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
Monday, January 31, 2011
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...
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Commuter Love
What if every day
our knees touched
in seats made for such
on the train?
One day, they’d have touched so long
we’d have an electricity all our own
but we’d never ask
each other’s name.
The changing seasons out our window
would be our timeline – honeymoons
of fancy over hilltops far off, we’d take
long traipses hand in hand with dreams.
It would be too late for familiarities
beyond the scent of your shampoo
or the static of my stockings
against your slacks.
Still, we would know
our love was
perfect
the shade of each other’s eyes, divine
and for an hour every morning
gliding towards our separate lives
we’d be entwined in details
hopelessly, perfectly, quietly
in love.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Days Change
Mornings are always fresh, no matter how wet, how foggy, how hot. There's something compelling in the quality of light, around about dawn, which makes everything new, possible, clean.
But by the end of the day, I don't always feel that way.
So the last few days, I've been really happy to find that I have the friends to brighten my day back up. I mean, I knew I had you guys, I knew I did; but then the rough days happen, and they're nobody's fault but they still totally blow, and it doesn't always feel like it's going to be a good day anymore. But then I have these friends, these amazing friends -- and their voices which call a different time into the present, their smell, their fuzzy blankets and ice cream, their taste in bistros, their washing machines, their thoughtful menu selection, their willingness to yell inappropriate words really loudly with me and then sit for a few blocks in quiet, looking at the map; the way they remember to remind me in the smallest ways that the way opens -- this brings me back to the morning, even if it's dark outside.
So thanks. It's easier to feel the glow inside when I see it glowing (oh so brightly) in you. Also, I love love LOVE writing here, because I feel like I'm writing to you. Yes, YOU. Hi!
Your (bright) friend,
Me
PS: fun fact: I'm memorizing the Declaration of Independence. Ask me to say it when you see me. I just might be able to. I'm two long, long, long sentences in...
But by the end of the day, I don't always feel that way.
So the last few days, I've been really happy to find that I have the friends to brighten my day back up. I mean, I knew I had you guys, I knew I did; but then the rough days happen, and they're nobody's fault but they still totally blow, and it doesn't always feel like it's going to be a good day anymore. But then I have these friends, these amazing friends -- and their voices which call a different time into the present, their smell, their fuzzy blankets and ice cream, their taste in bistros, their washing machines, their thoughtful menu selection, their willingness to yell inappropriate words really loudly with me and then sit for a few blocks in quiet, looking at the map; the way they remember to remind me in the smallest ways that the way opens -- this brings me back to the morning, even if it's dark outside.
So thanks. It's easier to feel the glow inside when I see it glowing (oh so brightly) in you. Also, I love love LOVE writing here, because I feel like I'm writing to you. Yes, YOU. Hi!
Your (bright) friend,
Me
PS: fun fact: I'm memorizing the Declaration of Independence. Ask me to say it when you see me. I just might be able to. I'm two long, long, long sentences in...
Monday, November 15, 2010
Wet Books
I brought a book on the founding fathers
on this camping trip
last weekend.
I left it out in the rain.
It's wrinkled now, and gooey.
It's not altogether happy
I forgot it in order to have
a long chat with my tentmates.
It is not pleased
that while I reveled in a rainstorm
like a giant bowl of rice crispies
it was getting mushy on the picnic table.
So tonight, I will read it.
I will take it to bed
love its pages with renditions
of speeches long since past
and hope that it forgives me.
I let it get wrinkly.
I promise I still love it.
Will that be enough?
on this camping trip
last weekend.
I left it out in the rain.
It's wrinkled now, and gooey.
It's not altogether happy
I forgot it in order to have
a long chat with my tentmates.
It is not pleased
that while I reveled in a rainstorm
like a giant bowl of rice crispies
it was getting mushy on the picnic table.
So tonight, I will read it.
I will take it to bed
love its pages with renditions
of speeches long since past
and hope that it forgives me.
I let it get wrinkly.
I promise I still love it.
Will that be enough?
Good Movies
Sometimes green lights align in this beautiful way so you can go for miles and never completely brake. Sometimes, they align so beautifully that you never really have to slow down, and sometimes, in rare strokes of brilliance, the green lights just keep coming so that the occasional lessening of the gas pedal, as one may do in normal traffic, is all one needs to meet the lights in just the right way.
I think it takes years of practiced driving to find these moments, for indeed, these moments require an understanding of timing, acceleration, and good fortune. All of which come best with time.
I want to learn to drive stick for the metaphors.
"You've got to learn to let go of the clutch," or, "feel the gears fall into place, don't push them so hard," sound like they could have profound meaning in my life, but they don't because I can't drive stick. Alack!
