patron on leaving the cinema, to his companion:
"It's good when you go see a movie you don't think is going to be good and it turns out to be good, you know?"
Sunday, April 20, 2008
The Music I've Been Listening To
Ever since I got my car, I've been listening to albums that work as albums. I seem to require whole 40-minute slabs of music that all works together as a single piece. So the favorites on heavy rotation have been:
The Dandy Warhols, 13 Tales of Urban Bohemia
Beck, Guero
Josh Pyke, Memories & Dust
The Shins, Oh, Inverted World
The Shins, Chutes Too Narrow
Is this because I'm driving more, or because I'm getting old and have a longer attention span? The whole opera thing that happened last year makes me wonder if it isn't the latter - when you hit 40 you require a longer whole united musical statement rather than a 3 minute pop song, and that's why opera is suddenly more interesting.
The Dandy Warhols, 13 Tales of Urban Bohemia
Beck, Guero
Josh Pyke, Memories & Dust
The Shins, Oh, Inverted World
The Shins, Chutes Too Narrow
Is this because I'm driving more, or because I'm getting old and have a longer attention span? The whole opera thing that happened last year makes me wonder if it isn't the latter - when you hit 40 you require a longer whole united musical statement rather than a 3 minute pop song, and that's why opera is suddenly more interesting.
Kindness and the 80's
Yesterday I was at the Fox Cities Book Festival working as a door-greeter for the session by Naomi Shibah Nye. She read a poem called "Kindness" and it invoked this memory for me.
I was a teen. I can't remember if I was in High School or already at college. I had a dentist appointment, over on Broadway. I drove myself, in our old Volkswagen bug.
I had started to learn to drive on that bug, but on about the second outing blew out second gear, so Dad had to drive home using only first and third, and repairs ensued. So, I finished learning on our old brown Ford, did my test(s) in that car (two tests, actually, since it took two goes to get all the little details right), and didn't really, comfortably, know how to drive a stick shift. But the bug was what was available, so that's what I was driving.
On that day, to go to my dentist appointment, I was wearing a little outfit, ambitious for me, and so 80's in retrospect that it makes me smile. All one piece, top and little skirt. Big bands of color - white, bright pink and turquoise. The top had a kind of square neck that extended out to make little cap sleeves. It had a kicky, full skirt that was, probably, a little on the short site, definitely well above the knee. There was a drawstring belt at the waist that gathered up the skirt and made it pooch out. It was cute as anything, but kind of attention-drawing, and exposed a bit more arm and leg and feminine shape than I was used to (I was only a few years past the period when I wore my Dad's clothes to school all the time, and my favorite outfit during this period was an oversized grey wool man's overcoat that I'd picked up at Goodwill - I wore it with the sleeves rolled up to show a bit of black silk lining at the cuffs, and it had great big buttons).
I made it to the dentist alright, but the trip home... The only way you could get back was to turn right on Broadway out of the parking lot of the building where the dentist's office was, then make a left across traffic onto a cross street that would take you back over toward my neighborhood.
I chose wrong. I should have gone a few streets further to make the turn. If I'd been in the Ford it would have been fine, but with a clutch it was too ambitious - I pulled over into a left turn lane that was just this side of the crest of a steep hill. To make the turn you only had about a second after the last car popped over the hill and went past, you had to really gun it to get across before another car popped over the hill and sideswiped you. There was a bit of traffic, too, since it was afternoon and early rush hour. I think a car in front of me managed to bridge the gap. I managed to ease the clutch out and get in first gear long enough to take up my position as first in line to make this left turn. A few cars lined up behind me. So, it was on. I was up.
I was cautious, I waited maybe longer than an automatic-transmission-driver would, but I identified a gap and went for it. Slip, lurch, kachunk, die. Killing the engine always made me shake with upsetness anyway. In this pressure situation the shakes kicked in immediately and hard. Deep breath. Wait for one more gap. Clutch out, gun the gas, slip backwards a bit, brakes, die. Agh. Deep breath. One more time.
I can't remember how many times I tried but I killed the engine every single time. In retrospect I was lucky not to lurch out into traffic and then have the car die. I was square in my lane, but there was just no way I could get that car into first gear. I was gasping toward hyperventilation, I was shaking apace, my throat burned and my eyes were moistening.
A face appeared at my driver side window. A Dad. A Dad of somebody. Round, gentle, kindly face, framed by white hair. I rolled down the window and turned my teary, twisted-up face to his. "Do you need some help?" he said, with completely calm kindness and gentleness.
I released a stream of hysterical babbling. "Ican'tgetacrossbecausethey'recomingoverthehillsofast and firstgearandtheclutchandIjustcan't yes, yes, thanks."
He had come from the car behind me, he had put his hazard lights on and got out to walk to my driver's side to help. I'm sure he understood exactly what was happening. I got out of my car and he got in. I tiptoe-ran across the road, in my little outfit, across that lane where the cars had been popping over the hill and coming at me, but on foot it was no problem.
The kindly man, somebody's Dad, drove my car, put it easily into first gear, got it around the corner, pulled to the curb, opened the door and let me back in, all the time calm and smiling and gentle.
"Thank you," I said, in my little 80's girly skirt outfit, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I got back in my car, he'd left it running, and the rest of the trip was all straight lines and either flat or downhill, so I didn't have any other mishaps.
Thank you so much, kindly man, somebody's Dad, for getting out and helping me, a poor little overwelmed girl who was in a bit over her head, with a cute little outfit that was already making her anxious and self-consicous. Thank you for not honking your horn and shaking your fist out the window, and yelling, "Come on! What the fuck!" Whoever you were the Dad of was a very lucky girl indeed, and thank you to her for letting me borrow you to help me through that little crisis of my early driving career.
I was a teen. I can't remember if I was in High School or already at college. I had a dentist appointment, over on Broadway. I drove myself, in our old Volkswagen bug.
I had started to learn to drive on that bug, but on about the second outing blew out second gear, so Dad had to drive home using only first and third, and repairs ensued. So, I finished learning on our old brown Ford, did my test(s) in that car (two tests, actually, since it took two goes to get all the little details right), and didn't really, comfortably, know how to drive a stick shift. But the bug was what was available, so that's what I was driving.
On that day, to go to my dentist appointment, I was wearing a little outfit, ambitious for me, and so 80's in retrospect that it makes me smile. All one piece, top and little skirt. Big bands of color - white, bright pink and turquoise. The top had a kind of square neck that extended out to make little cap sleeves. It had a kicky, full skirt that was, probably, a little on the short site, definitely well above the knee. There was a drawstring belt at the waist that gathered up the skirt and made it pooch out. It was cute as anything, but kind of attention-drawing, and exposed a bit more arm and leg and feminine shape than I was used to (I was only a few years past the period when I wore my Dad's clothes to school all the time, and my favorite outfit during this period was an oversized grey wool man's overcoat that I'd picked up at Goodwill - I wore it with the sleeves rolled up to show a bit of black silk lining at the cuffs, and it had great big buttons).
