Do you know that Lou Reed song, Perfect Day? It is grand. Anthemic. It has the feeling of bright rays of sunshine running through it, and today I kept hearing it in the back of my mind.
An old boyfriend put the song on a mix cd for me when we were first dating, and although it has been a long time since I fancied that the song might have been about us, it has stuck with me as an anthem of the simplicity of sunlight and a well spent day.
Oh it's such a perfect day,
I'm glad I spent it with you.
It started out with a simple mission: to explore some of the record stores participating in the little known holiday of 'Record Store Day,' which features special concerts, in-store DJs, and sales. Since leaving Los Angeles, I have been disappointed by the lack of record stores (read: Amoeba). I've been waiting to be impressed. Of course, such missions are never as simple as they seem and M and I wandered through the throngs of Chinatown's street scene for a while before we found ourselves finally at Other Music on E. 4th Street. The small store rang with the lovely richness of vinyl and I remembered how much love wandering through the crowded aisles of music stores, assessing new titles and scavengering for the albums on the invisible list I keep in my head. In the jazz section I'm always rubbing elbows with those who probably think I should keep my filing fingers to myself. Finally, I emerge with Jorge Ben's Forca Bruta and Relaxin' with the Miles Davis Quintet. Content. The orange plastic bag swinging at my side.
M, who always has all the brilliant plans, led us into Central Park where we were rained upon by blossoms, but with the quick change of plans made possible by mobile technology, we were soon shuttled to the Boat Basin for drinks with friends down on the Hudson River. Everything glowed in the haze of a late afternoon near the docks, and I couldn't help but feel jealous myself. It's easy to feel rich when you're overlooking yachts and sipping daiquiris.
Conversation flowed between hospitals and hipsters, boat fashions and immigration, roommates and life-mates and sing-song language... and I wonder how it is that I am so lucky. To have such fond friends. To live in a beautiful city where spring has finally arrived...
Just a perfect day,
Problems all left alone,
Weekenders on our own.
It's such fun.
Just a perfect day,
You made me forget myself.
I thought I was someone else,
Someone good.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Thursday, March 06, 2008
repetition and difference
Endless rows of houses extending out their modern lines and sunset colors like strips of pastel monopoly houses comprise the imaginary rendering of my neighborhood and every neighborhood in Northern California that I can envision. Rows of matching domesticity zagging across the golden rolling hills haphazardly and regardless of terrain. Driveways extending strait as sunbeams from cul-de-sacs. Dry and dusty sidewalks and a lone tennis ball hanging near the gutter from yesterday’s street hockey match. This is the image my mind has preserved of the anonymity of my childhood neighborhood. But it was not always this way.
It’s difficult to tell at what point as a child you begin to notice that some things are the same, and some things are different. You look at the oranges in a bowl on the kitchen table as you’re eating breakfast and you know that all those round things are oranges, and that their color is orange, and the towels in the upstairs bathroom are also orange, but not in the same way. Just close enough that you can call them both orange.
But there are plenty of things that are almost the same that we don’t even recognize as being the same. Objects like houses seem as though they are completely unique. Except as any ex-suburban kid from California will tell you, they’re not. One day as I was sitting in the backseat of the car and Mom and I were driving toward home, it struck me that a lot of the houses on our street were the exact same house as our house, but in different colors. How had I never seen it before? They all had the one peaked roof with the triangle windows. The front door off to the side. The massive garage doors on the front. It had never occurred to me that the reason I instinctively knew where the bathroom was in my friend’s house up the street was because it was the exact same house as my house. Her brother’s bedroom had high ceilings like mine, and her parents had a big bathroom like my parents did, except theirs was a mess and had toothpaste splattered all over the mirror and dirty clothes piled in the bathtub instead of the hamper. And their house, which was my house, had the tv in the wrong corner of the family room, and had a strange smell in the kitchen. Also, they didn’t have a dog, or a hot tub, and we did.
After this realization, I found that when entering some neighbor’s house which was the same as my house I would immediately compare its interior and its backyard to my own and find ways in which it was inferior and in no way comparable to my own home. Blue mini-blinds Mrs. Chu? Bad choice. No steps to the front door? Decidedly less grand. I was embarrassed by the idea that we lived in a track-home and that there was nothing special about our high ceilings because my best friend’s father designed custom homes, and she lived in a house that was like no other on the street.
Of course, now that my parents no longer live in California or that house, I can see the beauty of the open floor plan and note that reproducing such an ideal plan for family living was a smart and efficient thing to do, no different than the way each floor of an apartment building mirrors the one below. It’s only now that I am beginning to unravel the sullen pinwheel of monopoly houses to remember the way our street curved down a hill and toward an old oak tree that nearly divided the road.
It’s difficult to tell at what point as a child you begin to notice that some things are the same, and some things are different. You look at the oranges in a bowl on the kitchen table as you’re eating breakfast and you know that all those round things are oranges, and that their color is orange, and the towels in the upstairs bathroom are also orange, but not in the same way. Just close enough that you can call them both orange.
But there are plenty of things that are almost the same that we don’t even recognize as being the same. Objects like houses seem as though they are completely unique. Except as any ex-suburban kid from California will tell you, they’re not. One day as I was sitting in the backseat of the car and Mom and I were driving toward home, it struck me that a lot of the houses on our street were the exact same house as our house, but in different colors. How had I never seen it before? They all had the one peaked roof with the triangle windows. The front door off to the side. The massive garage doors on the front. It had never occurred to me that the reason I instinctively knew where the bathroom was in my friend’s house up the street was because it was the exact same house as my house. Her brother’s bedroom had high ceilings like mine, and her parents had a big bathroom like my parents did, except theirs was a mess and had toothpaste splattered all over the mirror and dirty clothes piled in the bathtub instead of the hamper. And their house, which was my house, had the tv in the wrong corner of the family room, and had a strange smell in the kitchen. Also, they didn’t have a dog, or a hot tub, and we did.