Tonight, I saw an amazing movie. I also went to the gym, so the endorphins could have had something to do with the fantastic experience. I have learned to accept that chic flicks are going to cater to my romantic streak, that they are going to spoonfeed me something ridiculous, and that while quirky, none of the heroines are going to regularly fuss themselves up nearly as badly as I do. Well. Tonight, I spent $10.25 on "Morning Glory," with Rachel McAdams, and my goodness, those things didn't happen. It didn't quite dash my expectations, but it broke them a bit in key places. I laughed for real. I was genuinely curious about the status of the relationship when they brought the plot back around to it. The older male 'papa' figure(s) were convincing and kind but not cliched too badly. The script was actually well written... it had, at the very least, far fewer adverbs than I've used here. It was really a movie about the inner vs. outer workings of the main character, which was refreshing. I like movies about women that are actually about the women, not about the women falling apart over a man.
Not that I'm opposed to falling apart for a man, I just don't think that every aspect of entertainment for women (from TV to books to movies and back again) should necessarily center around it. It gives the impression that that's all we ever think about, which is only a little bit true for some of us. So there.
There weren't many people in the audience, so we were all a little liberal with the laughing and the shrieking and the gasping (mostly in the appropriate places, too). I think I'm probably a TERRIBLE person to go to the movies with. At the end, my friend and I walked back to our cars. It was a beautiful night.
The weather in Texas continues to impress me: today, standing outside my gym (which has free valet parking when it's raining, mind you, because Houston stops dead/forgets how to drive when it rains), I realized that this soft November rain looks like snow under the streetlights. Rain, though, is significantly less comfortable than snow: it's wetter, it's warmer and therefore colder, ultimately, because it asks you not to dress properly for it, and then it makes you cold from the bottoms of your pants all the way up. But then it stops. And it's perfect: warm but not steamy, quiet, clean. This was my night, tonight, as if I were you:
You're walking out of the movie that was SO GOOD you're oozing clouds out your fingertips, the donkey sitting on your chest has gotten up and left, and then you look outside and can't see a thing -- but the rain has definitely stopped, you can feel it. So you walk across the street laughing over nothing with your friend, you get in the car and the music's just right, and it's green lights all the way home so you keep going; it's a red light at the freeway but it's a right hand turn, so hey, you can go; and then the song ends just as you catch sight of the exit a few blocks from home. And your apartment doesn't smell like trash, even though you forgot to take it out this morning. And in the mailbox is a postcard. And last night you got all caught up on sleep, and the two nights before you were camping, so all is right with the world. And it's not that life is perfect and you're exuberant and there's not a thing to complain about, but right now, in this moment, your optimism fills the glass. I
like positivity which fills things. I think that looking at things can change them. I think that looking kindly makes things better. And I think that a commitment to being happy can't be taken lightly, but it's actually a really light thing to carry around.
The problem with Houston is that it doesn't have curvy country roads, and I would like more pairs of nice work pants.
This is a high that does not last, as I know, for it was broken before I could even finish this post. Life marches on, with all the sadnesses and broken spells which come with that. But underneath are beautiful nights, real movies, good postcards, and a peacefulness that can no longer be broken by the little things which used to torment it. It used to be that on a night like this, if some unfortunate force of negativity were to rumble in over the sweet evening I just had, I'd want to toss the evening out as a muckup. Well. I'm still breathing nice and deep, so take that and eat it, misfortune. This is why I would not turn the clock back. Right here. I am actually not as ecstatic about everything as I was a few years ago -- but I still feed off enthusiasm and I am a basically happy person. I just freak out a bit less often.
I do not think that my ability to be extremely happy has gone away. I think that my tendency to live in extremes is fading. That just means, I think, that when I'm happy, I jump really high, but then, coming back, there's a nice fat plushy mattress where I've been trying to cultivate the center. Like right now. An hour ago, I was up in the stars. Now, I'm down in a mattress. But I'm not in the deepest chasms of hell, which is where I might have imagined myself a few years ago, had my balloon been popped in quite this way.
I like optimism which fills the glass.
This did not end as the post I started. Well. Interesting. Go see "Morning Glory."
I think it takes years of practiced driving to find these moments, for indeed, these moments require an understanding of timing, acceleration, and good fortune. All of which come best with time.
I want to learn to drive stick for the metaphors.
"You've got to learn to let go of the clutch," or, "feel the gears fall into place, don't push them so hard," sound like they could have profound meaning in my life, but they don't because I can't drive stick. Alack!
Tonight, I saw an amazing movie. I also went to the gym, so the endorphins could have had something to do with the fantastic experience. I have learned to accept that chic flicks are going to cater to my romantic streak, that they are going to spoonfeed me something ridiculous, and that while quirky, none of the heroines are going to regularly fuss themselves up nearly as badly as I do. Well. Tonight, I spent $10.25 on "Morning Glory," with Rachel McAdams, and my goodness, those things didn't happen. It didn't quite dash my expectations, but it broke them a bit in key places. I laughed for real. I was genuinely curious about the status of the relationship when they brought the plot back around to it. The older male 'papa' figure(s) were convincing and kind but not cliched too badly. The script was actually well written... it had, at the very least, far fewer adverbs than I've used here. It was really a movie about the inner vs. outer workings of the main character, which was refreshing. I like movies about women that are actually about the women, not about the women falling apart over a man.