I made it to the dentist alright, but the trip home... The only way you could get back was to turn right on Broadway out of the parking lot of the building where the dentist's office was, then make a left across traffic onto a cross street that would take you back over toward my neighborhood.
I chose wrong. I should have gone a few streets further to make the turn. If I'd been in the Ford it would have been fine, but with a clutch it was too ambitious - I pulled over into a left turn lane that was just this side of the crest of a steep hill. To make the turn you only had about a second after the last car popped over the hill and went past, you had to really gun it to get across before another car popped over the hill and sideswiped you. There was a bit of traffic, too, since it was afternoon and early rush hour. I think a car in front of me managed to bridge the gap. I managed to ease the clutch out and get in first gear long enough to take up my position as first in line to make this left turn. A few cars lined up behind me. So, it was on. I was up.
I was cautious, I waited maybe longer than an automatic-transmission-driver would, but I identified a gap and went for it. Slip, lurch, kachunk, die. Killing the engine always made me shake with upsetness anyway. In this pressure situation the shakes kicked in immediately and hard. Deep breath. Wait for one more gap. Clutch out, gun the gas, slip backwards a bit, brakes, die. Agh. Deep breath. One more time.
I can't remember how many times I tried but I killed the engine every single time. In retrospect I was lucky not to lurch out into traffic and then have the car die. I was square in my lane, but there was just no way I could get that car into first gear. I was gasping toward hyperventilation, I was shaking apace, my throat burned and my eyes were moistening.
A face appeared at my driver side window. A Dad. A Dad of somebody. Round, gentle, kindly face, framed by white hair. I rolled down the window and turned my teary, twisted-up face to his. "Do you need some help?" he said, with completely calm kindness and gentleness.
I released a stream of hysterical babbling. "Ican'tgetacrossbecausethey'recomingoverthehillsofast and firstgearandtheclutchandIjustcan't yes, yes, thanks."
He had come from the car behind me, he had put his hazard lights on and got out to walk to my driver's side to help. I'm sure he understood exactly what was happening. I got out of my car and he got in. I tiptoe-ran across the road, in my little outfit, across that lane where the cars had been popping over the hill and coming at me, but on foot it was no problem.
The kindly man, somebody's Dad, drove my car, put it easily into first gear, got it around the corner, pulled to the curb, opened the door and let me back in, all the time calm and smiling and gentle.
"Thank you," I said, in my little 80's girly skirt outfit, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I got back in my car, he'd left it running, and the rest of the trip was all straight lines and either flat or downhill, so I didn't have any other mishaps.
Thank you so much, kindly man, somebody's Dad, for getting out and helping me, a poor little overwelmed girl who was in a bit over her head, with a cute little outfit that was already making her anxious and self-consicous. Thank you for not honking your horn and shaking your fist out the window, and yelling, "Come on! What the fuck!" Whoever you were the Dad of was a very lucky girl indeed, and thank you to her for letting me borrow you to help me through that little crisis of my early driving career.
Friday, April 18, 2008
colour palette
Remember how not all that long ago really my world was a blank white expanse of blankness? Unmelting snow many feet deep on all surfaces to the horizon, sky the same color as the ground, apartment with white walls and beige carpet, a blank white box, an unending expanse of whiteness?
Now, it's different. The transition is not yet complete, but almost. My stuff has always been multi-colored - the books, the albums, the tchotchkes. I have picked up lots of red things recently, for some reason, to punctuate this multi-coloredness - the tea kettle, the microwave, the new desk lamp, my car, my favorite scarf, the laptop case I use as a handbag. My sofa, when it arrives, and the reading chair. And my plan for this room, for the spare bed, is, while I'm spending the decorating funds on other more essential things like filing cabinets and a vacuum cleaner, is to cover this bed with the quilt my Mom made me when I went off to college. The furniture, everywhere, is kind of Mission, and the multi-colors seem to really work with it. My new landscape is Mission-Deco-Nouveau-Modern, with multi-colors, and a jaunty colorful quilt!
Now, it's different. The transition is not yet complete, but almost. My stuff has always been multi-colored - the books, the albums, the tchotchkes. I have picked up lots of red things recently, for some reason, to punctuate this multi-coloredness - the tea kettle, the microwave, the new desk lamp, my car, my favorite scarf, the laptop case I use as a handbag. My sofa, when it arrives, and the reading chair. And my plan for this room, for the spare bed, is, while I'm spending the decorating funds on other more essential things like filing cabinets and a vacuum cleaner, is to cover this bed with the quilt my Mom made me when I went off to college. The furniture, everywhere, is kind of Mission, and the multi-colors seem to really work with it. My new landscape is Mission-Deco-Nouveau-Modern, with multi-colors, and a jaunty colorful quilt!
Big Day, Big Week
Today was the day that they came and unfurnished my furnished apartment. It was time. The sight of my own things starting to emerge out of the boxes and decorate the place made me eager to put my stamp on it. Immeasurable thanks to my sister for coming and getting me started. I still have lots to do and get, but I made sure I had the basics necessary for life - flat screen TV, Michael Graves toaster, shower curtain.
The beds arrived in the afternoon. I shopped pretty carefully, although all in one store and on one night, but as a result I have acquired two copies of the most comfortable bed in the world. It's firm, but with a big quilted top. And the individually wrapped spring coils make all the difference. It doesn't rock like a rowboat docked up on choppy seas when you get in it, it just sits there. I don't have a fitful partner sleeping beside me these days (sigh) but even on my own, the stillness and support is just magical. I love my new bed.
Also, this weekend is the first ever Fox Cities Book Festival. Last night they invited us to blog about it, so here I am blogging about it. I've seen two Poet Laureates in two days. There are heaps of event on tomorrow, so maybe I'll write more highlights when those are done. I volunteered at one event which was a great way to meet everyone. I went to see Billy Collins last night at the Lawrence University chapel, which was just amazing. I wanted to press every moment of it in, well, a book, and dry it and preserve it forever, but then I caught myself trapped in this fruitless desire and longing and reminded myself to just enjoy the moments in the moment.
A number of things seem to be going well. I'm doing Morning Pages every morning, very first thing when the alarm goes off, getting up ridiculously early to do them, but they are having the desired effect that I feel like I'm connected with my creative self - all day. Work makes my heart beat faster every day - we get to not only work with but set policy for things like YouTube and blogger outreach. Focussing on the project rather than loneliness is really helping ground my sense of identify. I am not a lack, I am a creative individual. I don't have to panic about meeting like-minded people in Appleton, because once the project is underway and ready to share around, they will be drawn to me because of it. So I can wait. And have work to do.
And I'm getting things I want, which one should stop and recognize when it happens, because it hardly ever happens in waves. Invitations, possibilities of delegation at work that might even delight the person taking it on. Really lovely furniture. No night without a bed - I could coordinate the unfurnishing for the same day as the new bed delivery. And to meet Poet Laureates!
