Yes, I blatantly stole the title for this posting from George Carlin (isn't that the case with most good material floating around anyway?)
I don't know that I have any structure or particular theme in mind. Today I just write, because I need to.
More and more lately, I keep getting the feeling that everything and everyone around me is continually changing, but that I am the one and only entity/occupant of this world who always remains the same. It isn't by personal choice or inimical design, and I do not believe it is out of any kind of necessity. Perhaps, it might be due to laziness, or a bad case of the inertias, but regardless, it just is.
People move, they get pets, they change jobs, they move in with significant others, they procreate, they get married (none of those things necessarily in that given order). They do all of these things. In short, the have (and keep having) life events for which there are actual commemorative Hallmark cards, socially mandated rules of decorum, and time-honored occasions for having a party or some other sort of celebration. Me? I have none of it. Okay, I do age, and there are cards for that, so I can't say my life is totally devoid of support for the fine papers and stationery industry, but beyond that, the wrapping paper-invitation-champage flute evidence that I exist is rather sparse.
Not much occasion for a "Wow, you are still at a job you find soul crushing after 4 years" party, and, I have to tell you, the last time I attempted a "Damn, you are still alone" cocktail hour, it just did not go well. Everyone forgot to bring food for my (future) twelve cats, and I got three Netflix memberships, 1 bathrobe and a copy of "101 Places for Fine Dining for 1" as gifts. (NOTE: Had this actually happened, it would definitely top last year's birthday where I actually did receive 3 different copies of "He's Just Not That Into You" - wow. Subtle.) I do think that a "Still crazy (and neurotic) after all these years" reunion get-away weekend might have some kitschy appeal, but I am holding on to that one for a period of time down the road where I am truly desperate for a crepe paper and party hats life-affirming moment.
For now, massive celebration of me is not only unwarranted, it is really not necessary. It isn't something I crave or desire. At least not in the same way that I have at other junctures in my life. I am currently focusing on daily achievement of aspirational normalcy. Simple woman, simple needs. Deep breaths. You know, the beyond basics.
But I just find myself trying to push down this little nagging worry in the back of my head about being left behind. The more people around me change, the stranger and more anomalous a figure in their life I feel that I become. Like some odd visitor to this planet of contentment and normalcy, whose snarkiness and spinsterhood is considered charmingly eccentric if only because it is just so odd and unfathomable with the way the world should work.
Hi, CLC, I wanted to tell you about [fill in important life event here]. What is up with you?
Oh well, same old, same old. Work, blah, blah. Shoes, blah, blah. Baseball, yadda, yadda. Well, I guess I did take a vacation recently.
You did? Really!? Where did you go?
Well, I took a 2 week vacation and, well, I didn't go anywhere. I just sort of hung around and decompressed.
Really? You just hung around for 2 weeks? That is so... ummm... unusual. Is there anything else going on with you? (*Said with pleading look in eyes that just screams, "Dear God, please let her have something half-way interesting and not unendingly freakish to say, that doesn't make me want to stab myself in the eye with a fork just to make sure that I am still alive"*)
As for moving, I moved about 6 blocks away from where I was before, and, no, I am still not living alone. The person I am living with is someone near and dear to my heart, he is...
Oh my god! You?! Are!? Living with someone?! Unbelievable! Fantastic! This is so great! I knew it would finally happen for you... someday....
Umm, yeah, thanks. Actually, I am living with my brother. The one who just graduated. Yeah... so...
Oh, that is... lovely. Well, it will be good for security.
Yes, it appears I may in fact not only not be changing, I may in fact be regressing to former states of being (as I am in fact living with my brother now... Lord help me).
In fairness, neither the above conversation nor even a rough approximation of such a conversation has ever happened, nor do I believe it actually would. It is simply a demonstrative, in my drama queen fashion, of how prosaic my little life often feels to me.
Being leap-frogged in the life event arena is okay by me, and in fact it is an absolutely wonderful thing, because it means happy things for the amazing people who populate my life and who clearly deserve these things and ever so much more (and really, what can be better than wonderful things happening to wonderful people. Proves there is justice and fairness in the world). This all provides me the opportunity to run along behind and learn and be supportive and (hopefully) useful, and to at least try to, in some way, repay all of the undeserved kindnesses bestowed on me. But what scares me, and which I never say out loud (at least never in any kind of serious tone) or in my head to myself, is this:
I do want those normal, forward moving, fun changes for myself too. Someday. I do. Really. The analogous (and much more insidious) nagging worry to the one about being left behind, is the worry that I am not capable of catching up.
Ever.
And that might really be what is at the heart of all of this.
Maybe I won't change.
Ever.
And I will always feel weird and on the outside.
Always.
That the cards don't hold those normal, forward moving, fun changes for me.
Ever.
And if that is the way it is, then that is the way it will be. And I will deal with it. And my life can still be good. I suppose. But the thought of it. It is horrifying.
All I have ever wanted for myself is a clean, well-lighted, warm, happy corner of the world that I can call my own. But I have always envisioned this rather generalized description to be filled with certain people. Not just me. And it may yet work out that it will be filled with those certain people, but, the truth is, that now I must plan and move forward with a picture of that corner of the world in mind and the only person I can count on being in it is me. The time for indulging my incredible neediness is over. I really do rely so much on the people around me and in my life, and I am going to have to learn to stand on my own two feet. Alone. I am going to have to find a way, for the first time in my life, to find some kind of solace and comfort in myself, because at the end of the day, that is the only person I have (and who should/is obligated/must) to take care of me.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
You would too if it happened to you...
It made me cry.
I didn't see one highlight. I didn't hear one play by play. I didn't even read a follow up article. All I saw was an ESPN headline....
ANGELS CLINCH IN 4 -3 VICTORY; KNOCK A'S OUT OF PLAY OFF CONTENTION.
And, sap that I am, a big fat tear rolled down my face.
I knew it was coming. I knew it would happen. And yet it hurt. It hurts. Like a son-of-a-bitch.
It doesn't just sting. It sears.
They weren't even supposed to be in contention this year. I was such a malcontent, I joined the boo-bird wagon early and often this season prior to the All-Star break. And yet... here I sit, bawling like a baby.
Why?
Because they *are* my team. From childhood to forever more. They are my team. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. They are my team.
They are the A's. They break my heart... for so many years running. They are my team. They belong to me.
They never quite make it. They are experts of living on the cusp. They are my team.
My love, as much as it may burn me, is unconditional.
They are my team.
I love them.
And so I sit, waiting for next year.
I love good baseball, as much as the next, so the post season will pique my imagination if nothing else because they are all damn good ballgames, but in then end, it is just about the count down... till pitchers and catchers report. Till Rich Harden can throw the heat again. Till Barry Zito can make that sweet curve dance for all of us. Till I can always hope that I will be there to see J. Kendall finally go yard again. Till then...
I will miss them. I will love them. They will be back...
Another year.
*Sniff*
Damn, I love this game.
I didn't see one highlight. I didn't hear one play by play. I didn't even read a follow up article. All I saw was an ESPN headline....
ANGELS CLINCH IN 4 -3 VICTORY; KNOCK A'S OUT OF PLAY OFF CONTENTION.
And, sap that I am, a big fat tear rolled down my face.
I knew it was coming. I knew it would happen. And yet it hurt. It hurts. Like a son-of-a-bitch.
It doesn't just sting. It sears.
They weren't even supposed to be in contention this year. I was such a malcontent, I joined the boo-bird wagon early and often this season prior to the All-Star break. And yet... here I sit, bawling like a baby.
Why?
Because they *are* my team. From childhood to forever more. They are my team. For better, for worse. For richer, for poorer. They are my team.
They are the A's. They break my heart... for so many years running. They are my team. They belong to me.
They never quite make it. They are experts of living on the cusp. They are my team.
My love, as much as it may burn me, is unconditional.
They are my team.
I love them.
And so I sit, waiting for next year.
I love good baseball, as much as the next, so the post season will pique my imagination if nothing else because they are all damn good ballgames, but in then end, it is just about the count down... till pitchers and catchers report. Till Rich Harden can throw the heat again. Till Barry Zito can make that sweet curve dance for all of us. Till I can always hope that I will be there to see J. Kendall finally go yard again. Till then...
I will miss them. I will love them. They will be back...
Another year.
*Sniff*
Damn, I love this game.
Monday, September 26, 2005
CORRECTION
Per a certain investment banker/obsessive-compulsive Excel user, whom I absolutely adore, I have not in fact been alive for 10, 220 days, as, well, I have forgotten to include those ever so pesky leap years. As such, it turns out, I have erroneously omitted a week in the tally of my life, and thus am in fact 10, 227 days old.
As said iBanker has known me longer than most, and has experienced (endured?) this extra week of my existence, I figured it was only fair to make it known.
(He's just jealous, because, at the end of the day, I am still younger than he is. :))
As said iBanker has known me longer than most, and has experienced (endured?) this extra week of my existence, I figured it was only fair to make it known.
(He's just jealous, because, at the end of the day, I am still younger than he is. :))
And on the 10, 220th day, she went to the DMV
28 years on the planet, as of today. Not entirely sure how I feel about it.
Age has always a rather surreal issue for me. I have always been two to three years younger than my peer group, and, as such, am used to being the baby. At certain points this was a point of ridicule - "Dude, you can't drive till you are senior!" - and burden - "Oh, this means we will be hauling your ass around till you are a senior" - at others it was a point of exasperation and annoyance - "You mean you won't be old enough to go into a bar before graduation?" - and even embarassment - "This is law school orientation, why don't you ever go out? You are how old? What?"
Most recently it has become a more of a novelty, mostly, but still somehow a point of contention, at least for those around me who are more sensitive about growing older.
When I turned 26, it meant very little to me, other than the fact that it was my lucky number, so I thought it would definitely be a good year. But I do recall getting several comments to the effect of "Heh, heh, now you are too old to be on an MTV reality show." Or maybe it was every reality show? It was definitely American Idol.
