Sometimes I think that the more interesting work would be writing a memoir about trying to write this damn novel. I just can't find my voice. I know why I'm telling the story, but it's too intellectual. It doesn't appear to matter. When I am writing about my life, it matters. Being clear matters. This thing that I'm trying to do -- it's just a thing that needs energy, and though I'm trying to communicate that love doesn't have to look like it does in Harlequin novels to be bodice-ripping and delicious, in the guise of these characters that message keeps falling flat. There's no depth because it doesn't matter. I'm writing a fantasy.
The thing is, fantasy has it's place. Dreaming our way forward is a legitimate means of locomotion. If some of our hopes are unrealistic, well, that's life. Unrealistic goals are destructive when they create the expectation that anything different than them is less than them. All values other than x are different values, not necessarily lesser ones; unrealistic goals that provide an extra push are helpful. Fantasy has a place in the mind that is fluid in its dreams.
I am inspired by writers like Liz Gilbert and The Gluten-Free Girl. They go in search of truth for themselves, they do all this work to figure out how to live a good life -- for them -- and then they share it, without proselytizing. I want to do that. That's what this book is about for me: taking the tropes of the romance novel, showing that they all exist in real relationships, but showing that love happens with honest conversation. It doesn't just fall in your lap, most men don't have ESP, and being catty and coy will not get you the guy, most of the time.
I think the answer is right in front of my face: I can't write this book because I can't fictionalize my life. Only, I'm not doing that at all. I'm writing half-fiction half-memoir and then resisting my impulse to write reflectively.
Maybe I can write a memoir about trying to write a romance novel. And in order to do that... I have to get back to work.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
A Week For the Books
Since my last post, I have indeed written a bit. Well, I’ve cut a lot, and written a very little bit of new material. Editing is writing, too.
This week, I have done a lot of thinking about the purpose and function of my novel, though I have produced little written work. The tree outside my writing window bloomed without me, as things tend to do. Though it is good to know how steadily the world moves without us there to see it, it was sad to miss the first leafing of that well-placed tree. Instead, I spent my early mornings on Watt’s Passage and Proffit Road, on my way to Ruckersville as the sun rose. All this week, I have been nannying for the most even-tempered, affectionate baby I’ve met in a long time. In fact, his diaper is pretty smelly right this very moment, so he’s giving me a reproachful look every minute or so and then returning to look at the window or the Baby Einstein toys he likes so much. In respect of that perfectly sweet trust, I am going to go change a poopy diaper. Be right back.
Yay! He didn’t pee on me! G’s only fault in the whole world is his timing with peeing – he like likes to do so just as I am changing his diaper.
I want to describe this little boy for a minute. He’s had his bottom two front teeth come in, so he looks a little like an upside down bunny when he smiles. He talks a lot, though his only grown-up words are ‘De dog’ (which means, I think, ‘there it is’ or ‘here we go’), and ‘Dada.’ He loves to walk around, but he needs my hands to do so. He does not like his pants to touch his feet. He hardly ever cries, and when he does, he stops as soon as you’ve fixed the problem. He’s quite independent in playing, and can sit with his toys for twenty minutes at a time, usually only vaguely interested in you if you come to play with him; but then, he crawls over and reaches up his arms to be held. Then, he’ll sit in your arms and be cuddled for quite some time. He listens to commands, like, “Please use your hands to hold the cup” and “No.” We sit on the couch and look at each other and laugh, just for fun. Why don't grown ups do that?
He has the most wonderful facial expressions. His favorite game is Flying. I put him on my shins, lay on my back, hold his hands, and bring my knees to my chest, keeping my calves parallel with the ground. He loves it. (I will miss this boy like there’s a hole in my abdomen when I leave him at the end of the week. The only reason I’m not cuddling him right now is that he needs to crawl around and try to stay standing for a while so he gets tired enough for his nap.)
When we go out, he sits quietly in my arms in the store and cuddles me. If he reaches for something on the shelf and I say no, he doesn’t freak. He takes good naps, and prefers to do so in my arms, though he’ll nap in a crib if I am gentle about putting him there. More than any of that, though, this little guy is my friend, and he’s the shit. We are kindred spirits, and we make each other smile all day long.
I shouldn’t be writing right now. I have a lot of work to do for my class on special ed and the show I’m teching opens this week so I haven’t done any of the reading… but I miss this. So, within the week, I will be posting the novel in installments online, rather than blogging – I miss communicating in this fashion when I don’t do it for a week, so I am hoping that I can satiate the urge to tell you all things by publishing online. If you would like the website, email me. Maybe I’ll also find the time to post. In between, I am sound and projections op on a play. It's nice to facilitate the spotlight for somebody else. I like being the mechanism of art.
In case my description of G doesn’t illustrate how perfect my week has been, I am going to share a list of all the things I’ve been in the last seven days to illustrate how idyllic it’s been:
Nap nest, chef’s minion, outrageous flirt, sound tech, cue-caller, all-purpose comfort device, diaper changer, chauffeur, mind reader, reader, player of the dressing game, kindred spirit, sunriser, witness to the morning, witness of steps, listener of gurgles, source of laughter, raspberrian, peek-a-boo expert, teething device, daughter, drool mop, burp cloth, dresser, jungle gym, light cue op, happy home, full of joy, mechanism of art.
After writing the first draft of this, G crawled onto my chest, drank his bottle, and then slept on me for two hours. Baby trust is scary. I slept a little, too, but it was a lighter sleep; I stayed close to the surface. When he twitched, I twitched, and vice versa.
Much connection can happen across age, without words.
Much connection can happen across age, without words.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Home again, bacon's cooking
On the plane coming back from Spain, I made a list on my arm of Things to Blog About, and if I recall correctly, it looked a little like this:
1. Crazy frenchman chase
2. The Day of the Hats
3. French Bacon: croissants aren't all that's for breakfast
4. Farmers markets and gypsy ladies
5. Wine and the Seine
6. An Accordionist, Clarinetist, and Hand drum man sell rugs
7. Free tapas.
8. Outdoor laundry vs. Indoor voices (my thought: everyone in Europe is really quiet when they talk to each other. You can sit one table over and not hear a word they say all night, but it isn't because they aren't having an animated conversation. Also, I don't think this was just the language barrier -- people don't want to strike up a conversation with a stranger in the street. They have huge fences and tree screens around even the tiniest lawns. A rather private people. Yet they string their laundry out their windows, including panties, for all the world to see. What kind of privacy is this?)
9. Diesel jeans?
10. Chicken joints are universally difficult
11. Kids in Europe are just cuter (my thought: they wear grown up clothes, sized small. No goofy cartoon stuff for them, oh no.)
12. Quietness and the power of words
13. Intention in dressing shows respect; note: buy pantyhose
14. Learning French
15. My aunt's a whippersnapper!
This is my closest approximation of the list. But, you see, between all the gchatting and studying, test-taking and eating, driving and volunteering I've been doing since I left Spain, none of those posts have gotten written. And since I'm now a projectionist on a show, I genuinely want to write, and I'm possibly getting a job tomorrow, I don't see them getting written. But I did want to share the thoughts.
Virginia has changed. It's not just the superficial bits, like where people live and who is here, it's deeper; people who I remember having a great peace about them can, in fact, be ruffled; my little brother is a Man; there's no bacon in the fridge -- or there wasn't.