So, here's what's working - Morning Pages, (going to the gym), focussing on the project instead of loneliness, and taking a stance of gratitude.
The beds arrived in the afternoon. I shopped pretty carefully, although all in one store and on one night, but as a result I have acquired two copies of the most comfortable bed in the world. It's firm, but with a big quilted top. And the individually wrapped spring coils make all the difference. It doesn't rock like a rowboat docked up on choppy seas when you get in it, it just sits there. I don't have a fitful partner sleeping beside me these days (sigh) but even on my own, the stillness and support is just magical. I love my new bed.
Also, this weekend is the first ever Fox Cities Book Festival. Last night they invited us to blog about it, so here I am blogging about it. I've seen two Poet Laureates in two days. There are heaps of event on tomorrow, so maybe I'll write more highlights when those are done. I volunteered at one event which was a great way to meet everyone. I went to see Billy Collins last night at the Lawrence University chapel, which was just amazing. I wanted to press every moment of it in, well, a book, and dry it and preserve it forever, but then I caught myself trapped in this fruitless desire and longing and reminded myself to just enjoy the moments in the moment.
A number of things seem to be going well. I'm doing Morning Pages every morning, very first thing when the alarm goes off, getting up ridiculously early to do them, but they are having the desired effect that I feel like I'm connected with my creative self - all day. Work makes my heart beat faster every day - we get to not only work with but set policy for things like YouTube and blogger outreach. Focussing on the project rather than loneliness is really helping ground my sense of identify. I am not a lack, I am a creative individual. I don't have to panic about meeting like-minded people in Appleton, because once the project is underway and ready to share around, they will be drawn to me because of it. So I can wait. And have work to do.
And I'm getting things I want, which one should stop and recognize when it happens, because it hardly ever happens in waves. Invitations, possibilities of delegation at work that might even delight the person taking it on. Really lovely furniture. No night without a bed - I could coordinate the unfurnishing for the same day as the new bed delivery. And to meet Poet Laureates!
So, here's what's working - Morning Pages, (going to the gym), focussing on the project instead of loneliness, and taking a stance of gratitude.
Assimilationist Language School
I can feel the influences tugging at me. I'm typing c-o-l-o-r, I'm passing people on the right hand side on the sidewalk (I'm saying "sidewalk" instead of "footpath"), my vowels are going all sharp and spiney, I can feel the old culture drawing me back.
I remember the first transition and the training. Typing c-o-l-o, no, c-0-l-o-U-r, enough times that it became natural. Now I have to do what feels natural and then double back, retrain but also untrain. I'm not sure yet how I feel about this.
Last night I had to call my tax guys in Sydney, and I got a new guy on the phone, sounded young, a lovely broad accent, maybe even from New Zealand. I explained that I was calling from the US so that he would understand about the time difference and the complicated nature of my request. But that gave him the impression that I was a space alien calling from the dark side of the moon and had never heard of his land or his people before. He was reading out his address and prounced, "Sydney, New. South. Wales." so carefully that I was surprised he didn't go "That's S,Y, D...."
I used to live there, buddy. I used to move around the city in synch with everyone, I knew how to get on and off trains and ferries, I knew the locations of all the public toilets in town, I shopped at David Jones, I met proprietors of obscure record stores that still specialized in vinyl. I lived, I loved, I lost, I moved around that city like it was my own. And now you "New. South. Wales." me.
I can feel it. The voice is changing back. They won't recognize me there any more, and in fact that's right because I won't sound or move like one of them.
When I first moved to Australia I was desperate to assimilate. I hesitated to open my mouth because it would give me away as not fully belonging. I longed to fully belong.
And I worked hard and I kind of did - I have the passport, I had a whole family of in-laws, I have a footy team. But, but, but. Now I say "call" instead of "ring", I say "living room furniture", I know the names of people who appear regularly on NPR, I listen at lunch to debates about the best quarterbacks of all time rather than the best half-back (Onya, Joey!). This time I don't want to fit back in and be mistaken for a local/native. I am, kind of, a local/native. What will it be like when I go back? Well, Deb said, the expat's return can sometimes be even harder than the move in the first place.
I remember the first transition and the training. Typing c-o-l-o, no, c-0-l-o-U-r, enough times that it became natural. Now I have to do what feels natural and then double back, retrain but also untrain. I'm not sure yet how I feel about this.
Last night I had to call my tax guys in Sydney, and I got a new guy on the phone, sounded young, a lovely broad accent, maybe even from New Zealand. I explained that I was calling from the US so that he would understand about the time difference and the complicated nature of my request. But that gave him the impression that I was a space alien calling from the dark side of the moon and had never heard of his land or his people before. He was reading out his address and prounced, "Sydney, New. South. Wales." so carefully that I was surprised he didn't go "That's S,Y, D...."
I used to live there, buddy. I used to move around the city in synch with everyone, I knew how to get on and off trains and ferries, I knew the locations of all the public toilets in town, I shopped at David Jones, I met proprietors of obscure record stores that still specialized in vinyl. I lived, I loved, I lost, I moved around that city like it was my own. And now you "New. South. Wales." me.
I can feel it. The voice is changing back. They won't recognize me there any more, and in fact that's right because I won't sound or move like one of them.
When I first moved to Australia I was desperate to assimilate. I hesitated to open my mouth because it would give me away as not fully belonging. I longed to fully belong.
And I worked hard and I kind of did - I have the passport, I had a whole family of in-laws, I have a footy team. But, but, but. Now I say "call" instead of "ring", I say "living room furniture", I know the names of people who appear regularly on NPR, I listen at lunch to debates about the best quarterbacks of all time rather than the best half-back (Onya, Joey!). This time I don't want to fit back in and be mistaken for a local/native. I am, kind of, a local/native. What will it be like when I go back? Well, Deb said, the expat's return can sometimes be even harder than the move in the first place.
Road Rage
*bad language warning*
The other night I was leaving work and was in a good mood (springtime, still light out, had accomplished a few things, had a busy week/weekend coming up). There was a black VW, a Jetta or something, that was driving right up my ass, as people have been tending to do ever since the snow melted. No problem, whatever, just don't look in your rear view mirror. But then I came up to the blinking yellow lights at the intersection of the company driveway and the main road, and there was a truck and another car coming up on my left, and although I had kind of moved to go for a fraction of a second, I stopped to wait for them.
And this asshole in the VW actually beeped at me.
I got really rattled by it. I mean, that used to happen all the time in Sydney. Cab drivers in particular. I remember one drive from Surry Hills down to the airport when at every single green light I got a honk behind me because I wasn't taking off fast enough for their liking.
Back then, when it happened all the time, I could rise above, I could be zen, I could let them do whatever and just drive my own game and not worry about it.
