i haven't had my birdcage rattled like this in such a long time. this song...this songwriter, cracked open my skull and ice cream-scooped its contents in an embarrassing, exposed heap (and if there is ANY kind of poetic synchronicity in the world, the lyrics are scribbled on the back of a napkin or diner menu ringed with water glass stains). now, i KNOW that i said that interpreting song lyrics is like pinning the butterfly to the board. i still believe that. therefore, i'm posting the lyrics here, and everyone may simply enjoy the words themselves with no interference from me; however, these words rumble so familiarly around my skull and chest cavity lately so...
What'll I do if you never want to come back,
Sitting in a city that is always on the attack?
What'll I do if you never want me back?
Come with me come back we'll live again.
And what if I'm only satisfied when I'm at home,
Sitting in a city that'll never let me go?
What if I'm only satisfied when I'm at home?
What'll I do if you never find me again,
Sitting in a Province a million miles from my friends?
What'll I do if you never want me again?
Come with me come back we'll live again.
Late at night
Sync your hearbeat to mine
I will never try
To forget your northern lights.
so there's this guy, right? and he's got this flower, but he doesn't know if he should keep her. if he lets her go, she may set roots somewhere else. the gypsy runs through her blood, you see. there is always that risk when you pull the petals off the daisy, that number may be even..she loves you not. if he asks her to stay, she may get roots with him, but may turn into a dandelion--yes, the roots are stuck fast, but the seeds disappear at the first sign of a breeze, so she's not really there, is she? if he tries to go with her, he loses his own roots. what if he isn't able to grow any new ones? the same breeze that carried the two of them together will lift him and toss him into the road, only to be crushed by the traffic.
and the girl? she walks on a tightrope, stomach-churningly high above. on one side of the rope, she trembles over still water. on the other, she dangles over a pane of glass. from that elevation, the two look exactly the same--dark and clear. either way, she's going to fall eventually. if she chooses correctly, her reward is exhilaration and a soft landing. if not...
the first signs of fall (hmmm...i wonder if that is an important detail?) have begun sneaking up on me. my cat chased a fly today, fattened by summer and made sluggish by summer's waning. i am terribly aware that my time here is waning, too. the steps across the highwire begin to EASE slowly, if only to postpone the need to pick a side and jump.
today's word of the day is PERFERVIDITY
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
i might never catch a mouse and present it in my mouth to make you feel you're with someone who deserves to be with you...
dear big milk crate full of books,
we need to have a talk. now, i know what you're going to say. please don't. just...just...don't. it's not you, it's me. it's nothing you did. in fact, you were everything i could have dreamed of and more.
yes, you relocated my center of gravity every time you told a really good story. yes, you provided me with the armor and the weapons to defend myself every time someone called me "ugly". to this day, i never get to be the PRETTIEST girl in the room, but i quite often get to be the SMARTEST.
you also provided the ballast to stabilize my trembling car (it was probably as scared as i was) when i amelia earhart-ed my way from ohio to california. you steadied my bed when the faux-wood claw foot broke off the bottom. i sleepwalk anyway, and didn't need a downward slope to help the process. you elevated my photographs and flattened out my wrinkled papers. sometimes, you acted as tables, footrests, and even chairs. for each of these things, i love you.
...but it's so much more than that. you pressed the moisture out of every flower of any significance so that i could keep it forever. you allowed me to scribble and annotate on your pages so that i could help define MYSELF through the words of others, and never once complained about the disrespect. you provided a safe distance from which to confess my deepest affections to others in the form of books i gave as gifts. for that, i owe you.
i KNOW you have put up with a lot from me. you have absorbed too much smoke from sitting in countless bus stations, bars, and coffee shops because i wanted to be out, but didn't want to have to TALK to anyone. sometimes you acted as the world's best wing man when i actually wanted to talk to others, because the right book title held at jusssssssst the right angle does wonders for a girl's intellectual complexion. for that, you are irreplaceable.
this is why i'm breaking up with you (no, no, don't cry. it's going to be okay.) i'm not some hugh hefner-esque reader, trading you in for younger, prettier, newer books. in fact, it is BECAUSE you are so pretty that we need to split up. you deserve to be loved more than i can love you. you deserve to have your pages dog-eared, then reread and revisited time and again. you deserve to have your cover turned so often that the glue binding your pages together starts to disintegrate. you deserve to inhale the ghosts of flashlight hours under bedcovers because the stories are too good to acknowledge "bedtime". i've heard the cliche that "if you love something, set it free." instead i believe that because i love something, i shall find someone to make it happier than i do.
i promise that when i see you in the hands of another reader, i'll smile to myself. remember that i'll always love you.
...now, go enchant someone new.
love,
patricia
p.s. just for you, today's word of the day is palimpsest.
we need to have a talk. now, i know what you're going to say. please don't. just...just...don't. it's not you, it's me. it's nothing you did. in fact, you were everything i could have dreamed of and more.
yes, you relocated my center of gravity every time you told a really good story. yes, you provided me with the armor and the weapons to defend myself every time someone called me "ugly". to this day, i never get to be the PRETTIEST girl in the room, but i quite often get to be the SMARTEST.
you also provided the ballast to stabilize my trembling car (it was probably as scared as i was) when i amelia earhart-ed my way from ohio to california. you steadied my bed when the faux-wood claw foot broke off the bottom. i sleepwalk anyway, and didn't need a downward slope to help the process. you elevated my photographs and flattened out my wrinkled papers. sometimes, you acted as tables, footrests, and even chairs. for each of these things, i love you.