Well, guess no one will be seeing video taped footage of my drunken exploits or my fabulous song stylings of Britney Redux anytime soon. The world weeps, I know.
The jokes were lighthearted and in good fun, and they seemed to make people feel better, so I didn't mind, because my age has never bothered me. I never felt I was old. At least not temporally.
Inside, I am about 872, but that has always been the case. Always will be. It is like some insane math calculation that I can never shake:
9/26/77 x Type-A (little bit neurotic + rather anxious + insatiable internal perfectionist-a) = 872 years old (internally)
28 feels odd to me for a number of reasons.
First, in all of the turmoil of this year, I had pretty much forgotten how old I was and have actively had to think about it when people ask. Point of fact, even with taking a moment to ponder the answer to this seemingly simple question, I have still been coming up with the wrong answer for months (getting older is not helping my feeble mathematicall skills to be sure). I have been telling people I was 28 for the better part of six months. Forthright, yes, but not true. Well, not till today.
Second, indifferent as I am (and continue to be) towards my age, I have the distinct feeling that this ticking of the sundial of my life is going to mark the end of my grace period of indifference. Being a stone's throw away from thirty, the questions that people have bitten their tongues about (more or less) for the last couple years (when will she ever get married? when will she have another date? when will she have children? when will she successfully be able to maintain the health and wellbeing of a houseplant?) will now be asked - fast, furious and frequently. I still believe I have plenty of time, and reject the use of the word "spinster" for any age, but I do confess to a certain amount of apprehension to growing inquiries from the peanut gallery of my life. I am crazy enough about so many other issues - both real and wholly imagined - in my life, that worrying about failing to meet certain life-milestones by certain timeframes is not one I need to add to the list.
Third, so the day is on a Monday this year. Kind of a bummer because it isn't much a celebration day, but not too terrible this year, due to my wholehearted ambivalence and not-exactly feeling up to being feted in any way. However, in calculating the day, it made me realize that the big 30 is going to fall on a Wednesday. Well, that's just not right. I intend to have an uber-celebration of 30, if only to recognize that I made it to that age without any lasting physical damage to myself due to clutziness, and a Wednesday fete just won't do. Will have to figure someway around the whole matter. Have two years to plan.
Fourth, my driver's license has expired as of today, and after 3 renewals via mail, the state has seen it fit to make me come in to renew my license for a fourth time. So, in celebration of my special day, I will be schlepping out to the DMV. Is it masochism? Is it a sub-conscious need to test the development of my patience to this point in my life? Don't know, but there are certainly at least 72 things I can think of that I would rather be doing with my Monday morning (date of birth or not).
And so the day lays before me. I can't even begin to see what it has in store. If nothing else, the trip to the DMV promises to make it colorful...
Let it not be said that I do not know how to have a good time.
Age has always a rather surreal issue for me. I have always been two to three years younger than my peer group, and, as such, am used to being the baby. At certain points this was a point of ridicule - "Dude, you can't drive till you are senior!" - and burden - "Oh, this means we will be hauling your ass around till you are a senior" - at others it was a point of exasperation and annoyance - "You mean you won't be old enough to go into a bar before graduation?" - and even embarassment - "This is law school orientation, why don't you ever go out? You are how old? What?"
Most recently it has become a more of a novelty, mostly, but still somehow a point of contention, at least for those around me who are more sensitive about growing older.
When I turned 26, it meant very little to me, other than the fact that it was my lucky number, so I thought it would definitely be a good year. But I do recall getting several comments to the effect of "Heh, heh, now you are too old to be on an MTV reality show." Or maybe it was every reality show? It was definitely American Idol.
Well, guess no one will be seeing video taped footage of my drunken exploits or my fabulous song stylings of Britney Redux anytime soon. The world weeps, I know.
The jokes were lighthearted and in good fun, and they seemed to make people feel better, so I didn't mind, because my age has never bothered me. I never felt I was old. At least not temporally.
Inside, I am about 872, but that has always been the case. Always will be. It is like some insane math calculation that I can never shake:
9/26/77 x Type-A (little bit neurotic + rather anxious + insatiable internal perfectionist-a) = 872 years old (internally)
28 feels odd to me for a number of reasons.
First, in all of the turmoil of this year, I had pretty much forgotten how old I was and have actively had to think about it when people ask. Point of fact, even with taking a moment to ponder the answer to this seemingly simple question, I have still been coming up with the wrong answer for months (getting older is not helping my feeble mathematicall skills to be sure). I have been telling people I was 28 for the better part of six months. Forthright, yes, but not true. Well, not till today.
Second, indifferent as I am (and continue to be) towards my age, I have the distinct feeling that this ticking of the sundial of my life is going to mark the end of my grace period of indifference. Being a stone's throw away from thirty, the questions that people have bitten their tongues about (more or less) for the last couple years (when will she ever get married? when will she have another date? when will she have children? when will she successfully be able to maintain the health and wellbeing of a houseplant?) will now be asked - fast, furious and frequently. I still believe I have plenty of time, and reject the use of the word "spinster" for any age, but I do confess to a certain amount of apprehension to growing inquiries from the peanut gallery of my life. I am crazy enough about so many other issues - both real and wholly imagined - in my life, that worrying about failing to meet certain life-milestones by certain timeframes is not one I need to add to the list.
Third, so the day is on a Monday this year. Kind of a bummer because it isn't much a celebration day, but not too terrible this year, due to my wholehearted ambivalence and not-exactly feeling up to being feted in any way. However, in calculating the day, it made me realize that the big 30 is going to fall on a Wednesday. Well, that's just not right. I intend to have an uber-celebration of 30, if only to recognize that I made it to that age without any lasting physical damage to myself due to clutziness, and a Wednesday fete just won't do. Will have to figure someway around the whole matter. Have two years to plan.
Fourth, my driver's license has expired as of today, and after 3 renewals via mail, the state has seen it fit to make me come in to renew my license for a fourth time. So, in celebration of my special day, I will be schlepping out to the DMV. Is it masochism? Is it a sub-conscious need to test the development of my patience to this point in my life? Don't know, but there are certainly at least 72 things I can think of that I would rather be doing with my Monday morning (date of birth or not).
And so the day lays before me. I can't even begin to see what it has in store. If nothing else, the trip to the DMV promises to make it colorful...
Let it not be said that I do not know how to have a good time.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
As goes Andy Roddick...
Much like Andy Roddick, I think I have lost my mojo. Or at least what little 'jo (if not mo') that I had (assuming both Mr. Roddick and I had any 'jo to speak of. His being questionable, mine being, well, enigmatic). Unfortunately, unlike Mr. Roddick, I do not have the consolation of #1 ranked arm-candy or starring in a series of Lexus commercials where I say absolutely nothing but get to drive a phat car (despite all of my professional ineptitude) to console me and ease my frustrations.
I have sat down to write several times over the last couple of weeks and found myself with nothing to say. Or rather, just not feeling very inspired by what I am willing to say. As thrilling as my exposition on furniture the other day was, (so sorry!) well, it certainly leaves a lot to be desired. (You can only imagine what holding an actual conversation with me is like these days...) Sure I have the occasional burning questions that come to mind, including:
- why was the entire press corps so surprised when Barry Bonds came out against further steroid inquiries by Congress? Duh! Or maybe it was just Pedro Gomez who simply has that perpetual look of surprise and fear, surpassed only by the apparent vacuousness behind it, to him, much like GWB in any press conference where they use poly-syllabic words. (Side note: Apparently he has made a point of noting that he needs to drop about 25 pounds this off-season "for the sake of his knee" - at least Barry's PR flacks have learned from Giam-bonehead's "I gave up fast food" mistakes and have cut any shrinkage speculation off at the pass)
- Or why MLB and every one of its teams insists on selling their own variations of these? Or perhaps more astoundingly, why people actually insist on wearing them? [NOTE: I was going to link to a picture of someone, anyone, wearing one of these crimes against fashion, but apparently, even those that sport these monstrosities are savvy enough to shy away from the camera. Apparently, pink ball cap wearing chicks are strictly videotape; no still shots. How...vivid.] Now Ladies, I understand if you aren't a fan and know nothing about the national pastime protocol of "keeping in real" so to speak, but, this still does little if nothing to relieve you of your crimes against fashion (if not humanity) by wearing a pink ballcap. I mean come on, though I s'pose it may be a clever means of subliminally channeling the look of an areola, and thereby being a clever ruse for getting yourself up on the Jumbotron and getting some attention, you can't really think it looks good?
- Then again, people keep insisting that Paris Hilton is beautiful, as evinced by her recent Vanity Fair cover. Really? It seems only Valentino, Mallory and I have any sense in the matter.
- Why would you want one of these things? Perhaps to frighten off vermin? What do you want to bet he has at least a bakers' dozen of these stashed in various places around his "Crib"?
Okay, so the snark is out in full effect. Is it hormonal? Am I just dark, twisted and evil and given up pretending otherwise? Have I become a moral reprobate? (Well, okay, not that, but I just wanted to use the term "moral reprobate" - it has a crisp, cut to the chase sound to it...)
So what is my deal?
Not entirely sure. Who knew you could get writer's block when you only write about topics that fall under the general header of "nothing in particular"? I always did like to be a trail-blazer...