But here in Apple Town, thank you, people don't behave that way to other drivers! In fact I've actively noticed that sometimes when I'm the first one stopped at a light and I get an arrow, or it's still red but no cars for miles in any oncoming direction so I could turn right on red, people still wait patiently and don't make any noise. "I'm sure she must be busy, and will get to turning as soon as she's able," they seem to be thinking, from behind me. I remember really appreciating this when I first moved here.
But now maybe I've got used to it. Because this fucker in the VW, I was shaking with rage and plotting revenge fantasies. Put a note on his car saying "Stop driving too close you fucking prick". Park him in. Come up behind his sorry ass right now and ram him, run him off the road. Of course, if I did any of those things I would find myself in a meeting with him the next day, or assigned to his team and he'd be my new boss or something. I should have risen above, you should never sink down to their level or let them get to you, I should have remembered my lessons from the Sydney taxi drivers and the stressed-out businessmen on the F3. But no, instead I flipped him off.
Just not used to getting auditory commentary on my driving choices, any more.
The other night I was leaving work and was in a good mood (springtime, still light out, had accomplished a few things, had a busy week/weekend coming up). There was a black VW, a Jetta or something, that was driving right up my ass, as people have been tending to do ever since the snow melted. No problem, whatever, just don't look in your rear view mirror. But then I came up to the blinking yellow lights at the intersection of the company driveway and the main road, and there was a truck and another car coming up on my left, and although I had kind of moved to go for a fraction of a second, I stopped to wait for them.
And this asshole in the VW actually beeped at me.
I got really rattled by it. I mean, that used to happen all the time in Sydney. Cab drivers in particular. I remember one drive from Surry Hills down to the airport when at every single green light I got a honk behind me because I wasn't taking off fast enough for their liking.
Back then, when it happened all the time, I could rise above, I could be zen, I could let them do whatever and just drive my own game and not worry about it.
But here in Apple Town, thank you, people don't behave that way to other drivers! In fact I've actively noticed that sometimes when I'm the first one stopped at a light and I get an arrow, or it's still red but no cars for miles in any oncoming direction so I could turn right on red, people still wait patiently and don't make any noise. "I'm sure she must be busy, and will get to turning as soon as she's able," they seem to be thinking, from behind me. I remember really appreciating this when I first moved here.
But now maybe I've got used to it. Because this fucker in the VW, I was shaking with rage and plotting revenge fantasies. Put a note on his car saying "Stop driving too close you fucking prick". Park him in. Come up behind his sorry ass right now and ram him, run him off the road. Of course, if I did any of those things I would find myself in a meeting with him the next day, or assigned to his team and he'd be my new boss or something. I should have risen above, you should never sink down to their level or let them get to you, I should have remembered my lessons from the Sydney taxi drivers and the stressed-out businessmen on the F3. But no, instead I flipped him off.
Just not used to getting auditory commentary on my driving choices, any more.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
p.s.
Just added some entries for the last two Fridays, so if you missed any new stuff, you can check the links for "April" down on the right there.
Ellen is knitting a sock.
The Knitting Class of Destiny - jonesing for another class in about mid-March, I went to sign up for "Socks on double-pointed needles", but it was already full so I got on the waiting list. They never called so I assumed I had missed out. But I'm scheduled to go to Midwest Masters in two weekends' time, and I wanted to buy the materials before I run out of money this month (bit of furniture buying on the old credit cards, nothing to worry about but requires a bit of timing and planning). So I had put that on my list to do Tuesday night, didn't do it Tuesday, went on Wednesday.
I walked in the shop and there was a big group of people at the table in the front. "Are you joining us?" Nuh, um, I don't... I realize the person asking me is my old teacher, and two of my classmates from Beginner are sitting there. There's an empty chair. "We have room, join us!" How far have you got? "We're just starting, we haven't done anything yet. Pick out some yarn from over there."
There was a chair for me, she had already set out the needles. I hadn't paid any attention to the class dates at all because it looked like I wasn't going to fit. And there I was, walked in the door exactly precisely at the time the class started. Amazing.
So, this weekend, I've been knitting a sock. I got this wool yarn that has a complicated variable pattern of dyes in white, blue, then a sort of green and a sort of browny-pink. It makes stripes and patterns. It looks like it might make a detailed sort of pattern if you were doing something another size, maybe a mitten. Kind of like a fair isle sweater, but not. I love it, love it, love it. The action is relaxing and mesmerizing (I've gone back to throwing because Continental aggravates the problems with my shoulder, elbow and fingers that I had to go to the Physio about the other week, but it looks like throwing does not). And the really addictive part is watching the pattern unfurl under your hands. It's ever surprising, and beautiful, and I love it like a pet or a child - I can imagine looking at another sock and admiring it but this one I feel quite maternal over.
Very excited about my sock.
I walked in the shop and there was a big group of people at the table in the front. "Are you joining us?" Nuh, um, I don't... I realize the person asking me is my old teacher, and two of my classmates from Beginner are sitting there. There's an empty chair. "We have room, join us!" How far have you got? "We're just starting, we haven't done anything yet. Pick out some yarn from over there."
There was a chair for me, she had already set out the needles. I hadn't paid any attention to the class dates at all because it looked like I wasn't going to fit. And there I was, walked in the door exactly precisely at the time the class started. Amazing.
So, this weekend, I've been knitting a sock. I got this wool yarn that has a complicated variable pattern of dyes in white, blue, then a sort of green and a sort of browny-pink. It makes stripes and patterns. It looks like it might make a detailed sort of pattern if you were doing something another size, maybe a mitten. Kind of like a fair isle sweater, but not. I love it, love it, love it. The action is relaxing and mesmerizing (I've gone back to throwing because Continental aggravates the problems with my shoulder, elbow and fingers that I had to go to the Physio about the other week, but it looks like throwing does not). And the really addictive part is watching the pattern unfurl under your hands. It's ever surprising, and beautiful, and I love it like a pet or a child - I can imagine looking at another sock and admiring it but this one I feel quite maternal over.
Very excited about my sock.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Thanks
I've been trying to approach life with a spirit of gratitude this evening, not loss or lack. It's another weekend and I don't have any plans to meet with anybody, and I still don't know anybody in this whole town apart from people at work which doesn't count (this is in large part my own responsibility, I could have made some arrangements if I wanted to but I didn't want to). But instead of feeling abandoned and sorry for myself, I'm trying to open my eyes and appreciate the things that are here in my present.
Thank you for letting me get acquainted with the 25 year old in Sydney. Those were wonderful times and a great way to spend that limbo period between job interview and acceptance. It's okay that he's gone now. Thank you, whatever goddesses control these things, for bringing him to me for a while.
Thank you for introducing me to the guy at work. I know he won't stay here, I realize he probably has a new girlfriend already, or lots of them, and if not it won't be long until he does. He won't stay here, he's drawn to and bound for other things, but it's been nice to cross paths with him for this brief time.
