"I’ve missed autumn. I miss walking through the leaves that are crinkling around your feet tossed by the wind. I miss the hum of them as they skip along the pavement getting caught in crevices and being thrown.
Most people see dead leave, see Fall as an end. As the promise of nothing but winter and death. But Fall with its rusty smells and dirty based…chemicals, promises that hardships are coming.
But it gives the perfect moment to realize that the hardships won’t last forever, and it promises the spring and summer. Fall wishes to remind us of the order of things. Everything at every time it’s suppose to be. Order—it promises us death and birth and life. It promises the order of things."
-Candace, a character in one of my old plays, With This Ring.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Snow Days
I was in the pool at the gym and I glanced outside the tall windows that line one of the walls and the thought just floated through my brain, "Its going to be so nice to watch it snowing out there when I'm nice and warm in here."
And there was a whole second before I realized the absurdity of that sentence. I will not watch the snow fall in Dallas. I will not see the world transform. I won't sit at a table with a hot cup of cider and write in my journal as people bustle by with their heads kept dry in knit hats and their faces obscured by long scarves. I won't experience that deep primal joy your body feels as you thrust it into a warm environment, wrapping it up in layers upon layers of blankets.
And it made me sad.
Granted, I was never the biggest fan of winter--of the cold cold that makes your insides quiver and jump, but there is something in the snow, in the crispness that precludes and encompasses it, that is enrapturing. Its the tingle in the air before the snow starts falling, the promise of something completely different. Its the way that the snow flakes light up like bright stars as they drift past the street lights. Its the brief second when they get tangled in your eyelashes, soft and cold. I will not miss walking through snow that had been piled up for days, weeks, and falls apart beneath your feet plunging you into ice cold scary puddles of slush. I will not miss the cold wetness when you wore the wrong pair of shoes and now have to sit through the rest of the day in soaked through garments.
But now as I face that lack of any of those charming (and not so charming) moments, I know that I will miss the snow and the hassle. The clean white and the bright reflection. The bundling up. The boots and the gloves and thick socks. The sharp cold and the horrible ice wind that stabs your face with miniature daggers as you run for the bus, slipping on a spot of black ice and landing in a puddle.
Well, I'll miss some of it.
And there was a whole second before I realized the absurdity of that sentence. I will not watch the snow fall in Dallas. I will not see the world transform. I won't sit at a table with a hot cup of cider and write in my journal as people bustle by with their heads kept dry in knit hats and their faces obscured by long scarves. I won't experience that deep primal joy your body feels as you thrust it into a warm environment, wrapping it up in layers upon layers of blankets.
And it made me sad.
Granted, I was never the biggest fan of winter--of the cold cold that makes your insides quiver and jump, but there is something in the snow, in the crispness that precludes and encompasses it, that is enrapturing. Its the tingle in the air before the snow starts falling, the promise of something completely different. Its the way that the snow flakes light up like bright stars as they drift past the street lights. Its the brief second when they get tangled in your eyelashes, soft and cold. I will not miss walking through snow that had been piled up for days, weeks, and falls apart beneath your feet plunging you into ice cold scary puddles of slush. I will not miss the cold wetness when you wore the wrong pair of shoes and now have to sit through the rest of the day in soaked through garments.
But now as I face that lack of any of those charming (and not so charming) moments, I know that I will miss the snow and the hassle. The clean white and the bright reflection. The bundling up. The boots and the gloves and thick socks. The sharp cold and the horrible ice wind that stabs your face with miniature daggers as you run for the bus, slipping on a spot of black ice and landing in a puddle.
Well, I'll miss some of it.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Eight Years is a Long Time
Its September 11th. The ceremonies occurred this year like they have for the last seven. The emotions may have faded a bit--the memories becoming milky and less severe, but the skyline is still missing a something, but only because we know that something is suppose to be there.
In sixty years, who will still remember? Who will still read the names out loud at Ground Zero? It will, I assume, become like December 7th. A mention will be made on the radio and evening newscast to remind those non-history-buffs of the importance of the date. Wreaths will be laid by heads of states who do not remember the fear that coursed through our veins, who can't describe the silence of their high school lunchrooms, who didn't give their weeks' allowance to Red Cross because they were impotent from such distance, who did not have hot tears when they saw the smoke billowing from New York, from the Pentagon, form the field in PA. He or she will not remember the rows and rows of empty gurneys and hospital beds on the TV because there we so few survivors found in the rubble. The men and women will act respectful and mournful and behave like one should act when one is acting like a day dictates instead of how one feels. And the pain and woe and misdigestion that brewed in our stomachs will be packed in boxes in the earth, or scattered ashes back to the earth, and we--the survivors, the rememberers--will become like the 2,993 people, vague memories of something that has passed and have been consumed by the great hunger of time.
And some of those people sixty years in the future will look back and try to fathom what was felt and what was lost and they will draw soft conclusions and turn off the news and go about another normal early fall morning.