I have sat down to write several times over the last couple of weeks and found myself with nothing to say. Or rather, just not feeling very inspired by what I am willing to say. As thrilling as my exposition on furniture the other day was, (so sorry!) well, it certainly leaves a lot to be desired. (You can only imagine what holding an actual conversation with me is like these days...) Sure I have the occasional burning questions that come to mind, including:
- why was the entire press corps so surprised when Barry Bonds came out against further steroid inquiries by Congress? Duh! Or maybe it was just Pedro Gomez who simply has that perpetual look of surprise and fear, surpassed only by the apparent vacuousness behind it, to him, much like GWB in any press conference where they use poly-syllabic words. (Side note: Apparently he has made a point of noting that he needs to drop about 25 pounds this off-season "for the sake of his knee" - at least Barry's PR flacks have learned from Giam-bonehead's "I gave up fast food" mistakes and have cut any shrinkage speculation off at the pass)
- Or why MLB and every one of its teams insists on selling their own variations of these? Or perhaps more astoundingly, why people actually insist on wearing them? [NOTE: I was going to link to a picture of someone, anyone, wearing one of these crimes against fashion, but apparently, even those that sport these monstrosities are savvy enough to shy away from the camera. Apparently, pink ball cap wearing chicks are strictly videotape; no still shots. How...vivid.] Now Ladies, I understand if you aren't a fan and know nothing about the national pastime protocol of "keeping in real" so to speak, but, this still does little if nothing to relieve you of your crimes against fashion (if not humanity) by wearing a pink ballcap. I mean come on, though I s'pose it may be a clever means of subliminally channeling the look of an areola, and thereby being a clever ruse for getting yourself up on the Jumbotron and getting some attention, you can't really think it looks good?
- Then again, people keep insisting that Paris Hilton is beautiful, as evinced by her recent Vanity Fair cover. Really? It seems only Valentino, Mallory and I have any sense in the matter.
- Why would you want one of these things? Perhaps to frighten off vermin? What do you want to bet he has at least a bakers' dozen of these stashed in various places around his "Crib"?
Okay, so the snark is out in full effect. Is it hormonal? Am I just dark, twisted and evil and given up pretending otherwise? Have I become a moral reprobate? (Well, okay, not that, but I just wanted to use the term "moral reprobate" - it has a crisp, cut to the chase sound to it...)
So what is my deal?
Not entirely sure. Who knew you could get writer's block when you only write about topics that fall under the general header of "nothing in particular"? I always did like to be a trail-blazer...
Monday, September 19, 2005
Put Your Hands Up And Back Away From The Catalogue
The present is bringing me no inspiration at this moment - at least not of the kind which will result in anything worth reading. So please indulge me as my mind wanders.
Am back at work. Am on an organic food kick. Just bought my first piece of Pottery Barn furniture ever: An armoire for my bedroom, in order to hide the illicit love affair I am having with my television and new DVR. Exposure of electronics in the bedroom apparently flouts the conventions of feng shui and throws off one's chi or chakras, or something like that. Sounds dirty. Or maybe it doesn't sound dirty enough. Food for thought for another day.
Feng Shui? Chi? Chakras? Organic? Pottery Barn? Yes, I have just used all of those phrases in a sentence - twice, apparently. It is not that I have become an overnight believer in every religion and remotely defined school of thought (I do successfully pass a Scientology Center every day on my way to work and I have yet to feel tempted to walk in and take the free personality test - which by the way, what other answer to that test can there be but 'You are cray-zee!' - so there is that small victory), I just figure I can't discount anything, as I can use all the help I can get. However, lately, there is one devotional sect to which I think I have become a follower against my better judgment, and I am not sure I will be able to extricate myself. Indeed, I was perfectly happy to worship at the feet of the gods of haute couture and paparazzi-elan, but, apparently, I have abandoned that tried and true religion, and instead sold my soul to the domestic-yuppie devil for a couple of pieces of distressed-chic bedroom pieces, a leaning desk/shelf unit, and some pastel leather couches (they look better than they sound, or so I tell myself).
The horror.
I have in all of this discovered, however, exactly what the impetus is that seems to drive everyone in the world - but me - to join themselves together in holy matrimony - euphemistically, we could call it the "registry", more realistically we could call it "flatware and other necessary household items", however, more precisely we would call it "free shit from Crate and Barrel, Pottery Barn, Resotration Hardware and any other places you would never in your right mind shop for yourself because they sell things like 'wall sconces' that you see and think you have to have, but upon purchasing wouldn't have the faintest idea what to do with it."
Independent woman that I am, I have wandered into these stores, one after the other, bound and determined not to let them get the better of me. I am strong, I tell myself. I will buy what I feel like buying, my knees shaking. I will buy only what I need, my inner voice quivers. I will not succumb to some outlandish desire for a valance or a cheese tray shaped like a giant mouse trap, beads of sweat dripping down my forehead.
Oh, but how the mighty have fallen....
It is true. I admit it. I lust in my heart for silky leather club chairs, italian stitched frette sheets, Riedel wine glasses, leather wrapped desk chairs, glass topped dining tables, bamboo place settings.
It is so wrong, but it feels so right.
So many colors, so many shams, so many coordinated scented candles - so little time...
But even my lust has its limits, as in this case, it is inextricably linked to the parameters set in stone by my bank account. And so, I have become even more of "that girl" - not the "come see my new furniture" girl, but the "oh look at what I just found in my tattered, dog eared catalogue" girl.
It is quite sad really.
Am back at work. Am on an organic food kick. Just bought my first piece of Pottery Barn furniture ever: An armoire for my bedroom, in order to hide the illicit love affair I am having with my television and new DVR. Exposure of electronics in the bedroom apparently flouts the conventions of feng shui and throws off one's chi or chakras, or something like that. Sounds dirty. Or maybe it doesn't sound dirty enough. Food for thought for another day.
Feng Shui? Chi? Chakras? Organic? Pottery Barn? Yes, I have just used all of those phrases in a sentence - twice, apparently. It is not that I have become an overnight believer in every religion and remotely defined school of thought (I do successfully pass a Scientology Center every day on my way to work and I have yet to feel tempted to walk in and take the free personality test - which by the way, what other answer to that test can there be but 'You are cray-zee!' - so there is that small victory), I just figure I can't discount anything, as I can use all the help I can get. However, lately, there is one devotional sect to which I think I have become a follower against my better judgment, and I am not sure I will be able to extricate myself. Indeed, I was perfectly happy to worship at the feet of the gods of haute couture and paparazzi-elan, but, apparently, I have abandoned that tried and true religion, and instead sold my soul to the domestic-yuppie devil for a couple of pieces of distressed-chic bedroom pieces, a leaning desk/shelf unit, and some pastel leather couches (they look better than they sound, or so I tell myself).
The horror.
I have in all of this discovered, however, exactly what the impetus is that seems to drive everyone in the world - but me - to join themselves together in holy matrimony - euphemistically, we could call it the "registry", more realistically we could call it "flatware and other necessary household items", however, more precisely we would call it "free shit from Crate and Barrel, Pottery Barn, Resotration Hardware and any other places you would never in your right mind shop for yourself because they sell things like 'wall sconces' that you see and think you have to have, but upon purchasing wouldn't have the faintest idea what to do with it."
Independent woman that I am, I have wandered into these stores, one after the other, bound and determined not to let them get the better of me. I am strong, I tell myself. I will buy what I feel like buying, my knees shaking. I will buy only what I need, my inner voice quivers. I will not succumb to some outlandish desire for a valance or a cheese tray shaped like a giant mouse trap, beads of sweat dripping down my forehead.
Oh, but how the mighty have fallen....
It is true. I admit it. I lust in my heart for silky leather club chairs, italian stitched frette sheets, Riedel wine glasses, leather wrapped desk chairs, glass topped dining tables, bamboo place settings.
It is so wrong, but it feels so right.
So many colors, so many shams, so many coordinated scented candles - so little time...
But even my lust has its limits, as in this case, it is inextricably linked to the parameters set in stone by my bank account. And so, I have become even more of "that girl" - not the "come see my new furniture" girl, but the "oh look at what I just found in my tattered, dog eared catalogue" girl.
It is quite sad really.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Beisbol
For those of you who do not follow the national pastime (and you are missing out because we have just hit the absolute sweet spot of what, admittedly, is a lengthy season), the picture at left is my proof positive of two things: (1) Baseball is the national pastime, it is America's sport of sports, because it is so egalitarian. Don't let the Father Christmas physique fool you, this man is the ace of his staff, the leading Cy Young contender in his league, and considered (at least by some) one of the premier pitchers in the game. Ah Baseball - representative of all that once was good and could be again, indeed. Every little boy can legitimately grow up believing he could be a big leaguer. Unfortunately not so much for the little girls, but... anyway. (2) He (Bartolo Colon, for those who are curious) also uncannily resembles a rather overweight Sideshow Bob. Yes? No? Or perhaps Adam Duritz? What about Justin Guarini's dork(ier) older brother?
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
It was a Tuesday when she first found comfort in the contemplation of killing herself.
She had not decided to do it. Deciding seemed like too much of a commitment, and along with hard work, confrontation, watching football on TV and beets, commitment was low on her list of likes.
She was just contemplating it. Gazing at the idea. Slowly. Deliberately. From all angles. Tossing it up in the air. Turning it over in her palm. Poking at it here, there, and everywhere.
Prodding and an eyeful of scrutiny aside, the idea still retained its shape. Eye-catching indeed.
But still there was the pesky commitment issue. And the fact that deciding and committing and actually executing (pun intended, maybe or maybe not) was so dreadfully final.
She was not a fan of final.
Linger. Loiter. Hang around till they have to drag your ass out. These were concepts with which she was intimately familiar and which she could get behind. Final just created problems. It meant making decisions.
The only reason she could even make decision in daily real(ish) life was a quote she once happened to be told by someone several times: "It is best to make a decision that leaves more doors open than all the rest." Basically, make the most minimal, non-committal decision possible and defer the rest for later. Take no risk. Eliminate no possibility - however, fantastically remote.
Of course, this advice was also issued by a person that told her, "You can go anywhere to college, as long as it is Harvard." And thus allowing her her first non-fulfilling phantom decision.
She had spent all the subsequent years trying to sigh and shuffle her way into passive aggressively manipulating everyone else around her into doing the same for all her other decisions, but as of late, her secretary had tired of deciding between Diet Coke and Fresca for her lunchtime beverage.