After this realization, I found that when entering some neighbor’s house which was the same as my house I would immediately compare its interior and its backyard to my own and find ways in which it was inferior and in no way comparable to my own home. Blue mini-blinds Mrs. Chu? Bad choice. No steps to the front door? Decidedly less grand. I was embarrassed by the idea that we lived in a track-home and that there was nothing special about our high ceilings because my best friend’s father designed custom homes, and she lived in a house that was like no other on the street.
Of course, now that my parents no longer live in California or that house, I can see the beauty of the open floor plan and note that reproducing such an ideal plan for family living was a smart and efficient thing to do, no different than the way each floor of an apartment building mirrors the one below. It’s only now that I am beginning to unravel the sullen pinwheel of monopoly houses to remember the way our street curved down a hill and toward an old oak tree that nearly divided the road.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Song of the Subway
After riding the subway over the course of many many months, it is not surprising that a person will begin to develop a nuanced relationship not only to its multicolored pathways, or to the differing widths of a train’s cars, but also to its sounds. When approaching the stairway into a station, the familiar whoosh or screech tells you if a train is leaving or arriving and whether you ought to bother pushing past the couple ambling down the steps with the stroller. In that same moment, a keen ear can also detect whether the low hum of the approaching train is moving uptown or downtown, and whether one ought to risk jumping the turnstile when her metrocard just won’t register on the machine.
Yet these are relatively common skills among the average subway rider, and the sounds they are able to identify are not especially pleasant. But over the last several months I have made an eerie discovery about the sounds of the new trains they have begun to install on the 2/3 and 4/5/6 lines. Most people recognize them by their violet bench seats, but I think of them as the trains that sing the opening line of “Somewhere” from West Side Story. If you know the tune, sing the first three or four words “There’s a place…” It’s a unique melody because the first interval is a minor seventh. It’s dissonant. Foreboding. It resolves to the sixth, but the whir of the subway does not settle there.
The first time I heard it, I thought it was just a coincidence, but I began to realize that all of the new trains sing the same song. There must be a very simple mechanical reason for this, but it made me wonder if somewhere deep in the subway factory some funny little fellow with a love of this song engineered the subway to sing it just so.
Yet these are relatively common skills among the average subway rider, and the sounds they are able to identify are not especially pleasant. But over the last several months I have made an eerie discovery about the sounds of the new trains they have begun to install on the 2/3 and 4/5/6 lines. Most people recognize them by their violet bench seats, but I think of them as the trains that sing the opening line of “Somewhere” from West Side Story. If you know the tune, sing the first three or four words “There’s a place…” It’s a unique melody because the first interval is a minor seventh. It’s dissonant. Foreboding. It resolves to the sixth, but the whir of the subway does not settle there.
The first time I heard it, I thought it was just a coincidence, but I began to realize that all of the new trains sing the same song. There must be a very simple mechanical reason for this, but it made me wonder if somewhere deep in the subway factory some funny little fellow with a love of this song engineered the subway to sing it just so.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
How to Scat
The first thing I learned about scatting is that no one can actually teach you how to do it. This is a problem for college-aged girls in a Jazz Vocal Ensemble at an institution of higher education. At the beginning of class last year, those who had never attempted to scat before asked the “how” question, and instead of receiving a set of rules, our teacher at the time, Miles, cackled, and screamed, and wailed, and told us that he was going to “shoot us” and make us “get crazy” in a faux Caribbean accent. The other girls in my ensemble stared at him. His outburst was completely unhelpful to them, but I think I understood. Scatting is just like talking… if you happened to be crazy. Week after week during vocal jazz rehearsals Miles would stand before us wailing on the microphone, and then tell us it was our turn. If someone asked a question, he would sing in response. While it was inspiring to listen to Miles’ vocal acrobatics, our own attempts at scatting were squeaks and whimpers by comparison.
This semester, the Jazz Vocal Ensemble has a new instructor, Christine, and her approach is much different. She thinks there are things one can learn about scatting, and she uses language to try to pull sounds out of us. She tells us to “open up” and “use all of our range.” She asks us to sing minor seconds. She pulls out a ‘lick’ as we are singing and asks us to repeat it as a “motif.” One of her strangest commands is that we “color” our voices or “dirty” the tone. Using her words, she gives us visual imagery to shape our sound because, unlike a pianist or trumpeter, the singer’s instrument is inside, and in its way imaginary.
For the past couple weeks, Christine has been sending us home with recordings of Chet Baker and Charlie Parker so that we can “learn” their solos with repeated listening. As we mimic their sounds and phrasing, I cannot help but think of babies mimicking their parents when learning their first words. The only difference is that with scat-singing we never really get beyond the baby talk.
This semester, the Jazz Vocal Ensemble has a new instructor, Christine, and her approach is much different. She thinks there are things one can learn about scatting, and she uses language to try to pull sounds out of us. She tells us to “open up” and “use all of our range.” She asks us to sing minor seconds. She pulls out a ‘lick’ as we are singing and asks us to repeat it as a “motif.” One of her strangest commands is that we “color” our voices or “dirty” the tone. Using her words, she gives us visual imagery to shape our sound because, unlike a pianist or trumpeter, the singer’s instrument is inside, and in its way imaginary.