I'm the same, though I suppose I am completely different. This is how I know that change is spiral: when I walked into Live Arts the other day, someone I used to know described me as a person and a half (omg he remembered me at all!) and then a person I'd only tangentially known kind of entrusted me with an exciting, serious task. A creative linchpin. I feel like... this is not them being complimentary anymore. I feel like these things are honest reflections of their honest opinion of my character, which means that I'm not a kid. This isn't something I get to fail at and then say, "Oh, oops, I'm twelve." Of course, I never did that when I could, which is, I suppose, why this is happening now. It's not something I can mess up, this work I'm doing on this show; it's an artistic partnership. I'm a partner in making art happen. I never felt that I had that, if I did. So I'm doing the same things on the same reputation, but I'm different. I'm committed to the art, not the act of working. It feels good.
But I must confess: I haven't written since I've been back. Well, I did last night between performances at the talent show (yeah, I went to a talent show in a bar), but I haven't yet used my big beautiful writing room. It's got a desk and a yoga mat, boxes upon boxes of books, and a stereo system. I haven't even completely unpacked my clothes, though I've been here three days. I'm starting to feel guilty. I came back to write my book. I need to write my book!
There has to be a balance between the pressures, though. I came back, in part to write, because I want to write. If I have to push myself a little to get it done, that's a good thing -- inertia is a terrifyingly powerful force. It is part of the artist's job to battle it. But I have to battle inertia without battling myself. I have to hear myself that I want to write and defend that time from everything -- from babysitting, from volunteering, from my friends, from my procrastination -- but also, I have to know that there's a reason that I'm three days in and have half my evening scheduled until the end of April. I love Live Arts. I love to make art. I love working with people who are so openly appreciative of me. I think it's good to do what I love. I also think it's good to not live in fear of my writing, and, therefore, to do it.
I came back to do the things I want to do. I just have to learn to get out of the way. It's like cooking bacon: if you tend it too closely, it won't get crispy, you'll let it alone a moment, and it will burn. But if you let it do it's thing and turn it when it smells right, it's perfect. Just watch for the smoke. I need to spend more time listening to the crackling and watching for the smoke, I think.
So I'm sitting here, the morning sunshine warming my fingers as I type, thinking about talking less about my art and making more of it; I'm thinking about how I can fall back into the trappings of my old life, but I'll never live it again -- I'm quieter; I know what it feels like to fail, so I fear that; I have priorities and a center.
I am here until the end of June. This is what I want to do:
1. Wake early and write daily
2. Have lots of family dinners
3. Kick some ass as a projectionist and sound person
4. Reconnect with old friends
5. Eat better food: no more non-organic meat, no more fast food of really any kind
6. Talk less, create more
That last thing may mean that I spend less time blogging and more time writing my book, but... when the pen starts going, sometimes you can't stop it, and it turns right back on you. Autobiographies, I imagine, are called 'auto' for a reason.
Haikus, however, don't count as procrastination from creation, so here are some on my trip, written upon reflection:
The Passport Haikus:
laundry strung over tile
mimics tripas, breezes love
wing'd starlit laughter.
shabby violins
float higher, sing softer, play
stories older'n time.
cozy cave, tests teach
if we hear ourselves singing
of light through the stones.
I'm no better than
normal; cobbled together
quilted hopes, I love.
sweet port of hope melts
all -- harbors peace, stories
the long journey back.
The Fellini's Haiku (yeah, I wrote a poem in a bar, get over it):
On Tuesday, I
opened mail I'd avoided. I
found myself insured.
This Morning:
Sunshine showers, long
moments before breakfast, like
bacon for the soul.
1. Crazy frenchman chase
2. The Day of the Hats
3. French Bacon: croissants aren't all that's for breakfast
4. Farmers markets and gypsy ladies
5. Wine and the Seine
6. An Accordionist, Clarinetist, and Hand drum man sell rugs
7. Free tapas.
8. Outdoor laundry vs. Indoor voices (my thought: everyone in Europe is really quiet when they talk to each other. You can sit one table over and not hear a word they say all night, but it isn't because they aren't having an animated conversation. Also, I don't think this was just the language barrier -- people don't want to strike up a conversation with a stranger in the street. They have huge fences and tree screens around even the tiniest lawns. A rather private people. Yet they string their laundry out their windows, including panties, for all the world to see. What kind of privacy is this?)
9. Diesel jeans?
10. Chicken joints are universally difficult
11. Kids in Europe are just cuter (my thought: they wear grown up clothes, sized small. No goofy cartoon stuff for them, oh no.)
12. Quietness and the power of words
13. Intention in dressing shows respect; note: buy pantyhose
14. Learning French
15. My aunt's a whippersnapper!
This is my closest approximation of the list. But, you see, between all the gchatting and studying, test-taking and eating, driving and volunteering I've been doing since I left Spain, none of those posts have gotten written. And since I'm now a projectionist on a show, I genuinely want to write, and I'm possibly getting a job tomorrow, I don't see them getting written. But I did want to share the thoughts.
Virginia has changed. It's not just the superficial bits, like where people live and who is here, it's deeper; people who I remember having a great peace about them can, in fact, be ruffled; my little brother is a Man; there's no bacon in the fridge -- or there wasn't.
I'm the same, though I suppose I am completely different. This is how I know that change is spiral: when I walked into Live Arts the other day, someone I used to know described me as a person and a half (omg he remembered me at all!) and then a person I'd only tangentially known kind of entrusted me with an exciting, serious task. A creative linchpin. I feel like... this is not them being complimentary anymore. I feel like these things are honest reflections of their honest opinion of my character, which means that I'm not a kid. This isn't something I get to fail at and then say, "Oh, oops, I'm twelve." Of course, I never did that when I could, which is, I suppose, why this is happening now. It's not something I can mess up, this work I'm doing on this show; it's an artistic partnership. I'm a partner in making art happen. I never felt that I had that, if I did. So I'm doing the same things on the same reputation, but I'm different. I'm committed to the art, not the act of working. It feels good.
But I must confess: I haven't written since I've been back. Well, I did last night between performances at the talent show (yeah, I went to a talent show in a bar), but I haven't yet used my big beautiful writing room. It's got a desk and a yoga mat, boxes upon boxes of books, and a stereo system. I haven't even completely unpacked my clothes, though I've been here three days. I'm starting to feel guilty. I came back to write my book. I need to write my book!
There has to be a balance between the pressures, though. I came back, in part to write, because I want to write. If I have to push myself a little to get it done, that's a good thing -- inertia is a terrifyingly powerful force. It is part of the artist's job to battle it. But I have to battle inertia without battling myself. I have to hear myself that I want to write and defend that time from everything -- from babysitting, from volunteering, from my friends, from my procrastination -- but also, I have to know that there's a reason that I'm three days in and have half my evening scheduled until the end of April. I love Live Arts. I love to make art. I love working with people who are so openly appreciative of me. I think it's good to do what I love. I also think it's good to not live in fear of my writing, and, therefore, to do it.
I came back to do the things I want to do. I just have to learn to get out of the way. It's like cooking bacon: if you tend it too closely, it won't get crispy, you'll let it alone a moment, and it will burn. But if you let it do it's thing and turn it when it smells right, it's perfect. Just watch for the smoke. I need to spend more time listening to the crackling and watching for the smoke, I think.
So I'm sitting here, the morning sunshine warming my fingers as I type, thinking about talking less about my art and making more of it; I'm thinking about how I can fall back into the trappings of my old life, but I'll never live it again -- I'm quieter; I know what it feels like to fail, so I fear that; I have priorities and a center.
I am here until the end of June. This is what I want to do:
1. Wake early and write daily
2. Have lots of family dinners
3. Kick some ass as a projectionist and sound person
4. Reconnect with old friends
5. Eat better food: no more non-organic meat, no more fast food of really any kind
6. Talk less, create more
That last thing may mean that I spend less time blogging and more time writing my book, but... when the pen starts going, sometimes you can't stop it, and it turns right back on you. Autobiographies, I imagine, are called 'auto' for a reason.