Not that I'm opposed to falling apart for a man, I just don't think that every aspect of entertainment for women (from TV to books to movies and back again) should necessarily center around it. It gives the impression that that's all we ever think about, which is only a little bit true for some of us. So there.
There weren't many people in the audience, so we were all a little liberal with the laughing and the shrieking and the gasping (mostly in the appropriate places, too). I think I'm probably a TERRIBLE person to go to the movies with. At the end, my friend and I walked back to our cars. It was a beautiful night.
The weather in Texas continues to impress me: today, standing outside my gym (which has free valet parking when it's raining, mind you, because Houston stops dead/forgets how to drive when it rains), I realized that this soft November rain looks like snow under the streetlights. Rain, though, is significantly less comfortable than snow: it's wetter, it's warmer and therefore colder, ultimately, because it asks you not to dress properly for it, and then it makes you cold from the bottoms of your pants all the way up. But then it stops. And it's perfect: warm but not steamy, quiet, clean. This was my night, tonight, as if I were you:
You're walking out of the movie that was SO GOOD you're oozing clouds out your fingertips, the donkey sitting on your chest has gotten up and left, and then you look outside and can't see a thing -- but the rain has definitely stopped, you can feel it. So you walk across the street laughing over nothing with your friend, you get in the car and the music's just right, and it's green lights all the way home so you keep going; it's a red light at the freeway but it's a right hand turn, so hey, you can go; and then the song ends just as you catch sight of the exit a few blocks from home. And your apartment doesn't smell like trash, even though you forgot to take it out this morning. And in the mailbox is a postcard. And last night you got all caught up on sleep, and the two nights before you were camping, so all is right with the world. And it's not that life is perfect and you're exuberant and there's not a thing to complain about, but right now, in this moment, your optimism fills the glass. I
like positivity which fills things. I think that looking at things can change them. I think that looking kindly makes things better. And I think that a commitment to being happy can't be taken lightly, but it's actually a really light thing to carry around.
The problem with Houston is that it doesn't have curvy country roads, and I would like more pairs of nice work pants.
This is a high that does not last, as I know, for it was broken before I could even finish this post. Life marches on, with all the sadnesses and broken spells which come with that. But underneath are beautiful nights, real movies, good postcards, and a peacefulness that can no longer be broken by the little things which used to torment it. It used to be that on a night like this, if some unfortunate force of negativity were to rumble in over the sweet evening I just had, I'd want to toss the evening out as a muckup. Well. I'm still breathing nice and deep, so take that and eat it, misfortune. This is why I would not turn the clock back. Right here. I am actually not as ecstatic about everything as I was a few years ago -- but I still feed off enthusiasm and I am a basically happy person. I just freak out a bit less often.
I do not think that my ability to be extremely happy has gone away. I think that my tendency to live in extremes is fading. That just means, I think, that when I'm happy, I jump really high, but then, coming back, there's a nice fat plushy mattress where I've been trying to cultivate the center. Like right now. An hour ago, I was up in the stars. Now, I'm down in a mattress. But I'm not in the deepest chasms of hell, which is where I might have imagined myself a few years ago, had my balloon been popped in quite this way.
I like optimism which fills the glass.
This did not end as the post I started. Well. Interesting. Go see "Morning Glory."
Saturday, November 6, 2010
A Bacon Sighting in Mississippi
I love bacon.
I love very kind of bacon; I like Applewood Smoked Bacon, Hickory Smoked Bacon, Unsalted Bacon, Salted Bacon, Thick Cut Bacon, Thin Cut Bacon (though it's never advertised as such, is it?), Regular Bacon, Oscar Meyer Bacon, Boars Head Bacon, Fresh Bacon, Pounds of Bacon, Bits of Bacon, Bacon Flavored Other Foods. Basically, if it's fatty and meaty and sliced from a porker, I will eat it. I would eat it in everything I cook if this wasn't terrible for me -- or, more accurately, if other people would eat my food with me if I'd put bacon in all of it. The only requirement be that it is pan-fried bacon.
How else would one prepare bacon, you ask? Let me enlighten you.
When you go to a diner and order 'bacon,' what you are ordering is what once was bacon put on a baking sheet and left in the oven until it was removed and put on your plate. This is not, I repeat, not, bacon. Bacon is cooked in it's own grease until it is crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside (YES, this is possible. Good bacon is both chewy and crispy). Bacon must be flipped so that both sides are exposed to heat and the puckerings of fat are not allowed to take the associated meat away from the heat. Also, the puckerings of fat should still be crispy. The last thing bacon should be is dry.
Unfortunately, dryness is a direct result of baking something on low heat for a long period of time. There is such a plethora of fat in most strips of bacon it seems impossible to sap it, but it is. All you have to do is cook it so long all the fat leaves. This is when bacon burns.
The interesting thing about baking bacon is that if it's done at a low enough temperature, it's going to take a long time to blacken-burn it. Any length of time is going to make the bacon taste burnt and dry, but it doesn't look burnt. It just looks dry and flat and brownish. The con-artists in most diners are counting on this deceit: it won't look like you've burned it so it can be served. So I have basically given up ordering bacon in diners, though it is one of my favorite foods. It is also one of the only things I can theoretically eat in diners.