...but it's so much more than that. you pressed the moisture out of every flower of any significance so that i could keep it forever. you allowed me to scribble and annotate on your pages so that i could help define MYSELF through the words of others, and never once complained about the disrespect. you provided a safe distance from which to confess my deepest affections to others in the form of books i gave as gifts. for that, i owe you.
i KNOW you have put up with a lot from me. you have absorbed too much smoke from sitting in countless bus stations, bars, and coffee shops because i wanted to be out, but didn't want to have to TALK to anyone. sometimes you acted as the world's best wing man when i actually wanted to talk to others, because the right book title held at jusssssssst the right angle does wonders for a girl's intellectual complexion. for that, you are irreplaceable.
this is why i'm breaking up with you (no, no, don't cry. it's going to be okay.) i'm not some hugh hefner-esque reader, trading you in for younger, prettier, newer books. in fact, it is BECAUSE you are so pretty that we need to split up. you deserve to be loved more than i can love you. you deserve to have your pages dog-eared, then reread and revisited time and again. you deserve to have your cover turned so often that the glue binding your pages together starts to disintegrate. you deserve to inhale the ghosts of flashlight hours under bedcovers because the stories are too good to acknowledge "bedtime". i've heard the cliche that "if you love something, set it free." instead i believe that because i love something, i shall find someone to make it happier than i do.
i promise that when i see you in the hands of another reader, i'll smile to myself. remember that i'll always love you.
...now, go enchant someone new.
love,
patricia
p.s. just for you, today's word of the day is palimpsest.
Monday, July 26, 2010
the reason my molars are so broken is i spend too much time ghosting with the likes of you and yours...
i said it's like magic, but better than magic. it's like taking the magician's hat and upending it on the table, spilling wand, deck of cards, even the BUNNY onto the table. it's like seeing everything that goes into magic. hmmm...of course, figuring out how the magic tricks work takes, well, the MAGIC out of them. i guess it's not like that at all.
wait.
i'm explaining this wrong. my forehead is making that little "w"-shaped wrinkle that it does every time i scrunch my eyebrows together because i'm saying it wrong. let me try again.
i talked about the perfect combination of senses--sight, sound, smell, even touch and taste--accompanied by the right company and the inexplicable joy...these things all go into the best concert experiences. when it is JUSSSSSSSSSSSST right, it provides the same wonder you get when you still get to believe that magic tricks are REAL.
so i went to see freelance whales on saturday. they opened for some other band (name, unimportant...fully satisfied, i left after freelance whales played.) that combination of the senses seemed to take all gravity out of the room. delicious.
the stage rose a mere half a foot the floor, putting the band just high enough that you can differentiate them from the crowd, yet keep them close enough to give them...concreteness? tangibility? either way, i could see them without having to strain my neck upwards. the physical act of LOOKING, like the abstract act of ENJOYING became effortless. what else did i see? i have written about the problem of live music, tied closely to the narcissistic dilemma we call "the lead singer", when the mewling, grasping need for attention drives the performance, and each band member takes turns being the baby grabbing and clinging. none of that here. they switched instruments, the changed places on stage, they searched each others' faces for the non-verbal cues that led them into, through, and out of each song in tandem. it felt like walking through the halls in your own house at night, not needing to turn on the lights because you know and love the path so well. what struck me the most visually, (and i DO mean struck...my chest caved in at the sight) was the look of absolute devotion to the process of playing the music. there was no detachment of cool between audience and performer. each face radiated the joy that can only come when one is completely spent by the act of creation. THAT kind of bliss...THAT happens with musicians rather than performers. i hope it was mirrored back to them on the faces of the audience. i know it was certainly on my face.
but the visual was not the only delighted sense in my arsenal...ohhhhhhh no. the music climbed and snaked and spiraled out of each instrument, seemingly reproducing exponentially to the point that, were i to shut my eyes, i would SWEAR that a whole orchestra had invaded the stage. layers upon layers upon layers of sound swarmed richly and warmly around the whole audience. add to that the fact that i was standing in front of...ummm...amp? speaker? jeff said it was called a woofer, and who am i to argue? i placed one hand on the front of it and one hand on the top, and was delighted to find my fingernails resonating its sounds hours later...i've never felt a tactile echo before. yum.
now, i always internally mock people who listen to "the work" either on the way to, or the way from "the work", but laughed to myself when the cd changer in the car read my thoughts and played their album, "weathervanes"...not because the show had made the songs come alive for me, but, rather, because the album allowed me to relive the show even as we sped away from it.