In sixty years, who will still remember? Who will still read the names out loud at Ground Zero? It will, I assume, become like December 7th. A mention will be made on the radio and evening newscast to remind those non-history-buffs of the importance of the date. Wreaths will be laid by heads of states who do not remember the fear that coursed through our veins, who can't describe the silence of their high school lunchrooms, who didn't give their weeks' allowance to Red Cross because they were impotent from such distance, who did not have hot tears when they saw the smoke billowing from New York, from the Pentagon, form the field in PA. He or she will not remember the rows and rows of empty gurneys and hospital beds on the TV because there we so few survivors found in the rubble. The men and women will act respectful and mournful and behave like one should act when one is acting like a day dictates instead of how one feels. And the pain and woe and misdigestion that brewed in our stomachs will be packed in boxes in the earth, or scattered ashes back to the earth, and we--the survivors, the rememberers--will become like the 2,993 people, vague memories of something that has passed and have been consumed by the great hunger of time.
And some of those people sixty years in the future will look back and try to fathom what was felt and what was lost and they will draw soft conclusions and turn off the news and go about another normal early fall morning.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
The Trip
I always expected to travel with my time that I have right now (a delightful blend of still-insured and not 100% broke). I imagined taking a giant trip of proportions that make you ache and desperately wish for your bed and home comfort again. I was surprised when I realized that these trips (all independently planned) are all congregating around the same time. Its coming together to a five-week-long crazy adventure:
1. Texas Tour. with my sister Petra, her husband Eric, and our friends Nikki and Eric
2. OshKosh, WI for EAA with Daddy and Uncle Ken and cousin Austin
3. Camping in the North woods Wisconsin with Mama and Dad
4. Puerto Rico with the lovely Amanda
5. Chicago (since the deal for PR, only worked if I came/went from Chicago)
Posting will be even more sporadic or non-existent. Expect some back-dated entries when I come back in mid-August.
It'll be awesome.
1. Texas Tour. with my sister Petra, her husband Eric, and our friends Nikki and Eric
2. OshKosh, WI for EAA with Daddy and Uncle Ken and cousin Austin
3. Camping in the North woods Wisconsin with Mama and Dad
4. Puerto Rico with the lovely Amanda
5. Chicago (since the deal for PR, only worked if I came/went from Chicago)
Posting will be even more sporadic or non-existent. Expect some back-dated entries when I come back in mid-August.
It'll be awesome.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
The requiste Michael Jackson post
He died and I wasn't moved. I'm not really a fan. I've never been a fan. I think the clearest memory I have of him is fast forwarding through his music video in the beginning of Free Willy.
I'm not saying I haven't heard his music or danced to ABC or Thriller or that I didn't really dig Alien Ant Farm's cover of Smooth Criminal back in the day (I have memories of driving in either Ajay or Dylan's car with that blaring). But his music never meant much to me. My parents, being older, did not bring share any music from the 80s. We listened to vinyls of The Beatles, Loving Spoonful, Steely Dan and Harry Nilsson, and other 60s and 70s greats. So, Michael Jackson's death, though seen worldwide as tragic, doesn't mean much to me, but it did get me thinking.
Who in the celebrity world* would I become very upset over their death?
As I start writing this, I can't picture one person who I would actively cry over or publicly mourn for. Its not like crying is something that is very difficult or unusual thing for me to do, but I really have to think.
I did tear up when I found out about Pinter dying. It was Christmas. I was in New York. I was sad already. Even though his heyday was years before his death, his Nobel Prize Speech was proof enough he still had much in him. I cried when Ann Richards died. I thought she was perfect. When John Paul II died, I was torn up because he meant more to me then than even I knew. But these people weren't celebrities, or rather, weren't celebrities in the common use of the term.
Much of the pain we feel from losing someone, whether we were close to them or not, comes from the inherent what-if possibilities that sprinkle through life. If I had asked him out on a date when we still lived in the same city. If I were to have called her that afternoon. If we had been friends until we grow old.
With the people directly in your life, you miss there every day presence, the quick phone calls you would make in between errands, the giggles and grins that dot your life, those horrible fights that lead to more honesty, those sturdy bastions of advice. You miss the possibility of the continuing existence of your relationship. But with celebrity, all you have with that person is their body of work. And the beautiful thing about many of the modern celebrities of today, is that there work is ever present.
Two months after Heath Ledger died, my best friend and I sat down and watched 10 Things I Hate About You, an old high school favorite. And guess what? It was just like we remembered it. Death or no death, Heath Ledger gave the same performance and will give the same performance for eternity. Elliot Smith songs sound the same, perhaps more poignant, after his death. I can look at a Degas painting, and though, not as readily accessible, connect with him beyond his earthly tomb. They are already entombed in their pieces before they are dead. Persistently immortalized in their art.
But re-reading the list above of people who I did cry over their deaths implies that it doesn't really mean much if you know someone well or not, they can still impact your life. Those people meant something to me, and that's why I cried.