Highlevel decisions were apparently back in her court. And to a real extent, that made the dark idea fairly attractive.
There was so much stress in everything. In every day. In every moment. In every possibility. Her cheeks filled with warmth at the possibilities of things taking a turn; better or worse; and forcing her from her current state. There was always that. The lingering curiousity. She had always been a sucker for seeing how it turned out - even Vanilla Sky and Lord of the Flies - both of which she had hated. But she had to see them through. She had to know how it would end.
Bowing out now would deprive her of the seeing the ending. It never occurred to her that making such a choice would be taking control of the script and writing the ending herself. But this would have been of little solace either, because she always liked to be surprised. Or at least the possibility of being surprised. Though also taking a keen joy in never actually being surprised by a movie or book. This was the symptom of another deep seated reason for not offing herself: There was a her vanity of self-perceived genius. Bumbling as she might be, and unable to find that precise word at the opportune moment as she always was, she did know she was smart. She told people she was smart. Point of fact, and it was one of the few facts she truly believed, she was so smart she knew to hide the fact that she believed herself to be damn smart, damn smart indeed. Genius unrealized.
A genius would do great things. Or great things would do for a genius. Either way she should see it through, was how the inchoate argument in her head went.
But in the now, which never seemed to pass and which uncannily was always following her and yet hiding just ahead in the corners around which she had yet to turn, there was malaise. Or rather, it was more like unease. The now - like her body, her clothes, her employment, her assumed persona that was meant to make people more comfortable but which fooled no one - was perpertually ill-fitting. It chafed. It bagged. It made her feel like an overstuffed sausage. Or an underdressed tourist - socks pulled up to her knees, fanny pack firmly strapped too tightly around her waist. All in her own life. It was unendingly disorienting to bob in and out of feeling like a stranger in her own life.
The discomfort and the unpredictability were constant. At least she had that going for her.
Oddly, as much as she disliked spoiling endings or missing out on them entirely, she had no qualms with tampering with the events of the body of the script. She had long been sabotaging events in her own life. Actively and often. Of course, she only realized these things after the fact. Ignoring the sweet boy who actually liked her. Pursuing the angry man who tortured her with silence. The irrationality, the masochism, of these things she realized after the fact. Genius as she believed herself to be, in the face of these realizations, she still persisted in making these mistakes, these same manipulations of her life's plot points, over and over and over again.
She had lost friends this way. People had tired of seeing herself throw herself against brick walls of misery and pain in perpetuity. She embraced repeating this plot point instead. Clearly, keeping the wall and its promise of bruises was more important than shelter of friendship.
Maybe she did fancy a dark ending after all.
But she wasn't a fan of the dark either. Or blood. Especially her own.
And she couldn't shake the idea that crawling towards the idea of death was an intoxicating idea because it fulfilled her secret need for martyrdom and to hear unsolicited nice things about herself (which behind her unspoken self perception of genius, were her number 2 and number 3 unpoken secrets). And she just despised the idea of people saying nice things about her without her being there to enjoy them. Of course, at her own wake, she could finally dispense with the need for withering false humility in the face of such compliments. On the other hand, she would be dead. And so really, how much enjoyment could she really derive from the process. She had always said that she wanted a keg party at her funeral (of course assuring the other parties to the conversation that it would be when she was old and grey). What if people respected her wishes? She also hated to miss a good keg party. A corpse keg master would be a definite buzz kill.
And while she could go back and forth all day long with angel/devil debates as to motive for doing the deed, the means and opportunity were something else altogether. The fear of her own blood was a major stumbling block. The seemingly insurmountable inability to jaywalk was another - throwing herself into traffic would just never work. She had a car, but no garage, so CO2 fumes wouldn't be possible. Driving into a tree not a guarantee either - she had bought the damn car precisely because it had 8 airbags. Pills? She didn't think she had any pills that would kill her if she took too many. 50 of her antidepressants might just make her unstoppably convivial. Seemed like it might not make sense to give bottlefuls of such things to depressed people. She would be the unsuccessfully suicidal Smurfette. Advil overdoses seemed unlikely.
And she wouldn't really want to find anyone that way, so she couldn't imagine placing that burden on someone else. Well, maybe someone horrible. But really, what were the chances of Hitler rising from the grave and finding her lifeless corpse. Not so much.
She had not decided to do it. Deciding seemed like too much of a commitment, and along with hard work, confrontation, watching football on TV and beets, commitment was low on her list of likes.
She was just contemplating it. Gazing at the idea. Slowly. Deliberately. From all angles. Tossing it up in the air. Turning it over in her palm. Poking at it here, there, and everywhere.
Prodding and an eyeful of scrutiny aside, the idea still retained its shape. Eye-catching indeed.
But still there was the pesky commitment issue. And the fact that deciding and committing and actually executing (pun intended, maybe or maybe not) was so dreadfully final.
She was not a fan of final.
Linger. Loiter. Hang around till they have to drag your ass out. These were concepts with which she was intimately familiar and which she could get behind. Final just created problems. It meant making decisions.
The only reason she could even make decision in daily real(ish) life was a quote she once happened to be told by someone several times: "It is best to make a decision that leaves more doors open than all the rest." Basically, make the most minimal, non-committal decision possible and defer the rest for later. Take no risk. Eliminate no possibility - however, fantastically remote.
Of course, this advice was also issued by a person that told her, "You can go anywhere to college, as long as it is Harvard." And thus allowing her her first non-fulfilling phantom decision.
She had spent all the subsequent years trying to sigh and shuffle her way into passive aggressively manipulating everyone else around her into doing the same for all her other decisions, but as of late, her secretary had tired of deciding between Diet Coke and Fresca for her lunchtime beverage.
Highlevel decisions were apparently back in her court. And to a real extent, that made the dark idea fairly attractive.
There was so much stress in everything. In every day. In every moment. In every possibility. Her cheeks filled with warmth at the possibilities of things taking a turn; better or worse; and forcing her from her current state. There was always that. The lingering curiousity. She had always been a sucker for seeing how it turned out - even Vanilla Sky and Lord of the Flies - both of which she had hated. But she had to see them through. She had to know how it would end.
Bowing out now would deprive her of the seeing the ending. It never occurred to her that making such a choice would be taking control of the script and writing the ending herself. But this would have been of little solace either, because she always liked to be surprised. Or at least the possibility of being surprised. Though also taking a keen joy in never actually being surprised by a movie or book. This was the symptom of another deep seated reason for not offing herself: There was a her vanity of self-perceived genius. Bumbling as she might be, and unable to find that precise word at the opportune moment as she always was, she did know she was smart. She told people she was smart. Point of fact, and it was one of the few facts she truly believed, she was so smart she knew to hide the fact that she believed herself to be damn smart, damn smart indeed. Genius unrealized.
A genius would do great things. Or great things would do for a genius. Either way she should see it through, was how the inchoate argument in her head went.
But in the now, which never seemed to pass and which uncannily was always following her and yet hiding just ahead in the corners around which she had yet to turn, there was malaise. Or rather, it was more like unease. The now - like her body, her clothes, her employment, her assumed persona that was meant to make people more comfortable but which fooled no one - was perpertually ill-fitting. It chafed. It bagged. It made her feel like an overstuffed sausage. Or an underdressed tourist - socks pulled up to her knees, fanny pack firmly strapped too tightly around her waist. All in her own life. It was unendingly disorienting to bob in and out of feeling like a stranger in her own life.
The discomfort and the unpredictability were constant. At least she had that going for her.
Oddly, as much as she disliked spoiling endings or missing out on them entirely, she had no qualms with tampering with the events of the body of the script. She had long been sabotaging events in her own life. Actively and often. Of course, she only realized these things after the fact. Ignoring the sweet boy who actually liked her. Pursuing the angry man who tortured her with silence. The irrationality, the masochism, of these things she realized after the fact. Genius as she believed herself to be, in the face of these realizations, she still persisted in making these mistakes, these same manipulations of her life's plot points, over and over and over again.
She had lost friends this way. People had tired of seeing herself throw herself against brick walls of misery and pain in perpetuity. She embraced repeating this plot point instead. Clearly, keeping the wall and its promise of bruises was more important than shelter of friendship.
Maybe she did fancy a dark ending after all.
But she wasn't a fan of the dark either. Or blood. Especially her own.
And she couldn't shake the idea that crawling towards the idea of death was an intoxicating idea because it fulfilled her secret need for martyrdom and to hear unsolicited nice things about herself (which behind her unspoken self perception of genius, were her number 2 and number 3 unpoken secrets). And she just despised the idea of people saying nice things about her without her being there to enjoy them. Of course, at her own wake, she could finally dispense with the need for withering false humility in the face of such compliments. On the other hand, she would be dead. And so really, how much enjoyment could she really derive from the process. She had always said that she wanted a keg party at her funeral (of course assuring the other parties to the conversation that it would be when she was old and grey). What if people respected her wishes? She also hated to miss a good keg party. A corpse keg master would be a definite buzz kill.
And while she could go back and forth all day long with angel/devil debates as to motive for doing the deed, the means and opportunity were something else altogether. The fear of her own blood was a major stumbling block. The seemingly insurmountable inability to jaywalk was another - throwing herself into traffic would just never work. She had a car, but no garage, so CO2 fumes wouldn't be possible. Driving into a tree not a guarantee either - she had bought the damn car precisely because it had 8 airbags. Pills? She didn't think she had any pills that would kill her if she took too many. 50 of her antidepressants might just make her unstoppably convivial. Seemed like it might not make sense to give bottlefuls of such things to depressed people. She would be the unsuccessfully suicidal Smurfette. Advil overdoses seemed unlikely.
And she wouldn't really want to find anyone that way, so she couldn't imagine placing that burden on someone else. Well, maybe someone horrible. But really, what were the chances of Hitler rising from the grave and finding her lifeless corpse. Not so much.
Monday, September 12, 2005
What I Did Over My Summer Vacation...
