up to the La Encantada Mall, the fancy mall with perfect small squares of real grass and decorative pots full of flowers that magically exude soothing classical music. I was having one of those days where I’m strangely attracted to all things hot pink (happens less frequently now, but it was really a problem during my first two years of college – and thank you Julie for not letting me buy those shorts at Sportmart. You were right.) So naturally I found myself in the Victoria Secret, both drawn to and repelled by all of the bedazzled underwear. As I was standing at the counter letting a woman rub "crackling glitter body mousse" onto my left arm, I realized just how quickly I can be snapped back into my teenage body.
I was at the La Encantada Mall to get help with my .Mac account, basically to put an end to the 4 a.m., cold sweat, my-dissertation-is-lost-forever panic attacks. After 45 minutes with my assigned genius, Ned, my entire computer was backed up and I had learned how to insert ancient Greek letters and symbols into my Word documents. Ned fixed up my permissions, gave me plug-ins, and ordered me a new keyboard—it was liberating. So how does a person go from feeling genuinely elated over circumflexes to lacquered with crackling glitter body mousse?
The girl with the mousse intimidated me. She was Jaci Jaguer and Jenny Albers, Jessica Nobles and Megan Lutz, Lindsay Howells—all of those girls who have always been way cooler than me. I thought I was over being scared of the popular girls, but when the girl at Victoria Secret insisted that I shellac my arm, I simply pulled up my sleeve and agreed that the scent really was so fresh and light. In that moment I realized that there is a part of me that still wants, badly, to be Cindy Mancini in Can’t Buy Me Love.
Cindy Mancini had the best hair in the world. I have always had hair issues (starting way before the recent series of back-to-back bad haircuts). My hair’s always just been sort of bark-like and (before the haircutting spree) I never did anything with it. The sleep in French braids wavy look, Cindy Mancini's signature do, was about as stylish as I got. I remember getting up early one morning my freshman year of high school and working really hard to put my hair in a ponytail with a blue bow that matched my Gap plaid shorts. I was taking a risk, going for cute, but then John Spannagel came up to me first period and said, “Oh, Kelly, you really shouldn’t wear your hair up.” John Spannagel. It took me years to brave anything in the realm of up-do.
But here’s what I realized today: More than Cindy Mancini, what I really want is to be the person who looks at Cindy when she’s standing there with the glitter mousse and says, “No”—not in a jerky way, but in a really honest, that just sounds like a horrible plan for me way. “No, no I do not.” I image that I’d smile and maybe laugh a little when I said it—because really, I don’t want to be mean or judgmental, I just don’t want to pretend like I’m into the glitter and I don’t want to feel bad about myself because I’m not. It wouldn’t be a rushed, just trying to get out of an awkward situation “No” either. It would be a really honest admission of the fact that the idea of crackling mouse terrifies but also secretly sort of intrigues me, so I’m going to have to circle around the bra bins a few times and then sneak back, grab the bottle, and spray a tiny bit when no one’s looking. And it’d probably crack me up a little because the stuff really did crackle. I know enough about myself at this point to know that I am much more comfortable as the person who laughs out loud by the bra bins—not as the person who says, “Yah, it is totally fresh and light” while a stranger rubs cold, crackling goo onto my arm.
The problem is, when I’m in a situation like that, I tend to revert back to the me who was in awe of the popular girls and easily shamed. No matter how strong and smart and sassy I become, I still carry all of those old insecurities with me. Most of the time they are buried beneath all of the layers of personality and experience that I’ve built and am continuing to build, but there are still striking moments where I want nothing more than to be popular.
Today I had to go up to the La Encantada Mall, the fancy mall with perfect small squares of real grass and decorative pots full of flowers that magically exude soothing classical music. I was having one of those days where I’m strangely attracted to all things hot pink (happens less frequently now, but it was really a problem during my first two years of college – and thank you Julie for not letting me buy those shorts at Sportmart. You were right.) So naturally I found myself in the Victoria Secret, both drawn to and repelled by all of the bedazzled underwear. As I was standing at the counter letting a woman rub "crackling glitter body mousse" onto my left arm, I realized just how quickly I can be snapped back into my teenage body.
I was at the La Encantada Mall to get help with my .Mac account, basically to put an end to the 4 a.m., cold sweat, my-dissertation-is-lost-forever panic attacks. After 45 minutes with my assigned genius, Ned, my entire computer was backed up and I had learned how to insert ancient Greek letters and symbols into my Word documents. Ned fixed up my permissions, gave me plug-ins, and ordered me a new keyboard—it was liberating. So how does a person go from feeling genuinely elated over circumflexes to lacquered with crackling glitter body mousse?
The girl with the mousse intimidated me. She was Jaci Jaguer and Jenny Albers, Jessica Nobles and Megan Lutz, Lindsay Howells—all of those girls who have always been way cooler than me. I thought I was over being scared of the popular girls, but when the girl at Victoria Secret insisted that I shellac my arm, I simply pulled up my sleeve and agreed that the scent really was so fresh and light. In that moment I realized that there is a part of me that still wants, badly, to be Cindy Mancini in Can’t Buy Me Love.
Cindy Mancini had the best hair in the world. I have always had hair issues (starting way before the recent series of back-to-back bad haircuts). My hair’s always just been sort of bark-like and (before the haircutting spree) I never did anything with it. The sleep in French braids wavy look, Cindy Mancini's signature do, was about as stylish as I got. I remember getting up early one morning my freshman year of high school and working really hard to put my hair in a ponytail with a blue bow that matched my Gap plaid shorts. I was taking a risk, going for cute, but then John Spannagel came up to me first period and said, “Oh, Kelly, you really shouldn’t wear your hair up.” John Spannagel. It took me years to brave anything in the realm of up-do.
But here’s what I realized today: More than Cindy Mancini, what I really want is to be the person who looks at Cindy when she’s standing there with the glitter mousse and says, “No”—not in a jerky way, but in a really honest, that just sounds like a horrible plan for me way. “No, no I do not.” I image that I’d smile and maybe laugh a little when I said it—because really, I don’t want to be mean or judgmental, I just don’t want to pretend like I’m into the glitter and I don’t want to feel bad about myself because I’m not. It wouldn’t be a rushed, just trying to get out of an awkward situation “No” either. It would be a really honest admission of the fact that the idea of crackling mouse terrifies but also secretly sort of intrigues me, so I’m going to have to circle around the bra bins a few times and then sneak back, grab the bottle, and spray a tiny bit when no one’s looking. And it’d probably crack me up a little because the stuff really did crackle. I know enough about myself at this point to know that I am much more comfortable as the person who laughs out loud by the bra bins—not as the person who says, “Yah, it is totally fresh and light” while a stranger rubs cold, crackling goo onto my arm.
The problem is, when I’m in a situation like that, I tend to revert back to the me who was in awe of the popular girls and easily shamed. No matter how strong and smart and sassy I become, I still carry all of those old insecurities with me. Most of the time they are buried beneath all of the layers of personality and experience that I’ve built and am continuing to build, but there are still striking moments where I want nothing more than to be popular.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
23.