So if Michael Jackson meant something to you, mourn like mourners do.
And perhaps my lack of woe, and (dare I say) compassion says much more about me than the rest of the world.
*celebrity world vaguely being defined as musicians and actors
I'm not saying I haven't heard his music or danced to ABC or Thriller or that I didn't really dig Alien Ant Farm's cover of Smooth Criminal back in the day (I have memories of driving in either Ajay or Dylan's car with that blaring). But his music never meant much to me. My parents, being older, did not bring share any music from the 80s. We listened to vinyls of The Beatles, Loving Spoonful, Steely Dan and Harry Nilsson, and other 60s and 70s greats. So, Michael Jackson's death, though seen worldwide as tragic, doesn't mean much to me, but it did get me thinking.
Who in the celebrity world* would I become very upset over their death?
As I start writing this, I can't picture one person who I would actively cry over or publicly mourn for. Its not like crying is something that is very difficult or unusual thing for me to do, but I really have to think.
I did tear up when I found out about Pinter dying. It was Christmas. I was in New York. I was sad already. Even though his heyday was years before his death, his Nobel Prize Speech was proof enough he still had much in him. I cried when Ann Richards died. I thought she was perfect. When John Paul II died, I was torn up because he meant more to me then than even I knew. But these people weren't celebrities, or rather, weren't celebrities in the common use of the term.
Much of the pain we feel from losing someone, whether we were close to them or not, comes from the inherent what-if possibilities that sprinkle through life. If I had asked him out on a date when we still lived in the same city. If I were to have called her that afternoon. If we had been friends until we grow old.
With the people directly in your life, you miss there every day presence, the quick phone calls you would make in between errands, the giggles and grins that dot your life, those horrible fights that lead to more honesty, those sturdy bastions of advice. You miss the possibility of the continuing existence of your relationship. But with celebrity, all you have with that person is their body of work. And the beautiful thing about many of the modern celebrities of today, is that there work is ever present.
Two months after Heath Ledger died, my best friend and I sat down and watched 10 Things I Hate About You, an old high school favorite. And guess what? It was just like we remembered it. Death or no death, Heath Ledger gave the same performance and will give the same performance for eternity. Elliot Smith songs sound the same, perhaps more poignant, after his death. I can look at a Degas painting, and though, not as readily accessible, connect with him beyond his earthly tomb. They are already entombed in their pieces before they are dead. Persistently immortalized in their art.
But re-reading the list above of people who I did cry over their deaths implies that it doesn't really mean much if you know someone well or not, they can still impact your life. Those people meant something to me, and that's why I cried.
So if Michael Jackson meant something to you, mourn like mourners do.
And perhaps my lack of woe, and (dare I say) compassion says much more about me than the rest of the world.
*celebrity world vaguely being defined as musicians and actors
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
A Letter
Today, I went to church with my mother. Today I was reminded of one reason why I stopped going.
Dear Pro-Life "Abortion is Mean" T-Shirt wearing girl,
Though I am an advocate for DIY fashion, I have to say the tie-dye T-shirt you choose to wear when bringing the gifts up for communion was not only inappropriate for Mass but also a insult to both sides of the abortion debate.
By demoting abortion to a sentence that is so simplistic that the subject can be replaced with any of the following"spitting," "pinching," "stealing cookies," or "saying bad words," you make abortion into something silly. Like when I would kick my sister in the shin, Mama would always tell me "that's mean," because it was something that was simply mean. Its not something I pondered over. Its not something I seriously regretted. Its not something I even would worry about when a bruise arose on her.
When you dismiss abortion down to just a "mean" act, you dismiss both sides' fervent views on the issue. You deny the inherent hardships in people feel when having abortions in America (in other countries, abortions are viewed in very different ways and perhaps don't carry the same stigma). You insult my position because imply that abortions are performed in the same lackadaisical manner that those actions listed above are performed. You weaken your case because you only insist on the "meanness" to the fetus and and take no consideration for the woman the fetus is attached to. Though this is a routine flaw in your logic, and you are apt to compare pregnant women to breadboxes or temporary homes, regardless of her emotional, physical, financial status.
But regardless, I sure you don't want this Issue (with a capital I) to be degraded down to something as menial as slaps and pinches. So in future, if you feel that you must extol your beliefs on everyone around you using fuzzy glue-on lettering I, a vivid Pro-Choicer, would suggest perhaps "abortion is wrong" or "not good" or even (if you are feeling ballsy) "murder."
So dear girl, I would have to ask that in the future you don't wear a shirt that belittles such a wide concept. Speak your mind if you are going to speak it! And please remember fondly this time, these halcyon days, before you seriously have to consider what to do when two little lines appear on a stick you just peed on.
Love,
Ade
Dear Pro-Life "Abortion is Mean" T-Shirt wearing girl,
Though I am an advocate for DIY fashion, I have to say the tie-dye T-shirt you choose to wear when bringing the gifts up for communion was not only inappropriate for Mass but also a insult to both sides of the abortion debate.