For the past couple weeks, Christine has been sending us home with recordings of Chet Baker and Charlie Parker so that we can “learn” their solos with repeated listening. As we mimic their sounds and phrasing, I cannot help but think of babies mimicking their parents when learning their first words. The only difference is that with scat-singing we never really get beyond the baby talk.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Singing Praises
From Oliver Sacks' Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain:
"Deutsch and her collegues.... see absolute pitch, what ever its subsequent vicissitudes, as having been crucial to the origins of both speech and music. In his book The Sining Neanderthals: The Origins of Music, Language, Mind and Body, Steven Mithen takes this idea further, suggesting that music and language have a common origin, and that a sort of combined protomusic-cum-protolanguage was characteristic of the Neanderthal mind. This sort of singing language of meanings, without individual words as we understand them, he calls Hmmm (for holistic-mimetic-musical-multimodal)-- and it depended, he speculates, on a conglomeration of isolated skills, including mimetic abilities and absolute pitch....
I was once told of an isolated valley somewhere in the Pacific where all the inhabitants have absolute pitch. I like to imagine that such a place is populated by an ancient tribe that has remained in the state of Mithen's Neanderthals, with a host of exquisite mimetic abilities and communicating in a proto-language as musical as it is lexical. But I suspect that the Valley of Absolute Pitch does not exist, except as a lovely, Edenic metaphor, or perhaps some sort of collective memory of a more musical past." 129-130
I suppose I do not really wish to journey back to the days of Neanderthal man, but to be able to experience absolute pitch and to converse as easily and emotively with music as with language... what a beautiful thing this must be!
"Deutsch and her collegues.... see absolute pitch, what ever its subsequent vicissitudes, as having been crucial to the origins of both speech and music. In his book The Sining Neanderthals: The Origins of Music, Language, Mind and Body, Steven Mithen takes this idea further, suggesting that music and language have a common origin, and that a sort of combined protomusic-cum-protolanguage was characteristic of the Neanderthal mind. This sort of singing language of meanings, without individual words as we understand them, he calls Hmmm (for holistic-mimetic-musical-multimodal)-- and it depended, he speculates, on a conglomeration of isolated skills, including mimetic abilities and absolute pitch....
I was once told of an isolated valley somewhere in the Pacific where all the inhabitants have absolute pitch. I like to imagine that such a place is populated by an ancient tribe that has remained in the state of Mithen's Neanderthals, with a host of exquisite mimetic abilities and communicating in a proto-language as musical as it is lexical. But I suspect that the Valley of Absolute Pitch does not exist, except as a lovely, Edenic metaphor, or perhaps some sort of collective memory of a more musical past." 129-130
I suppose I do not really wish to journey back to the days of Neanderthal man, but to be able to experience absolute pitch and to converse as easily and emotively with music as with language... what a beautiful thing this must be!
Thursday, November 29, 2007
black & white
A few nights ago my roommate and I were having a conversation. My roommate is “Asian” and I am “White, ” and this in itself is not a very interesting fact except that the conversation somehow came back to race.
A friend of C’s – a white male who attends the same prestigious university that we do – was trying to describe an event he had gone to recently. When the subject came to who was at this event, he mentioned that there were a lot of “ethnic” people there. Ethnic? Outraged, my roommate exclaimed: “Ethnic! Who does this guy think he is?” Startled by the strangely racist terminology she asked him if he meant by ethnic, to which he answered, “You know… “ghetto”… errr… hip-hop?”
Did he mean “Black” people?
My roommate, angry at his failed attempt to smooth over the existence of a race other than white informed him that he could have just said African-American or Black or if he was really so concerned about it, he could have said “Urban.”
But wouldn’t you say that I’m urban? I replied innocently. I live in an urban area – and after all, we live in Harlem.
She smiled – good point!
I could understand her feeling of indignation at the racial guffaw of this white friend of hers – after all, she has to suffer people calling her their “panda” – but regardless of her friend’s stupid comment, I did feel a little bit sorry for him. What was probably just an instance of ignorance got written off as racist because he is a white male. This is the problem with being white in a heterogeneous society: you constantly walk on egg shells around the issue of race.
Being female, I have a little bit more leeway than white guys when it comes to talking about minorities and marginalized people, but as a white girl who is interested in African-American studies and who has always had a diverse group of friends, insider-outside language is a problem. You can laugh (carefully) when your friends make “ethnic” jokes, but you cannot make them yourself because you will be considered racist just because your skin is white.
I tried to explain to C that she shouldn’t be too hard on the guy who is probably not a racist, but just a bit ignorant, and she agreed. After all, I added, just recently I was having a conversation with a classmate of mine, who happens to be Afro-Caribbean, and as we were talking about the city of Atlanta, she mentioned that she liked it because it has a big “ethnic” community. That’s right folks – a bona fide black person used the term “ethnic” to describe other black people. And that’s another funny thing – a white person and a black person trying to talk about Atlanta. It’s like talking about two different cities. How do I look her in the face and say: yeah, there are a lot of affluent black people who live in Atlanta and there is an amazing hip-hop scene – without coming across as just a little bit racist? It’s the same reason that my brother who lives there can’t go to a hip-hop club even though he likes the music: you just can’t.
Over the last week I’ve been reading a book called “Country of My Skull: Guilt, Sorrow, and the Limits of Forgiveness in the New South Africa,” by Antije Krog. Krog is a white journalist who writes about the Truth Finding Commission in South Africa following the horrors of Apartheid rule, and her struggle with white guilt strikes me as characteristic of how many white people in U.S. (especially educated, metropolitan ones) often feel. Even for those like Krog who never participated in the racist hate crimes, they walk the road “with their own fears and shame and guilt. And some say it; most just live it. We are so utterly sorry. We are deeply ashamed and gripped with remorse. But hear us, we are from here. We will live it right – here – with you, for you.”
Perhaps one cannot quite compare the situation of white people in South Africa with those in the U.S., but I imagine that this sentiment of guilt will not die out with the closing of the truth commission. 100 years or even 1000 years may not be enough time to heal crimes against a race. And yet, like Krog, I wish we could get past the black and white and truly “make space for ambiguity.”