Intersection
Okay, this whole contrast thing is just getting weird. I was driving down Speedway Blvd (one of the busiest streets in Tucson) and as I stopped at an intersection, a tractor pulled up in the turn lane beside me. An enormous John Dear tractor, right there in the middle of traffic. And the guy was just hanging out, cruising in his tractor, like I was the weird one for even thinking twice about the contrast between landscape equipment and mid-day traffic.
Okay, this whole contrast thing is just getting weird. I was driving down Speedway Blvd (one of the busiest streets in Tucson) and as I stopped at an intersection, a tractor pulled up in the turn lane beside me. An enormous John Dear tractor, right there in the middle of traffic. And the guy was just hanging out, cruising in his tractor, like I was the weird one for even thinking twice about the contrast between landscape equipment and mid-day traffic.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
22.
T-Rex Chicken
With this entry I will have officially established a chicken theme. If I’m being perfectly honest with myself, I love chickens—cartoon chickens mostly, Muppet chickens and Chicken Boo in particular (“He wears a disguise to look like human guys, but he's not a man, he's a Chicken Boo”). Even the word “chicken” makes me happy, mostly because it reminds me of laughing with Meg about the time dad fell asleep in front of the t.v. and suddenly said “chicken”—completely out of nowhere, “chicken”—followed shortly after by “chunk.” But the real reason for tonight’s chicken theme is that I’ve potentially uncovered the secret behind the April Chicken of Doom.
It’s simple: chickens evolved from dinosaurs. In studying soft tissue that was recovered from a T-Rex bone found in Montana, scientists have discovered that dinos and chickens are “first cousins.” The proteins from the T-Rex match those in modern-day poultry—they are “evolutionary kin.” I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. I have been living in fear of the April chicken for years now. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but blood-hungry ruler of the prehistoric world just makes a lot of sense.
I know the risk I’m running here, Ab. It’s watching me, right now, and it knows that I know. But listen April Chicken of Doom, I’m totally okay with the whole T-Rex thing—so you’re part dinosaur, I’m okay with that. Tiny hands, mean eyes. And no, last week I did not draft designs of a small hat to glue over your head claw. I have nothing but respect.
With this entry I will have officially established a chicken theme. If I’m being perfectly honest with myself, I love chickens—cartoon chickens mostly, Muppet chickens and Chicken Boo in particular (“He wears a disguise to look like human guys, but he's not a man, he's a Chicken Boo”). Even the word “chicken” makes me happy, mostly because it reminds me of laughing with Meg about the time dad fell asleep in front of the t.v. and suddenly said “chicken”—completely out of nowhere, “chicken”—followed shortly after by “chunk.” But the real reason for tonight’s chicken theme is that I’ve potentially uncovered the secret behind the April Chicken of Doom.
It’s simple: chickens evolved from dinosaurs. In studying soft tissue that was recovered from a T-Rex bone found in Montana, scientists have discovered that dinos and chickens are “first cousins.” The proteins from the T-Rex match those in modern-day poultry—they are “evolutionary kin.” I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. I have been living in fear of the April chicken for years now. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but blood-hungry ruler of the prehistoric world just makes a lot of sense.
I know the risk I’m running here, Ab. It’s watching me, right now, and it knows that I know. But listen April Chicken of Doom, I’m totally okay with the whole T-Rex thing—so you’re part dinosaur, I’m okay with that. Tiny hands, mean eyes. And no, last week I did not draft designs of a small hat to glue over your head claw. I have nothing but respect.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
21.
Ireland
With so many terrible things in the world, it’s nice to know that there will be music just around the corner on Tuesday evenings.
I arrived at the Rincon Market before the strings. The music was all flute and harp with one guitar. But slowly, over the last forty minutes, the band has filled in one-by-one, chairs scooting back mid-song to expand the circle. Michael is not here yet, so the shouting has yet to begin, but the sound is filling out, growing and deepening with each new instrument. That great, full noise echoing off the brick walls.
The tables are full of people who come just to hear the music. Most of us are sitting by ourselves. Some people are on dates. All of us are swaying a little, even unconsciously, with the music--strangers coming together in moments of music, too many tapping toes to count.
Tonight Mom, in the midst of all this, with the fiddler practically leaping out of his seat as he plays, it’s hard to image how we wouldn’t pick Ireland.
With so many terrible things in the world, it’s nice to know that there will be music just around the corner on Tuesday evenings.
I arrived at the Rincon Market before the strings. The music was all flute and harp with one guitar. But slowly, over the last forty minutes, the band has filled in one-by-one, chairs scooting back mid-song to expand the circle. Michael is not here yet, so the shouting has yet to begin, but the sound is filling out, growing and deepening with each new instrument. That great, full noise echoing off the brick walls.
The tables are full of people who come just to hear the music. Most of us are sitting by ourselves. Some people are on dates. All of us are swaying a little, even unconsciously, with the music--strangers coming together in moments of music, too many tapping toes to count.
Tonight Mom, in the midst of all this, with the fiddler practically leaping out of his seat as he plays, it’s hard to image how we wouldn’t pick Ireland.
20.
Vista Point
On Sunday I went hiking with Shelley. We scrambled up a mountain, through every kind of pokey plant, and over and around boulders until we were on the very top of the world. Just like that you can meet a wonderful person and stand by her side, looking out over the entire universe.
On Sunday I went hiking with Shelley. We scrambled up a mountain, through every kind of pokey plant, and over and around boulders until we were on the very top of the world. Just like that you can meet a wonderful person and stand by her side, looking out over the entire universe.
19.
Contrast
“A woman once told me that colored flowers would seem more bright if you added a few white flowers to give the colors definition. Every petal of blue lupin is edged with white, so that a field of lupins is more blue than you could imagine” –John Steinbeck, East of Eden
Somewhere just beneath the surface I have been thinking about contrast. I’m not sure that I’ve had a complete thought about it, and I’m certain that I haven’t had any sort of epiphany, but images of stark contrast keep popping up in my life.
I can’t shake two images that appeared on the front page of the newspaper last week. I opened the paper and there was a white-washed Wisconsin contrasted with a Tucson Palo Verde tree in a storm of yellow flowers. Two places that are so different and so much a part of who I have become, bright white and burning yellow both stirring things deep within me.
Yesterday on my run I daydreamed about Tucson in the snow. Palm fronds cradling white flakes against green walls; Barrel and Cholla and Saguaro cacti smoothed over; orange trees in full bloom, each orange capped with snow. I walked out my front door one afternoon and the world was suddenly different. I watched the snow through my bedroom window and ran around in my backyard, but after a little while it faded into rain and I went back to work. Only it didn’t stop and when I went outside again the entire world seemed transformed.