By demoting abortion to a sentence that is so simplistic that the subject can be replaced with any of the following"spitting," "pinching," "stealing cookies," or "saying bad words," you make abortion into something silly. Like when I would kick my sister in the shin, Mama would always tell me "that's mean," because it was something that was simply mean. Its not something I pondered over. Its not something I seriously regretted. Its not something I even would worry about when a bruise arose on her.
When you dismiss abortion down to just a "mean" act, you dismiss both sides' fervent views on the issue. You deny the inherent hardships in people feel when having abortions in America (in other countries, abortions are viewed in very different ways and perhaps don't carry the same stigma). You insult my position because imply that abortions are performed in the same lackadaisical manner that those actions listed above are performed. You weaken your case because you only insist on the "meanness" to the fetus and and take no consideration for the woman the fetus is attached to. Though this is a routine flaw in your logic, and you are apt to compare pregnant women to breadboxes or temporary homes, regardless of her emotional, physical, financial status.
But regardless, I sure you don't want this Issue (with a capital I) to be degraded down to something as menial as slaps and pinches. So in future, if you feel that you must extol your beliefs on everyone around you using fuzzy glue-on lettering I, a vivid Pro-Choicer, would suggest perhaps "abortion is wrong" or "not good" or even (if you are feeling ballsy) "murder."
So dear girl, I would have to ask that in the future you don't wear a shirt that belittles such a wide concept. Speak your mind if you are going to speak it! And please remember fondly this time, these halcyon days, before you seriously have to consider what to do when two little lines appear on a stick you just peed on.
Love,
Ade
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
I Before E?
I have to say, the repeal of the “I before E except after C” rule is lovely. My whole life I have been a crap speller. Without the invention of spellcheck, I can only imagine how crude my grades would have been. Actually, I know how crude they would have been from all of those handwritten essays required of us in our youth. I’m sure I got points deducted for spelling. But never more than I could make up in writing, but to be honest, that probably is a lie, I really am a crap speller.
Regardless, “I before E except after C” is one pneumonic device that never never helped me. Perhaps its complexity (I was taught a later version that said, “…or when sounded like a as in neighbor or weigh; and except seize and seizure and also leisure, weird, height, and either, forfeit, and neither.”), perhaps it was its confusing state (The Exceptions! ), or perhaps it was because of my general lack of grasp of grammar and sentence structure, but it NEVER helped me. I can’t imagine one time that little device made me understand more of what I was trying to convey to the page.
So, good riddance archaic rule! Albeit even if it is only gone from the weird foreign shores of dear old Britain and sadly still resides in our neighborhood.
Regardless, “I before E except after C” is one pneumonic device that never never helped me. Perhaps its complexity (I was taught a later version that said, “…or when sounded like a as in neighbor or weigh; and except seize and seizure and also leisure, weird, height, and either, forfeit, and neither.”), perhaps it was its confusing state (The Exceptions! ), or perhaps it was because of my general lack of grasp of grammar and sentence structure, but it NEVER helped me. I can’t imagine one time that little device made me understand more of what I was trying to convey to the page.
So, good riddance archaic rule! Albeit even if it is only gone from the weird foreign shores of dear old Britain and sadly still resides in our neighborhood.
Monday, June 1, 2009
A Year Older, A Minute Wiser
For my twenty-fourth birthday.
I asked for nothing.
I went to a marathon six hours of theatre.
I ate Thai food.
I aged in a big jumping way.
And now, I am 24. Its not an important age, as most agree age loses its importance once the big ones have passed: 16, 18, 21. Now you are just living it, barreling into the vast caged future that is adulthood.
After everything that has gone on in the last year (23 was quite eventful), I don't know what to expect for this next year. I don't even know what I want to occur.
Twenty-three was a whirlwind of moving, of indecisiveness, of trying to find a hold for the future. I thought it would be a year of big choices and firm decisions. I suppose I was half right. Though I can't help but evoke a Kerouac quote when I think of the last year: "I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars."
That was 23. Here's to 24.
I asked for nothing.
I went to a marathon six hours of theatre.
I ate Thai food.
I aged in a big jumping way.
And now, I am 24. Its not an important age, as most agree age loses its importance once the big ones have passed: 16, 18, 21. Now you are just living it, barreling into the vast caged future that is adulthood.
After everything that has gone on in the last year (23 was quite eventful), I don't know what to expect for this next year. I don't even know what I want to occur.
Twenty-three was a whirlwind of moving, of indecisiveness, of trying to find a hold for the future. I thought it would be a year of big choices and firm decisions. I suppose I was half right. Though I can't help but evoke a Kerouac quote when I think of the last year: "I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars."
That was 23. Here's to 24.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I'll Just Sit with You for a Little While
“Rest easy, sleep well my brothers.
Know the line has held, your job is done.
Rest easy, sleep well.
Others have taken up where you fell,
the line has held.