Haikus, however, don't count as procrastination from creation, so here are some on my trip, written upon reflection:
The Passport Haikus:
laundry strung over tile
mimics tripas, breezes love
wing'd starlit laughter.
shabby violins
float higher, sing softer, play
stories older'n time.
cozy cave, tests teach
if we hear ourselves singing
of light through the stones.
I'm no better than
normal; cobbled together
quilted hopes, I love.
sweet port of hope melts
all -- harbors peace, stories
the long journey back.
The Fellini's Haiku (yeah, I wrote a poem in a bar, get over it):
On Tuesday, I
opened mail I'd avoided. I
found myself insured.
This Morning:
Sunshine showers, long
moments before breakfast, like
bacon for the soul.
A List of Things That Are Different In Europe
gluten free bread: it's more stretchy and crusty and not so crumbly
butter comes in different sizes
in Porto, appetizers (like bread and cheese) are NOT free, and come a bit packaged (I assume this facilitates passing them off to the next customer)
the cars are all tiny; the ones that are like American cars are miniature versions
the eggs come in smaller packages
there are gypsies
the internet
the showers are showerheads on long cords
there are models on planes (no, really)
quiet talking
the subways are not radial systems
there are train stations with grass roofs
people dress intentionally
there is very little casual attire
everything comes in smaller portions
if it ain't cobbled, it ain't... something, but there are enough cobbles to be legit snobbish about it. also, on this one street in Paris, there were cobbles UNDER the pavement, whcih had been ripped up a bit.
everybody wears pantyhose.
butter comes in different sizes
in Porto, appetizers (like bread and cheese) are NOT free, and come a bit packaged (I assume this facilitates passing them off to the next customer)
the cars are all tiny; the ones that are like American cars are miniature versions
the eggs come in smaller packages
there are gypsies
the internet
the showers are showerheads on long cords
there are models on planes (no, really)
quiet talking
the subways are not radial systems
there are train stations with grass roofs
people dress intentionally
there is very little casual attire
everything comes in smaller portions
if it ain't cobbled, it ain't... something, but there are enough cobbles to be legit snobbish about it. also, on this one street in Paris, there were cobbles UNDER the pavement, whcih had been ripped up a bit.
everybody wears pantyhose.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Some Haikus on Europe
I sat in a really old restaurant eating a tortilla yesterday, and this is what I wrote:
So, cold tortillas
are better, lighter bar food
than American's.
Layered egg, golden
warm, soft, onioned patatas.
Sum of parts? Lighter.
Brits are not better
At being English Speaking
In Spain. [Take that, snobs!]*
* alternate ending: [AMERICA!]
Haphazard streets, paved
with care, crevices cobbled
attain intention.
Portugese sunshine
reflected in tile colors
kissed my face tender.
Mallard topped canes, men
made gentler by wives, pipes, time -- smile
from eyes to cuff-links.
So, cold tortillas
are better, lighter bar food
than American's.
Layered egg, golden
warm, soft, onioned patatas.
Sum of parts? Lighter.
Brits are not better
At being English Speaking
In Spain. [Take that, snobs!]*
* alternate ending: [AMERICA!]
Haphazard streets, paved
with care, crevices cobbled
attain intention.
Portugese sunshine
reflected in tile colors
kissed my face tender.
Mallard topped canes, men
made gentler by wives, pipes, time -- smile
from eyes to cuff-links.
A List of Things That Don't Need Words
I'm full
This is DELICIOUS
more
coffee
you've got nutella on your face
port? wine?
I'm a tourist, take a picture of me and my friend?
cute car
cute dog
cute baby
I'm having an asthma attack
up the hill
down the hill
left
right
flip flops are not appropriate footwear, you stupid american
dammit, we lost the football match
no! my team is better than your team!
I hate Palma Mallorca, dammit, but I hate Barcelona more!
check, please
heeeey, he's cute. [thumbs up]
I need a needle and thread to fix the hole in my jacket. Help?
I want these shoes
where do I buy stockings?
I am terrified of heights, but the view is amazing
wow, this is old. 1282 for REALZ?
Velasquez, you have a funny look on your face.
my throat hurts.
suck on this lozenge every 3 hours. (amazing what miming can do!)
my throat hurts.
suck on this lozenge every 3 hours. (amazing what miming can do!)
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Europe, here I come!
I'm going to Spain! And Portugal! And France!
What is near Madrid that I should definitely see? Who do you know in Paris that I should hang out with? What's good to eat in Portugal?
What is near Madrid that I should definitely see? Who do you know in Paris that I should hang out with? What's good to eat in Portugal?
Mining Screen Doors For Metaphors
This is a thought I had while on the phone with my mom, and she asked me to write it down. So I'm writing it here, as I haven't blogged in a while.
Long spools of metal in many grades, many types, and many lengths line shelves in some corner of some aisle of most every hardware store. Strings of metal hurt the fingers when we play or work with them for any length of time; but as far as I can tell, spooled steel is the best of all possible materials for making screen doors.
Now, most of us buy screen doors. But in today’s retail environment of shoddy manufacturing practices and standard pre-sizing, it can be extremely difficult to find the right sized door for our hearts and minds; it can be hard to find the right texture, the right weaving, to fit across the many points of entry into the house of our soul. So, I would rather make mine than buy it.
I have found that when I fling open my front door and all my windows, much fresh air and sunlight rushes in. It’s beautiful and warm, even on the coldest days, because there is always much good in the air. My experience has shown that the world is basically good, that people are basically kind, and that most of the time they will treat the world – and you – with love, if given the chance.
But that’s just most of the time. Captain Obvious must have his day: sometimes people are mean. People can, in fact, be scummy as slugs. They can bite, they can nag, they can buzz you until you want to scream and swat them. They can be rather poisonous. Captain Obvious, again: these characteristics are not far removed from the grosser creatures in the insect world. This is not the side of people I like to dwell upon, but one has to think about it enough to defend oneself.
So one must put up screen doors because bug repellent smells awful and repels good things, too.
I think it stands to reason that when doors are open, everything comes in. I think it also stands to reason that good things are often worth the bad things that come with them, but not always; and I think it stands strongest that proper filtration is key to balance, for if we let every bad thing in our lives effect us as profoundly as the good, we're bound to be miserable. Or, possibly more accurately, we're bound to behave like toddlers and small babies: their smiles are the happiest pieces of sunshine, but the smallest of things, like a scoop of ice cream toppling off of a cone, is the Greatest Calamity In the World. I don't want negative things to have that kind of sway with me: I want to be vaguely aware that they are buzzing at the door so I can address them and send them away, but I don't want them to come in all the way with the sunlight.
I suppose that means that around my doors and windows there will be a bit more shade; screens do that. And, along the way, my fingers will ache and bleed with the weaving. From time to time, I imagine someone will kick in my door, and it will be particularly bloody to reconstruct weaving in the hole; but still, it will be worthwhile.
Finding the proper density, the best weave... it's not simple. But it's good work, leading, as all good work does, to a happy settling in of peace.
Long spools of metal in many grades, many types, and many lengths line shelves in some corner of some aisle of most every hardware store. Strings of metal hurt the fingers when we play or work with them for any length of time; but as far as I can tell, spooled steel is the best of all possible materials for making screen doors.