But then we were in Mississippi last weekend. After taking pictures at the statehouse, I stopped a guy on the street. We had a nice conversation about how we were both doing that fine Sunday morning. I asked him where I should go for a good Mississippi breakfast, and he took me to the corner where my car was, showed me exactly where to turn, and gave me otherwise excellent directions. Except that I haven't been in the South for long enough that I'm no good at accents. So, I couldn't understand the name of the street he told me the truck stop was on. Gatlin? Gaitlin? Gataling? Galveston? Galston? Golston? Golsting? Gosling? Eh, we got in the car anyway. It was Gaitlin. We got off the highway and pulled up to the truck stop he'd recommended, exactly where he'd said it would be.
The boys all ordered chicken fried steak with sausage gravy, which I thought was ridiculous, because everybody knows that sausage-and-cream gravy goes with biscuits, and chicken or steak-and stock gravy goes with chicken fried steak. Like, duh. When I ribbed the fellas about this, the waiter gave me a twinkle-eyed look... so I broke my rule about ordering bacon in restaurants.
Oh man, was it worth it.
That bacon was greasy and chewy but crispy on the edges; it was puckered like it should be and a teensy bit black at the ends. There were pink bits. It wasn't so crispy it could be broken into bits, but it gave a satisfying amount of resistance to my teeth when I took a bite. I could go on about the qualities of this bacon for pages, but I think discussing it too much would subtract from the perfection. Indeed, it was a rich, sweet, savory experience, worthy of a poet better than me.
My faith in humanity isn't low or tenuous; I believe quite strongly that all people are basically good and that the world is a beautiful place; I expect that there will be moments of actual peace in my life every day and that God in some form will come to me when I need it, whether I know it or not. But somehow, despite my already intense faith in the beauties of existence, eating three pieces of perfect bacon in a truck stop in Mississippi made my certainty that there is good everywhere infinitely stronger. I like that the world can be good enough that better sounds like an impossibility... until it isn't.
I have a rule about not ordering bacon. I broke it because of a twinkle in an eye, and I was repaid with three perfect slices. We live in a beautiful world, do we not?
I love very kind of bacon; I like Applewood Smoked Bacon, Hickory Smoked Bacon, Unsalted Bacon, Salted Bacon, Thick Cut Bacon, Thin Cut Bacon (though it's never advertised as such, is it?), Regular Bacon, Oscar Meyer Bacon, Boars Head Bacon, Fresh Bacon, Pounds of Bacon, Bits of Bacon, Bacon Flavored Other Foods. Basically, if it's fatty and meaty and sliced from a porker, I will eat it. I would eat it in everything I cook if this wasn't terrible for me -- or, more accurately, if other people would eat my food with me if I'd put bacon in all of it. The only requirement be that it is pan-fried bacon.
How else would one prepare bacon, you ask? Let me enlighten you.
When you go to a diner and order 'bacon,' what you are ordering is what once was bacon put on a baking sheet and left in the oven until it was removed and put on your plate. This is not, I repeat, not, bacon. Bacon is cooked in it's own grease until it is crispy on the outside and chewy on the inside (YES, this is possible. Good bacon is both chewy and crispy). Bacon must be flipped so that both sides are exposed to heat and the puckerings of fat are not allowed to take the associated meat away from the heat. Also, the puckerings of fat should still be crispy. The last thing bacon should be is dry.
Unfortunately, dryness is a direct result of baking something on low heat for a long period of time. There is such a plethora of fat in most strips of bacon it seems impossible to sap it, but it is. All you have to do is cook it so long all the fat leaves. This is when bacon burns.
The interesting thing about baking bacon is that if it's done at a low enough temperature, it's going to take a long time to blacken-burn it. Any length of time is going to make the bacon taste burnt and dry, but it doesn't look burnt. It just looks dry and flat and brownish. The con-artists in most diners are counting on this deceit: it won't look like you've burned it so it can be served. So I have basically given up ordering bacon in diners, though it is one of my favorite foods. It is also one of the only things I can theoretically eat in diners.
But then we were in Mississippi last weekend. After taking pictures at the statehouse, I stopped a guy on the street. We had a nice conversation about how we were both doing that fine Sunday morning. I asked him where I should go for a good Mississippi breakfast, and he took me to the corner where my car was, showed me exactly where to turn, and gave me otherwise excellent directions. Except that I haven't been in the South for long enough that I'm no good at accents. So, I couldn't understand the name of the street he told me the truck stop was on. Gatlin? Gaitlin? Gataling? Galveston? Galston? Golston? Golsting? Gosling? Eh, we got in the car anyway. It was Gaitlin. We got off the highway and pulled up to the truck stop he'd recommended, exactly where he'd said it would be.
The boys all ordered chicken fried steak with sausage gravy, which I thought was ridiculous, because everybody knows that sausage-and-cream gravy goes with biscuits, and chicken or steak-and stock gravy goes with chicken fried steak. Like, duh. When I ribbed the fellas about this, the waiter gave me a twinkle-eyed look... so I broke my rule about ordering bacon in restaurants.