Peace, peace, and farewell...”
Know the line has held, your job is done.
Rest easy, sleep well.
Others have taken up where you fell,
the line has held.
Peace, peace, and farewell...”
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Cleaning Dream
I had another odd dream last night, not necessarily odd in its content, but odd in the fact that I once again started doing things while still asleep.
This one at 4 AM made it seem necessary that I clean my room--tidy tidy. I don't remember why or anything that was happening in my dream but I awoke as I was sorting out papers into the trash can.
I saw I had picked up all of my books from around my bed (about nine books that I've wanted to start or started or re-started or half-way finished or fully finished but want to linger over for a bit longer) and had beautifully stacked them in descending size on the chair next to my bed. I suppose this is good as the likes of Homer, Fitzgerald and Widler don't belong on the floor, constantly underfoot like some gentleman's magazine at a house of ill repute.
Today I found my "saved papers" on my dresser, half way across the room. They were all papers of importance or with notes on them. Surprising I was able to make cognitive decisions and still remain asleep. Hmm...maybe I can use this talent. Must look into that.
This one at 4 AM made it seem necessary that I clean my room--tidy tidy. I don't remember why or anything that was happening in my dream but I awoke as I was sorting out papers into the trash can.
I saw I had picked up all of my books from around my bed (about nine books that I've wanted to start or started or re-started or half-way finished or fully finished but want to linger over for a bit longer) and had beautifully stacked them in descending size on the chair next to my bed. I suppose this is good as the likes of Homer, Fitzgerald and Widler don't belong on the floor, constantly underfoot like some gentleman's magazine at a house of ill repute.
Today I found my "saved papers" on my dresser, half way across the room. They were all papers of importance or with notes on them. Surprising I was able to make cognitive decisions and still remain asleep. Hmm...maybe I can use this talent. Must look into that.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Moving Forward, Moving Backward
I've been trying to keep up with my New York City people.
Perhaps even more difficult than with Chicago people, as Chicago friends had for the most part years of relationship history to step off with. I also left Chicago with a bit of a spring in my step. I imagined that everything would be better in New York. I thought I was off on another great adventure just like when I left Garland originally. When I left New York, I was retreating back to a safe place.
In the days following, in the first few weeks, I eagerly awaited every phone call, e-mail, every Facebook comment. I desired them to come more frequently, with more passion, with more urgency. I wanted them immediately. I needed them. And when they came—if they came—they were never enough, never enough emotions or telling or anything. I wanted to know them with the same intensity that I did when we sat next to each other on the couch, at the bar, in the lunch room. I wanted to know them in the way we knew each other as fellow people living in New York City, not as the girl in the rags looking in the window on the family eating a large a luxurious turkey dinner.
And it pains me when they don’t understand what those extra few moments, or days, or weeks, between responses mean to me. I want them to know my need. I need them to know my need. I want them to constantly stretch their hand to mine. I want them to yearn in the painful manner I feel. I want them to thrash and have horrid dreams and utter loneliness. I want their life to be as drastically different as my life has become, so that we can mourn together over the change, over the misery, over the utter need to have them nearly you, over the need for communication.
But that’s the final clue. Their life isn’t drastically different. They still wake up at the same time. They still take the R to the A and zoom to work. They still drink at the Dram Shop and watch Lost. They still walk over a gangway to get to work. They love and fuck and talk and dance and work and dream, all the same. The difference?
The lack of me.
And not to be self-deprecating, but that’s not much.
While they still complete those tasks above, I do not follow any of them. While they had everything the same, save me, nothing was the same for me, save (I thought hopefully) them.
Suddenly I was unemployed living with my parents in a city I hadn’t lived in in six years. I was driving again. I was going to unfamiliar places and doing unfamiliar things constantly. I was living in an alien world, drastically wanting for a familiar foothold to arise so that I could keep myself alive.
So I looked backwards. I looked back to New York for a constant. A constant that would cement the months I lived there in reality and make my current reality (an absurd mix of new and old) something with more breathable air. Something I could look at and assess and move on into. As I left New York behind, I needed to know that it would still be there with the same structures and life and people that I cohabitated with before I departed.
This looking backwards, this desire made those phone calls that much more important. And it made me that much angrier when those left behind did not reciprocate. They did not understand the urging and fear I was feeling. They did not comprehend the dire need I had for a link back. For a constant. They didn’t need a constant. Their lives were constant.
Their lives = the same - Me.
This is the inevitable problem with leaving like I did, with a smudge of woe and a distinct look backwards. Had I triumphantly marched into the distance, I think I would have wanted to keep in touch with those left behind because I wanted to still have them in my life, not because I needed their presence.
It’s abating now. The realization of the innate changes in the dynamic of our relationships (and perhaps the notion that the those left behind have no idea of the vapid wasteland I am sometimes part of) made it easier to calm. But its still there looming in the corner, an ever-present search and miss. A yearning that will not fully ever subside. The water stain the hides under the carpet after all of the flood has subsided.