Perhaps because I am still longing to be back in school, or perhaps because I want to prove I am not entirely illiterate or hopelessly, though functionally, boring, below are excerpts from three of the books and/or short stories which I read and/or re-read over my summer vacation that, for lack of a more original turn of phrase, spoke to me.
I AM CHARLOTTE SIMMONS, Tom Wolfe (pp. 35-36):
I adore Tom Wolfe. Is it the white hair? Is it the zany old-man Mark Twain eccentricity of wearing white linen suits all year round though he is a resident of NYC? Is it his deciduous tenacity that keeps him a lasting presence on the literary scene? Is it just that I don't know any better? All of the above, likely, but more than anything it is the way the man can coin a phrase - in a succinct, visceral and lasting way that I can only hope to one day palely imitate. Social X-ray - excellent! Hemorrhaging money - of course! Masters of the Universe - indeed! And here, he has done it again. Though sometimes the Wolfian precociousness of language makes his college age subjects here gleam with a little too much genuineness so as to take on a plastic artificiality, he still strikes some chords that simply encompass every day life on campus, at work, at home: all as we know it. As here:
"Without even realizing what it was, Jojo spoke in this year's prevailing college creole: Fuck Patois. In Fuck Patois, the word fuck was used as an interjection ("What the fuck" or plain "Fuck," with or without an exclamation point) expressing unhappy surprise; as a participial adjective ("fucking guy," "fucking tree," "fucking elbows") expressing disparagement or discontent; as an adverb modifying and intensifying an adjective ("pretty fucking obvious") or a verb ("I'm gonna fucking kick his ass"); as a noun ("That stupid fuck," "don't give a good fuck"); as a verb meaning Go away ("Fuck off"), beat - physically, financially, or politically "really fucked him over") or beaten ("I'm fucked"), botch ("really fucked that up"), drunk ("You are so fucked up"); as an imperative expressing contempt ("Fuck you," "Fuck that"). Rarely - the usage had become somewhat archaic - but every now and then it referred to sexual intercourse ("He fucked her on the carpet in front of the TV").
One thing to note about Charlotte Simmons, much like its predecessor, A Man In Full, it is lengthy and it falls victim to something that really bothered me about AMIF: The use of deux ex machina. Wolfe has gone to the trouble of writing a novel that is hundreds upon hundreds of pages. If you are willing to go the first 500 pages with him, you are willing to go 200 more to get appropriate and satisfying resolution. But it seems that he is not. He must get tired, for all of a sudden, you find yourself feeling as though you have mistakenly wandered into the last chapter thinking to yourself, But there is no way that the issues of all six or so of these central characters can all be resolved in twelve pages? Oh, but you are wrong. They can be, if one ignores the silly admonitions of one's fourth grade teacher and Tells not shows. If the writer effectively just tells the reader, And so this is how everyone ended up, you can take care of the ending to a 500 page novel in 6 pages flat. And that is how the reader ends up feeling - flat, and disappointed, and wanting more. But like many a first date which evokes similar feelings, the reader is unwilling to write either Wolfe or the novel off because the first 500 pages really were delicious fun and the hope of recapturing their exuberance (with a perfect ending) the next time around is simply too much of a temptation to walk away from.
And so Tom and I continue our love affair. He leaves me wanting more. And apparently, I like it.
JARHEAD by Anthony Swofford (pp. 2-3):
Unlike Charlotte Simmons, which I had been anticipating since before its publication and a copy of which I bought shortly after its publication and have simply been neglecting to read since then, I bought Jarhead during my summer vacation. Why? I could do some song and dance and give a long and elaborate explanation, but I think I can boil it down to three succinct reasons:
Jake Gyllenhall. Barnes & Noble Featured Paperbacks/Sale Section. The Marines.
No, this is not a list of my favorite things (though I suppose that it could be). In actuality, it is that I had heard of Jarhead because a movie of the same name starring the enchanting Mr. Gyllenhall is coming out in October. I quite enjoyed the trailer (which was featured on Pink Is The New Blog) and which I have linked here, both for the scenery and the topic: the marines. I then came across the book itself in the B&N Featured Paperbacks section. I hadn't realized the movie was based on a book. Ironically, I would have been loathe to read the book had it had a cover picture remniscent of a movie poster with Mr. Gyllenhall on the cover. Even books I have enjoyed or been curious about reading tend to turn me off when they are about to be released as movies and they are then reprinted with cover art reflected their Hollywood iteration. It turns me off. Seems cheesy and mass marketed. Doesn't make sense I know. But that is the way it is. Jarhead, or at least my copy, just has a picture of the back of an anonymous marine's head, so I was free to purchase it without giving it a second thought (other than once again trying to figure out what my fascination with the high and tight military haircuts is). In any event, I am so glad that I did. It is an oftentimes difficult read, only because it is so eloquently written, the emotion is raw and painful, and the artful power of the words making them so accessible, that the reader is left aching and torn from them as well. I fear I am doing a bad job of selling this book. Here is the point: I really enjoy books that are written well, achieve the extraordinary feat of making temporal and character shifts in a continually seamless manner, are nearly lyrical in their presentation, and which move me - to laugh, to cry, to scream, to sing, to write - in any direction. This book does all of that and more. What I most appreciate about this book, however, is that it is a memoir and it is honest: honest in that it is the truth and yet it is a story, one person's story, one person's perspective, and then, perhaps, resultantly, as the author himself continually alludes throughout the book, it is "a mirage." This is the first memoir I have ever read that has dealt head on with the idea that there is no truth, no fact, there is only one's perspective, whatever that is. It is an issue my friends and I have often discussed and never come to a conclusion on. This take on the issue moved me. (Note: Apparently, it didn't move a lot of other people, particularly those affiliated with the marines. When I looked the book up on Amazon to see if Swofford had written anything else, I saw there were a multitude of reviews of this book. All were either 5 stars or no stars, no real in between. Most civilians and handful of military folk loved it. Many of the marines who reviewed it were up in arms claiming that that is not how things are/were/would ever be and disparaged Swofford for "lying." Apparently the fact that he made a point of noting that the book was his story and nothing more or less did not gain their attention. Maybe it will capture yours:
"As a lance corporal in a U.S. Marine Corps scout/sniper platoon, I saw more of the Gulf War than the average grunt. Still, my vision was blurred -- by wind and sand and distance, by false signals, poor communication, and bad coordinates, by stupidity and fear and ignorance, by valor and false pride. By the mirage.
Thus what follows is neither true nor false but what I know. I have forgotten most of the statistics and must look them up. I remember the weapons, though not their capabilities, so I must lool those up as well. For the place names I refer to maps. For unit deployments and order of battle, I must consult published charts. I search though congressional reports and published statements at the Federal Depository Library. I remember most of the names and faces of my platoon mates. I remember the names and faces of some of their girlfriends and wives. I think I know who cheated and who stayed faithful. I remember who wrote letters and who drove their men mad with silence. I remember some of the lies and most of the questions. I remember the dreams and the naive wishes, the pathetic pleas and the the trouser-pissing horror.
I remember some of the sand, but there was so much of it, I should be forgiven.
I remember about myself a loneliness and a poverty of spirit; mental collapse; brief jovial moments after weeks of exhaustion; discomfiting bodily pain; constant ringing in my ears; sleeplessness and drunkenness and desperation; fits of rage and despondency; mutiny of the self; lovers to whom I lied; lovers who lied to me. I remember going in one end and coming out of the other. I remember being told I must remember and then for many years forgetting."
BARTLEBY THE SCRIVENER by Herman Melville.
I revisited a number of essays (Self Reliance, A Modest Proposal) and short stories (Tell Tale Heart, The Fall of the House of Usher, The Lottery, The Jumping Frog of Calabasas County) from high school and college during my vacation as well. Not because I am such an intellectual, but mostly because they were all part of a volume of collected works that I happened to pick up on sale on the aforementioned trip to B&N. It was really interesting revisiting the works at this point - many, many years later. I highly recommend it. They resonate differently know. I know more. I read critically for different things now, so I suppose I pick up on different nuances now just from force of habit. And of course, there is the old "life experience" thing. Cliched, I would never have cited it as a reason for reading these works differently, but when I began reading Bartleby it became clear to me to that it is true, life experience does have something to do with it. It helps your love life, and your ability to critically read, apparently.
The law partner in Bartleby like all law partners, uses a flurry of words (often large and always contradictory and/or oxymoronic) to make his points - all the while trying to seem humble, but inevitably only emphasizing his own vanity, insecurity and utter pompousness:
"I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life was best. Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous even to turbulence at times, yet nothing of the sort have I ever suffered to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses a jury or in any way drawn down public applause, but, in the cool tranquility of a snug retreat, do a snug business among rich men's bonds, and mortgages and title deeds. All who know me consider me an eminently safe man, The late John Jacob Astor, a personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, has no hesitation in pronouncing my first grant point to be prudence, my next, method. I do not speak it in vanity, but simply record the fact that I was no unemployed in my profession by the late John Jacob Astor, a name which, I admit, I love to repeat, for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to it, and rings like unto bullion. I will freely add that I was not insensible to the late John Jacob Astor's good opinion. "
And of course, Bartleby is a good read for any young associate as "I would prefer not to" is definitely a good default stance to take (I have yet to learn this lesson). Of course, Bartleby also ends up never leaving his office, ever, even after his boss has completely vacated the building, and thus he ends up having to be forcibly removed and... well, the end is rather bleak. So perhaps he is not all that good of a role model after all.