A friend of C’s – a white male who attends the same prestigious university that we do – was trying to describe an event he had gone to recently. When the subject came to who was at this event, he mentioned that there were a lot of “ethnic” people there. Ethnic? Outraged, my roommate exclaimed: “Ethnic! Who does this guy think he is?” Startled by the strangely racist terminology she asked him if he meant by ethnic, to which he answered, “You know… “ghetto”… errr… hip-hop?”
Did he mean “Black” people?
My roommate, angry at his failed attempt to smooth over the existence of a race other than white informed him that he could have just said African-American or Black or if he was really so concerned about it, he could have said “Urban.”
But wouldn’t you say that I’m urban? I replied innocently. I live in an urban area – and after all, we live in Harlem.
She smiled – good point!
I could understand her feeling of indignation at the racial guffaw of this white friend of hers – after all, she has to suffer people calling her their “panda” – but regardless of her friend’s stupid comment, I did feel a little bit sorry for him. What was probably just an instance of ignorance got written off as racist because he is a white male. This is the problem with being white in a heterogeneous society: you constantly walk on egg shells around the issue of race.
Being female, I have a little bit more leeway than white guys when it comes to talking about minorities and marginalized people, but as a white girl who is interested in African-American studies and who has always had a diverse group of friends, insider-outside language is a problem. You can laugh (carefully) when your friends make “ethnic” jokes, but you cannot make them yourself because you will be considered racist just because your skin is white.
I tried to explain to C that she shouldn’t be too hard on the guy who is probably not a racist, but just a bit ignorant, and she agreed. After all, I added, just recently I was having a conversation with a classmate of mine, who happens to be Afro-Caribbean, and as we were talking about the city of Atlanta, she mentioned that she liked it because it has a big “ethnic” community. That’s right folks – a bona fide black person used the term “ethnic” to describe other black people. And that’s another funny thing – a white person and a black person trying to talk about Atlanta. It’s like talking about two different cities. How do I look her in the face and say: yeah, there are a lot of affluent black people who live in Atlanta and there is an amazing hip-hop scene – without coming across as just a little bit racist? It’s the same reason that my brother who lives there can’t go to a hip-hop club even though he likes the music: you just can’t.
Over the last week I’ve been reading a book called “Country of My Skull: Guilt, Sorrow, and the Limits of Forgiveness in the New South Africa,” by Antije Krog. Krog is a white journalist who writes about the Truth Finding Commission in South Africa following the horrors of Apartheid rule, and her struggle with white guilt strikes me as characteristic of how many white people in U.S. (especially educated, metropolitan ones) often feel. Even for those like Krog who never participated in the racist hate crimes, they walk the road “with their own fears and shame and guilt. And some say it; most just live it. We are so utterly sorry. We are deeply ashamed and gripped with remorse. But hear us, we are from here. We will live it right – here – with you, for you.”
Perhaps one cannot quite compare the situation of white people in South Africa with those in the U.S., but I imagine that this sentiment of guilt will not die out with the closing of the truth commission. 100 years or even 1000 years may not be enough time to heal crimes against a race. And yet, like Krog, I wish we could get past the black and white and truly “make space for ambiguity.”
Monday, October 22, 2007
green
I believe in the power of people to change small things about their lives that have the potential for enormous impact.
This evening I read an article by Thomas Friedman in the New York Times that said if you want to save the planet, it doesn’t matter if you change your light bulbs or buy a hybrid car – what really matters is that you get out there and vote for leaders who embrace “green” ideals. While usually I agree with Friedman and do believe that electing the right leaders is important, I cannot fathom that he actually believes that the small changes individuals make are irrelevant. What Friedman fails to acknowledge is that these seemingly small changes made by individuals are the result of a change in consciousness. It is the recognition that our lifestyle choices affect our environment. It is an expression of ethical intent. Electing so-called green leaders is senseless if people do not care enough about their beliefs to let it affect their individual choices.
Moreover, Friedman seems to underestimate the power of trend-setters and peer pressure to change people’s actions. Personally, I don’t know that I would have had the motivation to become a vegetarian if so many of my friends had not already forged the way. Their example showed me that it was not an impossible task. They taught me of the environmental and economic reasons for vegetarianism. And I raise awareness of vegetarianism as an option each time I go out to dinner with someone. Indeed, even my most ardent meat-eating roommate has come to agree with the rational of reducing or eliminating one’s meat-intake.
In the last year I have gotten rid of my car and replaced it with public transportation. I’ve replaced my light bulbs with energy efficient ones. I’ve started buying most of my produce at local farmers markets. And I continue to not eat meat with the exception of fish on occasion. While I cannot claim to be a perfect environmental citizen, I’ve taken intentional steps as an individual to change my lifestyle, not so much because I believe that they are going to drastically change the environment, but because it is an expression of my belief in being an environmentally responsible individual. If Mr. Friedman wants people to vote green, they’re going to have to believe in it first.
This evening I read an article by Thomas Friedman in the New York Times that said if you want to save the planet, it doesn’t matter if you change your light bulbs or buy a hybrid car – what really matters is that you get out there and vote for leaders who embrace “green” ideals. While usually I agree with Friedman and do believe that electing the right leaders is important, I cannot fathom that he actually believes that the small changes individuals make are irrelevant. What Friedman fails to acknowledge is that these seemingly small changes made by individuals are the result of a change in consciousness. It is the recognition that our lifestyle choices affect our environment. It is an expression of ethical intent. Electing so-called green leaders is senseless if people do not care enough about their beliefs to let it affect their individual choices.