A step forward,
a look backward,
an inverted fall,
a climb back up
and continuing on.
And a crazed need to be connected to what was.
Perhaps even more difficult than with Chicago people, as Chicago friends had for the most part years of relationship history to step off with. I also left Chicago with a bit of a spring in my step. I imagined that everything would be better in New York. I thought I was off on another great adventure just like when I left Garland originally. When I left New York, I was retreating back to a safe place.
In the days following, in the first few weeks, I eagerly awaited every phone call, e-mail, every Facebook comment. I desired them to come more frequently, with more passion, with more urgency. I wanted them immediately. I needed them. And when they came—if they came—they were never enough, never enough emotions or telling or anything. I wanted to know them with the same intensity that I did when we sat next to each other on the couch, at the bar, in the lunch room. I wanted to know them in the way we knew each other as fellow people living in New York City, not as the girl in the rags looking in the window on the family eating a large a luxurious turkey dinner.
And it pains me when they don’t understand what those extra few moments, or days, or weeks, between responses mean to me. I want them to know my need. I need them to know my need. I want them to constantly stretch their hand to mine. I want them to yearn in the painful manner I feel. I want them to thrash and have horrid dreams and utter loneliness. I want their life to be as drastically different as my life has become, so that we can mourn together over the change, over the misery, over the utter need to have them nearly you, over the need for communication.
But that’s the final clue. Their life isn’t drastically different. They still wake up at the same time. They still take the R to the A and zoom to work. They still drink at the Dram Shop and watch Lost. They still walk over a gangway to get to work. They love and fuck and talk and dance and work and dream, all the same. The difference?
The lack of me.
And not to be self-deprecating, but that’s not much.
While they still complete those tasks above, I do not follow any of them. While they had everything the same, save me, nothing was the same for me, save (I thought hopefully) them.
Suddenly I was unemployed living with my parents in a city I hadn’t lived in in six years. I was driving again. I was going to unfamiliar places and doing unfamiliar things constantly. I was living in an alien world, drastically wanting for a familiar foothold to arise so that I could keep myself alive.
So I looked backwards. I looked back to New York for a constant. A constant that would cement the months I lived there in reality and make my current reality (an absurd mix of new and old) something with more breathable air. Something I could look at and assess and move on into. As I left New York behind, I needed to know that it would still be there with the same structures and life and people that I cohabitated with before I departed.
This looking backwards, this desire made those phone calls that much more important. And it made me that much angrier when those left behind did not reciprocate. They did not understand the urging and fear I was feeling. They did not comprehend the dire need I had for a link back. For a constant. They didn’t need a constant. Their lives were constant.
Their lives = the same - Me.
This is the inevitable problem with leaving like I did, with a smudge of woe and a distinct look backwards. Had I triumphantly marched into the distance, I think I would have wanted to keep in touch with those left behind because I wanted to still have them in my life, not because I needed their presence.
It’s abating now. The realization of the innate changes in the dynamic of our relationships (and perhaps the notion that the those left behind have no idea of the vapid wasteland I am sometimes part of) made it easier to calm. But its still there looming in the corner, an ever-present search and miss. A yearning that will not fully ever subside. The water stain the hides under the carpet after all of the flood has subsided.
A step forward,
a look backward,
an inverted fall,
a climb back up
and continuing on.
And a crazed need to be connected to what was.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
A Comment on the Street
Yesterday, when I was getting into my car at my parents house, one of the original neighbors* on our street was nearby and he hollered at me, "Didn't think we'd ever see you back!" I kinda smiled, and nodded at him. I've never really spoken to him for anything beyond a greeting. I got into my car and felt exposed and violated.
I don't know what bothered me the most, that he said it* or that it was true.
I wonder what his smiling face would have changed to if I'd said, "Yeah. Me neither."
Hmm.
*If you've ever been to my house, I point out his house on the tour of our street. He is a strange man with an immaculate yard that he works on every single day. He was also shot by his live-in girlfriend, who then called the police to tell them what she did. The police came and shot her to death since she was wandering the street with a gun. Her blood stains was on my friend's sidewalk for weeks. This all happened one year I was at Girl Scout camp.
I don't know what bothered me the most, that he said it* or that it was true.
I wonder what his smiling face would have changed to if I'd said, "Yeah. Me neither."
Hmm.
*If you've ever been to my house, I point out his house on the tour of our street. He is a strange man with an immaculate yard that he works on every single day. He was also shot by his live-in girlfriend, who then called the police to tell them what she did. The police came and shot her to death since she was wandering the street with a gun. Her blood stains was on my friend's sidewalk for weeks. This all happened one year I was at Girl Scout camp.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Saving Dream
So for the last few nights I’ve been having nightmares. Not particularly horrid ones but just ones that make it nearly impossible to sleep. The ones that you wake up afterward not scared but serverly confused and/or angry. I never remember much of them, but I do remember the uncomfortableness of them all. This was probably the most absurd one.