Now, most of us buy screen doors. But in today’s retail environment of shoddy manufacturing practices and standard pre-sizing, it can be extremely difficult to find the right sized door for our hearts and minds; it can be hard to find the right texture, the right weaving, to fit across the many points of entry into the house of our soul. So, I would rather make mine than buy it.
I have found that when I fling open my front door and all my windows, much fresh air and sunlight rushes in. It’s beautiful and warm, even on the coldest days, because there is always much good in the air. My experience has shown that the world is basically good, that people are basically kind, and that most of the time they will treat the world – and you – with love, if given the chance.
But that’s just most of the time. Captain Obvious must have his day: sometimes people are mean. People can, in fact, be scummy as slugs. They can bite, they can nag, they can buzz you until you want to scream and swat them. They can be rather poisonous. Captain Obvious, again: these characteristics are not far removed from the grosser creatures in the insect world. This is not the side of people I like to dwell upon, but one has to think about it enough to defend oneself.
So one must put up screen doors because bug repellent smells awful and repels good things, too.
I think it stands to reason that when doors are open, everything comes in. I think it also stands to reason that good things are often worth the bad things that come with them, but not always; and I think it stands strongest that proper filtration is key to balance, for if we let every bad thing in our lives effect us as profoundly as the good, we're bound to be miserable. Or, possibly more accurately, we're bound to behave like toddlers and small babies: their smiles are the happiest pieces of sunshine, but the smallest of things, like a scoop of ice cream toppling off of a cone, is the Greatest Calamity In the World. I don't want negative things to have that kind of sway with me: I want to be vaguely aware that they are buzzing at the door so I can address them and send them away, but I don't want them to come in all the way with the sunlight.
I suppose that means that around my doors and windows there will be a bit more shade; screens do that. And, along the way, my fingers will ache and bleed with the weaving. From time to time, I imagine someone will kick in my door, and it will be particularly bloody to reconstruct weaving in the hole; but still, it will be worthwhile.
Finding the proper density, the best weave... it's not simple. But it's good work, leading, as all good work does, to a happy settling in of peace.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Poems In the Office
Steam rising from the printer tray
pages stick together, compressed print.
A warm room with a view, perfect
for two sun salutations, a two-faced dog, and funny triangles.
One broken industrial stapler, repaired
with a broken screwdriver.
The question is, was it broken
if it functioned, and functioned well?
I think not.
pages stick together, compressed print.
A warm room with a view, perfect
for two sun salutations, a two-faced dog, and funny triangles.
One broken industrial stapler, repaired
with a broken screwdriver.
The question is, was it broken
if it functioned, and functioned well?
I think not.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Changes Come With Springtime
This was an email I sent to the family and other persons. In case I didn't get you with it, here it is.
Dear Friends and Family,
I am making a change. I like you, so I want to tell you about it.
For some time, I have been talking about Tumbleweed Tiny Houses. For some time, I have been wanting to teach, to write, to be at home; to spend some time in the woods, to hang out with my family.
I decided a few months ago to leave my job in June, but after spending time at home over the break I've changed my mind. So, I'm going to finish the project I'm working on, and my last day at my job will be in the end of February. While I have found an amazing community of friends and Friends (Quakers) here, I feel a powerful draw to spend some time really being at home, being with my family, before I start teaching in the fall.
Speaking of teaching, I had an interview with the Baltimore City Teaching Residency last weekend -- it went well. I'll find out in a week and a half if I get it. I've applied to two other fellows programs and two grad schools; I find out soon. I have a lead on a job at Michie Tavern in Virginia in the meantime.
Perhaps it's folly to give up a job and friends to go home, to write, to look for teaching jobs, to spend Real Time with my family and friends who remain there -- but I don't think this change is silly at all. I feel we have a right, an obligation, to do what makes us happy when we know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it will. I have found pieces of joy in this life here; I know, now, so MUCH more about myself than I did a year ago; I know how to build a life out of people, not stuff; I think I've gotten what I needed out of Texas. It's time to move on. The act is scary, but the thought is comforting.
So I want to shed the stuff, sell most of my furniture, and go home. I've got a book in me; I'm going to go get it out before I throw myself into being a teacher. There are logistics to this; I've got a lead on a waitressing job, I've got a subletter. If any of you are interested in buying some books or furniture, I've got some pretty great stuff. I'll give it to you for a few bucks + shipping and handling.
The timeline: I'm leaving my job on February 18th, moving out of my apartment on February 20th, going to Spain for a few weeks, and then I'm driving to Virginia on March 13th.
I feel an immense amount of relief when I think about packing up my car and being at home. I'm worried about not being able to sell my couch and stuff, but I feel the way will open. When we are honest and clear about our lives, it always does, doesn't it?
I'm not feeling particularly eloquent right now; the West Wing is in the background so I'm not focusing, I'm hungry, and I'm tired from thinking about logistics, but this decision feels good. You should know that after the 15th of March I'll be living with my dad. I'll be there until a teaching fellows program starts (June), if I get into one, or grad school (August), if I get in there. Alternately, neither of those options pan out, and I will be doing something completely different. Whatever that thing is, it'll be within driving distance of the Shenandoah Valley, I can tell you that much!
Anyway, that's what's up in my life. What's up with yours? I hope you're as happy as I am... :^).
Love,
Morgan
Dear Friends and Family,
I am making a change. I like you, so I want to tell you about it.
For some time, I have been talking about Tumbleweed Tiny Houses. For some time, I have been wanting to teach, to write, to be at home; to spend some time in the woods, to hang out with my family.
I decided a few months ago to leave my job in June, but after spending time at home over the break I've changed my mind. So, I'm going to finish the project I'm working on, and my last day at my job will be in the end of February. While I have found an amazing community of friends and Friends (Quakers) here, I feel a powerful draw to spend some time really being at home, being with my family, before I start teaching in the fall.
Speaking of teaching, I had an interview with the Baltimore City Teaching Residency last weekend -- it went well. I'll find out in a week and a half if I get it. I've applied to two other fellows programs and two grad schools; I find out soon. I have a lead on a job at Michie Tavern in Virginia in the meantime.
Perhaps it's folly to give up a job and friends to go home, to write, to look for teaching jobs, to spend Real Time with my family and friends who remain there -- but I don't think this change is silly at all. I feel we have a right, an obligation, to do what makes us happy when we know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it will. I have found pieces of joy in this life here; I know, now, so MUCH more about myself than I did a year ago; I know how to build a life out of people, not stuff; I think I've gotten what I needed out of Texas. It's time to move on. The act is scary, but the thought is comforting.
So I want to shed the stuff, sell most of my furniture, and go home. I've got a book in me; I'm going to go get it out before I throw myself into being a teacher. There are logistics to this; I've got a lead on a waitressing job, I've got a subletter. If any of you are interested in buying some books or furniture, I've got some pretty great stuff. I'll give it to you for a few bucks + shipping and handling.
The timeline: I'm leaving my job on February 18th, moving out of my apartment on February 20th, going to Spain for a few weeks, and then I'm driving to Virginia on March 13th.
I feel an immense amount of relief when I think about packing up my car and being at home. I'm worried about not being able to sell my couch and stuff, but I feel the way will open. When we are honest and clear about our lives, it always does, doesn't it?
I'm not feeling particularly eloquent right now; the West Wing is in the background so I'm not focusing, I'm hungry, and I'm tired from thinking about logistics, but this decision feels good. You should know that after the 15th of March I'll be living with my dad. I'll be there until a teaching fellows program starts (June), if I get into one, or grad school (August), if I get in there. Alternately, neither of those options pan out, and I will be doing something completely different. Whatever that thing is, it'll be within driving distance of the Shenandoah Valley, I can tell you that much!