I AM CHARLOTTE SIMMONS, Tom Wolfe (pp. 35-36):
I adore Tom Wolfe. Is it the white hair? Is it the zany old-man Mark Twain eccentricity of wearing white linen suits all year round though he is a resident of NYC? Is it his deciduous tenacity that keeps him a lasting presence on the literary scene? Is it just that I don't know any better? All of the above, likely, but more than anything it is the way the man can coin a phrase - in a succinct, visceral and lasting way that I can only hope to one day palely imitate. Social X-ray - excellent! Hemorrhaging money - of course! Masters of the Universe - indeed! And here, he has done it again. Though sometimes the Wolfian precociousness of language makes his college age subjects here gleam with a little too much genuineness so as to take on a plastic artificiality, he still strikes some chords that simply encompass every day life on campus, at work, at home: all as we know it. As here:
"Without even realizing what it was, Jojo spoke in this year's prevailing college creole: Fuck Patois. In Fuck Patois, the word fuck was used as an interjection ("What the fuck" or plain "Fuck," with or without an exclamation point) expressing unhappy surprise; as a participial adjective ("fucking guy," "fucking tree," "fucking elbows") expressing disparagement or discontent; as an adverb modifying and intensifying an adjective ("pretty fucking obvious") or a verb ("I'm gonna fucking kick his ass"); as a noun ("That stupid fuck," "don't give a good fuck"); as a verb meaning Go away ("Fuck off"), beat - physically, financially, or politically "really fucked him over") or beaten ("I'm fucked"), botch ("really fucked that up"), drunk ("You are so fucked up"); as an imperative expressing contempt ("Fuck you," "Fuck that"). Rarely - the usage had become somewhat archaic - but every now and then it referred to sexual intercourse ("He fucked her on the carpet in front of the TV").
One thing to note about Charlotte Simmons, much like its predecessor, A Man In Full, it is lengthy and it falls victim to something that really bothered me about AMIF: The use of deux ex machina. Wolfe has gone to the trouble of writing a novel that is hundreds upon hundreds of pages. If you are willing to go the first 500 pages with him, you are willing to go 200 more to get appropriate and satisfying resolution. But it seems that he is not. He must get tired, for all of a sudden, you find yourself feeling as though you have mistakenly wandered into the last chapter thinking to yourself, But there is no way that the issues of all six or so of these central characters can all be resolved in twelve pages? Oh, but you are wrong. They can be, if one ignores the silly admonitions of one's fourth grade teacher and Tells not shows. If the writer effectively just tells the reader, And so this is how everyone ended up, you can take care of the ending to a 500 page novel in 6 pages flat. And that is how the reader ends up feeling - flat, and disappointed, and wanting more. But like many a first date which evokes similar feelings, the reader is unwilling to write either Wolfe or the novel off because the first 500 pages really were delicious fun and the hope of recapturing their exuberance (with a perfect ending) the next time around is simply too much of a temptation to walk away from.
And so Tom and I continue our love affair. He leaves me wanting more. And apparently, I like it.
JARHEAD by Anthony Swofford (pp. 2-3):
Unlike Charlotte Simmons, which I had been anticipating since before its publication and a copy of which I bought shortly after its publication and have simply been neglecting to read since then, I bought Jarhead during my summer vacation. Why? I could do some song and dance and give a long and elaborate explanation, but I think I can boil it down to three succinct reasons:
Jake Gyllenhall. Barnes & Noble Featured Paperbacks/Sale Section. The Marines.
No, this is not a list of my favorite things (though I suppose that it could be). In actuality, it is that I had heard of Jarhead because a movie of the same name starring the enchanting Mr. Gyllenhall is coming out in October. I quite enjoyed the trailer (which was featured on Pink Is The New Blog) and which I have linked here, both for the scenery and the topic: the marines. I then came across the book itself in the B&N Featured Paperbacks section. I hadn't realized the movie was based on a book. Ironically, I would have been loathe to read the book had it had a cover picture remniscent of a movie poster with Mr. Gyllenhall on the cover. Even books I have enjoyed or been curious about reading tend to turn me off when they are about to be released as movies and they are then reprinted with cover art reflected their Hollywood iteration. It turns me off. Seems cheesy and mass marketed. Doesn't make sense I know. But that is the way it is. Jarhead, or at least my copy, just has a picture of the back of an anonymous marine's head, so I was free to purchase it without giving it a second thought (other than once again trying to figure out what my fascination with the high and tight military haircuts is). In any event, I am so glad that I did. It is an oftentimes difficult read, only because it is so eloquently written, the emotion is raw and painful, and the artful power of the words making them so accessible, that the reader is left aching and torn from them as well. I fear I am doing a bad job of selling this book. Here is the point: I really enjoy books that are written well, achieve the extraordinary feat of making temporal and character shifts in a continually seamless manner, are nearly lyrical in their presentation, and which move me - to laugh, to cry, to scream, to sing, to write - in any direction. This book does all of that and more. What I most appreciate about this book, however, is that it is a memoir and it is honest: honest in that it is the truth and yet it is a story, one person's story, one person's perspective, and then, perhaps, resultantly, as the author himself continually alludes throughout the book, it is "a mirage." This is the first memoir I have ever read that has dealt head on with the idea that there is no truth, no fact, there is only one's perspective, whatever that is. It is an issue my friends and I have often discussed and never come to a conclusion on. This take on the issue moved me. (Note: Apparently, it didn't move a lot of other people, particularly those affiliated with the marines. When I looked the book up on Amazon to see if Swofford had written anything else, I saw there were a multitude of reviews of this book. All were either 5 stars or no stars, no real in between. Most civilians and handful of military folk loved it. Many of the marines who reviewed it were up in arms claiming that that is not how things are/were/would ever be and disparaged Swofford for "lying." Apparently the fact that he made a point of noting that the book was his story and nothing more or less did not gain their attention. Maybe it will capture yours:
"As a lance corporal in a U.S. Marine Corps scout/sniper platoon, I saw more of the Gulf War than the average grunt. Still, my vision was blurred -- by wind and sand and distance, by false signals, poor communication, and bad coordinates, by stupidity and fear and ignorance, by valor and false pride. By the mirage.
Thus what follows is neither true nor false but what I know. I have forgotten most of the statistics and must look them up. I remember the weapons, though not their capabilities, so I must lool those up as well. For the place names I refer to maps. For unit deployments and order of battle, I must consult published charts. I search though congressional reports and published statements at the Federal Depository Library. I remember most of the names and faces of my platoon mates. I remember the names and faces of some of their girlfriends and wives. I think I know who cheated and who stayed faithful. I remember who wrote letters and who drove their men mad with silence. I remember some of the lies and most of the questions. I remember the dreams and the naive wishes, the pathetic pleas and the the trouser-pissing horror.
I remember some of the sand, but there was so much of it, I should be forgiven.
I remember about myself a loneliness and a poverty of spirit; mental collapse; brief jovial moments after weeks of exhaustion; discomfiting bodily pain; constant ringing in my ears; sleeplessness and drunkenness and desperation; fits of rage and despondency; mutiny of the self; lovers to whom I lied; lovers who lied to me. I remember going in one end and coming out of the other. I remember being told I must remember and then for many years forgetting."
BARTLEBY THE SCRIVENER by Herman Melville.
I revisited a number of essays (Self Reliance, A Modest Proposal) and short stories (Tell Tale Heart, The Fall of the House of Usher, The Lottery, The Jumping Frog of Calabasas County) from high school and college during my vacation as well. Not because I am such an intellectual, but mostly because they were all part of a volume of collected works that I happened to pick up on sale on the aforementioned trip to B&N. It was really interesting revisiting the works at this point - many, many years later. I highly recommend it. They resonate differently know. I know more. I read critically for different things now, so I suppose I pick up on different nuances now just from force of habit. And of course, there is the old "life experience" thing. Cliched, I would never have cited it as a reason for reading these works differently, but when I began reading Bartleby it became clear to me to that it is true, life experience does have something to do with it. It helps your love life, and your ability to critically read, apparently.
The law partner in Bartleby like all law partners, uses a flurry of words (often large and always contradictory and/or oxymoronic) to make his points - all the while trying to seem humble, but inevitably only emphasizing his own vanity, insecurity and utter pompousness:
"I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life was best. Hence, though I belong to a profession proverbially energetic and nervous even to turbulence at times, yet nothing of the sort have I ever suffered to invade my peace. I am one of those unambitious lawyers who never addresses a jury or in any way drawn down public applause, but, in the cool tranquility of a snug retreat, do a snug business among rich men's bonds, and mortgages and title deeds. All who know me consider me an eminently safe man, The late John Jacob Astor, a personage little given to poetic enthusiasm, has no hesitation in pronouncing my first grant point to be prudence, my next, method. I do not speak it in vanity, but simply record the fact that I was no unemployed in my profession by the late John Jacob Astor, a name which, I admit, I love to repeat, for it hath a rounded and orbicular sound to it, and rings like unto bullion. I will freely add that I was not insensible to the late John Jacob Astor's good opinion. "
And of course, Bartleby is a good read for any young associate as "I would prefer not to" is definitely a good default stance to take (I have yet to learn this lesson). Of course, Bartleby also ends up never leaving his office, ever, even after his boss has completely vacated the building, and thus he ends up having to be forcibly removed and... well, the end is rather bleak. So perhaps he is not all that good of a role model after all.
Agh
Back at work.
My inner child weeps inconsolably. My older outer self sighs with resignation founded in the knowledge that there are student loans and Pottery Barn bills to be paid.
My inner child weeps inconsolably. My older outer self sighs with resignation founded in the knowledge that there are student loans and Pottery Barn bills to be paid.
Dancing In The Dark
I assume this post will never see the light of day - always doomed to be relegated to the dark and dusty annals of my "drafts" file. This fate is based not on the fact that I don't believe it will be completed, but that I don't think I can post it. Well, I could. But I am not really sure anyone wants to see it.
So what is the big deal, the peanut gallery wonders...
It involves a Boy labeled "bad for me" - not bad generally (well, at least most don't seem to think so, though there are a few glaring exceptions), but just "bad for me."
Do I agree?
I am not entirely certain. When faced with trying to explain to other neutral parties who do not know him, and only know me in a limited context, exactly why he is "bad for me," I found myself at a loss.