I was in my bedroom—with all the mess and darkness. 100% realistic looking. I was in bed. Next to me, near my closet was a man and woman, they were fighting. Vicious punches and tearing at each other. There is no clear winner. They are just fighting. I didn’t do anything. I just watched. They weren’t hurting anything in the room (which is impossible as there isn’t room to swing a cat in there). They were just beating each other. Then he picks her up and holds her up high and shoves her to the ceiling. She instantly is unconscious and her dress begins to get wrapped up in the ceiling fan. She is going to die from this. I know this. Despite being the person who caused this, the man starts to try and save her and pull her down but she is very twisted in the fan. Her limp arm drops down from the fan with a billow of white chiffon fluttering behind it. I jump out of bed and rush to pull her down, to save her from the fan that will chop her unconscious self up and kill her. I reach and grab to set her free from the dress.
I wake up standing in the middle of my room, my hands are smarting, knuckles slightly bleeding and covered in dust. My bedsheet and blanket are completely wrapped around my feet and all I can think about is “Where is the woman? Did she die?” It was then that I realize that I am awake. The woman was a part of a dream and that I just jumped out of bed and stuck my hands into a moving fan. A MOVING FAN!
Sigh.
I told my dad this and he laughed. "Welcome to adulthood," he said and then he laughed some more, "A moving fan..."
I was in my bedroom—with all the mess and darkness. 100% realistic looking. I was in bed. Next to me, near my closet was a man and woman, they were fighting. Vicious punches and tearing at each other. There is no clear winner. They are just fighting. I didn’t do anything. I just watched. They weren’t hurting anything in the room (which is impossible as there isn’t room to swing a cat in there). They were just beating each other. Then he picks her up and holds her up high and shoves her to the ceiling. She instantly is unconscious and her dress begins to get wrapped up in the ceiling fan. She is going to die from this. I know this. Despite being the person who caused this, the man starts to try and save her and pull her down but she is very twisted in the fan. Her limp arm drops down from the fan with a billow of white chiffon fluttering behind it. I jump out of bed and rush to pull her down, to save her from the fan that will chop her unconscious self up and kill her. I reach and grab to set her free from the dress.
I wake up standing in the middle of my room, my hands are smarting, knuckles slightly bleeding and covered in dust. My bedsheet and blanket are completely wrapped around my feet and all I can think about is “Where is the woman? Did she die?” It was then that I realize that I am awake. The woman was a part of a dream and that I just jumped out of bed and stuck my hands into a moving fan. A MOVING FAN!
Sigh.
I told my dad this and he laughed. "Welcome to adulthood," he said and then he laughed some more, "A moving fan..."
Sunday, April 26, 2009
First Differences
The bridges are short in Dallas. Concrete pilings laid down in manmade lakes where trees still reside though don't live. It is flat and that's okay but short, which may not be. I haven't decided yet. The roads are long, wide, expansive. A commute of forty-five minutes takes you much further than from Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn to Hell's Kitchen, 7.3 miles.
Wake up from a dead hard sleep at six AM on the nose (seven AM EST) to pee. The window is open in the bathroom. The small high window is always open in the bathroom. I hear a whippoorwill crying out its morning proclamation--or rather I hear the familiar call of a bird that I've always imagined was a whippoorwill because of its noise. It is answered by a mockingbird. The call and response strives to a solid minute of sound. And then, more noises, more birds, more songs. Finches, cardinals, chickadees, blue jays, all thrown back at the mockingbird, a cacophany of morning joy. The rare car drove up the street behind the house, but that didn't deter anything, they kept calling our welcoming the sun.
Wake up from a dead hard sleep at six AM on the nose (seven AM EST) to pee. The window is open in the bathroom. The small high window is always open in the bathroom. I hear a whippoorwill crying out its morning proclamation--or rather I hear the familiar call of a bird that I've always imagined was a whippoorwill because of its noise. It is answered by a mockingbird. The call and response strives to a solid minute of sound. And then, more noises, more birds, more songs. Finches, cardinals, chickadees, blue jays, all thrown back at the mockingbird, a cacophany of morning joy. The rare car drove up the street behind the house, but that didn't deter anything, they kept calling our welcoming the sun.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
One Last Look Back
The driver of the “Happy Cab” (7th Avenue Car Service) could tell I was leaving Brooklyn. I don’t know if it was the amount of luggage—4 suitcases and a sewing machine for only three people--or if we had mentioned it casually as we drove up the BQE, three sandwiched in the back. My head kept resting on my sister’s shoulder, a common comfortable place. It was warm in the car, but a good warm. There was a chill outside. The chill that only exists in the mornings on those spring harkening days. It burns off fast once the sun's up but in the morning needs a bit of heat and a jacket to drive it out of you.
The driver—an old Brooklyn man weather in his face and voice, silver-gray hair poking out of his Mets cap—was playing Chet Baker, a perfect morning, mourning tune. He said how he never got Baker albums when he sang on them, “Made that mistake once.”