I get the phrase "I'm empty" in my head, and it inspired a memory of the song "I'm Empty" by Rebecca's Empire, one of my favorite albums and in high rotation on my iPod always, but very few other people know it. Even Aussie people don't, the album came out a long time ago and isn't part of the ongoing musical vernacular. That realization inspired sadness that the song and album are in my past and I may never know anyone again who knows that song. But I try to adopt a spirit of gratitude - thank you for letting me know that song so well I can play it in my head. I'm grateful I have the song in my head, from my past.
___
This inspires the musing of a last-woman-on-earth story. I am walking across a wet parking lot under grey skies, past the hulking mass of Macy's viewed across an empty-ish parking lot, while I muse on it. Last woman on earth. All the things you were going to do, all the songs in your head that only you remember and no one will hear again. Standing on a sandy shore with the empty skyscrapers behind you, all the remnants and evidence and structures of your past human community, but you're the only one now. But the grief never overtakes her (me) (you). It's the basement of the soul, a dark and empty space that is the foundation for everything else, but it stays down there.
___
The 40's are about recognizing mortality and decline, and loss and regret, nostalgia and memory.
Thank you for letting me get acquainted with the 25 year old in Sydney. Those were wonderful times and a great way to spend that limbo period between job interview and acceptance. It's okay that he's gone now. Thank you, whatever goddesses control these things, for bringing him to me for a while.
Thank you for introducing me to the guy at work. I know he won't stay here, I realize he probably has a new girlfriend already, or lots of them, and if not it won't be long until he does. He won't stay here, he's drawn to and bound for other things, but it's been nice to cross paths with him for this brief time.
I get the phrase "I'm empty" in my head, and it inspired a memory of the song "I'm Empty" by Rebecca's Empire, one of my favorite albums and in high rotation on my iPod always, but very few other people know it. Even Aussie people don't, the album came out a long time ago and isn't part of the ongoing musical vernacular. That realization inspired sadness that the song and album are in my past and I may never know anyone again who knows that song. But I try to adopt a spirit of gratitude - thank you for letting me know that song so well I can play it in my head. I'm grateful I have the song in my head, from my past.
___
This inspires the musing of a last-woman-on-earth story. I am walking across a wet parking lot under grey skies, past the hulking mass of Macy's viewed across an empty-ish parking lot, while I muse on it. Last woman on earth. All the things you were going to do, all the songs in your head that only you remember and no one will hear again. Standing on a sandy shore with the empty skyscrapers behind you, all the remnants and evidence and structures of your past human community, but you're the only one now. But the grief never overtakes her (me) (you). It's the basement of the soul, a dark and empty space that is the foundation for everything else, but it stays down there.
___
The 40's are about recognizing mortality and decline, and loss and regret, nostalgia and memory.
Gloomy Friday
Fomenting revolution at the B&N Starbucks. They've been trying to supersize me all the time.
Last week when I ordered my usual (Tall Soy Chai Latte), she said with a sense of alarm in her voice, "That's only 12 ounces! Is that going to be enough for you??!!!" I think I laughed in a derisive snort. "Ye-ahh...." Like, "I've been coming here every Friday night for weeks now, chicky, don't you think I'd know if that was going to be enough for me?"
This week it was really busy and the girl with the newly darkened hair was serving everyone on her own so it took a long time. Finally an offsider, a young guy, came in and helped her, and he ended up taking my order. Tall Soy Chai. "The larger size is only fifty cents more, do you want to upgrade?" (He didn't say "upgrade" but it was some word like that.) No thanks. He went off to make my drink, and I asked the girl with the newly darkened hair, "How much larger is the Medium?" "Four ounces," she said. "Fifty cents is a lot, for four ounces!" I said. Created solidarity with the woman standing behind me, a sensible Wisconsin person, but the two employees got very grumpy and stopped making eye contact with me.
Next time I might speak to the girl with the newly darkened hair because she's there every time, should be starting to recognize me, and seems more senior that the other two. I might ask her to please, please not try to supersize her customers, especially by telling lies to us or doing slimy sales-things like adding "only" to "fifty cents" when in fact that's a huge increase, 11 cents per ounce, and a 20% uplift in price from the already overpriced drink that we've ordered. Don't lie to the customers. Should be a big plaque on the Starbucks wall.
Last week when I ordered my usual (Tall Soy Chai Latte), she said with a sense of alarm in her voice, "That's only 12 ounces! Is that going to be enough for you??!!!" I think I laughed in a derisive snort. "Ye-ahh...." Like, "I've been coming here every Friday night for weeks now, chicky, don't you think I'd know if that was going to be enough for me?"
This week it was really busy and the girl with the newly darkened hair was serving everyone on her own so it took a long time. Finally an offsider, a young guy, came in and helped her, and he ended up taking my order. Tall Soy Chai. "The larger size is only fifty cents more, do you want to upgrade?" (He didn't say "upgrade" but it was some word like that.) No thanks. He went off to make my drink, and I asked the girl with the newly darkened hair, "How much larger is the Medium?" "Four ounces," she said. "Fifty cents is a lot, for four ounces!" I said. Created solidarity with the woman standing behind me, a sensible Wisconsin person, but the two employees got very grumpy and stopped making eye contact with me.
Next time I might speak to the girl with the newly darkened hair because she's there every time, should be starting to recognize me, and seems more senior that the other two. I might ask her to please, please not try to supersize her customers, especially by telling lies to us or doing slimy sales-things like adding "only" to "fifty cents" when in fact that's a huge increase, 11 cents per ounce, and a 20% uplift in price from the already overpriced drink that we've ordered. Don't lie to the customers. Should be a big plaque on the Starbucks wall.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
What's My Age Again?
I'm having some issues about my age. You know what it is, because you can see my profile - I'm 44 years old, turning 45 in June, which is not that long from now.
In Sydney I could pass for much younger, early 30's easy. The move, though, has aged me, I think, and now I don't know what I pass for because I haven't asked anyone. But looking around work and gradually finding out how old everyone else is, I'm as old as the ones who look old. But I come across, I think (although maybe I'm kidding myself) as the same as the young recent MBAs and folks who've been there ten years because they started straight out of college and now have little kids, the people on the first step of their major career path.
Career path-wise I did get behind because I stayed in college until I was 28, I remember feeling that when I was 37 I only had about 5-6 years of real work experience. Actually, that's true if you count academia as the sheltered workshop it is, or a continuation of the post-grad non-"real world" experience. On those rules, I have - how many now - ten years of experience, which in fact puts me at par with the people in their early-30's. So, I'm at that kind of level, and I still have that kind of look, but I'm much older in fact.
The signs of aging that have shown up recently and are freaking me out:
- my bathroom light hits the top of my head just so and highlights all the grey hairs near the part. I couldn't even get distinguished, interesting grey hairs at the temples, they're just shot through the top visible layer and makes the whole look dull and a bit dirty.
- I have to hold the fine print a bit farther away to read it - maps, CD covers, telephone book, menus. This really did just happen, and my traditional problem is that I can't see in the distance, so my first pair of glasses (not first, but first that I actually wear) are going to be bi-focals.
