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.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
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.
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