Anyway, that's what's up in my life. What's up with yours? I hope you're as happy as I am... :^).
Love,
Morgan
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Et... c'etait bien
I have made New Years Resolutions.
One was to write thank yous to all the people who sent me Christmas cards, another was to write thank yous for the beautiful presents; a third was to finish mailing the Christmas gifts that didn't make it into my car for the long trek East and North. I hope you might understand why I have not posted since my stranding off the Turnpike in New Jersey.
The rest of the trip was lovely and peaceful. I have discovered that really any amount of driving above four hours is slightly addling, but to do it without distraction is to enter a different state. NPR kept me company sometimes, I listened to some CDs, but by and large, I just... drove. 5,500 miles later, 4,750 of which were alone, I feel no epic new kinships (though I have certainly refreshed some friendships, which feels amazing). I feel no aversion nor any greater affinity towards my car, though the affection with which I look at it has apparently increased. Before this trip, I was not unable to spend time alone or with myself. But, I am aware that I feel more able to think and certainly more able to not think without the distraction of multimedia. Perhaps it's the Quakers and perhaps not, but I found myself stretching the happy, empty space in my mind over many miles. Mindful wanderings through thoughts that might have been mine and sometimes weren't have been filtered through many kinds of trees.
It was good.
I made some other resolutions: listen to the things I am dimly aware of; be kind; be kind to myself, but keep personal standards high; go to the gym a few times a week; get serious with a doctor about what's going on with my back; get on the bone marrow donor list; go to Spain; be quieter; bring my peace out into the world, but be careful of it, too; donate blood more consistently; call my brothers more often; be more intentional about who I spend my time with and what we do; focus on tasks to completion; learn to clear my mind in Meeting; don't waste heat; lock my windows; either get a dog or volunteer at the shelter near my house; write more; apply to grad school; let myself let go of things that aren't good for me; see the poison when I see wheat; don't combine spontaneous affection and alcohol; practice more yoga; learn French.
So far, so good. I'm writing, I've pulled my hip flexor out of whack from a super intense gym class, I'm finishing projects mostly on time, I've applied to grad school, I have a pile of stuff to put in the mail -- look out; my windows are locked; I bought my ticket to Spain; I've seen a doctor about my back; I'm watching the West Wing with French subtitles.
It's been good. The thing is, these resolutions and these behavior changes don't feel that much different from my life before the New Year. I was making these kinds of resolutions all the time, working on them daily, taking up new ones and putting down old ones as I checked in with myself at the end of the week. I wasn't always rigorous about looking into every aspect of myself -- as one is at the turning of the year -- but I feel like I was keeping up a decent habit of exploring a vein of self-work for a while before 2011 came upon me.
I understand why people want to go to the gym after the holidays -- there's a lot of food still clinging to the hips and grease in the pores, it's true. I remember a time when I had a lot of pent up energy after coming home from the holiday vacation; that's not true this time. I remember, too, wanting to go to the gym for aesthetic reasons, and I remember wanting to go for the sake of the habit. Not one of those apply right now.
I feel this nebulous rock of positivity sitting in the middle of my chest. It gets heavier -- in a good way -- when I express my enthusiasm by waving my arms and legs about in a cardio class. I like the feeling I get after a workout; I'm not all that interested in any of the other immediate effects. My affection for my body and self grows every day; I feel like sending myself a really nice thank you card, and to me, that feels like going to the gym. I like it.
As fr the rest of my resolutions, I've made a few mistakes. That's okay. I have tomorrow to fix them; they'll still be there.
I was talking to a friend about New Years and mentioned that I don't find a lot of meaning to it; I do this every week, and I think it's silly that we, as a culture, get really drunk and then in the morning we resolve (as one does after a binge) to NEVER EVER do that again, none of those things [insert resolution here]. This really sets one up for failure. I mean, you're starting the year with a terrible hangover and a set of habits to break or learn. Not a good place to start from. I mean, you've been eating for like two weeks straight, probably you've been on vacation, you're hanging out with people you don't usually see and doing things you don't normally do and then you wake up one morning maybe still tipsy from the night before and you're supposed to be in a good place to fundamentally change your life?
Habits take time. The work is slow. We have to do it collectively, regularly. Well, I have to do it collectively and regularly. Checking in and resolving should be a weekly event. Why do we think it happens once a year?
This friend I was talking to smiled. He said that he took my point, and that my feelings about New Years were pretty analogous to how he feels about Christmas and Thanksgiving -- why wait til twice a year to gather the clan, eat, and give thanks for all that is good in our lives? Why not do that every week?
It was a good point.
Dear friends who made resolutions which have been broken already: try again, one day at a time. Habits are slow in coming and slower in leaving. Dear friends who are lucky enough to have not yet broken the resolutions you made in your drunken revels/hung over stupor: wow. I'm really impressed. How did you do it?
I think massive, cathartic episodes of reflection -- supersized versions of weekly traditions -- are joyous and useful. I want to have dinner with my family every week; it would make Christmas and Thanksgiving that much better. Reflecting on how I'm different in light of the things I want to change in 2011 was useful to me. But my favorite thing about the last few weeks is this: good things happen slow as breathing. Miles slide steadily behind you; rest stops are profitable things; eat and drink and be merry, regularly; and, if you're anything like me, a big rock of happy is sitting somewhere in your stomach. Do the things that make it heavier. It'll lighten the load.
Happy New Year, dear friends. I hope to see you again soon. Pardon the proselytizing.
One was to write thank yous to all the people who sent me Christmas cards, another was to write thank yous for the beautiful presents; a third was to finish mailing the Christmas gifts that didn't make it into my car for the long trek East and North. I hope you might understand why I have not posted since my stranding off the Turnpike in New Jersey.
The rest of the trip was lovely and peaceful. I have discovered that really any amount of driving above four hours is slightly addling, but to do it without distraction is to enter a different state. NPR kept me company sometimes, I listened to some CDs, but by and large, I just... drove. 5,500 miles later, 4,750 of which were alone, I feel no epic new kinships (though I have certainly refreshed some friendships, which feels amazing). I feel no aversion nor any greater affinity towards my car, though the affection with which I look at it has apparently increased. Before this trip, I was not unable to spend time alone or with myself. But, I am aware that I feel more able to think and certainly more able to not think without the distraction of multimedia. Perhaps it's the Quakers and perhaps not, but I found myself stretching the happy, empty space in my mind over many miles. Mindful wanderings through thoughts that might have been mine and sometimes weren't have been filtered through many kinds of trees.
It was good.
I made some other resolutions: listen to the things I am dimly aware of; be kind; be kind to myself, but keep personal standards high; go to the gym a few times a week; get serious with a doctor about what's going on with my back; get on the bone marrow donor list; go to Spain; be quieter; bring my peace out into the world, but be careful of it, too; donate blood more consistently; call my brothers more often; be more intentional about who I spend my time with and what we do; focus on tasks to completion; learn to clear my mind in Meeting; don't waste heat; lock my windows; either get a dog or volunteer at the shelter near my house; write more; apply to grad school; let myself let go of things that aren't good for me; see the poison when I see wheat; don't combine spontaneous affection and alcohol; practice more yoga; learn French.
So far, so good. I'm writing, I've pulled my hip flexor out of whack from a super intense gym class, I'm finishing projects mostly on time, I've applied to grad school, I have a pile of stuff to put in the mail -- look out; my windows are locked; I bought my ticket to Spain; I've seen a doctor about my back; I'm watching the West Wing with French subtitles.