Oh man, was it worth it.
That bacon was greasy and chewy but crispy on the edges; it was puckered like it should be and a teensy bit black at the ends. There were pink bits. It wasn't so crispy it could be broken into bits, but it gave a satisfying amount of resistance to my teeth when I took a bite. I could go on about the qualities of this bacon for pages, but I think discussing it too much would subtract from the perfection. Indeed, it was a rich, sweet, savory experience, worthy of a poet better than me.
My faith in humanity isn't low or tenuous; I believe quite strongly that all people are basically good and that the world is a beautiful place; I expect that there will be moments of actual peace in my life every day and that God in some form will come to me when I need it, whether I know it or not. But somehow, despite my already intense faith in the beauties of existence, eating three pieces of perfect bacon in a truck stop in Mississippi made my certainty that there is good everywhere infinitely stronger. I like that the world can be good enough that better sounds like an impossibility... until it isn't.
I have a rule about not ordering bacon. I broke it because of a twinkle in an eye, and I was repaid with three perfect slices. We live in a beautiful world, do we not?
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Restoring Sanity
I was in DC to restore sanity this weekend. I suppose everybody who is anybody has already blogged about this, but driving to DC and back in 72 hours is an exhausting endeavor. I only just had a moment to sit down and write about it.
I think that's an important part of the message of Saturday's rally -- don't rush home and write a million words about it; instead, think, and write later. I had been looking forward to this trip as a good way to go home for a couple weeks, at least. I've been feeling strange from time to time and was attributing it to being homesick. To be honest, I've been thinking in a mildly destructive way that Houston is the wrong place for me, that risking this move was wrong, and that I should just go home. I definitely needed a dose of sanity.
We left on Thursday night, after work. I was writing a grant literally down to the wire; one of my compatriots was waiting at my office door for me to finish. We got to my apartment. We loaded up the back of the car. We departed. But I didn't feel like I was headed homeward or anything like that, I just felt like I was... getting in the car for an adventure.
In the first few miles, we defined the ground rules: ding when we pass into new states, driving shifts would be of no more than four hours, passenger seat isn't allowed to sleep, fill it up when you finish your shift (it's just nicer that way). And so we began.
It was a wonderful trip. America's freeway system is a state unto itself, and it's a state I know well. I love it. I love the consistency of the roads set against the many landscapes of the American terrain. I love that there's always a McDonald's, an Exxon, or a Shell station because they give me a real sense of familiarity everywhere I go. That said, I can always tell when I'm home. The trees are different, the air is familiar, the mountains are the kind you can feel even in the dark. Lucky for us, we arrived in Virginia in the late afternoon:
and that, my friends, was the view from the gas station. A Shell station. So I frolicked in the field, and it was good to be home.
My cousin and her husband took us in for the evening. She had beds made and dinner ready; she even made gluten free bread, just for me. Her home was so happy and so warm that the ache in my knees from having bent them in the car for twenty four hours just... slipped away. It was so peaceful.
We went to the rally in the morning, Simon & Garfunkel leading the way. We were planning on parking at a park and ride metro, but alas, the one close to my cousin's was so overwhelmed with people that the highway was backed up four miles out of the station. So, rationally, we moved on to the next. The line was long there, but it was a calm line. Even the dude not wearing any pants was pretty reasonable.
So then, we met the crowd:
And approaching the innards of it, we heard, "Who's ready to restore some SANITY?" It was Colbert or Stewart, we weren't sure which, but the happy sounds from the crowd meant we weren't hearing anything. Still, we made a foray in, and out, and in, and out... until we had to leave the mass of people. From the outskirts of this massive crowd of people emerged one of my brothers. Perfect!
We sign watched a bit:
And then again we wove in and out of the crowd, holding hands, moving in the currents of the people around us. It was one of the calmest groups I've ever met. Some of the rallyers were climbing trees, so we all cheered them and pitied them as they climbed and fell. Realizing that there was no destination in the middle of the crowd, we decided to head for the back of the rally and maybe catch a glimpse of the stage from there -- there was no way we were going to hear anything. So we did... by way of the art museum, a very rational decision on our part, I think. A sane and beautiful choice.
Walking towards the other end of the mall, it became rather clear that we weren't going to hear any of what the people watching on TV were hearing. We weren't going to hear any of the programming, at all, because we just weren't going to get close enough. This conversation we'd driven halfway across the country to take part in was going to happen without us ever hearing a word of it. This was disappointing for a moment.
Then I looked around and saw with me some of my favorite people in the whole world; I saw the crowds of kindhearted rallygoers who had come out to the mall that day to ask everyone to please, take it down a notch -- for America -- and I felt the solidarity in the air that day. I had good people all around me and beautiful, beautiful day in our country's capital. The disappointment went away.
I felt the crowd. The breath of this quiet crowd was in me. They weren't all vocally quiet, but the vibrations of the group were energetic but steady and calm. What more could I want? After all, watching what you missed is what youtube is for. I decided that I'd find out what the public perception of that day's shindig was later -- for now, I was going to feel it. From the opposite end of the mall, which, by the way, is really crazy far, this is what the crowd looked like:
So we sat out there on some steps near the grass and hung out. It was nice.