Moreover, Friedman seems to underestimate the power of trend-setters and peer pressure to change people’s actions. Personally, I don’t know that I would have had the motivation to become a vegetarian if so many of my friends had not already forged the way. Their example showed me that it was not an impossible task. They taught me of the environmental and economic reasons for vegetarianism. And I raise awareness of vegetarianism as an option each time I go out to dinner with someone. Indeed, even my most ardent meat-eating roommate has come to agree with the rational of reducing or eliminating one’s meat-intake.
In the last year I have gotten rid of my car and replaced it with public transportation. I’ve replaced my light bulbs with energy efficient ones. I’ve started buying most of my produce at local farmers markets. And I continue to not eat meat with the exception of fish on occasion. While I cannot claim to be a perfect environmental citizen, I’ve taken intentional steps as an individual to change my lifestyle, not so much because I believe that they are going to drastically change the environment, but because it is an expression of my belief in being an environmentally responsible individual. If Mr. Friedman wants people to vote green, they’re going to have to believe in it first.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Yesterday's Yesterday on Special Today
Today is the way I like to begin things, because today is when most things begin. Today I got up in the morning and it was about to rain. And in today there is always all of yesterday and all of yesterday’s yesterday. All of my yesterdays and all of my parents yesterdays here today. Then again none of them. Today is the way I like to begin things because it’s always today when you start out to do anything. Today I got up and I walked to the subway station at 137th street and I took the number 1 train to work where I didn’t really feel like working at all and where the work I did do was denigrated by a tired old man who ought to go take a nap every once in a while.
In the middle of work I got up and walked to class in an oddly shaped room in a building that is not really a building, but an extension. And in this extension is where they house all the marginal studies having to do with race and gender and memory. In this class led by two people who are married but have different last names we tried to get our minds around what it means to be living in the post-memory of the Vietnam War, and I found myself telling the story I’ve told before about having two uncles. One uncle who was a fighter pilot in the Vietnam War and one who was a Conscientious Objector and had long hair. I told them how the one uncle, the one who went to fight, wrote a Conscientious Objector letter for the other. And I told them how my mother protested the war. And I told them about our family email list where the emails fly right and left and how no matter what the email is about it’s always a little bit about Vietnam.
Today in my mind were all the images and all the words of all the films I had been watching all week. All about The Fog of War and about Vietnam on tv. And then suddenly it hit me that when the one uncle – the one who fought – continuously sends out angry emails about why we should be outraged that someone would call General Petraeus, General Betray-us, and when he accuses the rest of the family over and over again of not supporting the troops, this is really about his feelings that we have not supported him. His family did not support him and the war he risked his life in.
Despite the startling realization this week that I actually knew very little of what the Vietnam War was about and why we were fighting it, it permeates my everyday life and my relationship with my family in very real and sometimes emotionally-trying ways. So, today I get up and go to work and I go to class and I get drenched by the cold October rain and I think about Vietnam and realize that I think about Vietnam every day in real ways as I stand in the shower and try to breathe out the frustration that I’ll never be understood by one of my uncles and that trying to talk to him about anything that matters is fruitless and that I should just settle for pictures of his grandkids.
I should settle for the pictures of the grandkids and hope that by the time they’re old enough to really realize what’s going on in the world around them that the country they live in will have put an end to petty wars that bring up all the other wars in which people who are still living have fought. Because truly, it’s not fair to anyone and we ought to know better by now.
In the middle of work I got up and walked to class in an oddly shaped room in a building that is not really a building, but an extension. And in this extension is where they house all the marginal studies having to do with race and gender and memory. In this class led by two people who are married but have different last names we tried to get our minds around what it means to be living in the post-memory of the Vietnam War, and I found myself telling the story I’ve told before about having two uncles. One uncle who was a fighter pilot in the Vietnam War and one who was a Conscientious Objector and had long hair. I told them how the one uncle, the one who went to fight, wrote a Conscientious Objector letter for the other. And I told them how my mother protested the war. And I told them about our family email list where the emails fly right and left and how no matter what the email is about it’s always a little bit about Vietnam.
Today in my mind were all the images and all the words of all the films I had been watching all week. All about The Fog of War and about Vietnam on tv. And then suddenly it hit me that when the one uncle – the one who fought – continuously sends out angry emails about why we should be outraged that someone would call General Petraeus, General Betray-us, and when he accuses the rest of the family over and over again of not supporting the troops, this is really about his feelings that we have not supported him. His family did not support him and the war he risked his life in.
Despite the startling realization this week that I actually knew very little of what the Vietnam War was about and why we were fighting it, it permeates my everyday life and my relationship with my family in very real and sometimes emotionally-trying ways. So, today I get up and go to work and I go to class and I get drenched by the cold October rain and I think about Vietnam and realize that I think about Vietnam every day in real ways as I stand in the shower and try to breathe out the frustration that I’ll never be understood by one of my uncles and that trying to talk to him about anything that matters is fruitless and that I should just settle for pictures of his grandkids.
I should settle for the pictures of the grandkids and hope that by the time they’re old enough to really realize what’s going on in the world around them that the country they live in will have put an end to petty wars that bring up all the other wars in which people who are still living have fought. Because truly, it’s not fair to anyone and we ought to know better by now.
Monday, August 13, 2007
flesh wound
Apparently a gunshot rang out, but I was not around to hear it. Instead I came home to police tape all the way around the corner of the building. At least 5 police cars. An emergency police armored vehicle, an investigator in a broad-shouldered gray blazer and a woman in a pink mumu half shrieking at me that a person on the first floor of our building was shot in the face.
It was a Sunday afternoon.