Is it because time has worn away the painful edge of experience and left only soft, rosy recollection in its wake?
Perhaps.
Is it because I have an unavoidable tendency of being too readily forgiving of those who are least deserving of grace?
It could be.
Is it because, after all of this, it isn't in fact true?
One never knows.
And so it goes with the descriptors of this human connection: It is one of these things; It is all of these things; It is none of them. But one truth, improbably, impossibly remains: It is.
The fact that it is, at all, at this point is a marvel and travesty. Above all, it is a secret. Or it is a fact shrouded in secrecy.
Whatever it may be - infrequent, inchoate, indescribable - it is.
It is a connection. It burns - in white hot heat, in simmering expectation, in the brightness of personal engagement.
Sometimes it hurts. Mostly it intrigues.
Where do I think the "bad for me" comes from? Interesting question: I think it comes from the fact that he was the first one to show me that I wasn't broken, physically, and so I will always be attached to him as my "first." It comes from friends who know him in other contexts that I did not, who are sincere and wise, and very protective. It comes from an expectation of mine in the beginning of "no expectations" that was more than any enumerated expectation could be. It comes from the secrecy with which it is cloaked, upon which he, and I, seem to have come to rely. It comes from my internalized belief that he was as confident as I am not, and being left out of his golden gaze made me cry. It comes from reputation, rumor, truth, innuendo and all of the stupid shit you do when you are drunk.
All that being said, what is left? Any redemption, any spark of light, and sentence that does not being with a resolute sigh as it launches into a litany of excuses?
Ordinarily, the answer, in my lifetime of experience of dealing with "bad for me" boys, the answer is resoundingly yes. I have made a high art of excusing not-quite enough behavior and making it seem like emotion-abundant. I have conducted relationships - primarily with myself - in this way for years even. But here, the answer is different. Or maybe, it is that now, I am different.
What this connection has had is time. And while not so unusual a factor in and of itself, it is when the beginning spark of connection took place in the form of what was to be a one-night stand, ended up being a 3-week dalliance, was punctuated by a tardy attempt at date followed by a clumsy attempt at being blase. And the chapter was closed by distance and circumstance. 3000 miles, 3000 reasons.
But another chapter began anew. A mass e-mail. A personal missive. A summer visit to the same geographical area. A startling lunch at which those not privy to the secret world were all in attendance. All very terse and so formal. So painful. So odd. Midnight - a phone call: "So what is your address again? Why? Because I need to tell the cab where to drop me off. *A moment's hesitation. Address profferred.* What are you doing now? I am hailing a cab. Why - I thought you were already in a cab? I am confident, but I am not that confident." Laughter. An evening alone. Colored, to be honest, with my doubt. My mind therefore not allowing me full presence as I would have liked. And in the morning, the next chapter closed. At my doorstep.
But the novel was not yet written: Over the following months, numerous late night phone calls (sometimes separated by a few days, other times by a few weeks and a few months; usually late, late at night, time differences be damned; usually with one or both parties rather intoxicated; often with voicemail picking up; but when the connection was actually made with a lengthy conversation). And it is actually this behavior, it's childishness, it's groping nature, which leads if nothing else to more question. For why does one call one's convenient booty-call partner, when, though the hour and the temperment are right, there is clearly no hope of physical reciprocation as they are a continent-span away? Phone sex is not the answer. At least not here. There is none of that to be had in this novel. It plays itself out, instead, in a series of phone messages indicating a comfortable familiarity and latent intrigue. Would the other call back and when? Sometimes immediately, sometimes weeks later. Both sides both hurried and tarried. But when we finally connected, there were always those conversations. Conversations like none I have ever known. If only because he should make me crazy, an absolute jangle of nerves and anxiety, of self-dispossession and fear. And yet, when we talk in these ways, just a conversation - no pressure of more or of less - I feel supremely comfortable. I am not trying to be my best self; I simply feel my best self. I just am. An hour and more, gone. With repartee, discussion, storytelling, reclamations, teasing and speculating all thrown in. It was in this fashion that he was my New Year's Date this year - at a time and place where I was a lone single amongst a sea of marrieds, I don't think I could have been happier than I was sitting there on the kitchen floor chatting away with the Boy.
This is not all to say that he doesn't make me crazy.
The stories of cat-and-mouse phone games and an incident infamously known as the "commuti-call" to be addressed another day, are part and parcel of the crazy.
But here I sit, nearly a year and half since this story began, and I wonder.
Recently he called. Not a well worn hour past midnight when intentions are singular. Not in any state of intoxication. He called on a weekday evening, sane and sober. Reached me the same, at least sober, if not quite sane. And we talked as we always talk, about this that and the other, for over an hour. And the same feelings came rushing back.
Some choice moments:
Re. why men buy nice cars - the explanation given that it gives them something to talk about/a starting point (and it helps them get ass). And my response that "So the toast at the wedding can be that they met due to a shared love of german engineering?" And his lingering statement in reply, "Who is to say why people meet and how they come to be together. Could you and I ever explain it?"
Statements punctuated with "I thought you would get a kick out of this..." And being in the same time zone promising to "set off a flurry of new calls."
It is all very intriguing. It is supremely intoxicating.
But my love of cocktails - physical, metaphysical and otherwise aside - I, unfortunately, know better.
Do I think he loves me? No.
Do I think he cares for me? No.
Do I think he is simply using me? No.
Do I think he is connected to me in some way, that neither of us can explain, nothing more nor less? Yes.
Can I say anything more than that, one way or the other? No.
What I realize here, at this far-flug outspost, so distant from where we started, is this: He is just like me. Different in his presentation, but the same at his core. Insecure, with something to prove, seeking approval, looking for structure, afraid of his feelings. Unsure of what any emotion across his internal register means. Affinity could be chemistry or it could be more, or it could be nothing. Best idea is to keep one's options open.
And so the volley of phone calls, messages and replies continues.
Till someone decides. That they - he or me - wants something more. In his case - from me. In my case - from myself...
We shall see...
So what is the big deal, the peanut gallery wonders...
It involves a Boy labeled "bad for me" - not bad generally (well, at least most don't seem to think so, though there are a few glaring exceptions), but just "bad for me."
Do I agree?
I am not entirely certain. When faced with trying to explain to other neutral parties who do not know him, and only know me in a limited context, exactly why he is "bad for me," I found myself at a loss.
Is it because time has worn away the painful edge of experience and left only soft, rosy recollection in its wake?
Perhaps.
Is it because I have an unavoidable tendency of being too readily forgiving of those who are least deserving of grace?
It could be.
Is it because, after all of this, it isn't in fact true?
One never knows.
And so it goes with the descriptors of this human connection: It is one of these things; It is all of these things; It is none of them. But one truth, improbably, impossibly remains: It is.
The fact that it is, at all, at this point is a marvel and travesty. Above all, it is a secret. Or it is a fact shrouded in secrecy.
Whatever it may be - infrequent, inchoate, indescribable - it is.
It is a connection. It burns - in white hot heat, in simmering expectation, in the brightness of personal engagement.
Sometimes it hurts. Mostly it intrigues.
Where do I think the "bad for me" comes from? Interesting question: I think it comes from the fact that he was the first one to show me that I wasn't broken, physically, and so I will always be attached to him as my "first." It comes from friends who know him in other contexts that I did not, who are sincere and wise, and very protective. It comes from an expectation of mine in the beginning of "no expectations" that was more than any enumerated expectation could be. It comes from the secrecy with which it is cloaked, upon which he, and I, seem to have come to rely. It comes from my internalized belief that he was as confident as I am not, and being left out of his golden gaze made me cry. It comes from reputation, rumor, truth, innuendo and all of the stupid shit you do when you are drunk.
All that being said, what is left? Any redemption, any spark of light, and sentence that does not being with a resolute sigh as it launches into a litany of excuses?
Ordinarily, the answer, in my lifetime of experience of dealing with "bad for me" boys, the answer is resoundingly yes. I have made a high art of excusing not-quite enough behavior and making it seem like emotion-abundant. I have conducted relationships - primarily with myself - in this way for years even. But here, the answer is different. Or maybe, it is that now, I am different.
What this connection has had is time. And while not so unusual a factor in and of itself, it is when the beginning spark of connection took place in the form of what was to be a one-night stand, ended up being a 3-week dalliance, was punctuated by a tardy attempt at date followed by a clumsy attempt at being blase. And the chapter was closed by distance and circumstance. 3000 miles, 3000 reasons.
But another chapter began anew. A mass e-mail. A personal missive. A summer visit to the same geographical area. A startling lunch at which those not privy to the secret world were all in attendance. All very terse and so formal. So painful. So odd. Midnight - a phone call: "So what is your address again? Why? Because I need to tell the cab where to drop me off. *A moment's hesitation. Address profferred.* What are you doing now? I am hailing a cab. Why - I thought you were already in a cab? I am confident, but I am not that confident." Laughter. An evening alone. Colored, to be honest, with my doubt. My mind therefore not allowing me full presence as I would have liked. And in the morning, the next chapter closed. At my doorstep.
But the novel was not yet written: Over the following months, numerous late night phone calls (sometimes separated by a few days, other times by a few weeks and a few months; usually late, late at night, time differences be damned; usually with one or both parties rather intoxicated; often with voicemail picking up; but when the connection was actually made with a lengthy conversation). And it is actually this behavior, it's childishness, it's groping nature, which leads if nothing else to more question. For why does one call one's convenient booty-call partner, when, though the hour and the temperment are right, there is clearly no hope of physical reciprocation as they are a continent-span away? Phone sex is not the answer. At least not here. There is none of that to be had in this novel. It plays itself out, instead, in a series of phone messages indicating a comfortable familiarity and latent intrigue. Would the other call back and when? Sometimes immediately, sometimes weeks later. Both sides both hurried and tarried. But when we finally connected, there were always those conversations. Conversations like none I have ever known. If only because he should make me crazy, an absolute jangle of nerves and anxiety, of self-dispossession and fear. And yet, when we talk in these ways, just a conversation - no pressure of more or of less - I feel supremely comfortable. I am not trying to be my best self; I simply feel my best self. I just am. An hour and more, gone. With repartee, discussion, storytelling, reclamations, teasing and speculating all thrown in. It was in this fashion that he was my New Year's Date this year - at a time and place where I was a lone single amongst a sea of marrieds, I don't think I could have been happier than I was sitting there on the kitchen floor chatting away with the Boy.