After the rally, we sat in a restaurant nearby for some beers and lunch. Old friends and new friends happened by (it's incredible to me that we ran into people we knew without meaning to, but we did), and it was good to see them all. This rally was a reunion of people and ideas: we can feel passionately about things, but that doesn't make our opponents our enemies. After months apart, it will always be good to see an old friend. People are inherently kind. These are a lot of random statements, I know, but I don't feel compelled to structure an argument around this experience -- I just want to share some of its beauties. For example, the sunset which sent us home:
And the sunrise that greeted us over Birmingham:
And the monument to confederate women in front of the statehouse in Jackson, Mississippi:
The chicken and the cat which shared our dinner in Louisiana:
And last, our own little monument to what we did:
One of my car-buddies fell asleep on my lap on the last leg into Houston. He woke up when I whispered, "We're home."
The funny thing is, I meant it. The first picture in this post is of the mountains of the stomping grounds of my youth; that place will always be a home of mine. But so is Houston; so is Texas. Taking off my sweater, being once again in a place where it would be completely absurd to wear more than a long sleeve shirt and jeans was a relief to me, in a way. I breathe differently here. The air is different here. Home, I think, is where you breathe it right. That's why there are many of them for some people.
I know I'll make it back to Virginia, in time. Meanwhile, I'm here. And I have friends willing to travel for 48 of 72 hours. Nice.
The sun rose on Birmingham in both directions, and I never felt like I was leaving home. I think, instead, I may have traveled between locations I've loved and truly lived in. I do not carry my home with me on my back, but I think I've made them in quite a few places, which is a comforting thought... even if I do want to get back to Appalachia.
Virginia, good to see you. Texas, it's good to be here. And Jon Stewart, thanks for the sanity.
I think that's an important part of the message of Saturday's rally -- don't rush home and write a million words about it; instead, think, and write later. I had been looking forward to this trip as a good way to go home for a couple weeks, at least. I've been feeling strange from time to time and was attributing it to being homesick. To be honest, I've been thinking in a mildly destructive way that Houston is the wrong place for me, that risking this move was wrong, and that I should just go home. I definitely needed a dose of sanity.
We left on Thursday night, after work. I was writing a grant literally down to the wire; one of my compatriots was waiting at my office door for me to finish. We got to my apartment. We loaded up the back of the car. We departed. But I didn't feel like I was headed homeward or anything like that, I just felt like I was... getting in the car for an adventure.
In the first few miles, we defined the ground rules: ding when we pass into new states, driving shifts would be of no more than four hours, passenger seat isn't allowed to sleep, fill it up when you finish your shift (it's just nicer that way). And so we began.
It was a wonderful trip. America's freeway system is a state unto itself, and it's a state I know well. I love it. I love the consistency of the roads set against the many landscapes of the American terrain. I love that there's always a McDonald's, an Exxon, or a Shell station because they give me a real sense of familiarity everywhere I go. That said, I can always tell when I'm home. The trees are different, the air is familiar, the mountains are the kind you can feel even in the dark. Lucky for us, we arrived in Virginia in the late afternoon:
My cousin and her husband took us in for the evening. She had beds made and dinner ready; she even made gluten free bread, just for me. Her home was so happy and so warm that the ache in my knees from having bent them in the car for twenty four hours just... slipped away. It was so peaceful.
We went to the rally in the morning, Simon & Garfunkel leading the way. We were planning on parking at a park and ride metro, but alas, the one close to my cousin's was so overwhelmed with people that the highway was backed up four miles out of the station. So, rationally, we moved on to the next. The line was long there, but it was a calm line. Even the dude not wearing any pants was pretty reasonable.
So then, we met the crowd:
And approaching the innards of it, we heard, "Who's ready to restore some SANITY?" It was Colbert or Stewart, we weren't sure which, but the happy sounds from the crowd meant we weren't hearing anything. Still, we made a foray in, and out, and in, and out... until we had to leave the mass of people. From the outskirts of this massive crowd of people emerged one of my brothers. Perfect!
We sign watched a bit:
And then again we wove in and out of the crowd, holding hands, moving in the currents of the people around us. It was one of the calmest groups I've ever met. Some of the rallyers were climbing trees, so we all cheered them and pitied them as they climbed and fell. Realizing that there was no destination in the middle of the crowd, we decided to head for the back of the rally and maybe catch a glimpse of the stage from there -- there was no way we were going to hear anything. So we did... by way of the art museum, a very rational decision on our part, I think. A sane and beautiful choice.
Walking towards the other end of the mall, it became rather clear that we weren't going to hear any of what the people watching on TV were hearing. We weren't going to hear any of the programming, at all, because we just weren't going to get close enough. This conversation we'd driven halfway across the country to take part in was going to happen without us ever hearing a word of it. This was disappointing for a moment.