They let me in through the front door ("do you live here?") and warily I walked into the building whose air seemed too exposed to sunlight. Strange. Hollow. And exposed. "There's no reason to worry." The investigator said to no one in particular as I walked past in disbelief. "A contained incident." But was it? A man walks right out the side door that I walk out each and every day and gets shot in the face in broad daylight on a Sunday afternoon... He's going to "make it" they say. They haven't caught the shooter, and earlier that day I'm approached by the same strange anorexic girl I encountered a few days previous. A white woman about my age claiming, demurely, that she is a model thrown out by her boyfriend and she needs money for a cab to an audition. All of this here in my neighborhood where I'm never panhandled by anyone, black white male female or otherwise.
Even though I know there is nothing I can do about the situation and that worrying does not help the matter, I've spent most of the day in silent dread of walking through that side door, and my only small comfort is that the police and investigators have remained here all day. I imagine the many ways a bullet might graze a man's face such that he would still live. His flesh hanging off his face like raw meat. The meat-like nature of my own leg that would incite a dog to lunge out and bite it. The decay that a bruise conveys on that same leg - and on the peach I ate at lunch in Riverside Park.
Tomorrow is my 25th birthday and I wonder half-heartedly if this means that I am getting old. I look at my face in the mirror and wonder what it will look like when I am old, just as I used to wonder as a girl what I would look like as a teenager... knowing that at least my eyes will stay familiar to me if nothing else does.
It was a Sunday afternoon.
They let me in through the front door ("do you live here?") and warily I walked into the building whose air seemed too exposed to sunlight. Strange. Hollow. And exposed. "There's no reason to worry." The investigator said to no one in particular as I walked past in disbelief. "A contained incident." But was it? A man walks right out the side door that I walk out each and every day and gets shot in the face in broad daylight on a Sunday afternoon... He's going to "make it" they say. They haven't caught the shooter, and earlier that day I'm approached by the same strange anorexic girl I encountered a few days previous. A white woman about my age claiming, demurely, that she is a model thrown out by her boyfriend and she needs money for a cab to an audition. All of this here in my neighborhood where I'm never panhandled by anyone, black white male female or otherwise.
Even though I know there is nothing I can do about the situation and that worrying does not help the matter, I've spent most of the day in silent dread of walking through that side door, and my only small comfort is that the police and investigators have remained here all day. I imagine the many ways a bullet might graze a man's face such that he would still live. His flesh hanging off his face like raw meat. The meat-like nature of my own leg that would incite a dog to lunge out and bite it. The decay that a bruise conveys on that same leg - and on the peach I ate at lunch in Riverside Park.
Tomorrow is my 25th birthday and I wonder half-heartedly if this means that I am getting old. I look at my face in the mirror and wonder what it will look like when I am old, just as I used to wonder as a girl what I would look like as a teenager... knowing that at least my eyes will stay familiar to me if nothing else does.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
A Typical Day In Harlem
As I'm walking up Broadway with my ice cream cone, enjoying the blossoms and the tulips and my new shoes...
Man on the street: "Hey mama! That ice cream sure looks good! Can I taste?"
Me: "I'm not your mama."
Man: "Well, you could be."
Man on the street: "Hey mama! That ice cream sure looks good! Can I taste?"
Me: "I'm not your mama."
Man: "Well, you could be."
Sunday, April 22, 2007
On Religion
Although I usually detest seeing theater by myself, out of a sense of duty to a fellow producer, I went to see a play – or rather, a theater essay – called On Religion. I’ll admit that was immediately wooed by the notion of a “theater essay,” being particularly fond of the essay form in general, and I wondered how a play would perform such a thing. I was reminded of the traveling religious plays that were popular during the middle-ages and Renaissance. These plays were meant to both instruct and inspire religious feeling, and as I understand, they were quite entertaining. So, if we think about the play as a modern re-imagining of something like the passion play, On Religion did not disappoint.
I could tell you about the basic plot, I suppose, but plot takes a secondary role here. There are four players: a mother who is professor and a naturalist (not an atheist, she says), a father whom we can only call a post-modernist and a secular jew, a son who has decided that he is Christian and wants to become a priest (but whom I’d prefer to call a pragmatist), and a young woman who is going to have his child but has not agreed to marry him. The son dies, or has died. The mother grieves and does not grieve. But mostly, they talk around the kitchen table or conversely lecture and preach from the same podium. And by setting the audience on all four sides of the stage, one immediately feels as though she has pulled a chair up to the table. And in this way, it does engage you on that personal, intimate level of discussion like an essay does, slipping you in and out of different perspectives. Here we are. All together. Having a discussion on religion.
While pragmatism has certainly been on my mind a lot these days, I felt its presence most intensely in this “essay,” which is rightfully a piece of criticism that is also a performance. Although I initially felt most at home with the professor-mother’s arguments against religion and its divisiveness, I very soon understood how her son could react against his mother’s radical empiricism in favor of something else – especially when he sides with the atheists and makes the argument that there is no such “thing” as God, because God is not a thing… and also when he makes the very Rorty-esque argument that religions are like languages. We would never say that one language is more right than another language – they just offer different and unique ways to say the same thing. The son (Tom) is a pluralist. To him, religions are merely languages. In a turn that reminded me very much of William James, religions have value in that individual people are able to make use of them.
Indeed, in a modern world where “love” is deified and embraced, how can we deny religious feeling? Or are both defunct and empty – is kindness (an action, and not a feeling) the only thing we can count on? The play unfolds these questions subtly over the course of 2 hours, and I cannot get them off my brain… Not because they are fundamentally new questions, or ones I have not heard before, but because the way the play asked them without forcing answers. Leading the audience through the thought process of them, suggestively. I would compare the play toI Heart Huckabees, except that I feel like that might be an insult. Huckabees does an admirable job of leading the viewer through a series of existential exercises, but in the end forces an answer that feels like a non answer. It’s jokey and ironic and almost trivializes the investigation you’ve just been through. But On Religion does not do that.
