how you know it's here

For the last week or so I've been starting to wonder about fall. How do you know when it's here? I've been told that I've never really experienced a real fall before, and I've been told that it's going to happen soon. It will be Autumn in New York, just like the song, and the air will ring cool and bright like little bells. I keep looking for little clues everywhere, and then I'm never sure. There were pumpkins in the market last time I checked. Candycorn blazes gold, orange, and white in my hands. Tiny fangs when I want them. But these things might just be incidental. They have these things in California and that's how I would know that it was fall... they're heralds of an invisible change.

But tonight for the first time I heard it, walking up 145th with my plastic drugstore bags. The leaves on the sycamore trees are still green, but at night when the breeze blows through them you can hear their brittle melodies. Pffffffffffffffff tc tc tc tc tc tc..... Shhh-c-c-c-c-c-c-shhhhh...

And that's how you know it's here.

hot sand in the wound

I’m lightly dusted in dried salt water and I don’t want to wash it off. My clammy hair sticks to my head and I want it to stay that way. At least for a little while longer. I want to bring back all that was today and all that was yesterday and to hold it for an instant. And when I feel the wound, I want to rub hot sand in it.

There is nothing better than this moment. We live in paradise, I murmur to myself. Lauren and Arun can hear me. We hold our feet up out of the water, laughing, and let the waves rush toward us. Over us. It’s easier to stay in the water than to get out of it. As I let myself edge back to shore I am dashed upon the rocks, sucked under, and then dashed upon the rocks again. It’s easier to stay in the water. Arun comes out to me and offers his hands. His feet are already cut by the rocks, so he walks out on the rocks again. Try rubbing hot sand in the wound – that will make it better, he says. It’s true. It’s rubbing the sand out of the wound that is the problem. It’s easier to stay in the water than to get out of it.

Blind Date

So I’ve been thinking (which I tend to do when I’ve had a lot of caffeine), and I’ve decided: never again. No more blind dates. Before I even opened the door, I could see his balding head through the window, and when he turned around it wasn’t much better. 31. works in finance. balding. belly. white Volvo. And as I write these words I realize that this is superficial of me. Unkind, even. He is a nice… man… and I am sure that he could be a choice candidate for some… woman… of a certain age. Of course, age has nothing to do with it. I know people in their 30’s who are nothing like him, who are a whole lot more like me, and for whom age is more of a state of mind. And he has let himself age.

I suppose I should preface this by informing you that I was set up by my boss, who hardly knew me when she made the match. The awkwardness of this situation need not be mentioned. She’s my boss. She meant this as a compliment. It is not as though I have a boyfriend or some other excuse to keep me from dating “nice men.” So I acquiesced.

Yet the whole time I was out with this “nice man” all I could think of was: is this the kind of person she thinks I go for? is this the kind of person that she thinks would be right for me? is this the kind of person I am supposed to be dating? because if this is the kind of person I ought to be looking for, forget it. it’s not worth it.

And as I mused over these questions, I was reminded why I don’t date.

As we pulled up in front of my house at the end of the evening, he started to unbuckle his seat belt and edge toward my seat (his hand sliding behind the head rest), but soon enough I’d popped out the door, waved, thanked him for dinner, and mumbled something about having a nice time. It was a blatant escape – and one I hope he understood.

The next day at work when my boss asked me how it went, I told her politely that I think we are in “very different places in our lives,” which roughly translates to, “he’s too old for me what were you thinking?” But I could never have said that and wouldn’t have wanted to.

People always say that even a bad date is good because you get practice and learn what you like and dislike… but I only have so many days left in Los Angeles, and in the end, I’d much rather spend time with a friend.

One week to the next

How did this happen? In precisely one week I will be in New York, and suddenly everything is scattered all over the floor again, ready to be blown away by the slightest whimsical breeze. A bin full of magazines. Clean laundry half folded. In three weeks I have gone from dashing down Olympic on foot to a terrifying temp job, to sleeping-in and wandering into a familiar office where there are always dogs and music, to laying awake at night wondering how I am ever going to make a decision about school when three weeks ago it wasn’t even a prospect.

Every little thing in my house weighs down upon me. How will I move it? Where will it go? And if I can’t take it with me, how will I get rid of it? How can I get rid of it? Books. Boxes of letters and postcards. Gifts from ex-boyfriends. A tennis racquet I’ve hardly used and a Casio keyboard with one broken key. A dozen pictures in frames. Maybe I just get rid of the frames.