- I have recurring problems with my neck because of all the computer use, and in order to see someone about it here I had to have a neck X-ray, and the report back was "a bit of degenerative joint disease, so that's a bit of arthritis, nothing to worry about". Degenerative joint disease, according to WebMD, is normal wear and tear that happens over time. It's nothing to worry about, but it's worrying me.
- And then, as a secondary effect of this latest neck episode, I'm having trouble with the joints in the little and ring fingers on my left hand. When I lay down, when I sleep, the joints go all clicky and my hand won't work properly. This is really putting a crimp in my plan to have knitting, or rather "knitting with excellence", as my main self-defining activity outside of work. Rheumatoid arthritis (the one you really do have to worry about) runs in my family, along the same genetic line as a digestive issue I had when I was in my 20's, and so I know I'm doomed, I know I'll get it. That's the version that makes old ladies' joints swell up into balls and hands stiffen into unusable claws. All the Art Gallery ladies in Sydney had at least one joint that had swollen up into a ball and didn't work well any more. Many of the patrons who handed me cash to come see the shows at the Art Gallery had hands like that, hands that couldn't grip the change. That's gonna be me, I know it. It has started. So how can I at this stage take up knitting as a passion and mode of excellence? Much less start my electric guitar playing. Is it too late for me, those kind of opportunities? Probably not, people overcome arthritis, but I feel like I need someone to manage it for me.
- I don't have the stamina that I used to. I can't push through and work late, I can't manage the late nights that well. This decreases linearly, I think, I remember noticing it before.
Why do I have such issues with being 44? Why do I want no one to find out? When they do find out, I think I'll get credit for looking great for my age, but do I also miss out on a bit of gravitas, the type the ladies of Senior Management have?
And I know that I have issues with myself as a desirable partner for some guy. I want to get out there and play amongst it like I was 25 or 30 again. But I get none of that kind of attention, and if I did I would feel like I'd have to give full disclosure - "No, buddy, I know you're thinking of me as a potential girlfriend, but I have to tell you, there's no way in the world I could ever get pregnant, my doctor has reminded me of that every visit lately, so if you're thinking of the kid thing you'll have to pick someone else. And I don't have the stamina I used to, and my hands are freezing up into claw-like balls so I won't be able to play in your band, and the hair, the skin, the eyes, they're all starting to betray me, I'm soon going to look like the lady in knitting class last night who announced her age and described her issues with getting trifocals. And I will betray myself with talk of music, and college radio, and technology - what I used to write papers on in college (typewriter), what I was doing when I bought my first CD player (29 years old and moving to Australia for my first teaching job), how old I was when MTV launched (it was the year I graduated from high school) - and also with talk of politics, who was president when, and with my general life knowledge, because you don't get this old without figuring a few things out, and you probably haven't gone through certain of those stages yet."
I want to pretend to be 33 to be attractive and for it to be appropriate to hang out with the 25 year olds as a peer and not a member of the older generation, and also I should pretend to be 33 so that my level of career advancement doesn't seem retarded, but I actually am 44 and it comes out, and also I suppose I do want to claim the advantages of gravitas and knowledge and life experience that it does bring.
I wish I had someone here I could ask about these things - how old are you, how old do I seem, how am I supposed to act at this age. Oh, yes, and I'm single, with no prospects, and no kids, and I don't know what that script is like - what am I supposed to be doing? I still really am without a narrative, without specific goals, without an idea of a future. The now is cool, but how to go forward, and how much to flash my ID while I do it?
In Sydney I could pass for much younger, early 30's easy. The move, though, has aged me, I think, and now I don't know what I pass for because I haven't asked anyone. But looking around work and gradually finding out how old everyone else is, I'm as old as the ones who look old. But I come across, I think (although maybe I'm kidding myself) as the same as the young recent MBAs and folks who've been there ten years because they started straight out of college and now have little kids, the people on the first step of their major career path.
Career path-wise I did get behind because I stayed in college until I was 28, I remember feeling that when I was 37 I only had about 5-6 years of real work experience. Actually, that's true if you count academia as the sheltered workshop it is, or a continuation of the post-grad non-"real world" experience. On those rules, I have - how many now - ten years of experience, which in fact puts me at par with the people in their early-30's. So, I'm at that kind of level, and I still have that kind of look, but I'm much older in fact.
The signs of aging that have shown up recently and are freaking me out:
- my bathroom light hits the top of my head just so and highlights all the grey hairs near the part. I couldn't even get distinguished, interesting grey hairs at the temples, they're just shot through the top visible layer and makes the whole look dull and a bit dirty.
- I have to hold the fine print a bit farther away to read it - maps, CD covers, telephone book, menus. This really did just happen, and my traditional problem is that I can't see in the distance, so my first pair of glasses (not first, but first that I actually wear) are going to be bi-focals.
- I have recurring problems with my neck because of all the computer use, and in order to see someone about it here I had to have a neck X-ray, and the report back was "a bit of degenerative joint disease, so that's a bit of arthritis, nothing to worry about". Degenerative joint disease, according to WebMD, is normal wear and tear that happens over time. It's nothing to worry about, but it's worrying me.
- And then, as a secondary effect of this latest neck episode, I'm having trouble with the joints in the little and ring fingers on my left hand. When I lay down, when I sleep, the joints go all clicky and my hand won't work properly. This is really putting a crimp in my plan to have knitting, or rather "knitting with excellence", as my main self-defining activity outside of work. Rheumatoid arthritis (the one you really do have to worry about) runs in my family, along the same genetic line as a digestive issue I had when I was in my 20's, and so I know I'm doomed, I know I'll get it. That's the version that makes old ladies' joints swell up into balls and hands stiffen into unusable claws. All the Art Gallery ladies in Sydney had at least one joint that had swollen up into a ball and didn't work well any more. Many of the patrons who handed me cash to come see the shows at the Art Gallery had hands like that, hands that couldn't grip the change. That's gonna be me, I know it. It has started. So how can I at this stage take up knitting as a passion and mode of excellence? Much less start my electric guitar playing. Is it too late for me, those kind of opportunities? Probably not, people overcome arthritis, but I feel like I need someone to manage it for me.
- I don't have the stamina that I used to. I can't push through and work late, I can't manage the late nights that well. This decreases linearly, I think, I remember noticing it before.
Why do I have such issues with being 44? Why do I want no one to find out? When they do find out, I think I'll get credit for looking great for my age, but do I also miss out on a bit of gravitas, the type the ladies of Senior Management have?