Likewise, it does not take itself so seriously that one spends two hours contemplating the hopelessness of asking such questions. The father, for example, whose experience taking ecstasy is about the closest he has come to a religious experience, has a post-modernist sensibility that everything is ok as long as it makes you happy. And even the mother, superbly played by ex-punk rocker Marguerite Van Cook, conjures up a few blissful moments of neurotic hilarity. And in this sense, the secondary “family drama” allows for the play to act like a play instead of series of lectures and debates, which it more or less is.
And now, as is usual when I try to write about a piece of art that has moved me, I find that there is no replacement for having experienced it first-hand. Reminding me, as they play did, that cultural criticism is perhaps most effective when performed and not written in the dry tomes of a blogger/critic.
I could tell you about the basic plot, I suppose, but plot takes a secondary role here. There are four players: a mother who is professor and a naturalist (not an atheist, she says), a father whom we can only call a post-modernist and a secular jew, a son who has decided that he is Christian and wants to become a priest (but whom I’d prefer to call a pragmatist), and a young woman who is going to have his child but has not agreed to marry him. The son dies, or has died. The mother grieves and does not grieve. But mostly, they talk around the kitchen table or conversely lecture and preach from the same podium. And by setting the audience on all four sides of the stage, one immediately feels as though she has pulled a chair up to the table. And in this way, it does engage you on that personal, intimate level of discussion like an essay does, slipping you in and out of different perspectives. Here we are. All together. Having a discussion on religion.
While pragmatism has certainly been on my mind a lot these days, I felt its presence most intensely in this “essay,” which is rightfully a piece of criticism that is also a performance. Although I initially felt most at home with the professor-mother’s arguments against religion and its divisiveness, I very soon understood how her son could react against his mother’s radical empiricism in favor of something else – especially when he sides with the atheists and makes the argument that there is no such “thing” as God, because God is not a thing… and also when he makes the very Rorty-esque argument that religions are like languages. We would never say that one language is more right than another language – they just offer different and unique ways to say the same thing. The son (Tom) is a pluralist. To him, religions are merely languages. In a turn that reminded me very much of William James, religions have value in that individual people are able to make use of them.
Indeed, in a modern world where “love” is deified and embraced, how can we deny religious feeling? Or are both defunct and empty – is kindness (an action, and not a feeling) the only thing we can count on? The play unfolds these questions subtly over the course of 2 hours, and I cannot get them off my brain… Not because they are fundamentally new questions, or ones I have not heard before, but because the way the play asked them without forcing answers. Leading the audience through the thought process of them, suggestively. I would compare the play toI Heart Huckabees, except that I feel like that might be an insult. Huckabees does an admirable job of leading the viewer through a series of existential exercises, but in the end forces an answer that feels like a non answer. It’s jokey and ironic and almost trivializes the investigation you’ve just been through. But On Religion does not do that.
Likewise, it does not take itself so seriously that one spends two hours contemplating the hopelessness of asking such questions. The father, for example, whose experience taking ecstasy is about the closest he has come to a religious experience, has a post-modernist sensibility that everything is ok as long as it makes you happy. And even the mother, superbly played by ex-punk rocker Marguerite Van Cook, conjures up a few blissful moments of neurotic hilarity. And in this sense, the secondary “family drama” allows for the play to act like a play instead of series of lectures and debates, which it more or less is.
And now, as is usual when I try to write about a piece of art that has moved me, I find that there is no replacement for having experienced it first-hand. Reminding me, as they play did, that cultural criticism is perhaps most effective when performed and not written in the dry tomes of a blogger/critic.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
an earth day thought
I don't really drink soda all that often, and when I do I rarely pay attention to that strange almost undetectable scribble on the top of the can where it tells you the CRV value in particular states. For a moment, I was bitter thinking that this can is worth twice as much in California as it is in New York, until I realized that I could not remember the last time I took anything to the recycling center, if I'd ever done such a thing at all.
And then I remembered the recycling machines that used to be out in front of the PW Supermarket near my house in San Jose. I had completely forgotten them, but suddenly I could hear that distinctive, shimmering noise the machines made as they shredded cans and 2 liter bottles. I could hear the change pile up in the coin return, and my mom taking us for ice cream afterwards. In this memory, it is always summer. Blindingly summer.
As a kid, I felt very strongly about the importance of recycling and wrote poems about how we needed to save the earth. I also felt very strongly that things such as leprechauns and fairies were in danger of becoming extinct, but now I can't remember if their extinction was a product of our destruction of the earth, or my own growing awareness that they might never have existed in the first place. But that's another story.
I wonder now who is getting the money from my cans when I stick them in the recycling bag down in the basement, and I think of all the ice cream these cans could buy if only I could shred them in those machines out in front of PW. If those machines were still there...
And then I remembered the recycling machines that used to be out in front of the PW Supermarket near my house in San Jose. I had completely forgotten them, but suddenly I could hear that distinctive, shimmering noise the machines made as they shredded cans and 2 liter bottles. I could hear the change pile up in the coin return, and my mom taking us for ice cream afterwards. In this memory, it is always summer. Blindingly summer.
As a kid, I felt very strongly about the importance of recycling and wrote poems about how we needed to save the earth. I also felt very strongly that things such as leprechauns and fairies were in danger of becoming extinct, but now I can't remember if their extinction was a product of our destruction of the earth, or my own growing awareness that they might never have existed in the first place. But that's another story.
I wonder now who is getting the money from my cans when I stick them in the recycling bag down in the basement, and I think of all the ice cream these cans could buy if only I could shred them in those machines out in front of PW. If those machines were still there...