...and don't even get me STARTED on the lyrics. to analyze them here is to pin the butterfly to the board for inspection--yes, you can see it better, but it dies in the process. go and see it for yourself...live.
for my students, the word of the day is euphonious...
wait.
i'm explaining this wrong. my forehead is making that little "w"-shaped wrinkle that it does every time i scrunch my eyebrows together because i'm saying it wrong. let me try again.
i talked about the perfect combination of senses--sight, sound, smell, even touch and taste--accompanied by the right company and the inexplicable joy...these things all go into the best concert experiences. when it is JUSSSSSSSSSSSST right, it provides the same wonder you get when you still get to believe that magic tricks are REAL.
so i went to see freelance whales on saturday. they opened for some other band (name, unimportant...fully satisfied, i left after freelance whales played.) that combination of the senses seemed to take all gravity out of the room. delicious.
the stage rose a mere half a foot the floor, putting the band just high enough that you can differentiate them from the crowd, yet keep them close enough to give them...concreteness? tangibility? either way, i could see them without having to strain my neck upwards. the physical act of LOOKING, like the abstract act of ENJOYING became effortless. what else did i see? i have written about the problem of live music, tied closely to the narcissistic dilemma we call "the lead singer", when the mewling, grasping need for attention drives the performance, and each band member takes turns being the baby grabbing and clinging. none of that here. they switched instruments, the changed places on stage, they searched each others' faces for the non-verbal cues that led them into, through, and out of each song in tandem. it felt like walking through the halls in your own house at night, not needing to turn on the lights because you know and love the path so well. what struck me the most visually, (and i DO mean struck...my chest caved in at the sight) was the look of absolute devotion to the process of playing the music. there was no detachment of cool between audience and performer. each face radiated the joy that can only come when one is completely spent by the act of creation. THAT kind of bliss...THAT happens with musicians rather than performers. i hope it was mirrored back to them on the faces of the audience. i know it was certainly on my face.
but the visual was not the only delighted sense in my arsenal...ohhhhhhh no. the music climbed and snaked and spiraled out of each instrument, seemingly reproducing exponentially to the point that, were i to shut my eyes, i would SWEAR that a whole orchestra had invaded the stage. layers upon layers upon layers of sound swarmed richly and warmly around the whole audience. add to that the fact that i was standing in front of...ummm...amp? speaker? jeff said it was called a woofer, and who am i to argue? i placed one hand on the front of it and one hand on the top, and was delighted to find my fingernails resonating its sounds hours later...i've never felt a tactile echo before. yum.
now, i always internally mock people who listen to "the work" either on the way to, or the way from "the work", but laughed to myself when the cd changer in the car read my thoughts and played their album, "weathervanes"...not because the show had made the songs come alive for me, but, rather, because the album allowed me to relive the show even as we sped away from it.
...and don't even get me STARTED on the lyrics. to analyze them here is to pin the butterfly to the board for inspection--yes, you can see it better, but it dies in the process. go and see it for yourself...live.
for my students, the word of the day is euphonious...
only god says "jump" so i'll set the time, 'cause if he ever saw it was through these eyes of mine. if he ever suffered it was me who did his crying
i'm tired. it's late, and the day is over. i made it through, but i'm tired. walking up the stairs from the basement, i let slip the armor i have been wearing all day, strong and rigid, like i'm braced and waiting for a slap. as each metaphorical piece fell, it made in imaginary clang, until i had exposed the fragile, fleshy parts it had been protecting. the armor came complete with smile-to-the-eyes (more believable that way), and a convincing laugh. the armor carried the smell of an old medical bag, the feeling of a sweater five sizes too big, and sound of an old rolling stones song.
not surprisingly, he is still gone. not surprisingly, only two people remembered and gave me warm verbal arms to add to the chainmail i was wearing. it helped. i shall collect the hugs in person, once i get the chance.
16 years, to the day. here are some snapshots:
...sitting in dad's lap at age 4 watching a track meet on television. he grabbed my feet and turned me into the world's giggliest marionette as he moved my feet in time with the miniaturized runners on the t.v. sound effects were, of course, in abundance.
...flipping furiously through his monthly surgical journals in a competition to see who could find the grossest picture.
...at his 25th college reunion, i twisted and churned at the IMPOSSIBLE age of 14, while some random kid "was , like, just taaaaaaallllllllking to me!!! (WHIIIIINNNNNNE)". dad leaned drunkenly against a stop sign (almost missing it completely) and failing MISERABLY at sound menacing, asked if, "this young man {was} bothering {me}."
...dad striding quickly through the mall to return a christmas gift i was too old for, but too embarrassed to return for myself as i melted behind him, PRAYING that nobody would see me.
...dad handing me an ice cream cone, and since i am the least graceful girl in the world, both of us grasping to keep it from dropping...crushing the cone in the process. because he always fixed everything, he simply got another empty cone, and dropped the bruised one in. you know what? it tasted just as good.
...dad driving his beautiful, brand new sports car to pick me up from a failed cheerleader tryout. he KNEW i hadn't made it AGAIN, but also knew that practice at failure doesn't make it hurt any less, and he wanted me to "feel cool".
...dad clipping and mailing me an article about the band nirvana, because before i hit puberty, our musical tastes had been identical...and he wanted to hold on to that just a little longer.
...watching old episodes of "the monkees" and catching dad catching a glimpse of ME enjoying something from HIS past. he realized that "the effort to relate" was not going to have to be one-sided, and i think he was relieved.
...his deft and expert hands as he pulled the broken ends of my clavicle into position so they could start repairing immediately. what stopped my wailing was not the ending of the pain but, rather, the confident and matter-of-fact voice in which he told me "everything is going to be okay". it remains my most favorite phrase to hear.
so these are the things i STILL carry in the faded leather satchel i call my memory. these things can never be replaced, and they will never be forgotten because they are what made him mine and ONLY mine.
the last thing to put into the bag before i jump on it, and close it for another year:
...looking into the mirror every day just to be sure that the nose i inherited from him (which i used to curse) hasn't changed an inch. i hope to see the same features on my own children's faces someday.
for obvious reasons, today's word of the day is epiphora.
i miss you. i miss you. i miss you.
not surprisingly, he is still gone. not surprisingly, only two people remembered and gave me warm verbal arms to add to the chainmail i was wearing. it helped. i shall collect the hugs in person, once i get the chance.