And somehow, as all these things are blowing around me, I know that it does little good to even think about “things” when it is unlikely that my current circumstances will bear any resemblance to my situation three months from now. In the meantime, I think I will throw away my cd cases, and maybe the picture frames too. And if anyone wants a bookcase come August, let me know… but don’t expect my answer not to change.

Here Fishy Fishy

Wednesday, my boss calls me in to her office. No. Half yells, half whines at me to come into her office is more like it.

"Here," she says, handing me a small green net attached to a stick and glancing toward her large bulbous fish tank. I know this cannot be good.

"A few of the fish have died," she stated matter-of-factly. "I need you to scoop them out and I'll hold the bag."
I looked at her with a tight-lipped bemused smile on my face. Surely she was kidding. But then she jostled the bag a bit and I realized she was definitely not joking.

"Um. Ok." I replied rolling up the sleeve of my sweater. It was a deep tank, the fish were lodged in the rocks at the bottom, and my little green stick only reached so far, so I plunged my arm into the bowl.

As I scraped the net among the rocks to dislodge the fish, it began to disintegrate into mushy fishy blobs. Oh god, oh god, oh god... Swishing the net around - grasping at the floating fish bits - I had to turn my face away from the bowl. It was too horrifying. I slapped the net against the plastic bag to try to free what remained of that sad little fish. She laughed. No... she cackled.

"Ok," She said, "There are two more..."

And this is what I am being paid for.

ha ha

In response to yet another disappointing exchange with the mouse (while on the phone and pumping gas at Arco)...

Mom: Well, you never know. Miracles happen.

Me: I don't believe in miracles. I just believe in hard work that leads to nothing. It's meaningless.

Guy in a suit who is standing behind me: (laughs)

Small Victories

Homeless and Unemployed. Just last week this title seemed an inevitable one, and it is not the sort of title a UCLA grad expects herself to be facing. Yet, there I was – staring at an eviction notice with one hand on my hip and the other in an empty pocket. When “homeless and unemployed” is staring you in the face, even the smallest victories don’t seem so small. Sunshine on Thursday seemed like a sign from the gods.

I’d become terrified of things like the mail and the telephone. The mail brought eviction, rejection letters from graduate schools, and have you seen me? notices. The phone rang with news that the job I had been offered at Disney was being held captive because of ridiculous employment restrictions surrounding my internship. And the thing is, I can handle the uncertainties of the job search. I can even handle rejection letters from graduate schools. What I can’t handle is having things stolen from me which are rightfully mine! Things that I like and enjoy and appreciate. Things like my house and my job.

But Thursday, the sun came out (small victory No. 1). Inspired by the sun, I went to the Farmer’s Market where a nice florist gave me and Lauren pretty pink roses just because we looked cute eating our crepes cross-legged on the sidewalk. Then, I managed to secure a temp position for at least a month, finally got through to Disney’s gatekeepers (i.e. HR), and best of all, I got word from our landlord that he would be able to extend our lease until August 1st! The Bentley House has been saved!

I suppose next week, the mailman could bring more rejection letters, and the phone could ring of no luck at Disney… but I’ll keep my fists up in front of my face. I’m ready to swing back.

The Georgia Journals

Welcome to Georgia. Land of the free, home of the endlessly entertaining/slightly disturbing kitch. I've been here in the red state for about a week visiting my family as I bide my time "between jobs," and I have to say, Georgia is every bit as strange and delightful as I could have hoped. In an attempt to convince me that Georgia is cool, my brother decided we should head to Athens to check out the record stores and cool shops. Along the way, I was truly blown away by the above image - the American flag fluttering above a truck dealership... and in the background, a billboard simply stating "Jesus." God-themed billboards seem the thing here. One of my favorites: "Don't make me come down there -- God."

Since it was just Mom and me during the week, we used the time to explore down-town Atlanta. We went to a mall that was very much like the Beverly Center, visited the High Museum of Art (which has a great collection of American 19th & 20th century art), and puttered around Little 5 Points - a sort of Melrose cum Haight-Ashbury with all the requisite thrift shops and indie coffee houses. By accident, we wandered into a "feminist" book store run by a stern young woman with short buzzed hair.

We're the only ones in this tiny bookstore and I know the girl at the counter can hear us.
"... hey did you see that they have that book Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell. She goes and visits all these sites associated with presidential assassinations," I say to break the silence.
And as the words still hung in the air, I turned around and the short-haired woman was holding the book. Very eerie.
"Here's the book you were just talking about. It's a bestseller right now." She shoves the book in my hands. We very quickly paid the book and were on our merry way.