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Anxiety
Anxiety is one of those things I never will quite comprehend. It comes upon one suddenly. It grabs you and it pulls you down toward the center of your body. Toward your beating heart and suddenly you can hear your breathing in your ears. The blood courses through your veins with impatient vibration (I can feel it in the balls of my feet). It hums. And today I felt it as the phone rang and rang and rang at my parents house in Atlanta. No one picked up. Not even the answering machine. And when my mother picked up her cell phone, it was "hi sweetie... oh well... i'm in the hospital..." long pause "oh well, you know, i thought i was having a heart attack, but i didn't want to call and worry you because everything's alright... we don't really know. i think it was just a bad panic attack, that's all..."
But now what's making my heart beat in my ears is a sort of dread that I'm not being told the whole story. She sounds too cheerful like the time my parents told me weeks after the fact that our dog had died. They didn't want to spoil my vacation, they had said. But it was dreadful being left out that way. And I remember how I could feel the inside of my skull tingling as though it were hollowed out when they told me.
After we said our goodbyes I tried to go on with my day, but it's so cold outside and the rain makes it so dreadfully dark. A thousand terrible possibilties flooded my brain. I just wanted to be near someone and there was no one to be near to. My apartment empty and filled with the dull light of a lamp half burnt out. T asked me recently if I ever get lonely here, and I do. But today was unbearable, and all it did was rain and rain.
But now what's making my heart beat in my ears is a sort of dread that I'm not being told the whole story. She sounds too cheerful like the time my parents told me weeks after the fact that our dog had died. They didn't want to spoil my vacation, they had said. But it was dreadful being left out that way. And I remember how I could feel the inside of my skull tingling as though it were hollowed out when they told me.
After we said our goodbyes I tried to go on with my day, but it's so cold outside and the rain makes it so dreadfully dark. A thousand terrible possibilties flooded my brain. I just wanted to be near someone and there was no one to be near to. My apartment empty and filled with the dull light of a lamp half burnt out. T asked me recently if I ever get lonely here, and I do. But today was unbearable, and all it did was rain and rain.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Everything is Complicated
At least, that's the name of the song by my good friend Scott Alexander. If you didn't see my cameo performance with Scott at the Sidewalk Cafe back in March, you can check us out on YouTube or at Scott's new website: http://www.scottalexandermusic.com/
Monday, April 09, 2007
The Coincidence
I cannot think of anything that I love more than a good coincidence. There’s something about the chance occurrence or accidental personal connection that fills me with immeasurable joy and the sense that all is right with the universe. I want to believe in coincidences more than I want to believe in reason or logic, because I think there is a part of me that believes that the random is more precise and more perfect than anything I could pre-divine.
These coincidences usually occur only when circumstances don’t seem to be going my way. Two weeks ago I stood outside the doors of a small club where my friend was already inside and the music was already playing and I was told that there was no chance that I would get in. Instead, five minutes later I followed Natalie Portman inside. Then, as I shimmied my way into the unfortunate corner where T was standing, and sipped my beer and swayed ever so gently to this girl-trio’s subtle melodies, I realized that I was watching Nora Jones since back up vocals for a singer-songwriter I had never even heard of before this night. A beautiful young woman named Sasha Dobson, who wore a gold bird around her neck, and a guitar over her shoulder.
This would have been enough. A night of almost-perfect music that I wasn’t planning on and almost didn’t see. And two celebrity sightings. But the next day as I googled this girl, Sasha Dobson, in hopes of prolonging those melodies in my ears, I learned that she grew up in Santa Cruz and is the daughter of Smith Dobson – the man who taught my brother jazz piano lessons as a child, and just a few years ago was killed in a terrible car crash. I spent at least one afternoon drinking tea in their living room with her mom and mine. This musician who I almost didn’t see play with Norah Jones in New York!
This discovery kept me mesmerized for days. I couldn’t help telling everyone I ran into, even though I knew that scenario could hardly be as entertaining to anyone but me. It was exasperating. I told it too fast. And people said: “That’s great Jess.” It’s an empty, if considerate response. After all, it’s my coincidence and not theirs.
All I can say, I guess, is that you ought to listen to Sasha Dobson, even if not by chance
These coincidences usually occur only when circumstances don’t seem to be going my way. Two weeks ago I stood outside the doors of a small club where my friend was already inside and the music was already playing and I was told that there was no chance that I would get in. Instead, five minutes later I followed Natalie Portman inside. Then, as I shimmied my way into the unfortunate corner where T was standing, and sipped my beer and swayed ever so gently to this girl-trio’s subtle melodies, I realized that I was watching Nora Jones since back up vocals for a singer-songwriter I had never even heard of before this night. A beautiful young woman named Sasha Dobson, who wore a gold bird around her neck, and a guitar over her shoulder.
This would have been enough. A night of almost-perfect music that I wasn’t planning on and almost didn’t see. And two celebrity sightings. But the next day as I googled this girl, Sasha Dobson, in hopes of prolonging those melodies in my ears, I learned that she grew up in Santa Cruz and is the daughter of Smith Dobson – the man who taught my brother jazz piano lessons as a child, and just a few years ago was killed in a terrible car crash. I spent at least one afternoon drinking tea in their living room with her mom and mine. This musician who I almost didn’t see play with Norah Jones in New York!
This discovery kept me mesmerized for days. I couldn’t help telling everyone I ran into, even though I knew that scenario could hardly be as entertaining to anyone but me. It was exasperating. I told it too fast. And people said: “That’s great Jess.” It’s an empty, if considerate response. After all, it’s my coincidence and not theirs.
All I can say, I guess, is that you ought to listen to Sasha Dobson, even if not by chance
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, June 18, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, April 14, 2006
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.
"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.
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