It's been good. The thing is, these resolutions and these behavior changes don't feel that much different from my life before the New Year. I was making these kinds of resolutions all the time, working on them daily, taking up new ones and putting down old ones as I checked in with myself at the end of the week. I wasn't always rigorous about looking into every aspect of myself -- as one is at the turning of the year -- but I feel like I was keeping up a decent habit of exploring a vein of self-work for a while before 2011 came upon me.
I understand why people want to go to the gym after the holidays -- there's a lot of food still clinging to the hips and grease in the pores, it's true. I remember a time when I had a lot of pent up energy after coming home from the holiday vacation; that's not true this time. I remember, too, wanting to go to the gym for aesthetic reasons, and I remember wanting to go for the sake of the habit. Not one of those apply right now.
I feel this nebulous rock of positivity sitting in the middle of my chest. It gets heavier -- in a good way -- when I express my enthusiasm by waving my arms and legs about in a cardio class. I like the feeling I get after a workout; I'm not all that interested in any of the other immediate effects. My affection for my body and self grows every day; I feel like sending myself a really nice thank you card, and to me, that feels like going to the gym. I like it.
As fr the rest of my resolutions, I've made a few mistakes. That's okay. I have tomorrow to fix them; they'll still be there.
I was talking to a friend about New Years and mentioned that I don't find a lot of meaning to it; I do this every week, and I think it's silly that we, as a culture, get really drunk and then in the morning we resolve (as one does after a binge) to NEVER EVER do that again, none of those things [insert resolution here]. This really sets one up for failure. I mean, you're starting the year with a terrible hangover and a set of habits to break or learn. Not a good place to start from. I mean, you've been eating for like two weeks straight, probably you've been on vacation, you're hanging out with people you don't usually see and doing things you don't normally do and then you wake up one morning maybe still tipsy from the night before and you're supposed to be in a good place to fundamentally change your life?
Habits take time. The work is slow. We have to do it collectively, regularly. Well, I have to do it collectively and regularly. Checking in and resolving should be a weekly event. Why do we think it happens once a year?
This friend I was talking to smiled. He said that he took my point, and that my feelings about New Years were pretty analogous to how he feels about Christmas and Thanksgiving -- why wait til twice a year to gather the clan, eat, and give thanks for all that is good in our lives? Why not do that every week?
It was a good point.
Dear friends who made resolutions which have been broken already: try again, one day at a time. Habits are slow in coming and slower in leaving. Dear friends who are lucky enough to have not yet broken the resolutions you made in your drunken revels/hung over stupor: wow. I'm really impressed. How did you do it?
I think massive, cathartic episodes of reflection -- supersized versions of weekly traditions -- are joyous and useful. I want to have dinner with my family every week; it would make Christmas and Thanksgiving that much better. Reflecting on how I'm different in light of the things I want to change in 2011 was useful to me. But my favorite thing about the last few weeks is this: good things happen slow as breathing. Miles slide steadily behind you; rest stops are profitable things; eat and drink and be merry, regularly; and, if you're anything like me, a big rock of happy is sitting somewhere in your stomach. Do the things that make it heavier. It'll lighten the load.
Happy New Year, dear friends. I hope to see you again soon. Pardon the proselytizing.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Over the mountains and through the storm, to a motel room I go
Perhaps it is best to stay home when snow threatens, but being always ready for an adventure, I planned my epic holiday roadtrip for the middle of winter. How was I supposed to know that 'possible blizzard conditions after 4 pm' meant 'car accidents and slush and ice and a big pond of bad drivers on the NJ Turnpike?' I mean, I live in Texas.
Coming from Chicago, my good friend, to Louisville was a bit wet but fine. Leaving Louisville was sleepy, so I pulled over and took a nap. Leaving my nap was snowy. I-64 through West Virginia was full of flurries, but the temperature couldn't decide if it was above or below freezing, which is really (I thought) the worst of all ways to go with the weather conditions. I called twenty people to find out the prediction for the roads, which I have since found on the weather channel website. There's a whole thing with forecasts for freeways. One person answered -- she was helpful with advice, but nobody had the weather.
So, I pulled off at Mossy, WV and pulled into the T & C Motel. There was a big picture of Elvis behind the counter and a teensy, yipping black dog of indiscriminate breed under it. It took a few minutes for the rather rolling woman from the room next to the counter to come out and offer me her best room for $40. I was optimistic; I like old-fashioned, mechanical objects, like keys. And crappy keychains. So I took my key, got in my car, and pulled down into the lot next to the room doors. Well. The lot had clearly once been gravel. Now, it was a pit of ice and snow and slush, with a smattering of ridiculously sharp, large rocks.
I parked. I grabbed my bag and my bathroom things from the backseat of the car and made a beeline for the bedroom. I couldn't unlock the door. Why? There was no resistance in the doorjamb for the door. It just kind of rattled there, which made it really hard to unlock. I got inside, and the smell poured toward me like a long trapped cloud. I tried not to look at the stain on the bedcover as I ran for the bathroom, as I had to pee like a racehorse.
Lucky my boots were still on, because the bathroom flooded when I flushed.
I went to turn the heat on, in the hopes that the room would warm and maybe the smell would fade. Ignoring the freezing air which whooshed out of the heating unit (I was hoping it would warm up), I decided to investigate the bedding situation. The stain on the comforter emitted a slightly stale odor. The single, mothy blanket beneath was no better. The lone unfitted (and poorly tucked in) sheet was the smelliest. I got my sleeping bag, pillow, and blanket from the car.
The air from the 'heating unit' was getting progressively colder, so I shut it off and put on three shirts, pants, socks, and my sweatshirt. I slid, shivering, into my sleeping bag. I was cuddling into its polyethylene silkiness when all the texts came pouring in from all the people I had called. Just reaching out of my sleeping bag into the air of the room -- which was significantly colder than outside at this point -- was painful, but I had to, to reach the phone. Needless to say, I passed a chilly night in that room, scared of what might be breeding in the blankets, somehow certain it would be better for my back to stretch out on the bed than be warm in the car.
When I got up at five I stayed in bed as long as I could before the cold seeped into my bones, but when light came it was time to go. I packed up my things and dragged them to my car like a person carrying too many plastic shopping bags. I started my car. It didn't move. Gravel pit, anyone? Thank god for kitty litter in the trunk is all I have to say.
I tried to check out. There was a sign directing me to the Exxon station. The woman from the night before was there -- she didn't recognize me, but the guy smoking a cigarette in the predawn snow looked at me like I was a dream come true and probably also a nightmare.
It can't be legal, how beautiful the ice-encased trees were, after that.
I wandered through Lovingston when I arrived a few hours later, discovering a little coffee roastery up an unpaved hill with horse grazing around it and a hardware store with a kind old man who talked my ear off; and then there was lunch and then there was dinner, a few days full of my friends and my family and everybody giving each other things and feeding them -- good to be home.
There is a quiet to the light found only in the morning. It is the only time left without ipods. I have found myself on the road for sunrise more often than not in these last weeks. No matter how cold or long or drunken the night, the sunrise has filled my heart with happy, sparkly things, while my family has been filling it with warm, cuddly things, like felted bags and books and wine, good food and sweet company.
Alone in a motel somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike, again shunned by the highway, again being made to take a break from my long-held plans by the intervention of nature, I am really happy I know all the people I know. I watched some people swerve and spin into each other and off the road today; I saw a car crumpled, while something kept me calm and steady; I looked into the face of a girl who had just spun into a cement barrier and nearly lost herself or her car, and I am so happy to be alive and have my family waiting on either end of this here turnpike.
Some other thoughts:
What does disposable mean? Cheap or recyclable? Styrofoam is 'disposable' but takes years to dispose. Let's be better about that.