Then I looked around and saw with me some of my favorite people in the whole world; I saw the crowds of kindhearted rallygoers who had come out to the mall that day to ask everyone to please, take it down a notch -- for America -- and I felt the solidarity in the air that day. I had good people all around me and beautiful, beautiful day in our country's capital. The disappointment went away.
I felt the crowd. The breath of this quiet crowd was in me. They weren't all vocally quiet, but the vibrations of the group were energetic but steady and calm. What more could I want? After all, watching what you missed is what youtube is for. I decided that I'd find out what the public perception of that day's shindig was later -- for now, I was going to feel it. From the opposite end of the mall, which, by the way, is really crazy far, this is what the crowd looked like:
So we sat out there on some steps near the grass and hung out. It was nice.
After the rally, we sat in a restaurant nearby for some beers and lunch. Old friends and new friends happened by (it's incredible to me that we ran into people we knew without meaning to, but we did), and it was good to see them all. This rally was a reunion of people and ideas: we can feel passionately about things, but that doesn't make our opponents our enemies. After months apart, it will always be good to see an old friend. People are inherently kind. These are a lot of random statements, I know, but I don't feel compelled to structure an argument around this experience -- I just want to share some of its beauties. For example, the sunset which sent us home:
And the sunrise that greeted us over Birmingham:
And the monument to confederate women in front of the statehouse in Jackson, Mississippi:
The chicken and the cat which shared our dinner in Louisiana:
And last, our own little monument to what we did:
One of my car-buddies fell asleep on my lap on the last leg into Houston. He woke up when I whispered, "We're home."
The funny thing is, I meant it. The first picture in this post is of the mountains of the stomping grounds of my youth; that place will always be a home of mine. But so is Houston; so is Texas. Taking off my sweater, being once again in a place where it would be completely absurd to wear more than a long sleeve shirt and jeans was a relief to me, in a way. I breathe differently here. The air is different here. Home, I think, is where you breathe it right. That's why there are many of them for some people.
I know I'll make it back to Virginia, in time. Meanwhile, I'm here. And I have friends willing to travel for 48 of 72 hours. Nice.
The sun rose on Birmingham in both directions, and I never felt like I was leaving home. I think, instead, I may have traveled between locations I've loved and truly lived in. I do not carry my home with me on my back, but I think I've made them in quite a few places, which is a comforting thought... even if I do want to get back to Appalachia.
Virginia, good to see you. Texas, it's good to be here. And Jon Stewart, thanks for the sanity.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Audience
Hello, people reading this blog in Egypt, Peru, and Jordan. I was not expecting you. I'd greet you in your native tongues, but I don't know what they all are. Thanks for reading, I suppose!
The View
1. My gym is visible from my office window. It is on the right. On the left is a big field, and then a parking lot. On the right hand edge of the field, just inside the cover of shade when the sun slips west of noon, is a path.
In the afternoon around 3, a ridiculously attractive guy leaves the gym and runs sprints along the path.
Everybody else uses the path to get from work (in my building) to the strip mall (where the gym is) for lunch, etc. They stick to the path, which is there probably only because lots of people have walked in the same line over and over again to go have lunch in the strip mall.
This guy runs in the grass.
Pretty sweet.
2. I can see lots of parking lots.
3. I don't think there's anywhere in America that is less than 30 minutes from a Starbucks. In Houston, it may be that there is nowhere less than 30 minutes from a Starbucks on foot, which is saying something, because nothing else in h-town is really all that walkable. I know I'm coming late to this realization. It's kind of scary, even though it appears at the moment that they are using their powers well...
In the afternoon around 3, a ridiculously attractive guy leaves the gym and runs sprints along the path.
Everybody else uses the path to get from work (in my building) to the strip mall (where the gym is) for lunch, etc. They stick to the path, which is there probably only because lots of people have walked in the same line over and over again to go have lunch in the strip mall.
This guy runs in the grass.
Pretty sweet.
2. I can see lots of parking lots.
3. I don't think there's anywhere in America that is less than 30 minutes from a Starbucks. In Houston, it may be that there is nowhere less than 30 minutes from a Starbucks on foot, which is saying something, because nothing else in h-town is really all that walkable. I know I'm coming late to this realization. It's kind of scary, even though it appears at the moment that they are using their powers well...
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The Cheesy Road From San Antonio
On the road from San Antonio, I had a lot of time to think. There is little that I find more meditative than a long stretch of open freeway with only my headlights and the moon to light it.
While I won't share all the thoughts that rambled through my brain (some were too personal for even I-don't-care-I-say-almost-anything-me), but I will share three of my reflections upon this past weekend. Warning: reflectiveness ahead. If you don't like reading my thoughts, stop reading.
My mom came to visit on Wednesday, so for the next few days I just kind of took her around my life. We went to a flag football game I was playing in, we went to a reception at my work; we went to the farmer's market and meat market I go to every Saturday with a friend of mine. We went to the movies, to the beach, ate DELICIOUS crabs, rode roller coasters, and I took her to Quaker Meeting. It was pleasant, peaceful. She did my dishes and cleaned my bathroom, and I cooked for her.