And then today I read an essay with the following:
“In Sunday’s New York Times David Richards reviews a stage performance by George C. Scott. To encompass it he proposes what he calls a ‘theory of contradictory impulses.” Scott excels in a mediocre role, Richards says, because before giving the audience one emotion, he gives a hint of its opposite: laughter before tears, hate before love. This works because it reflects how life is, each emotion closer to its opposite than to anything like itself.”
and
“As a child in Eastern Europe, fiber artist Neda Al-Hilali knit a lot of gray socks for the family, always gray. She lusted for color and when she once managed to get some bright yarn, she hid it as an American boy might his copy of Playboy, looking at it, touching, working in secret ecstasy under her bedcovers. Now she is internationally known for her mastery of color. And personally known as a wonderful cook—her classes usually end with festive party meals. When asked how she gets her colors so vibrant, she replies that she always puts a dash of the opposite color dye in the pot. ‘You know,’ she says, as if everyone does, ‘just like you put in a bit of an opposite spice when you cook’” (both quotes from Mary Paumier Jones’s “The Opposite of Saffron”)
If I had to guess, I would say that everything in me is seeking some form of self-sustainable balance, trying to heal in lots of little ways, all the time. And I think that I am both failing and succeeding a lot.
“A woman once told me that colored flowers would seem more bright if you added a few white flowers to give the colors definition. Every petal of blue lupin is edged with white, so that a field of lupins is more blue than you could imagine” –John Steinbeck, East of Eden
Somewhere just beneath the surface I have been thinking about contrast. I’m not sure that I’ve had a complete thought about it, and I’m certain that I haven’t had any sort of epiphany, but images of stark contrast keep popping up in my life.
I can’t shake two images that appeared on the front page of the newspaper last week. I opened the paper and there was a white-washed Wisconsin contrasted with a Tucson Palo Verde tree in a storm of yellow flowers. Two places that are so different and so much a part of who I have become, bright white and burning yellow both stirring things deep within me.
Yesterday on my run I daydreamed about Tucson in the snow. Palm fronds cradling white flakes against green walls; Barrel and Cholla and Saguaro cacti smoothed over; orange trees in full bloom, each orange capped with snow. I walked out my front door one afternoon and the world was suddenly different. I watched the snow through my bedroom window and ran around in my backyard, but after a little while it faded into rain and I went back to work. Only it didn’t stop and when I went outside again the entire world seemed transformed.
And then today I read an essay with the following:
“In Sunday’s New York Times David Richards reviews a stage performance by George C. Scott. To encompass it he proposes what he calls a ‘theory of contradictory impulses.” Scott excels in a mediocre role, Richards says, because before giving the audience one emotion, he gives a hint of its opposite: laughter before tears, hate before love. This works because it reflects how life is, each emotion closer to its opposite than to anything like itself.”
and
“As a child in Eastern Europe, fiber artist Neda Al-Hilali knit a lot of gray socks for the family, always gray. She lusted for color and when she once managed to get some bright yarn, she hid it as an American boy might his copy of Playboy, looking at it, touching, working in secret ecstasy under her bedcovers. Now she is internationally known for her mastery of color. And personally known as a wonderful cook—her classes usually end with festive party meals. When asked how she gets her colors so vibrant, she replies that she always puts a dash of the opposite color dye in the pot. ‘You know,’ she says, as if everyone does, ‘just like you put in a bit of an opposite spice when you cook’” (both quotes from Mary Paumier Jones’s “The Opposite of Saffron”)
If I had to guess, I would say that everything in me is seeking some form of self-sustainable balance, trying to heal in lots of little ways, all the time. And I think that I am both failing and succeeding a lot.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
18.
Social
I was supposed to spring out of bed this morning and immediately start working. I was supposed to be instantly and completely overtaken by a dissertation-writing frenzy. Instead, I wasted the entire morning trying to pick a new hobby. I’m considering a yoga class with Katie’s friend James who she promises won’t make fun of the fact that I can’t bend. I was thinking pretty seriously about various forms of martial arts—don’t laugh, me and Tinka took kickboxing (“a new sport, but I think it's got a good future") and I was good. I took self-defense at St. Mary’s, with the fighting outfit and everything, and I had some pretty mean drop-roll moves. I’m going to take swimming lessons for sure over the summer and in June Milo starts therapy dog school (to cheer up people in hospitals – not Milo on the couch venting about how I won’t let him play with Flingshot)… but I need something that I can start right now. Even if I’m just telling Milo and Abe, I want to be able to do the whole “Well on Monday nights I have my ___________ and on Thursdays it’s ___________”. I'm really trying to be more social. Really trying. So far it's just happening in my head, but I have big plans for a real life social me.
I was supposed to spring out of bed this morning and immediately start working. I was supposed to be instantly and completely overtaken by a dissertation-writing frenzy. Instead, I wasted the entire morning trying to pick a new hobby. I’m considering a yoga class with Katie’s friend James who she promises won’t make fun of the fact that I can’t bend. I was thinking pretty seriously about various forms of martial arts—don’t laugh, me and Tinka took kickboxing (“a new sport, but I think it's got a good future") and I was good. I took self-defense at St. Mary’s, with the fighting outfit and everything, and I had some pretty mean drop-roll moves. I’m going to take swimming lessons for sure over the summer and in June Milo starts therapy dog school (to cheer up people in hospitals – not Milo on the couch venting about how I won’t let him play with Flingshot)… but I need something that I can start right now. Even if I’m just telling Milo and Abe, I want to be able to do the whole “Well on Monday nights I have my ___________ and on Thursdays it’s ___________”. I'm really trying to be more social. Really trying. So far it's just happening in my head, but I have big plans for a real life social me.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
17.
Parking Lot
Tonight, in the Trader Joe’s parking lot, a man ran over to me and said “What is that on your foot?” I had just come from running, so I was wearing my super-duper ankle brace, which I know is super-duper because it has velcro in three places, but I didn’t know it was run-across-the-parking-lot-to-comment-on-it exciting. His interest level was bizarre, but it was even more alarming when he asked if I had an artificial foot. Why would someone run across a parking lot to ask me if I had an artificial foot? WHAT IF I DID? What then? He didn’t seem to have any artificial limbs, so I don’t think he was looking to bond. After the artificial foot comment, he told me that it would be really intense if I had a brace on each foot (two artificial feet??). All I could come up with was, “Yah, cuz then double the awesome” and I jumped in my car and drove away.
(Side note: When he said "What is that on your foot," I did the Ab spider jump-back move: WHAT??, helicopter arms.)
Tonight, in the Trader Joe’s parking lot, a man ran over to me and said “What is that on your foot?” I had just come from running, so I was wearing my super-duper ankle brace, which I know is super-duper because it has velcro in three places, but I didn’t know it was run-across-the-parking-lot-to-comment-on-it exciting. His interest level was bizarre, but it was even more alarming when he asked if I had an artificial foot. Why would someone run across a parking lot to ask me if I had an artificial foot? WHAT IF I DID? What then? He didn’t seem to have any artificial limbs, so I don’t think he was looking to bond. After the artificial foot comment, he told me that it would be really intense if I had a brace on each foot (two artificial feet??). All I could come up with was, “Yah, cuz then double the awesome” and I jumped in my car and drove away.