The book purchase proved to be the perfect companion for our two day trip to Savannah, where we would wander amongst the old colonial squares and live oaks swagged in Spanish moss. Vowell perfectly captures the strange nuances of historical tourism and somehow makes presidential death funny. She's the kind of writer who makes you feel smarter - who makes you feel like part of her freakish vacation. It was precisely the kind of vacation I needed from my own vacation.

On Tybee Beach (near Savannah), I discovered confederate boogie boarding. Wow. Savannah is also a great place to taste all those Southern culinary delights you always dreamed of. Things like black eyed peas, collard greens, macaroni & cheese, and buttered green beans... Needless to say, Georgia is a hard place to be a vegetarian, as even the vegetables are cooked with meat. I've tried my best. And of course, a trip with Mom would not have been complete without a visit to a graveyard.

My southern trip may soon be coming to a close, but at least tomorrow we have Waffle House to look forward to.



Things that are awesome about Georgia:
- Sweet Tea
- Ho-cakes
- Dudes wearing overalls

The Stomach Flu and Me

On Monday morning, I awoke to a war zone. It all began when army tribes of paranoid parasites (with isolationist tendencies) invaded my stomach and swiftly began evicting all occupants of its newly claimed territory. Out the front door, out the back door – take your pick. As evidence of their paranoia, they even launched a full-scale evacuation when there was nothing left to evacuate – leaving me lying on a cold linoleum floor and wondering how I had not foreseen their terrorist plots.

Diplomatic measures were futile. Offerings of peace (tomato soup and saltine crakers) were flat out rejected and eschewed violently. In a panic, the body quickly shut down and meekly told me, “We’re giving up. The stomacher tribes have taken all of our major ports, incapacitated our energy supplies, defeated our strongest defenses… It’s just too much for a body to handle!”

“Well, that’s not good enough,” I said to the body. “Think of something else!”

I was angry. To think that the body was so easily cowered by one tiny tribe! The body seemed annoyed, but agreed with the stipulation that I would not do anything to irritate the colonizing tribe.

So I did not eat. I did not move.

I could hear the rumbling murmurs of the stomacher tribes, who were obviously unnerved by the sudden quiet. As night began to fall, however, the body unleashed its new defenses, and the weather began to change. As temperatures rose, all organs had been told to hold their positions. But the brain refused to comply.

In the darkened depths of my room, torn between sleep and awake, I was led into a hellish blaze of hallucination where I was commanded by invisible forces to reconstruct a seemingly un-constructible red Lego castle that lay in pieces at my feet. Surrounded by flames, I struggled to fit the pieces together, but there was no end in site. The castle could not be put together. Oh, what phantasmagorical night visions!

As dawn approached, and temperatures cooled slightly, I was withdrawn from the flames. All seemed silent. Had the invading tribes deserted? Were they killed by the heat? There was no response. For many hours, the body and I sat silently in a dull yellow haze – numb, uneasy, and empty.

But then, the rumbling murmuring returned, and in a sudden blaze of inspiration, the body turned its furnaces full throttle. War had begun again.

Why is this happening to me? I cried weakly. No body answered and nobody cared.

At the moment when I thought all was lost and that I would be forced to stay home from work a third day, and worst of all, have to seek a doctor (who could scarcely understand my difficulties, I am sure)… a thick, tropical rain came. Only, it wasn’t the kind of rain I expected. And the body laughed.

“We only thought they had usurped all ports. But we had forgotten that they could be forced out of the millions of tiny pores of your skin!”

I looked down at my shiny arm, searching for the stomachers in retreat, but I could not see them.
“No,” the body said, “You cannot see them – and with any luck, you never will."

Murakami

I feel like bowing down at the altar of Haruki Murakami. I find myself singing his name – a soft chant, a wind. This weekend I finished reading his novel, Norwegian Wood, with the same kind of satisfaction that I’ve only experienced when I feel like someone truly understands what I am saying. The kind of feeling that makes me want to stand up (fist in air) and say Yes!

The story is nothing so new, I suppose. It is about a young man in love. It’s about love surrounded by death. It takes place in Tokyo during the 60’s and uses the music of the Beatles as nice little focal points of emotion (hence, Norwegian Wood). But it is not a story about the Beatles, or even about a young man who loves the Beatles, but about the way that a life can resonate with the very music itself.