Sitting in Denny's on the way to San Antonio, I asked my mom a serious question and she made a joke. This upset me. Where a few years ago that would have started a fight, instead we had a conversation about how we aren't really sure how to talk to each other. This is hard. I want to be serious and she wants to make me laugh, or I want to be lighthearted and she doesn't get my jokes; but it goes deeper than that. We have gone about our lives in very different ways and we have correspondingly different systems for choosing a course of action in our everyday lives. We have similar values but entirely different logical systems.
Which we talked about. And agreed on. And at the end of the conversation, I made a joke, and she said something serious. I'm not saying we've fixed it or it's perfect, but it's pretty great to know that I can sit in a Denny's with my mom and talk openly about how we relate to each other and how to make it better. I think 'Agree to Disagree' had a pretty positive connotation that day.
That same Sunday morning, I felt led to speak in Meeting about compassion as the best way into forgiveness, and about anger being a really easy thing to latch onto instead of being compassionate. There are so many ways into anger -- blame, pride, shame, righteousness, resentment... and so few into compassion. Sometimes it's hard to remember that we're human and people make mistakes, though I find it easier to remember this about others than myself, which is a strange truth. Why do other people have more of a right to be human than I do? I don't know. But I think I behave like they do.
Sometimes I think that I am like swiss cheese, full of holes, and that I'm never going to stop bumbling around long enough to fill them. I mentioned this to a friend, who said she thinks I'm more like brie, and I said, "No, you're like brie, I'm like swiss cheese, and not even jarlsberg swiss cheese," and she said, "WHAT?! Not true!" or something like that. It's easier to believe that other people see me the way I see me, as swiss cheese, than it is for me to believe that you see me like I see you, as in, like brie. Maybe compassion is somewhere in the many varieties of fromage I sort through at the store on Saturday afternoons...
There was one more thought on the road:
There are a lot of people in my phone who I could call late at night to keep me awake as I drive. This is a nice thought. Thanks for that. And thanks to those two who I did call, because you picked up the phone and you were really amusing.
San Antonio is a beautiful place, full of missions and a really fantastic river, great food, expensive parking, and, as it turns out, wonderful storytellers. I can't wait to go back! Remember the ALAMO!
While I won't share all the thoughts that rambled through my brain (some were too personal for even I-don't-care-I-say-almost-anything-me), but I will share three of my reflections upon this past weekend. Warning: reflectiveness ahead. If you don't like reading my thoughts, stop reading.
My mom came to visit on Wednesday, so for the next few days I just kind of took her around my life. We went to a flag football game I was playing in, we went to a reception at my work; we went to the farmer's market and meat market I go to every Saturday with a friend of mine. We went to the movies, to the beach, ate DELICIOUS crabs, rode roller coasters, and I took her to Quaker Meeting. It was pleasant, peaceful. She did my dishes and cleaned my bathroom, and I cooked for her.
Sitting in Denny's on the way to San Antonio, I asked my mom a serious question and she made a joke. This upset me. Where a few years ago that would have started a fight, instead we had a conversation about how we aren't really sure how to talk to each other. This is hard. I want to be serious and she wants to make me laugh, or I want to be lighthearted and she doesn't get my jokes; but it goes deeper than that. We have gone about our lives in very different ways and we have correspondingly different systems for choosing a course of action in our everyday lives. We have similar values but entirely different logical systems.
Which we talked about. And agreed on. And at the end of the conversation, I made a joke, and she said something serious. I'm not saying we've fixed it or it's perfect, but it's pretty great to know that I can sit in a Denny's with my mom and talk openly about how we relate to each other and how to make it better. I think 'Agree to Disagree' had a pretty positive connotation that day.
That same Sunday morning, I felt led to speak in Meeting about compassion as the best way into forgiveness, and about anger being a really easy thing to latch onto instead of being compassionate. There are so many ways into anger -- blame, pride, shame, righteousness, resentment... and so few into compassion. Sometimes it's hard to remember that we're human and people make mistakes, though I find it easier to remember this about others than myself, which is a strange truth. Why do other people have more of a right to be human than I do? I don't know. But I think I behave like they do.
Sometimes I think that I am like swiss cheese, full of holes, and that I'm never going to stop bumbling around long enough to fill them. I mentioned this to a friend, who said she thinks I'm more like brie, and I said, "No, you're like brie, I'm like swiss cheese, and not even jarlsberg swiss cheese," and she said, "WHAT?! Not true!" or something like that. It's easier to believe that other people see me the way I see me, as swiss cheese, than it is for me to believe that you see me like I see you, as in, like brie. Maybe compassion is somewhere in the many varieties of fromage I sort through at the store on Saturday afternoons...
There was one more thought on the road:
There are a lot of people in my phone who I could call late at night to keep me awake as I drive. This is a nice thought. Thanks for that. And thanks to those two who I did call, because you picked up the phone and you were really amusing.
San Antonio is a beautiful place, full of missions and a really fantastic river, great food, expensive parking, and, as it turns out, wonderful storytellers. I can't wait to go back! Remember the ALAMO!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)