(Side note: When he said "What is that on your foot," I did the Ab spider jump-back move: WHAT??, helicopter arms.)
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
16.
Flingshot Through the Heart
Me and Milo are currently fighting over the Flingshot Flying Chicken that came in my Easter basket. First of all, it’s totally mine—because I’m the human and because he already has a chicken. But even if he didn’t already have his own chicken, there’s no way I’d give up Flingshot. The Flingshot Flying Chicken can soar over 50 feet, letting out a chickeny call-o-joy every time he takes flight. I just tested it make sure that the sound really is a “chickeny call-o-joy” (which it totally is) and Milo made a dive for it, forcing me to yell out, “No. It’s MY chicken.” And now we’re not talking again.
The trick to Flingshot’s flight is simple: “Insert finger into the pocket under the beak. Pull back on the feet and release.” However, it’s all fun and games until someone gets a chicken to the eye (“Caution: Chicken may fly at high speeds. Aim away from people, pet, or breakable furnishings”). So you know what Milo, I’m doing you a favor here. The thing is, you’d feel bad about yourself because you don’t have fingers. And, to be totally honest, I’m not sure you can handle Flingshot’s speed. And I’m the human, so It's totally my chicken.
In other news, I killed Danny Wood. One sad little twig remains, curled up and leaning a little. I just gave him some more plant food and moved him away from the window. "Please don’t go [Danny], you would ruin my whole world. Tell me you’ll stay never ever go a-wa-ay…" Also, I re-potted Jordan Knight and put him at the front of the room--in the spotlight where he has always belonged.
Monday, April 9, 2007
15.
Zen and the Art of Crazy Person
“In his teachings, Kenzo refers to ‘enlightenment’ in two ways. The first way is kensho, a Zen phrase that means ‘See your nature.’ It can also be translated as ‘Look into your nature,” or simply “Realization.” The second half of the phrase, commonly used as an inscription on the paintings of Daruma, the Grand Patriarch of Zen, is jobutsu, ‘Become Buddha.’ From the Zen standpoint, kensho is a profound experience of insight that transforms a person. (Whether this happens suddenly or gradually has been a matter of contention for centuries in Zen circles.) Kensho has the connotation of one being actively engaged in some discipline that fosters such insight—usually construed as zazen, formal meditation, but in Kenzo’s case he stated unequivocally, ‘With each shot see your nature’” (Zen Bow, Zen Arrow 33-4).
I think that Zen archery might somehow connect to my dissertation. I read an entire book on it today and even though I have yet to experience my dissertation kensho, I got to spend an entire day reading about Zen archery. That makes me feel sort of awesome.
(Hey Shelley - do you think this transformation stuff might sorta connect... or am I sailing full-force off the deep end here??)
“In his teachings, Kenzo refers to ‘enlightenment’ in two ways. The first way is kensho, a Zen phrase that means ‘See your nature.’ It can also be translated as ‘Look into your nature,” or simply “Realization.” The second half of the phrase, commonly used as an inscription on the paintings of Daruma, the Grand Patriarch of Zen, is jobutsu, ‘Become Buddha.’ From the Zen standpoint, kensho is a profound experience of insight that transforms a person. (Whether this happens suddenly or gradually has been a matter of contention for centuries in Zen circles.) Kensho has the connotation of one being actively engaged in some discipline that fosters such insight—usually construed as zazen, formal meditation, but in Kenzo’s case he stated unequivocally, ‘With each shot see your nature’” (Zen Bow, Zen Arrow 33-4).
I think that Zen archery might somehow connect to my dissertation. I read an entire book on it today and even though I have yet to experience my dissertation kensho, I got to spend an entire day reading about Zen archery. That makes me feel sort of awesome.
(Hey Shelley - do you think this transformation stuff might sorta connect... or am I sailing full-force off the deep end here??)
Sunday, April 8, 2007
14.
Feeling Full
I spent most of Easter Sunday in the wilderness with Katie, Matt, and two Russian strangers, Alina and Zeb. The moment Zeb opened his mouth it felt like Easter. He could be a Salsman, John Salsman in particular, from both the sound of his voice and the bizarre information that he is all the time inserting into conversations. All day, no matter where we were or what we were doing, I felt like I was sitting between John and Uncle Tommy at the dinner table.
Alina and Zeb are visiting from Chicago, so we all drove up Mt. Lemmon for a little Easter hike. I’m full of cuts and bruises (typing is excruciating with the thorn wound on my right index finger) from scrambling up rocks. Me and Matt were fighting about which of us would win the Rock Scrambling Olympics and I was sure that I was the clear winner, but then he did this flying leap from one rock to another that basically stopped time, thus sealing his victory.
On our hike I learned that Matt donated his plasma twice a week so that he could afford to visit Katie when they were separated during college.
For dinner we made pierogies from scratch—okay, Katie made pierogies from scratch. I tried to make a Betty Crocker strawberry cake with fun-fetti frosting, but it turned into a horrible pile of hot pink goo.
And now I’m stuffed, happily full of handcrafted pasta pockets and doomed cake. I missed my family every moment but was happy to be part of a group of people who were busily trying to create a sense of home.
I spent most of Easter Sunday in the wilderness with Katie, Matt, and two Russian strangers, Alina and Zeb. The moment Zeb opened his mouth it felt like Easter. He could be a Salsman, John Salsman in particular, from both the sound of his voice and the bizarre information that he is all the time inserting into conversations. All day, no matter where we were or what we were doing, I felt like I was sitting between John and Uncle Tommy at the dinner table.
Alina and Zeb are visiting from Chicago, so we all drove up Mt. Lemmon for a little Easter hike. I’m full of cuts and bruises (typing is excruciating with the thorn wound on my right index finger) from scrambling up rocks. Me and Matt were fighting about which of us would win the Rock Scrambling Olympics and I was sure that I was the clear winner, but then he did this flying leap from one rock to another that basically stopped time, thus sealing his victory.
On our hike I learned that Matt donated his plasma twice a week so that he could afford to visit Katie when they were separated during college.
For dinner we made pierogies from scratch—okay, Katie made pierogies from scratch. I tried to make a Betty Crocker strawberry cake with fun-fetti frosting, but it turned into a horrible pile of hot pink goo.
And now I’m stuffed, happily full of handcrafted pasta pockets and doomed cake. I missed my family every moment but was happy to be part of a group of people who were busily trying to create a sense of home.
13.
Easter
It has taken everything in my power, but I haven't opened the Easter basket my mom sent. I'm going to bed now, but the second I wake up, I'm going straight for the basket. In fact, I might get into bed right now, "sleep" for 5 minutes, and then open my basket--I'm that excited.
It has taken everything in my power, but I haven't opened the Easter basket my mom sent. I'm going to bed now, but the second I wake up, I'm going straight for the basket. In fact, I might get into bed right now, "sleep" for 5 minutes, and then open my basket--I'm that excited.
Friday, April 6, 2007
12.