Compared to The Wind Up Bird Chronicle, which is perhaps a more brilliant book, Norwegian Wood is a relatively normal story with relatively normal characters, except that a few of them reside in a glorified mental institution cum commune. Time progresses in a mostly linear fashion, I suppose, but when I was reading the book I was too enveloped in its somber intensity to be too concerned about how one moment would flow to the next. And here I am being vague again. Loving the book without really knowing why. Bowing down at the altar and whispering the name of the author to myself.

When I think about my own experiences at the university and in this past year since graduation, I cannot but help hearing their echo in the world of Toru Watanabe. The ridiculous roommates… the bizarre, earnest conversations… the attempts to be close to people and realizing that you can only get so close. And yet it is more than that. I’ll tell you what – read some Haruki Murakami and then we’ll talk.

The Best Part

I have to agree with Lauren – although we had talked about staying a weekend in Grass Valley and going skiing at Tahoe, I didn’t actually think it would ever happen. But it did. I could say that sailing down the mountains with a serene blue sky over head and a silvery lake below was the best part, but it wasn’t. That sort of thing never is. The best part was nearly being blown off the top of the mountain in blizzard like conditions and saying, quite seriously, that there was no way we were going to make it down alive. The best part was singing ‘Ring of Fire’ with Lauren in our twangiest voices while on the chairlift – and later watching Lauren sail head first into a giant snow bank a la America’s Funniest Home Videos. The best part was being told to stand aside by the paramedics as they brought someone down the mountain in a stretcher… then realizing that the person in the stretcher was Theresa! Theresa looked up and waved and asked me to take her picture, but I was in too much shock. Good God! We’ve killed Theresa, I had thought. But we hadn’t. The powder was perfect and the skiing quite lovely, but honestly, laughing with the roommates on the drive back down the mountain was… the best part.

Resolutions

Last week at work a nice young man (with quite nice hair) stopped by my desk to wish me a Happy New Year and asked if I had any New Year’s Resolutions – I realized that I did not. Not that I usually sit down and write resolutions, but on the first day of January I will often lay in bed, feeling pretty glazed, and make a few mental notes to myself, such as: Do not get hung-over again, go to the gym, be kinder to people, write more and talk less. There are variations on these resolutions (e.g. be healthier, instead of go to the gym, and stop incessantly teasing x person, instead of be kinder, etc.) – but inevitably they are always the same.

Perform a quick survey and you will find that most people’s New Year’s Resolutions are not much different than mine. They are all the same little cupcakes, but with different colored frosting – and most of them are just attempts to redress the wrongs one has committed over the holidays. They have nothing to do with the year as a whole. In fact, they are hardly resolutions at all because you almost never keep them. For example, on December 24th you ate an army of Gingerbread men – resolution: cut back on sweets and get in shape. On December 25th you called your 6 year old cousin Jimmy an asshole in front of the entire family – resolution: be kinder to people.

So how do I get out of this vicious cycle and make some resolutions that really count? (I ask myself as I spout off the same old resolutions to the nicely coiffed young man). One solution is to not make any resolutions at all. That way there is none of the usual disappointment when you realize that you have to make the same resolutions that you made last year. But then again, perhaps the key to making really good resolutions is to make them very specific so that at some point or other during the year I can check them off with a fat, black sharpie. I realize that we’re getting close to mid-January and it’s really too late to be making Resolutions, but I think I’ll try any way.

1. Go to the gym (did not specify how often. went last night. that definitely counts. check!)
2. Go skiing (will be able to check this one off this weekend – score!)
3. When I find myself unemployed on February 3rd do not go apply for a job at Cost Plus (might fail at this one, but if they were all easy, there would be no point.)
4. Write more hand-written letters to the following people: Tracy, Katy, and any person who requests more hand written letters.
5. Give someone a compliment tomorrow that is not related to his or her appearance (what do you think of: Your aura feels really good today! Or, just: You’re nice! hm?)
6. Do not trust other people’s taste in music. I do not care what any of you say, I will never like Abba.
7. Make 2 significant life-style changes that will reduce my use of energy and dependency on foreign oil. Possible option – less blogging. Uses both electricity and finger power. Potentially wasteful and terrorist-supporting activity.
8. Start the Bentley House Society of Unscholarly Activity. Interested? Applications are now being accepted. Weekly meetings will commence in the next few weeks. (Warning: actual formation of this society may be usurped by duties required by All Talk, No Action).