16 years, to the day. here are some snapshots:
...sitting in dad's lap at age 4 watching a track meet on television. he grabbed my feet and turned me into the world's giggliest marionette as he moved my feet in time with the miniaturized runners on the t.v. sound effects were, of course, in abundance.
...flipping furiously through his monthly surgical journals in a competition to see who could find the grossest picture.
...at his 25th college reunion, i twisted and churned at the IMPOSSIBLE age of 14, while some random kid "was , like, just taaaaaaallllllllking to me!!! (WHIIIIINNNNNNE)". dad leaned drunkenly against a stop sign (almost missing it completely) and failing MISERABLY at sound menacing, asked if, "this young man {was} bothering {me}."
...dad striding quickly through the mall to return a christmas gift i was too old for, but too embarrassed to return for myself as i melted behind him, PRAYING that nobody would see me.
...dad handing me an ice cream cone, and since i am the least graceful girl in the world, both of us grasping to keep it from dropping...crushing the cone in the process. because he always fixed everything, he simply got another empty cone, and dropped the bruised one in. you know what? it tasted just as good.
...dad driving his beautiful, brand new sports car to pick me up from a failed cheerleader tryout. he KNEW i hadn't made it AGAIN, but also knew that practice at failure doesn't make it hurt any less, and he wanted me to "feel cool".
...dad clipping and mailing me an article about the band nirvana, because before i hit puberty, our musical tastes had been identical...and he wanted to hold on to that just a little longer.
...watching old episodes of "the monkees" and catching dad catching a glimpse of ME enjoying something from HIS past. he realized that "the effort to relate" was not going to have to be one-sided, and i think he was relieved.
...his deft and expert hands as he pulled the broken ends of my clavicle into position so they could start repairing immediately. what stopped my wailing was not the ending of the pain but, rather, the confident and matter-of-fact voice in which he told me "everything is going to be okay". it remains my most favorite phrase to hear.
so these are the things i STILL carry in the faded leather satchel i call my memory. these things can never be replaced, and they will never be forgotten because they are what made him mine and ONLY mine.
the last thing to put into the bag before i jump on it, and close it for another year:
...looking into the mirror every day just to be sure that the nose i inherited from him (which i used to curse) hasn't changed an inch. i hope to see the same features on my own children's faces someday.
for obvious reasons, today's word of the day is epiphora.
i miss you. i miss you. i miss you.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
i'll stow away my grays in a padlocked case and in a padlocked room, only to be released when i see you walking around with someone new...
i have a confession to make. ...i walk in my sleep. sometimes i walk AND talk in my sleep. my somnambulism is epic, evidently. friends, roommates, even boyfriends have seen me shuffle past them into a room looking tired, but awake, then complete everyday tasks. i have made my lunch, attempted to clean dishes, and even put clothes away (i guess i am less lazy when i sleep. ironic?) more often than not, however, i think i am reacting to an internal gypsy, and my legs, driven by my subconscious, are trying to fleefleeflee. unfortunately, my apartment is laid out along a straight line, so often, i'll simply stumble from the bedroom, through the living room, and straight out the door. mercifully, i have never been caught sans pajamas. yikes. i've been thinking about the nature of romance lately...usually in a cynical and porcupine-y way. the most romantic thing that's ever been done for me? that's easy. (ahem) there are two days i absolutely CAN NOT handle--anniversaries of the day my father entered the world and the day he left it. on january 21st, 1999 i went to my boyfriend's apartment. stopping me at the door, he led me through the hallway to the stairs that carried us to the roof and into a velvet sky wearing a diamond tiara...breathtaking, really. in a gene kelly-arm sweep, he whisked me to the middle of the roof (right in the center of san francisco). the music was already playing (tom waits-- "little trip to heaven"), and he danced me from one end of the roof to the other, dizzying me with the blurs of white lights he had strung around the chimneys and gutters. once i caught my breath, i asked him why he had done this. gently moving the hairs around my neck, he whispered, "because i knew that today was going to be hard for you...because i knew you would never TELL ME that it was...and because i know you wanted your father to dance with you to this song on your wedding day." swoon. i think that someone may be able to top this...i believe someone WILL be able to transpose my heart and brain better than this. i hope SOMEONE will be able to do the one simple thing that will make the idea of romance more than just an idea i'm able to see with my peripheral vision only, because if i turn my head to look it in the face, it disappears. to make romance solid, tangible, CONCRETE, one need only quiet the whispering in my limbs and the gypsy in my brain that makes me walk in my sleep.