The Cookie Sheets
My foot was crushed by cookie sheets today, two of them. Out of nowhere the cookie sheets launched themselves out of the cupboard and onto my left foot. Attack cookie sheets. It’s really painful too. My entire foot (ok, my entire big toe) is purple and I’m walking with a slight limp. I guess you never really know when the bakeware might turn on you.
My foot was crushed by cookie sheets today, two of them. Out of nowhere the cookie sheets launched themselves out of the cupboard and onto my left foot. Attack cookie sheets. It’s really painful too. My entire foot (ok, my entire big toe) is purple and I’m walking with a slight limp. I guess you never really know when the bakeware might turn on you.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
11.
Very Little Movement
So as I was leaving for my 6:00 class tonight, my neighbor threw open his door and exclaimed, “You’re alive!” He was a little out of breath and clearly relieved. Apparently there was very little movement from my side of the house today, alarmingly so. My car didn’t move, Milo didn’t bark, the newspaper was neglected—which all added up, in my neighbor’s mind, to my untimely death. He was actually convinced that I had dropped dead; however, he wasn’t going to knock on the door until tomorrow. Give it a day. “Then the body would have had time to gel.” He used the word “gel.” The body.
I was just reading.
So as I was leaving for my 6:00 class tonight, my neighbor threw open his door and exclaimed, “You’re alive!” He was a little out of breath and clearly relieved. Apparently there was very little movement from my side of the house today, alarmingly so. My car didn’t move, Milo didn’t bark, the newspaper was neglected—which all added up, in my neighbor’s mind, to my untimely death. He was actually convinced that I had dropped dead; however, he wasn’t going to knock on the door until tomorrow. Give it a day. “Then the body would have had time to gel.” He used the word “gel.” The body.
I was just reading.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
10.
Precise
There’s an old, sparkly-eyed man who is always at Bentley’s. Some days he’s reading and other days he’s slowly writing on binder paper with perfect penmanship, always double-spaced and on one side of the page. He writes pages and pages and pages. I think he’s writing a book and I want so badly to know what it’s about.
We had a moment of silent connection last week when I overhead him talking about the picture of Saturn’s hexagonal north pole that was in the day’s newspaper. Apparently we had both been drawn to and strangely inspired by the photo. I think he wrote about it. I just did my thoughtful nod and moved on.
After weeks of wondering about him, he suddenly leaned over and started talking to me today. He has studied Latin (why not?) and was intrigued by my book of emblems, which is half English, half Latin. He was entirely thrilled by the book. I wished that I knew something, anything, about Latin. I started skimming through the book I was reading, looking for Latin words so that I could keep the conversation going. With no Latin and very limited knowledge of emblems, I just asked if I could borrow his pen. Turns out, he really likes Latin and the emblematic tradition, but he loooooooves the Precise V5 Extra Fine Point Pen in purple, pink, and turquoise. At this point, I know everything there is to know about purchasing the Precise V5 Extra Fine Point Pen in the Tucson area. I don’t know the guy’s name or what he spends all that time writing, but I do know where he stands on pen tips and ink flow, so that’s something.
There’s an old, sparkly-eyed man who is always at Bentley’s. Some days he’s reading and other days he’s slowly writing on binder paper with perfect penmanship, always double-spaced and on one side of the page. He writes pages and pages and pages. I think he’s writing a book and I want so badly to know what it’s about.
We had a moment of silent connection last week when I overhead him talking about the picture of Saturn’s hexagonal north pole that was in the day’s newspaper. Apparently we had both been drawn to and strangely inspired by the photo. I think he wrote about it. I just did my thoughtful nod and moved on.
After weeks of wondering about him, he suddenly leaned over and started talking to me today. He has studied Latin (why not?) and was intrigued by my book of emblems, which is half English, half Latin. He was entirely thrilled by the book. I wished that I knew something, anything, about Latin. I started skimming through the book I was reading, looking for Latin words so that I could keep the conversation going. With no Latin and very limited knowledge of emblems, I just asked if I could borrow his pen. Turns out, he really likes Latin and the emblematic tradition, but he loooooooves the Precise V5 Extra Fine Point Pen in purple, pink, and turquoise. At this point, I know everything there is to know about purchasing the Precise V5 Extra Fine Point Pen in the Tucson area. I don’t know the guy’s name or what he spends all that time writing, but I do know where he stands on pen tips and ink flow, so that’s something.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
9.
"When Irish Hearts are Happy"
I am surrounded by Celtic music, just like that.
Before leaving for New York, I ran all over town picking up stuff and tying up loose ends. I went to Safeway to get some food to leave for the house-sitter, seeing as all I had in the house was the weirdo stuff I like. I bought her frozen pizza and ravolis, stuff for rootbeer floats and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but as I was driving home I realized that I didn’t have any pasta sauce. I didn’t want to go back to Safeway but didn’t feel good about the sauce situation, so I stopped in at the Rincon Market. I was in power walk, super errand mode but stopped dead in my tracks, frozen in the doorway. The entire place was a-fiddle. I ran over to the deli counter, only to find out that they practice there every other Tuesday night. And they are fantastic. They are toe-tapping, bop in your chair good.
Mid-song the leader, I think his name is Michael, throws back his head and yells things like “pick it up!” or “one more!” During the breaks he calls across the circle, asking various band members how they’re feeling and what they would like to play—“Richard, pick one!” "'The Irish WasherWoman' it is." There are fiddles and mandolins and violins and guitars and I couldn’t be happier.
And now they’re singing. Just when you think life can’t get any better, the Irish folk start singing.
I am surrounded by Celtic music, just like that.
Before leaving for New York, I ran all over town picking up stuff and tying up loose ends. I went to Safeway to get some food to leave for the house-sitter, seeing as all I had in the house was the weirdo stuff I like. I bought her frozen pizza and ravolis, stuff for rootbeer floats and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but as I was driving home I realized that I didn’t have any pasta sauce. I didn’t want to go back to Safeway but didn’t feel good about the sauce situation, so I stopped in at the Rincon Market. I was in power walk, super errand mode but stopped dead in my tracks, frozen in the doorway. The entire place was a-fiddle. I ran over to the deli counter, only to find out that they practice there every other Tuesday night. And they are fantastic. They are toe-tapping, bop in your chair good.
Mid-song the leader, I think his name is Michael, throws back his head and yells things like “pick it up!” or “one more!” During the breaks he calls across the circle, asking various band members how they’re feeling and what they would like to play—“Richard, pick one!” "'The Irish WasherWoman' it is." There are fiddles and mandolins and violins and guitars and I couldn’t be happier.
And now they’re singing. Just when you think life can’t get any better, the Irish folk start singing.
Monday, April 2, 2007
8.
NKOTB
I am suddenly responsible for five plant lives. I went from zero plants to five plants in two days. I was supposed to buy one small houseplant to go on my new shelf, but then the one I bought for the new shelf looked better by the door, so I needed another one for the shelf… But then that made one side of the room really plant-heavy, so the other side needed a plant to balance it all out… And it couldn’t hurt to get a wee plant for the kitchen, which brought me to the badly neglected small plant section, plants that were certainly going to die, so I had to buy one of those—rescue it, give it a good home (which is exactly why me & mom aren’t allowed to go to the pound anymore).