And I know that I have issues with myself as a desirable partner for some guy. I want to get out there and play amongst it like I was 25 or 30 again. But I get none of that kind of attention, and if I did I would feel like I'd have to give full disclosure - "No, buddy, I know you're thinking of me as a potential girlfriend, but I have to tell you, there's no way in the world I could ever get pregnant, my doctor has reminded me of that every visit lately, so if you're thinking of the kid thing you'll have to pick someone else. And I don't have the stamina I used to, and my hands are freezing up into claw-like balls so I won't be able to play in your band, and the hair, the skin, the eyes, they're all starting to betray me, I'm soon going to look like the lady in knitting class last night who announced her age and described her issues with getting trifocals. And I will betray myself with talk of music, and college radio, and technology - what I used to write papers on in college (typewriter), what I was doing when I bought my first CD player (29 years old and moving to Australia for my first teaching job), how old I was when MTV launched (it was the year I graduated from high school) - and also with talk of politics, who was president when, and with my general life knowledge, because you don't get this old without figuring a few things out, and you probably haven't gone through certain of those stages yet."
I want to pretend to be 33 to be attractive and for it to be appropriate to hang out with the 25 year olds as a peer and not a member of the older generation, and also I should pretend to be 33 so that my level of career advancement doesn't seem retarded, but I actually am 44 and it comes out, and also I suppose I do want to claim the advantages of gravitas and knowledge and life experience that it does bring.
I wish I had someone here I could ask about these things - how old are you, how old do I seem, how am I supposed to act at this age. Oh, yes, and I'm single, with no prospects, and no kids, and I don't know what that script is like - what am I supposed to be doing? I still really am without a narrative, without specific goals, without an idea of a future. The now is cool, but how to go forward, and how much to flash my ID while I do it?
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Some Comparisons
prologue: Phone conversation between myself and my aunt who lives in Denver
me: "Today my inside temperature is the same as my outside temperature."
her: "Why? Is there something wrong with your furnace?"
Earlier today the temperature inside my house was 67.3F and the temperature outside was 65.5F. This is a new record for outside temperature for me.
Right now in Appleton it's 18C and in Sydney it's 13C. Remember a few months ago when it was 14F below here, 24 below Celcius, and so we were the same amount below 0C as Sydney was above? This is the first time it's actually been warmer here than there.
The world tips and turns....
me: "Today my inside temperature is the same as my outside temperature."
her: "Why? Is there something wrong with your furnace?"
Earlier today the temperature inside my house was 67.3F and the temperature outside was 65.5F. This is a new record for outside temperature for me.
Right now in Appleton it's 18C and in Sydney it's 13C. Remember a few months ago when it was 14F below here, 24 below Celcius, and so we were the same amount below 0C as Sydney was above? This is the first time it's actually been warmer here than there.
The world tips and turns....
Ripples on lake
There's still a little bit of ice on the lake.
I took a walk around it because it is so warm. The wind was blowing northerly, and two ducks, a mallard pair, were swimming southerly. The way the ripples on the water were formed by the wind, the way the ducks were swimming and their bodies were going up and down on the waves, making slow progress, it brought back a memory of Horseshoe Lake, childhood vacations. If you change the ducks to gulls, it was a memory of all the beaches I've lived near.
I took a walk around it because it is so warm. The wind was blowing northerly, and two ducks, a mallard pair, were swimming southerly. The way the ripples on the water were formed by the wind, the way the ducks were swimming and their bodies were going up and down on the waves, making slow progress, it brought back a memory of Horseshoe Lake, childhood vacations. If you change the ducks to gulls, it was a memory of all the beaches I've lived near.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Spring in the Midwest
I can't even describe the song that's in my heart.
Today was the second day over 50. My heart and mind are still bursting from the very inspiring work thing I went to on Tuesday and Wednesday. I had my first session with my trainer this morning and although I nearly passed out, I am on my way to being a stronger, fitter me. Everyone at work was still abuzz from the conference too, and meetings including light, cheery discussions of fun, completely non-work-related things.
I had my perfect Friday evening, plus. I went to Barnes & Noble (hardly anyone there when I got there, then the intellectuals and goth teenagers starting filling in). Had a tall soy chai latte and a bag of (really nasty but trans-fat-free) potato chips while reading the New Yorker. Made some progress on The Project (more on that later). Noticed that it was bright, bright sun at 6:20. Wrote some stuff for the blog (see next post). Wafted out as the shadows lengthened, listened to my new CD of The Shins, Oh, Inverted World. Drove up College Ave with everyone else in town.
Then drove by City Park, which was right where I thought it would be. I'd see photos of it in Appleton web sites before I moved here, and once while driving with Mom and Dad over Thanksgiving weekend when they were here I saw it fleetingly from a car window, with a glorious blue Christmas tree in the middle. But had never got out and walked around in it. I did, I parked and walked a block and walked to the Christmas tree and around the statue of the kids and the back. Saw two houses with For Sale signs (one "reduced") that have open houses on Sunday. Hm.
This town is full of people out doing Midwestern outdoor springtime warm-weather things, all just today. It's a Friday night and it's been above 50 degrees for two days in a row. Here are some things I saw:
- Kids riding home from school on bikes with t-shirts and cut off jeans
- Kids sitting on a park bench patting a little Husky puppy
- Three guys playing baseball in the road, and stopping when a car came by
- Couples walking in the park
- "I love Larissa" written on the concrete surround of the big tree in the park
- A big flock of crows in a tree, squawking
- Back yards without fences
- Kids playing on a swing set while the parents leaned against a bench and visited
- Couples and families walking dogs around my lake
- A robin singing away and bobbling along the ground
- A pink sunset
I went to get the mail and didn't even recognize the mailboxes or the houses over that way because last time I went to get my mail there was a 5-foot bank of snow beside the boxes. The landscape looks all different with different proportions now. The grass is greening up a bit.
This really is a different place. All summer I bet I will be walking around transported to scenes from my childhood - playing in the street, the sound of grown-ups talking, the light fading when it's time to come in from playing but still a warm glow in the concrete and on your skin. Ah, the Midwest.
___
The place I moved to was a bleak, frozen, dark, silent place with no people moving around in it. But that was what I needed, right then. That was all I could handle.
The Project, the conference, the furniture, the new sense of direction, the grounded feeling, the swelling song in my heart - it is Spring. It really is.
Today was the second day over 50. My heart and mind are still bursting from the very inspiring work thing I went to on Tuesday and Wednesday. I had my first session with my trainer this morning and although I nearly passed out, I am on my way to being a stronger, fitter me. Everyone at work was still abuzz from the conference too, and meetings including light, cheery discussions of fun, completely non-work-related things.
I had my perfect Friday evening, plus. I went to Barnes & Noble (hardly anyone there when I got there, then the intellectuals and goth teenagers starting filling in). Had a tall soy chai latte and a bag of (really nasty but trans-fat-free) potato chips while reading the New Yorker. Made some progress on The Project (more on that later). Noticed that it was bright, bright sun at 6:20. Wrote some stuff for the blog (see next post). Wafted out as the shadows lengthened, listened to my new CD of The Shins, Oh, Inverted World. Drove up College Ave with everyone else in town.