Monday, July 19, 2010
and you must be a masochist to love a modern leper on his last leg...
there it is.
listen carefully.
you may want to put an ear to my chest like you would put your ear to a seashell. shh! shh! listen again...
it is the sound of my heart, dessicated and tinytinytiny. it rattles around my birdcage of ribs when i kick it, which i do often. sometimes it gets treated to a glimpse of the outside world and it flails and squawks with the need to get out. occasionally it DOES escape. A few worthy people have turned around to find it making the most horrific squishing noises as it bounces its way behind them in desperate pursuit. all have been kind enough to return it, though not all have returned it kindly or in good shape. (sidenote: to the person who has it now, please be careful with it, eh? i bare my teensy fangs when i feel threatened.)
sigh.
my most favorite movie (except, of course, for spencer parsons' movie "i'll come running" run, don't walk) is so because it features a realistic ending. the protagonist realizes "the girl" loves him TOO when she comes to stop him from blowing up a building with a grenade. as he is being carted off to jail, he watches her diminish and grow infinitely smaller, until she is no more visible than good judgment was mere minutes ago. as a last romantic gesture, she puts on the eyeglasses he loved her in (ummm...also, undoubtedly because she NEEDS them to see him. ah, l'amour.) but the rub? the rub is, his ass is still being hauled away. he will STILL end up fighting off nightly advances from some guy with four teeth and a homemade tattoo featuring several misspelled words.
now...
this movie affords me two luxuries:
1.) i can maintain my fine perfume of cynicism (we call it "aloof", by calvin klein). i mean, it's ANTI-romantic, right? it's NOT a happy ending. i can use it as a shield, wielding it to block out the radiation of provided by EVERY meg ryan movie ever made. pffft!!
...and yet
2.) i can also glance nervously about to make sure nobody is looking, let the air out of my chest cavity, and then dissolve into the world's longest sssswwwwwooooooooonnnnnnnn; it's a feeling i LOVE, in which gravity goes all wonky and my blood runs backwards. le sigh.
i'm a sucker for good words. they are more delicious than food, softer than the longest nap, and one of the quickest ways to jolt the birdcage and clink-clank my peanut-sized heart awake. so i ask...if you are reading this, what is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you? if you can think of nothing, what is the most romantic thing you have ever done for SOMEONE ELSE? if you still come up empty, come sit down next to me and complain. i'll fix it. if your story is age-appropriate (for i have lots of babies who read), post it here. you may be able to help someone else swoon and not even realize it. if it is NOT age-appropriate, feel free to e-mail it to me. either way, it's time to clatter some birdcages.
today's word of the day is subtilize.
...guilty as charged.
Friday, July 16, 2010
i've got no illusions about you. guess what? i never did. when i said "i'll take it", i meant as is...
lights dim and the camera on the actor's face goes slightly out of focus. key posing of the eyebrows and well-timed music indicate that the character is going on an existential journey, and the unwitting viewer has the choice of either tagging along for the introspection or heading to the snack bar for a different type of self-indulgence (the introspection, however, will never induce a diabetic reaction).
the point, if i were to have one, is that birthdays have a tendency to make people like these celluloid phantoms--existential and ridiculous. i simply cannot do it today. i am too...fizzy, too buoyant, too...too. it is ridiculous and spineless to contemplate with anything but the carbonated heart that i carry with me daily. to attempt to divine some sort of depth by using pretentious melancholy as the rod is a slap in the face to all the grace and charm and...love that the world has seemingly firehosed into my life.
who can argue with the fact that the very first face i got to see today was one of my favorites of all time? that kind of start to any day suggests either a day held aloft by happenstance, or else doomed by the potential for falling. i chose to grab the hands of optimism as it spun me one-two-three-two-two-three-three-two-three-waltzing into the rest of the day.
...i was duly rewarded.
i waltzed into a delicious lunch, spun dizzily back to my mother, and chiseled open my skull and poured the contents into my sketchbook (shaking off rust from fingers and pencils as i did so). exhausted, i gathered my skirts and flounced down in front of my computer...a digital tide of warmth and love buoyed and battered me around in the form of words (my favorite dish) from my past, my present, and my future. i always joke that i can't have children because i already have 165 of them. in each message i could hear their voices, like memories trapped in jars to e-e-e-e-e-e-ase open when i need reminding why i teach.
i spent some time considering my future; after deliberation and agonizing i signed the contract to pull me back west, fueled by tendrils of words timidly sent by my students. at the same time, some of the same timid sort of vines snaked their way around an ankle to pull my roots into the ground and make me stay here, and i have realized that complaining about the "dilemma" (as usual, the quotes are purely facetious) is stupid, stupid, stupid. honestly, bitching about having to choose between two situations i would love is like moaning that there isn't enough room in my wallet for my miiiiiilllllllliiiooooooonnnnsss of dollars. pfffft.
the day has also been tinged with a little sadness--my twin brother is not here. he has always provided a buffer so that the itchy, twitch-inducing spotlight doesn't focus only on me. more than that, he has grown into the kind of human being i always tell my friends i wish i could surround myself with. though he didn't make it home, i got to end my day talking to him (and some other of my favorite faces).
so now...the sky is cotton-candy pinking; the late-night spiders, full and fat, have evacuated their webs for the night; my cat is sleeping in the hollowed-out space behind my ankle; another birthday is over. it's bedtime. sleep is tugging on my eyelid-windowshades. i have wrapped myself in the following words:
"my reaction(s) to what happens I cannot predict. I am adrift, and I don't know if I'm close to home or not"
these words have tucked me in and started the lullaby. goodnight, my lovelies...
for anthony, the word of the day is palladian.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
if i hadn't come down to the coast to disappear, i'd have died in a landslide of rocks and hopes and fears...
so anyone who knows me will tell you that i react to things viscerally. sounds, sights, events, tend to resonate within my chest cavity, clanging loudly off of each adam-borrowed rib until practically detonating my torso.
watch me.
sometimes, these sensations get to be too much, the echoes are too loud, and you see me clasp both hands over my chest to prevent my lungs and heart from escaping. ever see the movie "alien"? the scene in which john hurt flails and thrashes and births an alien out of his chest feels fairly well on the money right now. egad.
as it stands, i need to get this information out so that my heart doesn't erupt out of my chest and go skittering across the table, leaving splattery footprints of blood, terrifying the audience with its contents.