I already know that the rescue plant isn’t going to make it. After transplanting it, I decided that all it really needed was some sunlight, so I put it on my back porch. In the middle of the day. In Tucson. And it’s fried.
After getting to know them a little, I've decided to name them after NKOTB. Donnie is the big one by the window, the leader. Jordan is the tall attractive one on the shelf. Jonathan is the one over in corner that's leafy like the tall one, but shy. Joey Joe is the wee one in the kitchen (this is NKOTB circa Joey-Joe's rendition of "I Still Believe in Santa Claus"). And the one that's barely hanging on is Danny. No one really liked him and the band could have totally gone on without him.
I really want to be the kind of person who can have a house full of healthy, thriving plants. I’m trying not to see the already-fried plant as somehow symbolic of my personality. I bought plant food, a watering can, and the good dirt that the Home Depot guy recommended. I even marked my chicken calendar so I’ll know when it’s time to feed them again. I want to do this well. I know that I got carried away, should have eased in. I have a bamboo plant that’s been alive for months now, blurring my long history of plant death—all those leafy bodies on my conscience. But I have the plant food and the watering can and the good dirt. I learned my lesson today with the whole scorching sun thing. Step four Danny: I can give you more.
I am suddenly responsible for five plant lives. I went from zero plants to five plants in two days. I was supposed to buy one small houseplant to go on my new shelf, but then the one I bought for the new shelf looked better by the door, so I needed another one for the shelf… But then that made one side of the room really plant-heavy, so the other side needed a plant to balance it all out… And it couldn’t hurt to get a wee plant for the kitchen, which brought me to the badly neglected small plant section, plants that were certainly going to die, so I had to buy one of those—rescue it, give it a good home (which is exactly why me & mom aren’t allowed to go to the pound anymore).
I already know that the rescue plant isn’t going to make it. After transplanting it, I decided that all it really needed was some sunlight, so I put it on my back porch. In the middle of the day. In Tucson. And it’s fried.
After getting to know them a little, I've decided to name them after NKOTB. Donnie is the big one by the window, the leader. Jordan is the tall attractive one on the shelf. Jonathan is the one over in corner that's leafy like the tall one, but shy. Joey Joe is the wee one in the kitchen (this is NKOTB circa Joey-Joe's rendition of "I Still Believe in Santa Claus"). And the one that's barely hanging on is Danny. No one really liked him and the band could have totally gone on without him.
I really want to be the kind of person who can have a house full of healthy, thriving plants. I’m trying not to see the already-fried plant as somehow symbolic of my personality. I bought plant food, a watering can, and the good dirt that the Home Depot guy recommended. I even marked my chicken calendar so I’ll know when it’s time to feed them again. I want to do this well. I know that I got carried away, should have eased in. I have a bamboo plant that’s been alive for months now, blurring my long history of plant death—all those leafy bodies on my conscience. But I have the plant food and the watering can and the good dirt. I learned my lesson today with the whole scorching sun thing. Step four Danny: I can give you more.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
7.
April
I ate about 15 tons of oatmeal cranberry white chocolate chip cookies today. I have been thinking about the oatmeal cranberry white chocolate chip cookies for weeks, maybe even years. In particular, I’ve been thinking about Anne Bramblett’s o.c.w.c.c.c., the cookies that shattered the Wookie Cookie empire. I couldn’t admit it at the time, but the truth is Anne’s cookies were better—they were just better. Jesse had the tiny M & Ms going for him, but overall Anne made a better cookie. There it is. I said it.
I attempted Anne’s cookies today for my tea party. We drank fancy flower tea and ate small food and I entertained lil Helen with my Muppet puppet collection and assortment of Play-Dohs. Jeb and Ceilo came over, so the dogs had their own party outside (which involved a lot of whining at the door and tormenting Milo’s soul by eating the bone he’d been hiding and visiting, hiding and visiting for three weeks).
So it was a fine day, had fun, really like my new grown up house, blah, blah, blah—but really all I can think about is the chicken that is STARING AT ME RIGHT NOW. Ab sent me the new extraordinary chickens calendar, and though there are few things I love more than those chickens, April always scares the shit out of me. It has this horrible bumpy awful head and this year the photographer really zoomed in, so there’s just no escape, nowhere to run. To make matters worse, the chicken is peeking at me, positioned on the right side of the page, leaning in. I put the calendar in my kitchen on the wall above Milo’s food—on the wall that is directly diagonal to my happy nook where I sit everyday and write. It’s watching; I cannot escape that horrible eye and knobby head-claw. It’s too terrible. But, as Ab knows, you have to be very careful with these chickens. I can’t piss this one off—not this one. Not April.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
6.
Domesticity
I bought a fancy shelf today. I know that it’s fancy because I’m looking at it right now and can see space that isn’t stuffed with books or gadgets or pictures. In fact, there is one entire shelf that has nothing but a vase on it. Along with the newspaper, I think that having a shelf with only a vase on it makes me a grown up. In this entire room there isn’t one piece of furniture that was formerly someone’s garbage—this is a big deal for me. I mean, I’m looking at a shelf that holds nothing but a Pottery Barn vase, an artful jug really. And, to top it all off, I’m having a tea party tomorrow and might bake some sort of small food item. Fancy shelves, tea, small foods. I need to go play some Altered Beast or break into my bouncy ball collection before this gets out of hand.
I bought a fancy shelf today. I know that it’s fancy because I’m looking at it right now and can see space that isn’t stuffed with books or gadgets or pictures. In fact, there is one entire shelf that has nothing but a vase on it. Along with the newspaper, I think that having a shelf with only a vase on it makes me a grown up. In this entire room there isn’t one piece of furniture that was formerly someone’s garbage—this is a big deal for me. I mean, I’m looking at a shelf that holds nothing but a Pottery Barn vase, an artful jug really. And, to top it all off, I’m having a tea party tomorrow and might bake some sort of small food item. Fancy shelves, tea, small foods. I need to go play some Altered Beast or break into my bouncy ball collection before this gets out of hand.
Friday, March 30, 2007
5.
Transportation
Today I might have run faster than I have ever run before, at least for a sustained amount of time. I ran on the rillito trial for fifty minutes without stopping and I was really running the entire time—like something was chasing me, that kind of running. I’m a shuffler, have been for years, but this afternoon I was really running.
When I was rejected from all of the running events in high school track and relegated to shot put and disc, I would watch Lisa Baker from afar. She was so tall and thin and effortlessly fast. My every movement was pained, but Lisa Baker didn’t even break a sweat. I have been running for years, consistently for a decade, and I have never stopped feeling bad about myself, the Lisa Bakers always in the back of my mind. But today I felt so good about my run that I actually threw my head back and yelled, twice, in my car as I drove home. It was weird.