Then drove by City Park, which was right where I thought it would be. I'd see photos of it in Appleton web sites before I moved here, and once while driving with Mom and Dad over Thanksgiving weekend when they were here I saw it fleetingly from a car window, with a glorious blue Christmas tree in the middle. But had never got out and walked around in it. I did, I parked and walked a block and walked to the Christmas tree and around the statue of the kids and the back. Saw two houses with For Sale signs (one "reduced") that have open houses on Sunday. Hm.
This town is full of people out doing Midwestern outdoor springtime warm-weather things, all just today. It's a Friday night and it's been above 50 degrees for two days in a row. Here are some things I saw:
- Kids riding home from school on bikes with t-shirts and cut off jeans
- Kids sitting on a park bench patting a little Husky puppy
- Three guys playing baseball in the road, and stopping when a car came by
- Couples walking in the park
- "I love Larissa" written on the concrete surround of the big tree in the park
- A big flock of crows in a tree, squawking
- Back yards without fences
- Kids playing on a swing set while the parents leaned against a bench and visited
- Couples and families walking dogs around my lake
- A robin singing away and bobbling along the ground
- A pink sunset
I went to get the mail and didn't even recognize the mailboxes or the houses over that way because last time I went to get my mail there was a 5-foot bank of snow beside the boxes. The landscape looks all different with different proportions now. The grass is greening up a bit.
This really is a different place. All summer I bet I will be walking around transported to scenes from my childhood - playing in the street, the sound of grown-ups talking, the light fading when it's time to come in from playing but still a warm glow in the concrete and on your skin. Ah, the Midwest.
___
The place I moved to was a bleak, frozen, dark, silent place with no people moving around in it. But that was what I needed, right then. That was all I could handle.
The Project, the conference, the furniture, the new sense of direction, the grounded feeling, the swelling song in my heart - it is Spring. It really is.
Friday night miscellany
Bright, bright sunshine outside at 20 past 6. It does change quickly. This is a freaky place. Second day above 50 deg.
___
B&N has a call button that sounds ljust like the "Fasten Seat Belts" sound on a plane, and inspired in me a little sting of the memory of fear and discomfort and love that you feel on a very long plane trip.
___
The first guy I kissed now works in R&D at Google. The second guy I kissed showed up on Facebook and seems to have had a long career in IT as well.
Actually those were the first guys who kissed me. The first guy I kissed I was about 5 years old and accosted him - he lived up the street. There were five of them, I think - Catholic. Last I heard he was living in a town in the middle of Nebraska and had a gajillion kids of his own.
____
When I was about 12 I made a big list of guys I had crushes on. Eventually it split into real people and celebrities. I keep adding to the list over time. The strangest addition was a guy who worked at a Volkswagen dealership. My parents were having something done to the car and we had to wait in the showroom for ages and ages. He had dark hair, dark eyes (don't they all? I think everyone on the list had roughly the same look - variations on Davy Jones/Paul McCartney). I remember the feeling that the looking at him inspired. It was like a drug. I maneuvered outside the field of his attention, tried to stay an anonymous spy, but looked as much as possible because of that woozy, overwhelming feeling, the feeling that made guys make the list. Looking back this seems really creepy and weird to me, I suppose it was just 12 year old hormones running amok. Stopped keeping a list years ago. But I suppose one still craves the feeling. And one never really learns that the feeling is created by something inside oneself and has little or nothing to do with the poor guy who is it's object, who inspires it.
___
B&N has a call button that sounds ljust like the "Fasten Seat Belts" sound on a plane, and inspired in me a little sting of the memory of fear and discomfort and love that you feel on a very long plane trip.
___
The first guy I kissed now works in R&D at Google. The second guy I kissed showed up on Facebook and seems to have had a long career in IT as well.
Actually those were the first guys who kissed me. The first guy I kissed I was about 5 years old and accosted him - he lived up the street. There were five of them, I think - Catholic. Last I heard he was living in a town in the middle of Nebraska and had a gajillion kids of his own.
____
When I was about 12 I made a big list of guys I had crushes on. Eventually it split into real people and celebrities. I keep adding to the list over time. The strangest addition was a guy who worked at a Volkswagen dealership. My parents were having something done to the car and we had to wait in the showroom for ages and ages. He had dark hair, dark eyes (don't they all? I think everyone on the list had roughly the same look - variations on Davy Jones/Paul McCartney). I remember the feeling that the looking at him inspired. It was like a drug. I maneuvered outside the field of his attention, tried to stay an anonymous spy, but looked as much as possible because of that woozy, overwhelming feeling, the feeling that made guys make the list. Looking back this seems really creepy and weird to me, I suppose it was just 12 year old hormones running amok. Stopped keeping a list years ago. But I suppose one still craves the feeling. And one never really learns that the feeling is created by something inside oneself and has little or nothing to do with the poor guy who is it's object, who inspires it.
On to something
prologue: When I refer to "the project", I'm talking about a plan I'm hatching that incorporates a study of narrative as the thing that gives meaning to human life, a study of the metaphysics of narrative, a study of the aesthetics of narrative (Aristotle's Poetics and that book by the Story guy), fictional narrative, autobiography, blogging, and a certain element of performance art I expect. I thought of it a few weeks ago when I decided to stop thinking about boys, and I'm making tiny steps of progress, mostly on Friday nights at Barnes & Noble which is where I wrote the entry below.
I must be on to something. Half of the "how to write" books seem to be "how to write your life as a story" books. I wonder how you could find out how many more of those there are now than there used to be a few years ago (one of those stats like they have in the New Yorker).
It's great to be doing a meta-project instead of feeling like I should write a novel. I picked up "How to write a book in a month" (which I must get) and it was great to be a theoretical bird flying above it and thinking about its metaphysics and its place in the culture rather than feeling guilty because I'm not working on a book in a month.
And it's not a book I want, it's all about the project, the journey.
I am a process knitter* of philosophy.
* Debbie Stoller, Stich 'n Bitch, p. 122
I must be on to something. Half of the "how to write" books seem to be "how to write your life as a story" books. I wonder how you could find out how many more of those there are now than there used to be a few years ago (one of those stats like they have in the New Yorker).
It's great to be doing a meta-project instead of feeling like I should write a novel. I picked up "How to write a book in a month" (which I must get) and it was great to be a theoretical bird flying above it and thinking about its metaphysics and its place in the culture rather than feeling guilty because I'm not working on a book in a month.
And it's not a book I want, it's all about the project, the journey.
I am a process knitter* of philosophy.
* Debbie Stoller, Stich 'n Bitch, p. 122
Thursday, April 3, 2008
50+
We've finally had some days above 50F degrees, although I wasn't around for any big fanfare because I've been in Kohler for two days for a work thing.
The geese are back. They're desperate to swim, but it's tricky. The ice on the lake out front has melted only in one small strip around the edges that is exactly one goose wide. They're going up and down it in a line, along with a pair of Mallard ducks.
The geese are back. They're desperate to swim, but it's tricky. The ice on the lake out front has melted only in one small strip around the edges that is exactly one goose wide. They're going up and down it in a line, along with a pair of Mallard ducks.
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