...my father passed away in 1994. since then, my mother joan-of-arc-ed herself some faux chainmail and put on a "brave face", which means her children never had to be afraid each time both handwritings weren't on the birthday cards, and, well, persisted. she took care of a man who was not her father, even though her own father would have enjoyed her company. in doing so, she became seemingly invisible to the vitriol flung at her constantly by my uncle.
ugh.
she maintained a home that still serves as the landing lights for every plane that brings one of her kids home, and doubles as the light that still draws in the moths from our youth, circling, seeking the comfort of her face and voice. she has a way of making, "can i get you something cold to drink?" sound like, "everythingeverythingeverything is going to be okay. you are safe here."
and now? now that she has outlasted all the obligations that clung to the hem of her skirt (including her kids)? she has only one obstacle between her and getting back to her home, and that is the very house she has worked to hard to maintain. it's weird to see pictures of my childhood home in clinical, calculated photos, compartmentalized from chapters in my childhood into "features". everyday, mom gets up, she cleans, tidies, straightens, finesses for a different end this time.
it is not very often that we get to see our parents as autonomous individuals. rather, they are like characters on a movie screen...surely they have no life other than that which they provide for us!
today is mom's birthday, and i am seeing her as a beautiful, brave woman who made her life about giving to other people and taking care of her husband and family, and continued to do so, even after the husband faded to ashes in a box and the family melted into new families.
...today, i am going to make her breakfast. i figure i owe her a couple. for my students, today's word of the day is vestigial. go on...look it up.
watch me.
sometimes, these sensations get to be too much, the echoes are too loud, and you see me clasp both hands over my chest to prevent my lungs and heart from escaping. ever see the movie "alien"? the scene in which john hurt flails and thrashes and births an alien out of his chest feels fairly well on the money right now. egad.
as it stands, i need to get this information out so that my heart doesn't erupt out of my chest and go skittering across the table, leaving splattery footprints of blood, terrifying the audience with its contents.
...my father passed away in 1994. since then, my mother joan-of-arc-ed herself some faux chainmail and put on a "brave face", which means her children never had to be afraid each time both handwritings weren't on the birthday cards, and, well, persisted. she took care of a man who was not her father, even though her own father would have enjoyed her company. in doing so, she became seemingly invisible to the vitriol flung at her constantly by my uncle.
ugh.
she maintained a home that still serves as the landing lights for every plane that brings one of her kids home, and doubles as the light that still draws in the moths from our youth, circling, seeking the comfort of her face and voice. she has a way of making, "can i get you something cold to drink?" sound like, "everythingeverythingeverything is going to be okay. you are safe here."
and now? now that she has outlasted all the obligations that clung to the hem of her skirt (including her kids)? she has only one obstacle between her and getting back to her home, and that is the very house she has worked to hard to maintain. it's weird to see pictures of my childhood home in clinical, calculated photos, compartmentalized from chapters in my childhood into "features". everyday, mom gets up, she cleans, tidies, straightens, finesses for a different end this time.
it is not very often that we get to see our parents as autonomous individuals. rather, they are like characters on a movie screen...surely they have no life other than that which they provide for us!
today is mom's birthday, and i am seeing her as a beautiful, brave woman who made her life about giving to other people and taking care of her husband and family, and continued to do so, even after the husband faded to ashes in a box and the family melted into new families.
...today, i am going to make her breakfast. i figure i owe her a couple. for my students, today's word of the day is vestigial. go on...look it up.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
there's a storm outside, and the gap between crack and thunder is closing in...
now i've done it. i have crowbar-ed sky and ground apart as each fades into its own, separate color, and run right between them. i don't know if i have a need to feel like the only person surviving a michael bay apocalyptic film, or if i am simply terrified that while i run i look like a shambling, shuffling fool...and people will be able to see. either way, i ran later today that i usually do.
my runner friends will understand this. i am still a boiling-over pot of sensation--tactile, olfactory, auditory, visual. today, i turned a corner (actually, i turned several...duh! my runs are rarely in a straight line) in my progress, and the tactile joy was the most immediate sense tugging on my sleeve for attention. any runner can tell you the difference between that feeling where feet are pushed into the ground and legs ache from the lift, and the sense that one's inertia is moving the body along, and the steps are there only to insure that the runner stays tethered to the ground. it's the difference between jogging and running, and when one flips the switch between them, oh, but does it feel good. that sensation is only surpassed by the roll of heel-ball-toes-flight of each step.
remarkable.
the visuals stepped in to knock tactile sensation out of place. i watched a mother cat and two kittens dissolve down the street, looking for a place to spend the night safely. i was treated to the sight of those way-way up concentric circles of spiderwebs between phone lines that one just doesn't get to see when sun-blind. i smiled to myself as i watched my shadow catch, pace, pass me, then grow longer in front of me as i pounded past each streetlight.
not to be outdone by the pretenders to the throne, my closest friends will tell you that my favorite of the five senses is smell (right, nate?) i believe that scents are time machines that can only take you very short distances in the past, and only to places you've actually been. because it is 4th of july weekend, the smell of lighter fluid and charcoal were the ghosts of barbecues recently dead as i ran through memories of cookouts and backyard parties.
it was only sound that kept me focused enough to actually finish (and, evidently, split my infinitives) the run. i use the i-pod james gave me to drown out the sound of my breathing. now that i'm home, i remember the argument romeo and juliet had about the birdcalls they heard as they woke. she, wanting him to stay, pleaded that it was the nightingale, and that there was time left for sleep. he, fearing her family, warned that it was the lark to signal the start of day. right now, i'm siding with juliet and using these bird sounds as a sleep aid. time for bed.