As I was running, I started thinking about song teleportation. I was listening to a mixed CD I made to cheer myself up when Abe Froman got pneumonia. On the long drives to the Orange Grove Animal Clinic, I would listen to the CD (which I named “This is Me Going for Peppy”) to make myself feel better. The entire CD reminds me of the Abe trauma, but there is one song that always, no matter where I am or how many times I’ve heard it, takes me back to a really specific moment in my life.
The second I hear the Be Good Tanyas’ “Littlest Birds,” I am in my old apartment in Barrington, New Hampshire. It’s when I was between futons, so my front room only had the borrowed papasan and the big chair I found on the side of the road. It's just me and Abe at that point and he's out running around. I’ve put on my fuzzy socks and I’m dancing to the song, sliding on the hardwood floors and weaving around the chairs. Abe is alarmed by my dancing and (this is before all of the dental issues) he expresses his concern by launching himself at my feet, trying to chew on my toes. Without fail, every time I hear “Littlest Birds” I go to exactly that moment—dimly lit third story apartment, hardwood floors, Abe attacking my feet.
The best part is that after the dancing I inevitably go straight to the memory of Ab and Beej showing up on my doorstep with a brand new futon. I open the door and there they are, winded from lugging furniture up steep steps. One of many profound moments of home with them.
Today I might have run faster than I have ever run before, at least for a sustained amount of time. I ran on the rillito trial for fifty minutes without stopping and I was really running the entire time—like something was chasing me, that kind of running. I’m a shuffler, have been for years, but this afternoon I was really running.
When I was rejected from all of the running events in high school track and relegated to shot put and disc, I would watch Lisa Baker from afar. She was so tall and thin and effortlessly fast. My every movement was pained, but Lisa Baker didn’t even break a sweat. I have been running for years, consistently for a decade, and I have never stopped feeling bad about myself, the Lisa Bakers always in the back of my mind. But today I felt so good about my run that I actually threw my head back and yelled, twice, in my car as I drove home. It was weird.
As I was running, I started thinking about song teleportation. I was listening to a mixed CD I made to cheer myself up when Abe Froman got pneumonia. On the long drives to the Orange Grove Animal Clinic, I would listen to the CD (which I named “This is Me Going for Peppy”) to make myself feel better. The entire CD reminds me of the Abe trauma, but there is one song that always, no matter where I am or how many times I’ve heard it, takes me back to a really specific moment in my life.
The second I hear the Be Good Tanyas’ “Littlest Birds,” I am in my old apartment in Barrington, New Hampshire. It’s when I was between futons, so my front room only had the borrowed papasan and the big chair I found on the side of the road. It's just me and Abe at that point and he's out running around. I’ve put on my fuzzy socks and I’m dancing to the song, sliding on the hardwood floors and weaving around the chairs. Abe is alarmed by my dancing and (this is before all of the dental issues) he expresses his concern by launching himself at my feet, trying to chew on my toes. Without fail, every time I hear “Littlest Birds” I go to exactly that moment—dimly lit third story apartment, hardwood floors, Abe attacking my feet.
The best part is that after the dancing I inevitably go straight to the memory of Ab and Beej showing up on my doorstep with a brand new futon. I open the door and there they are, winded from lugging furniture up steep steps. One of many profound moments of home with them.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
4.
Jenga
Last night might have been a low point. I was eating raviolis in a really gross way and watching t.v.—nothing new there. With most raviolis, I eat them the usual way with sauce and a fork, but with the Safeway portobello mushroom raviolis, the fork and sauce just get in the way. They are perfect, especially right when they come off the stove. It hurts really badly and my fingertips are still a little numb, but the second they are afloat I dump them onto a plate and dig my hands in.
Last night, like every night, I made too many, which is always so heartbreaking because I know they’ll never return to their post-stove state of perfection. So as I was sitting there full of rav-goodness, finishing my glass of wine, I suddenly broke out into a game of ravioli Jenga. It was the only thing that made any sense at that moment. Turns out, even with the most careful precision and devoted focus, it’s Jenga! at seven Safeway portobello mushroom raviolis. Clearly there was a lot wrong with the scenario, but it was the moment when I yelled “Jenga!” out loud, making Milo twitch a little in his sleep, that I would identify as the low point.
Last night might have been a low point. I was eating raviolis in a really gross way and watching t.v.—nothing new there. With most raviolis, I eat them the usual way with sauce and a fork, but with the Safeway portobello mushroom raviolis, the fork and sauce just get in the way. They are perfect, especially right when they come off the stove. It hurts really badly and my fingertips are still a little numb, but the second they are afloat I dump them onto a plate and dig my hands in.
Last night, like every night, I made too many, which is always so heartbreaking because I know they’ll never return to their post-stove state of perfection. So as I was sitting there full of rav-goodness, finishing my glass of wine, I suddenly broke out into a game of ravioli Jenga. It was the only thing that made any sense at that moment. Turns out, even with the most careful precision and devoted focus, it’s Jenga! at seven Safeway portobello mushroom raviolis. Clearly there was a lot wrong with the scenario, but it was the moment when I yelled “Jenga!” out loud, making Milo twitch a little in his sleep, that I would identify as the low point.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
3.
Newspaper
Today marks day 4 of adulthood. I’ve been resisting it for years, refusing to let my sense of self age beyond 18. But then, four days ago, I started getting the newspaper delivered to my house. And I started reading it, cup of coffee in hand.
When I wake up in the morning and open the front blinds, it’s out there, marking my house as an adult house. This morning I tried to drink tea with the paper, but it just wasn’t right—has to be coffee, at least this first week. Sometimes I sit on the floor and spread the paper out on the coffee table. Once I sat outside, paper spread all around me, Milo playing catch with his new tuxedoed chicken squeaky toy. I haven’t really learned how to navigate the paper, mostly I’m skimming and nodding my head thoughtfully from time-to-time. With the Sacramento Bee I would go straight to the crossword (the local one, never that New York Times beast of a puzzle). But I’m not sure what to do with the Arizona Daily Star. Sure, I’m look for tidbits that will make me more conversationally interesting, and sure I’m sort of in it for the “Oh, did you see _____ in the paper this morning?” moments. But I’m also trying to find ways into Tucson, ways to live more fully in this place. I feel like I’ve had a crush on this city for a long time and haven’t done anything about it. I did a good job of living in New Hampshire, of throwing myself into that place and loving it with all my guts. I could do a better job with Tucson—I mean seriously, I live in a purple house.
The thing I might be most excited about is the fact that Abe Froman’s cage will now be lined with newspaper, which means that when I leave for the day or go to sleep at night, Abe will slip into his very small tweed coat, recline against his tunnel, and read about the day’s events, musing over foreign policy and correcting my mistakes on the crossword.
Today marks day 4 of adulthood. I’ve been resisting it for years, refusing to let my sense of self age beyond 18. But then, four days ago, I started getting the newspaper delivered to my house. And I started reading it, cup of coffee in hand.