"Come on, Mr. Frodo! I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you."
Coming from Chicago, my good friend, to Louisville was a bit wet but fine. Leaving Louisville was sleepy, so I pulled over and took a nap. Leaving my nap was snowy. I-64 through West Virginia was full of flurries, but the temperature couldn't decide if it was above or below freezing, which is really (I thought) the worst of all ways to go with the weather conditions. I called twenty people to find out the prediction for the roads, which I have since found on the weather channel website. There's a whole thing with forecasts for freeways. One person answered -- she was helpful with advice, but nobody had the weather.
So, I pulled off at Mossy, WV and pulled into the T & C Motel. There was a big picture of Elvis behind the counter and a teensy, yipping black dog of indiscriminate breed under it. It took a few minutes for the rather rolling woman from the room next to the counter to come out and offer me her best room for $40. I was optimistic; I like old-fashioned, mechanical objects, like keys. And crappy keychains. So I took my key, got in my car, and pulled down into the lot next to the room doors. Well. The lot had clearly once been gravel. Now, it was a pit of ice and snow and slush, with a smattering of ridiculously sharp, large rocks.
I parked. I grabbed my bag and my bathroom things from the backseat of the car and made a beeline for the bedroom. I couldn't unlock the door. Why? There was no resistance in the doorjamb for the door. It just kind of rattled there, which made it really hard to unlock. I got inside, and the smell poured toward me like a long trapped cloud. I tried not to look at the stain on the bedcover as I ran for the bathroom, as I had to pee like a racehorse.
Lucky my boots were still on, because the bathroom flooded when I flushed.
I went to turn the heat on, in the hopes that the room would warm and maybe the smell would fade. Ignoring the freezing air which whooshed out of the heating unit (I was hoping it would warm up), I decided to investigate the bedding situation. The stain on the comforter emitted a slightly stale odor. The single, mothy blanket beneath was no better. The lone unfitted (and poorly tucked in) sheet was the smelliest. I got my sleeping bag, pillow, and blanket from the car.
The air from the 'heating unit' was getting progressively colder, so I shut it off and put on three shirts, pants, socks, and my sweatshirt. I slid, shivering, into my sleeping bag. I was cuddling into its polyethylene silkiness when all the texts came pouring in from all the people I had called. Just reaching out of my sleeping bag into the air of the room -- which was significantly colder than outside at this point -- was painful, but I had to, to reach the phone. Needless to say, I passed a chilly night in that room, scared of what might be breeding in the blankets, somehow certain it would be better for my back to stretch out on the bed than be warm in the car.
When I got up at five I stayed in bed as long as I could before the cold seeped into my bones, but when light came it was time to go. I packed up my things and dragged them to my car like a person carrying too many plastic shopping bags. I started my car. It didn't move. Gravel pit, anyone? Thank god for kitty litter in the trunk is all I have to say.
I tried to check out. There was a sign directing me to the Exxon station. The woman from the night before was there -- she didn't recognize me, but the guy smoking a cigarette in the predawn snow looked at me like I was a dream come true and probably also a nightmare.
It can't be legal, how beautiful the ice-encased trees were, after that.
I wandered through Lovingston when I arrived a few hours later, discovering a little coffee roastery up an unpaved hill with horse grazing around it and a hardware store with a kind old man who talked my ear off; and then there was lunch and then there was dinner, a few days full of my friends and my family and everybody giving each other things and feeding them -- good to be home.
There is a quiet to the light found only in the morning. It is the only time left without ipods. I have found myself on the road for sunrise more often than not in these last weeks. No matter how cold or long or drunken the night, the sunrise has filled my heart with happy, sparkly things, while my family has been filling it with warm, cuddly things, like felted bags and books and wine, good food and sweet company.
Alone in a motel somewhere along the New Jersey Turnpike, again shunned by the highway, again being made to take a break from my long-held plans by the intervention of nature, I am really happy I know all the people I know. I watched some people swerve and spin into each other and off the road today; I saw a car crumpled, while something kept me calm and steady; I looked into the face of a girl who had just spun into a cement barrier and nearly lost herself or her car, and I am so happy to be alive and have my family waiting on either end of this here turnpike.
Some other thoughts:
What does disposable mean? Cheap or recyclable? Styrofoam is 'disposable' but takes years to dispose. Let's be better about that.
"Come on, Mr. Frodo! I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you."
Monday, December 20, 2010
Over the lake and through the farmland, to Chicago I go
On Saturday, we stopped for lunch in New Orleans and made Birmingham by 7:30, right on time. It was a quiet drive which started a bit late, but since we'd made our schedule up, that wasn't a big deal at all, really.
I think it is a testament to the some incredible change in me that being late threw me not a bit.
The diner in New Orleans was amazing; a white marble countertop where everybody sat, no seat left empty; the waiters and cooks were the same, and enjoyed messing with us. "Who dat?" they asked. So we pep-rally competed to see which side of the diner was louder. One guy named all the reindeer. I found perfect bacon. The streets were canopied and there was a house decorated in pink fluffy boas. Somehow, this was obviously Christmas decor. Funny how structural cues, like something being obviously in the shape of a wreath or garland, can tell us what it is supposed to be. Knid of lkie slipleng wrdos wtih olny the frsit and lsat lteerts in the rghit pacle. You could totally read that, kind of, couldn't you?
Birmingham is 3 for 3 on amazing, awe-inspiring, evidence-that-there-is-a-God style sunsets.
And so, yesterday, by way of Louisville, I made it to Chicago. My nephew is adorable, by the way, and my brother and sister-in-law are as sweet and kind as ever. (Family is the best.)
Here I am, Chicago. Last night, I parked on a street which miraculously escaped the private electric parking meters, I froze my ass off (literally -- I couldn't feel it) I drank the fanciest of cocktails at the Violet Hour -- and ran into a friend I haven't seen in years -- before eating quesadillas (cheese somethings, I translated) and hitting the sack on a couch. I've missed waking up in the cold; I can actually appreciate my blankets that way. I've role reversed with an old friend, which was a lovely thing to laugh about.
Vespucci has been introduced to my old street, I've eaten a good Chicago breakfast and drank my cup of Intelligentsia, and it's all so familiar I can feel it in my toes. Well, when I get the feeling back in my toes. Or maybe the lack of feeling in my toes is the familiar part.
When I was parking on Broadway, I offered to move my car so that the guy behind me would have more room (he pulled in right after me). So he bought me an hour of parking. I love, love, love the people in this city.
I walked past the Erie Paint Company and I was home. Time changed for a minute, and I was walking to work, remembering where the icy patches are. It couldn't have been more than a second, but I was somewhere else, on my way to something else, with a different bounce in the balls of my feet and a different kind of peace in my heart -- the peace that comes, perhaps, from years of friends in arm's reach. I breathe differently here. I like it.
I am so happy I lived here!
I think it is a testament to the some incredible change in me that being late threw me not a bit.
The diner in New Orleans was amazing; a white marble countertop where everybody sat, no seat left empty; the waiters and cooks were the same, and enjoyed messing with us. "Who dat?" they asked. So we pep-rally competed to see which side of the diner was louder. One guy named all the reindeer. I found perfect bacon. The streets were canopied and there was a house decorated in pink fluffy boas. Somehow, this was obviously Christmas decor. Funny how structural cues, like something being obviously in the shape of a wreath or garland, can tell us what it is supposed to be. Knid of lkie slipleng wrdos wtih olny the frsit and lsat lteerts in the rghit pacle. You could totally read that, kind of, couldn't you?