...if you're interested, here is the playlist i use to block out my mini-heart attacks. don't judge me.
1. heartbeats--jose gonzales (a cover of a song by the knife)
2. now this is fun--depeche mode (its own version of a time machine, catapulting me back to senior year track meets)
3. music for a found harmonium--patrick street (if you are not familiar, it is the tune played towards the end of napolean dynamite)
4. young lions--constantines (a rare few of you will know how important this song is to me)
5. breathe in--frou frou
6. fake empire--the national (lyrics, man. it's always the lyrics that get me)
7. space age love song--flock of seagulls (remember what i said about not judging?)
8. in the morning--junior boys (good beat...'nuff said)
9. haiti--arcade fire (anyone for whom i have made a mix in the last five years has heard this song)
10. heartbeats--the knife (see track 1)
11. timebomb--old 97's (used in the movie clay pigeons. best. opening. scene. ever.)
12. down by the water--pj harvey (the music actually undulates in the ear!)
13. fine-james
14. having an average weekend--shadowy men on a shadowy planet (kids in the hall? anyone? anyone?)
15. nemesis--shriekback (only because at this point, i need to siphon fake energy from somewhere).
my runner friends will understand this. i am still a boiling-over pot of sensation--tactile, olfactory, auditory, visual. today, i turned a corner (actually, i turned several...duh! my runs are rarely in a straight line) in my progress, and the tactile joy was the most immediate sense tugging on my sleeve for attention. any runner can tell you the difference between that feeling where feet are pushed into the ground and legs ache from the lift, and the sense that one's inertia is moving the body along, and the steps are there only to insure that the runner stays tethered to the ground. it's the difference between jogging and running, and when one flips the switch between them, oh, but does it feel good. that sensation is only surpassed by the roll of heel-ball-toes-flight of each step.
remarkable.
the visuals stepped in to knock tactile sensation out of place. i watched a mother cat and two kittens dissolve down the street, looking for a place to spend the night safely. i was treated to the sight of those way-way up concentric circles of spiderwebs between phone lines that one just doesn't get to see when sun-blind. i smiled to myself as i watched my shadow catch, pace, pass me, then grow longer in front of me as i pounded past each streetlight.
not to be outdone by the pretenders to the throne, my closest friends will tell you that my favorite of the five senses is smell (right, nate?) i believe that scents are time machines that can only take you very short distances in the past, and only to places you've actually been. because it is 4th of july weekend, the smell of lighter fluid and charcoal were the ghosts of barbecues recently dead as i ran through memories of cookouts and backyard parties.
it was only sound that kept me focused enough to actually finish (and, evidently, split my infinitives) the run. i use the i-pod james gave me to drown out the sound of my breathing. now that i'm home, i remember the argument romeo and juliet had about the birdcalls they heard as they woke. she, wanting him to stay, pleaded that it was the nightingale, and that there was time left for sleep. he, fearing her family, warned that it was the lark to signal the start of day. right now, i'm siding with juliet and using these bird sounds as a sleep aid. time for bed.
...if you're interested, here is the playlist i use to block out my mini-heart attacks. don't judge me.
1. heartbeats--jose gonzales (a cover of a song by the knife)
2. now this is fun--depeche mode (its own version of a time machine, catapulting me back to senior year track meets)
3. music for a found harmonium--patrick street (if you are not familiar, it is the tune played towards the end of napolean dynamite)
4. young lions--constantines (a rare few of you will know how important this song is to me)
5. breathe in--frou frou
6. fake empire--the national (lyrics, man. it's always the lyrics that get me)
7. space age love song--flock of seagulls (remember what i said about not judging?)
8. in the morning--junior boys (good beat...'nuff said)
9. haiti--arcade fire (anyone for whom i have made a mix in the last five years has heard this song)
10. heartbeats--the knife (see track 1)
11. timebomb--old 97's (used in the movie clay pigeons. best. opening. scene. ever.)
12. down by the water--pj harvey (the music actually undulates in the ear!)
13. fine-james
14. having an average weekend--shadowy men on a shadowy planet (kids in the hall? anyone? anyone?)
15. nemesis--shriekback (only because at this point, i need to siphon fake energy from somewhere).
Thursday, July 1, 2010
let me take a deep breath, babe. if you need me, me and me'll be hanging out with the dream king...
(this is a long one. you have been warned, but in the end, it's about the journey, not the destination.)
i have often talked about the thumb. there is a giant thumb that presses down on my lungs during moments of emotional import. the sensation that no matter how much i breathe, my lungs will never be completely full-while not totally unpleasant-never fails to remind me that, as a human being, i have boundaries biological and emotional.
i am in love.
i am in love with my life...despite all the narcissistic connotations that this carries.
my friends, those close enough to hug, those who are voices and faces carried by technology, and even those who are merely tingle-foot-inducing thoughts as i drive home in the dark with the windows open, all of them wrap me in so many layers of love and warmth that you could onion-peel me for years and never reach a nerve-ending to hurt.
my job is frustrating...but in the way that when i overcome an obstacle the satisfaction makes me yearn for the next one. the contract affords me the luxury of contemplating my place in the pedagogical universe while resting comfortably in the knowledge that "i can, like, continue to mold and shape the future". i also take comfort in knowing that i have plenty of options should this ever stop being fun.