When I wake up in the morning and open the front blinds, it’s out there, marking my house as an adult house. This morning I tried to drink tea with the paper, but it just wasn’t right—has to be coffee, at least this first week. Sometimes I sit on the floor and spread the paper out on the coffee table. Once I sat outside, paper spread all around me, Milo playing catch with his new tuxedoed chicken squeaky toy. I haven’t really learned how to navigate the paper, mostly I’m skimming and nodding my head thoughtfully from time-to-time. With the Sacramento Bee I would go straight to the crossword (the local one, never that New York Times beast of a puzzle). But I’m not sure what to do with the Arizona Daily Star. Sure, I’m look for tidbits that will make me more conversationally interesting, and sure I’m sort of in it for the “Oh, did you see _____ in the paper this morning?” moments. But I’m also trying to find ways into Tucson, ways to live more fully in this place. I feel like I’ve had a crush on this city for a long time and haven’t done anything about it. I did a good job of living in New Hampshire, of throwing myself into that place and loving it with all my guts. I could do a better job with Tucson—I mean seriously, I live in a purple house.
The thing I might be most excited about is the fact that Abe Froman’s cage will now be lined with newspaper, which means that when I leave for the day or go to sleep at night, Abe will slip into his very small tweed coat, recline against his tunnel, and read about the day’s events, musing over foreign policy and correcting my mistakes on the crossword.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
2.
Soup
I take the "shake well” instructions on food products very seriously, athletically even. I shake with my entire body, arms up and down in the air, legs kicking. I’ve done it this way for years, fueled by a strange fear of under-shaking. There’s no warm up, no lead-in, I grab the bottle or can or box and immediately throw my arms in the air. There has been some spilling, a little splashing, but overall the system has worked well for me.
So this afternoon I casually walked the short distance across my kitchen, grabbed the box of tomato and roasted red pepper soup from the fridge, and, in my systematic fit of shaking, sprayed soup all over just about every inch of the room. It must have looked amazing: a woman alone in her kitchen wildly flinging red soup across the floor, cabinets, countertop, and stove—tomato running down her arm, a little on her cheeks. I stood in the middle of it for a moment, genuinely and entirely amused. It was a great moment of disruption that stopped me, had me completely frozen. One of those moments where you give the hidden camera the "did you see that?" look, imaginary audiences laughing and shaking their heads knowingly.
I take the "shake well” instructions on food products very seriously, athletically even. I shake with my entire body, arms up and down in the air, legs kicking. I’ve done it this way for years, fueled by a strange fear of under-shaking. There’s no warm up, no lead-in, I grab the bottle or can or box and immediately throw my arms in the air. There has been some spilling, a little splashing, but overall the system has worked well for me.
So this afternoon I casually walked the short distance across my kitchen, grabbed the box of tomato and roasted red pepper soup from the fridge, and, in my systematic fit of shaking, sprayed soup all over just about every inch of the room. It must have looked amazing: a woman alone in her kitchen wildly flinging red soup across the floor, cabinets, countertop, and stove—tomato running down her arm, a little on her cheeks. I stood in the middle of it for a moment, genuinely and entirely amused. It was a great moment of disruption that stopped me, had me completely frozen. One of those moments where you give the hidden camera the "did you see that?" look, imaginary audiences laughing and shaking their heads knowingly.
Monday, March 26, 2007
1.
Moments of Suspended Hope
I live in a purple house, divided into a duplex, each side with its own red door. I have to hop over certain places in the hardwood floor so that my heels don’t get stuck between the slats. The only way that two people can function together in the kitchen is through practiced, synchronized butt-to-butt movement. The toilet and sink are so close that you don’t have to stand up to wash your hands and can even rest your head on the smooth edge of the sink during an early morning pee. My neighbor has purple tile in his kitchen, I have yellow, otherwise the sides are exactly the same. And today he bought a Porsche Boxster, convertible.
I’ve been home all day, working on my dissertation and watching him through the window. Ten minutes before the car arrived, he was pacing on our shared porch, bouncing a little each time he turned. He drove it for two hours and I could hear his music for long minutes before he arrived. He drove it on and off all day for hours at a time. When he wasn’t driving, he was either sitting on the porch staring at it or sitting in the driver’s seat staring straight ahead. It’s getting dark now and he’s sitting on the steps out front, badly sunburned, still staring.
He seems to be experiencing one of those great moments of suspended hope, a moment where he is somewhere between his real life and an imagined better life. A moment where he can see the trajectory of his life shifting, taking him to some unknown place that will somehow look and feel better.
My dad stared like that once. There was a rumor that his company’s stock was going to split, making us rich beyond our wildest dreams. That night when he got home from work he poured himself a glass of red wine, sat on the back patio, and stared into the hills for hours. As it got darker and darker outside, I made passes by the window and looked out at him, watching him sit in the dimming light, sipping wine and whispering a little to himself. A moment of suspended hope where, staring out into the distance, life looked different.
I spent a lot of my day today peeking out the window, watching my neighbor stare. There is something both wonderful and terrifying about witnessing such hope. I think there is an element of that suspended hope in this decision to write everyday. Sitting on my couch tonight, my dog at my side, I do hope that this writing will take me someplace different. That my life will transform in some small way. Tonight it seems possible.
I live in a purple house, divided into a duplex, each side with its own red door. I have to hop over certain places in the hardwood floor so that my heels don’t get stuck between the slats. The only way that two people can function together in the kitchen is through practiced, synchronized butt-to-butt movement. The toilet and sink are so close that you don’t have to stand up to wash your hands and can even rest your head on the smooth edge of the sink during an early morning pee. My neighbor has purple tile in his kitchen, I have yellow, otherwise the sides are exactly the same. And today he bought a Porsche Boxster, convertible.
I’ve been home all day, working on my dissertation and watching him through the window. Ten minutes before the car arrived, he was pacing on our shared porch, bouncing a little each time he turned. He drove it for two hours and I could hear his music for long minutes before he arrived. He drove it on and off all day for hours at a time. When he wasn’t driving, he was either sitting on the porch staring at it or sitting in the driver’s seat staring straight ahead. It’s getting dark now and he’s sitting on the steps out front, badly sunburned, still staring.
He seems to be experiencing one of those great moments of suspended hope, a moment where he is somewhere between his real life and an imagined better life. A moment where he can see the trajectory of his life shifting, taking him to some unknown place that will somehow look and feel better.
My dad stared like that once. There was a rumor that his company’s stock was going to split, making us rich beyond our wildest dreams. That night when he got home from work he poured himself a glass of red wine, sat on the back patio, and stared into the hills for hours. As it got darker and darker outside, I made passes by the window and looked out at him, watching him sit in the dimming light, sipping wine and whispering a little to himself. A moment of suspended hope where, staring out into the distance, life looked different.
I spent a lot of my day today peeking out the window, watching my neighbor stare. There is something both wonderful and terrifying about witnessing such hope. I think there is an element of that suspended hope in this decision to write everyday. Sitting on my couch tonight, my dog at my side, I do hope that this writing will take me someplace different. That my life will transform in some small way. Tonight it seems possible.
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