Birmingham is 3 for 3 on amazing, awe-inspiring, evidence-that-there-is-a-God style sunsets.
And so, yesterday, by way of Louisville, I made it to Chicago. My nephew is adorable, by the way, and my brother and sister-in-law are as sweet and kind as ever. (Family is the best.)
Here I am, Chicago. Last night, I parked on a street which miraculously escaped the private electric parking meters, I froze my ass off (literally -- I couldn't feel it) I drank the fanciest of cocktails at the Violet Hour -- and ran into a friend I haven't seen in years -- before eating quesadillas (cheese somethings, I translated) and hitting the sack on a couch. I've missed waking up in the cold; I can actually appreciate my blankets that way. I've role reversed with an old friend, which was a lovely thing to laugh about.
Vespucci has been introduced to my old street, I've eaten a good Chicago breakfast and drank my cup of Intelligentsia, and it's all so familiar I can feel it in my toes. Well, when I get the feeling back in my toes. Or maybe the lack of feeling in my toes is the familiar part.
When I was parking on Broadway, I offered to move my car so that the guy behind me would have more room (he pulled in right after me). So he bought me an hour of parking. I love, love, love the people in this city.
I walked past the Erie Paint Company and I was home. Time changed for a minute, and I was walking to work, remembering where the icy patches are. It couldn't have been more than a second, but I was somewhere else, on my way to something else, with a different bounce in the balls of my feet and a different kind of peace in my heart -- the peace that comes, perhaps, from years of friends in arm's reach. I breathe differently here. I like it.
I am so happy I lived here!
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Pinecone Bird
There is a bird which looks like a fluffy pinecone sitting in my windowbox.
The plants which once grew in it are long since dead, and though there is one pot of basil left standing, most of that's gone, too. This enormously round little bird has settled in, just beneath the last of the sweet smelling leaves. It's head movements look like little automatronic frameshifts; there does not appear to be any real movement, it's just -- his head is in one place and then it's somewhere else.
The fuzz beneath his throat looks soft and downy. When the little guy makes his whoopy hooping sound, it pulses like a tiny wave.
His beak looks like the stem on the end of a pinecone.
So here we are, sharing a bit of morning sunshine with each other, listening. He's calling back to all the other birds outside, and I'm calling, in my way, to all you little birds.
He was just joined by a slimmer version of him! His wife?!
ARE THEY MAKING A NEST IN MY POTS? Oh, how I hope they are!
OH NO! In came a much bigger, scary blue marsh bird, eating seeds from my one healthy basil plant, and chased the little guys away! Marsh bird's markings were beautiful, it's true, but he seemed so... violent. His motions were charged with something I didn't like very much. And he made my bird friends go away.
The plants which once grew in it are long since dead, and though there is one pot of basil left standing, most of that's gone, too. This enormously round little bird has settled in, just beneath the last of the sweet smelling leaves. It's head movements look like little automatronic frameshifts; there does not appear to be any real movement, it's just -- his head is in one place and then it's somewhere else.
The fuzz beneath his throat looks soft and downy. When the little guy makes his whoopy hooping sound, it pulses like a tiny wave.
His beak looks like the stem on the end of a pinecone.
So here we are, sharing a bit of morning sunshine with each other, listening. He's calling back to all the other birds outside, and I'm calling, in my way, to all you little birds.
He was just joined by a slimmer version of him! His wife?!
ARE THEY MAKING A NEST IN MY POTS? Oh, how I hope they are!
OH NO! In came a much bigger, scary blue marsh bird, eating seeds from my one healthy basil plant, and chased the little guys away! Marsh bird's markings were beautiful, it's true, but he seemed so... violent. His motions were charged with something I didn't like very much. And he made my bird friends go away.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Turkey, Leaves, Temperature, Aleve, Tea.
Pallid turkeys are really weird. So, this year, my dad and I basted ours with clarified butter and sage. It was browned, but not brown; it looked like aged, stained wood; certainly not cherry, maybe an oak dresser from the 30s, maybe a maple wardrobe made by the Amish some time in the early nineties -- golden, browned, but in no way brown. My aunt actually said, "Wow!" and stood still for a minute when she looked at it.
It was a golden day. I woke up to my Meme's voice in the kitchen; I thought I must be dreaming because it was 7:30 in the morning, but then her dog licked my face. I think that, in cartoons, I have seen people leap out of bed so quickly the blankets swirl up in the air, and I think that happened on Thursday morning. This is surprising because most of the night before I had been tossing a few back with some people I've known since elementary school. Amazing. Have you ever drunk tequila purchased for you by someone you played video games with in the third grade? You should. It's great.
Thursday was a golden day. People filtered in all day long. As the sun rose and then sunk, the occasional flurries of activity got more flurried. The day lost its chill but kept its nip. The trees that still had leaves were reddish, but most of them didn't, so the sky was everywhere, and everywhere blue.
Leaves are wonderful things.
The weather might be warmer in Texas than in Virginia, but the people back home made me feel so welcome I felt like I was in a big blanket. My brother even taught me how to drive stick. I asked, and then he remembered that I'd asked and made sure to find me and teach me. How sweet is that?
A list of other things that made me happy: thai food with a dark & stormy and a friend, breakfast in a bookshop, raking leaves until they swished like optimism in lawn-form, long drives, Gordonsville, friends who sobered me up with cheesecake, a conversation on Marx in a bar, my amazingly chill parents, friends and wine and circular stairs, apple picking up mountains which take a different gear to climb, cider and brandy, my Popop's family tree -- complete with pictures of people in their fancy overalls in front of their teensy cottages. The list could go on.
I have a propensity for weird maladies; on Saturday, I choked on an aleve and now the abrasion in my throat is infected and I have to take antibiotics. Also, I'm not allowed to talk. So I'm just going to sit here in the early evening breeze, drinking tea and knitting. The chill in the evening air here is just the same temperature as the middle of the day was back home...
It was a golden day. I woke up to my Meme's voice in the kitchen; I thought I must be dreaming because it was 7:30 in the morning, but then her dog licked my face. I think that, in cartoons, I have seen people leap out of bed so quickly the blankets swirl up in the air, and I think that happened on Thursday morning. This is surprising because most of the night before I had been tossing a few back with some people I've known since elementary school. Amazing. Have you ever drunk tequila purchased for you by someone you played video games with in the third grade? You should. It's great.
Thursday was a golden day. People filtered in all day long. As the sun rose and then sunk, the occasional flurries of activity got more flurried. The day lost its chill but kept its nip. The trees that still had leaves were reddish, but most of them didn't, so the sky was everywhere, and everywhere blue.
Leaves are wonderful things.
The weather might be warmer in Texas than in Virginia, but the people back home made me feel so welcome I felt like I was in a big blanket. My brother even taught me how to drive stick. I asked, and then he remembered that I'd asked and made sure to find me and teach me. How sweet is that?
A list of other things that made me happy: thai food with a dark & stormy and a friend, breakfast in a bookshop, raking leaves until they swished like optimism in lawn-form, long drives, Gordonsville, friends who sobered me up with cheesecake, a conversation on Marx in a bar, my amazingly chill parents, friends and wine and circular stairs, apple picking up mountains which take a different gear to climb, cider and brandy, my Popop's family tree -- complete with pictures of people in their fancy overalls in front of their teensy cottages. The list could go on.
I have a propensity for weird maladies; on Saturday, I choked on an aleve and now the abrasion in my throat is infected and I have to take antibiotics. Also, I'm not allowed to talk. So I'm just going to sit here in the early evening breeze, drinking tea and knitting. The chill in the evening air here is just the same temperature as the middle of the day was back home...
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