This is not all to say that he doesn't make me crazy.
The stories of cat-and-mouse phone games and an incident infamously known as the "commuti-call" to be addressed another day, are part and parcel of the crazy.
But here I sit, nearly a year and half since this story began, and I wonder.
Recently he called. Not a well worn hour past midnight when intentions are singular. Not in any state of intoxication. He called on a weekday evening, sane and sober. Reached me the same, at least sober, if not quite sane. And we talked as we always talk, about this that and the other, for over an hour. And the same feelings came rushing back.
Some choice moments:
Re. why men buy nice cars - the explanation given that it gives them something to talk about/a starting point (and it helps them get ass). And my response that "So the toast at the wedding can be that they met due to a shared love of german engineering?" And his lingering statement in reply, "Who is to say why people meet and how they come to be together. Could you and I ever explain it?"
Statements punctuated with "I thought you would get a kick out of this..." And being in the same time zone promising to "set off a flurry of new calls."
It is all very intriguing. It is supremely intoxicating.
But my love of cocktails - physical, metaphysical and otherwise aside - I, unfortunately, know better.
Do I think he loves me? No.
Do I think he cares for me? No.
Do I think he is simply using me? No.
Do I think he is connected to me in some way, that neither of us can explain, nothing more nor less? Yes.
Can I say anything more than that, one way or the other? No.
What I realize here, at this far-flug outspost, so distant from where we started, is this: He is just like me. Different in his presentation, but the same at his core. Insecure, with something to prove, seeking approval, looking for structure, afraid of his feelings. Unsure of what any emotion across his internal register means. Affinity could be chemistry or it could be more, or it could be nothing. Best idea is to keep one's options open.
And so the volley of phone calls, messages and replies continues.
Till someone decides. That they - he or me - wants something more. In his case - from me. In my case - from myself...
We shall see...
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Since You Been Gone...
Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. Similarly, unlike poor Joe Blanton yesterday, I was not locked in the bathroom for the last couple of weeks either. [LINK TO ARTICLE RE. BLANTON SITUATION HERE/HAVING ISSUES WITH LINKING FUNCTION FROM MY HOME COMPUTER TODAY: http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2005/09/06/AS.TMP&type=as]. While I suppose it was a possibility that I became trapped under some heavy falling furniture in the variety of moves in which I have been a party to in the last couple of weeks (with both my home address and my work address changing - same employer, new digs), that does not explain my absence either.
I have been on vacation.
Where you may ask?
Everywhere.
Nowhere.
Well, just right here.
I basically just pushed the pause button on my life and decided to take a two week breather. So here we are in week 2. Week 1 was excellent as it involved no work of any kind, but it was decidedly lacking in an overall relaxing, recuperative feel as it was alternately spent unpacking all of the boxes that had been sitting in my apartment from my move two weeks prior, and waiting on the arrival of various technical service and/or furniture delivery appointments. All of that being said, I was always able to get to bed at a reasonable hour and pretty much able to get up whenever I liked, and had to respond to nary a hysterical work e-mail, and as far as I am concerned, these days, that is pretty much a slice of heaven.
Of course, I was forcibly unplugged both from TV and internet till last Thursday when my cable/internet guy finally made good on his promises of showing up within that oh-so precise 4 hour window they always give you. And it was only then that I was truly able to see the destruction that Katrina wrought. And I found myself unable to tear my eyes or my heart away from it.
It felt entirely awkward. I had come to the realization of a national disaster three days after the fact. And it felt wrong. So, I suppose, in many ways, I was much like the federal government. I was completely technologically unplugged. Their excuse?
Finger pointing aside, it is a situation which bothers, moves, discomfits, and frightens me in so many ways. Not the least of it being how unmoved daily life on the west coast generally seems to be. Not that I would expect a standstill. Even my paused life didn't stop moving, so to speak. But it bothers me that I could sense the magnitude of the event in the behavior and the sentiment of the passers-by around me. It was the same after 9/11. Even the day of, people going about their business - at the bank, at the dry cleaners, at the gym - even the day of. As though nothing had happened. Life goes on. But must the dry-cleaning be picked up, without reservation, today?
It is survival instinct of course. A collective, "It hasn't happened here. Thank God it hasn't happened here. My heart breaks for them. But lucky for me, I can still go to Safeway" kind of moment. And the outpouring of generosity that I read about on a daily basis do continue to amaze me. But the immediate reaction never ceases to shock the senses like ice-cold water. I suppose, for Californians especially, this is rooted in the unavoidable concept that, in fact, we are next. Someday that will be us. And the relief efforts will be directed our way, and it will be at the same time astounding and overwhelming, incredibly generous and yet, not nearly enough. And the horror is too much to think about. And so we put it away.
I am not above this fray. I do it too. But it bothers.
With 9/11, I felt the distress in a way that I don't think resonated out here. Most of my classmates from college were working on Wall Street. My S.O. and his family lived in the Jersey burbs at the time. I was supposed to be on the SF to Newark flight at 7 am 9/12. I was tracking people down. I was frightened half to death. I was incredulous. I could not believe. I would not, could not, stop watching CNN for days, weeks.
And I just didn't know how everyone else around me just went on. But I understand it was not as immediate. Time, distance, naturally removed them.
Here, with Katrina, I see the disaster and the scenes of devastation and suffering make tears well and frustration and sadness inevitably pool. The loss of human life and the suffering that has replaces it, are truly staggering. And it tears at one's insides. But I cannot feel the disaster, as I feel I should, because I never had the pleasure of going to New Orleans. I have never actually seen it, other than in its current state. I do not, and will not (no matter how much reading I do) have a full appreciation for all that was lost - the architecture, the culture, the magic, the je ne sais quoi and the l'aissez bon temps roulez shrugs and knowing looks, the innocence, the confidence, the belief. These things, even when the city is rebuilt, will never be the same. To know them, is to miss them.
I will never know. And so for the magic, as well as the people, I mourn.
I have been on vacation.
Where you may ask?
Everywhere.
Nowhere.
Well, just right here.
I basically just pushed the pause button on my life and decided to take a two week breather. So here we are in week 2. Week 1 was excellent as it involved no work of any kind, but it was decidedly lacking in an overall relaxing, recuperative feel as it was alternately spent unpacking all of the boxes that had been sitting in my apartment from my move two weeks prior, and waiting on the arrival of various technical service and/or furniture delivery appointments. All of that being said, I was always able to get to bed at a reasonable hour and pretty much able to get up whenever I liked, and had to respond to nary a hysterical work e-mail, and as far as I am concerned, these days, that is pretty much a slice of heaven.
Of course, I was forcibly unplugged both from TV and internet till last Thursday when my cable/internet guy finally made good on his promises of showing up within that oh-so precise 4 hour window they always give you. And it was only then that I was truly able to see the destruction that Katrina wrought. And I found myself unable to tear my eyes or my heart away from it.
It felt entirely awkward. I had come to the realization of a national disaster three days after the fact. And it felt wrong. So, I suppose, in many ways, I was much like the federal government. I was completely technologically unplugged. Their excuse?
Finger pointing aside, it is a situation which bothers, moves, discomfits, and frightens me in so many ways. Not the least of it being how unmoved daily life on the west coast generally seems to be. Not that I would expect a standstill. Even my paused life didn't stop moving, so to speak. But it bothers me that I could sense the magnitude of the event in the behavior and the sentiment of the passers-by around me. It was the same after 9/11. Even the day of, people going about their business - at the bank, at the dry cleaners, at the gym - even the day of. As though nothing had happened. Life goes on. But must the dry-cleaning be picked up, without reservation, today?
It is survival instinct of course. A collective, "It hasn't happened here. Thank God it hasn't happened here. My heart breaks for them. But lucky for me, I can still go to Safeway" kind of moment. And the outpouring of generosity that I read about on a daily basis do continue to amaze me. But the immediate reaction never ceases to shock the senses like ice-cold water. I suppose, for Californians especially, this is rooted in the unavoidable concept that, in fact, we are next. Someday that will be us. And the relief efforts will be directed our way, and it will be at the same time astounding and overwhelming, incredibly generous and yet, not nearly enough. And the horror is too much to think about. And so we put it away.
I am not above this fray. I do it too. But it bothers.
With 9/11, I felt the distress in a way that I don't think resonated out here. Most of my classmates from college were working on Wall Street. My S.O. and his family lived in the Jersey burbs at the time. I was supposed to be on the SF to Newark flight at 7 am 9/12. I was tracking people down. I was frightened half to death. I was incredulous. I could not believe. I would not, could not, stop watching CNN for days, weeks.
And I just didn't know how everyone else around me just went on. But I understand it was not as immediate. Time, distance, naturally removed them.
Here, with Katrina, I see the disaster and the scenes of devastation and suffering make tears well and frustration and sadness inevitably pool. The loss of human life and the suffering that has replaces it, are truly staggering. And it tears at one's insides. But I cannot feel the disaster, as I feel I should, because I never had the pleasure of going to New Orleans. I have never actually seen it, other than in its current state. I do not, and will not (no matter how much reading I do) have a full appreciation for all that was lost - the architecture, the culture, the magic, the je ne sais quoi and the l'aissez bon temps roulez shrugs and knowing looks, the innocence, the confidence, the belief. These things, even when the city is rebuilt, will never be the same. To know them, is to miss them.
I will never know. And so for the magic, as well as the people, I mourn.
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