I said, “Jazz doesn’t need words.” He agreed. We drove on. There was no traffic. No nothing. A smooth stop-less ride up the East River into Queens—words that I wouldn’t have been able to picture seven months prior.
We dropped Petra and Eric off first. And then as we swung around to Terminal C, he asked me.
“You leaving Brooklyn?”
“Yeah…Been here seven months…”
“You’ll miss it…”
“I think I will…”
“It gets in your blood.”
He paused. He is filled with Brooklyn. Its in not in his blood, it is his blood—Prospect Park and 7th Ave. Bay Ridge. Gowanus. Down to Brighton Beach up to Green Point. It surges through ever little capillary and artery surging him to life. His gratey voice tells me “Here we are” and I climb out.” He opens the back door opposite me and checks the back seat for anything left behind. I check it too. He nods at me through the car—each of us on one side highlighted by the morning light.
We unpack the trunk, “suitcase, sewing machine, this thing.” And he pauses—and I don’t know if it is because he sees it in my face or felt it in my voice or was aware of the waves of regret and woe and fear pouring off of me—but he tells me—looking me square in the eyes:
“You’ll be back.”
The driver—an old Brooklyn man weather in his face and voice, silver-gray hair poking out of his Mets cap—was playing Chet Baker, a perfect morning, mourning tune. He said how he never got Baker albums when he sang on them, “Made that mistake once.”
I said, “Jazz doesn’t need words.” He agreed. We drove on. There was no traffic. No nothing. A smooth stop-less ride up the East River into Queens—words that I wouldn’t have been able to picture seven months prior.
We dropped Petra and Eric off first. And then as we swung around to Terminal C, he asked me.
“You leaving Brooklyn?”
“Yeah…Been here seven months…”
“You’ll miss it…”
“I think I will…”
“It gets in your blood.”
He paused. He is filled with Brooklyn. Its in not in his blood, it is his blood—Prospect Park and 7th Ave. Bay Ridge. Gowanus. Down to Brighton Beach up to Green Point. It surges through ever little capillary and artery surging him to life. His gratey voice tells me “Here we are” and I climb out.” He opens the back door opposite me and checks the back seat for anything left behind. I check it too. He nods at me through the car—each of us on one side highlighted by the morning light.
We unpack the trunk, “suitcase, sewing machine, this thing.” And he pauses—and I don’t know if it is because he sees it in my face or felt it in my voice or was aware of the waves of regret and woe and fear pouring off of me—but he tells me—looking me square in the eyes:
“You’ll be back.”
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Beginning of the Beginning
I decided to leave New York for many reasons.
Many reasons that aren't too interesting to re-hash. The fact is I left. I left and am now after six years I am returning to my old home.
I never left my Texas pride behind but, I think I felt more pride in the fact that I escaped, that I fled and did something not inside the restrictive walls of the Southern establishment. I still raucously defended Texas and the South and would actively argue with people who said they "were afraid to go down there," but I saw myself as a lucky one. And I suppose I still do. I take much joy in the fact that I lived in big cities without cars for six years, the fact that I lived a way of life completely and utterly alien to anything that I had known before it. I know that I am a better person for it--and I know that it kinda makes me a snob. And, snobbish still, I don't care, because I am so certain in its truth.
So returning feels more than anything like a defeat. A retreat. Being pulled back into the life that I so desperately (and seemingly successfully) cut away from. I never imagined myself coming back. For my sister, it has always been in the back of her mind, in her eventual plan. But for me? No. I said the same thing about Chicago when I was living there—the same thing was true. Perhaps even more bizarre for a I was never quite sure where the exact location of Chicago was until I got accepted into a school there. I have always known where Dallas is.
In August 2003 I left.
In April 2009 I returned.
And now I write about it.
Many reasons that aren't too interesting to re-hash. The fact is I left. I left and am now after six years I am returning to my old home.
I never left my Texas pride behind but, I think I felt more pride in the fact that I escaped, that I fled and did something not inside the restrictive walls of the Southern establishment. I still raucously defended Texas and the South and would actively argue with people who said they "were afraid to go down there," but I saw myself as a lucky one. And I suppose I still do. I take much joy in the fact that I lived in big cities without cars for six years, the fact that I lived a way of life completely and utterly alien to anything that I had known before it. I know that I am a better person for it--and I know that it kinda makes me a snob. And, snobbish still, I don't care, because I am so certain in its truth.
So returning feels more than anything like a defeat. A retreat. Being pulled back into the life that I so desperately (and seemingly successfully) cut away from. I never imagined myself coming back. For my sister, it has always been in the back of her mind, in her eventual plan. But for me? No. I said the same thing about Chicago when I was living there—the same thing was true. Perhaps even more bizarre for a I was never quite sure where the exact location of Chicago was until I got accepted into a school there. I have always known where Dallas is.
In August 2003 I left.
In April 2009 I returned.
And now I write about it.
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