...it won't.
my students...each one is interesting or amazing or breathtaking or ridiculous or, or, or (breath). the point is, each one has something, SOMETHING that renders him or her permanent in some part of my brain and my heart. even three thousand miles away, they somehow wriggle their way into my consciousness daily. i'm lucky.
my brain got tickled by the overly-simplistic synchronicity that always seems to happen when i go for a walk (not a philosophy-laden-henry david thoreau walk, mind you, simply a trip to the post office on a day so nice that it rendered automotive transport absurd). i was listening to music, the soundtrack was vampire weekend (stupid name, excellent band) with just a sprinkling of tom waits for the moments when v.w.'s buoyancy became unbearable. the funny thing is, it was late afternoon, and all the bird mommies and daddies seemed to be heading home from work, and their traffic patterns aren't any better than ours. each caw and tweedle (for they don't have horns to honk) magically seemed to correspond rhythmically to low sound-moments or pauses in the songs. people must have thought me insane as i laughed to myself, but, honestly, who couldn't laugh at,
"i hear a mansard roof through the trees {screech!}
i see a salty message written in the eaves {squawk!}
the ground beneath my feet {deedle-eedle-eedle-eep!}
the hot garbage and concrete {meep!}
the tops of buildings, i can see them, too {ca-caw! ca-caw!}"
...too funny.
(yes, i'm getting there) i got home with insides carbonated by just how random and funny life can be. while doing an archeological dig and excavating through layers of my youth, i found the box full of letters-- every letter i have ever been written alphabetized by author, organized chronologically. i mean EVERY letter is in there, man. never let it be said that ocd doesn't come in handy sometimes. it took about 2 seconds to find the ones written by my father, banded together with the ribbon from the roses he gave me for my 18th birthday. i started with the first one he wrote me right after he got back from dropping me off at college for the first time. he wrote exactly the way he spoke, so it was like he was suddenly alive again, correcting my grammar, making me laugh, telling me stories, giving me advice. each letter contained stamps from all over the world, though i don't remember that i had collected them. suddenly, with these stamps all over the place and his voice hovering just outside of each ear (even though i can only actually hear out of the right one) it was like he was everywhere at once.
...i cannot remember the last time i felt this happy.
i have often talked about the thumb. there is a giant thumb that presses down on my lungs during moments of emotional import. the sensation that no matter how much i breathe, my lungs will never be completely full-while not totally unpleasant-never fails to remind me that, as a human being, i have boundaries biological and emotional.
i am in love.
i am in love with my life...despite all the narcissistic connotations that this carries.
my friends, those close enough to hug, those who are voices and faces carried by technology, and even those who are merely tingle-foot-inducing thoughts as i drive home in the dark with the windows open, all of them wrap me in so many layers of love and warmth that you could onion-peel me for years and never reach a nerve-ending to hurt.
my job is frustrating...but in the way that when i overcome an obstacle the satisfaction makes me yearn for the next one. the contract affords me the luxury of contemplating my place in the pedagogical universe while resting comfortably in the knowledge that "i can, like, continue to mold and shape the future". i also take comfort in knowing that i have plenty of options should this ever stop being fun.
...it won't.
my students...each one is interesting or amazing or breathtaking or ridiculous or, or, or (breath). the point is, each one has something, SOMETHING that renders him or her permanent in some part of my brain and my heart. even three thousand miles away, they somehow wriggle their way into my consciousness daily. i'm lucky.
my brain got tickled by the overly-simplistic synchronicity that always seems to happen when i go for a walk (not a philosophy-laden-henry david thoreau walk, mind you, simply a trip to the post office on a day so nice that it rendered automotive transport absurd). i was listening to music, the soundtrack was vampire weekend (stupid name, excellent band) with just a sprinkling of tom waits for the moments when v.w.'s buoyancy became unbearable. the funny thing is, it was late afternoon, and all the bird mommies and daddies seemed to be heading home from work, and their traffic patterns aren't any better than ours. each caw and tweedle (for they don't have horns to honk) magically seemed to correspond rhythmically to low sound-moments or pauses in the songs. people must have thought me insane as i laughed to myself, but, honestly, who couldn't laugh at,
"i hear a mansard roof through the trees {screech!}
i see a salty message written in the eaves {squawk!}
the ground beneath my feet {deedle-eedle-eedle-eep!}
the hot garbage and concrete {meep!}
the tops of buildings, i can see them, too {ca-caw! ca-caw!}"
...too funny.
(yes, i'm getting there) i got home with insides carbonated by just how random and funny life can be. while doing an archeological dig and excavating through layers of my youth, i found the box full of letters-- every letter i have ever been written alphabetized by author, organized chronologically. i mean EVERY letter is in there, man. never let it be said that ocd doesn't come in handy sometimes. it took about 2 seconds to find the ones written by my father, banded together with the ribbon from the roses he gave me for my 18th birthday. i started with the first one he wrote me right after he got back from dropping me off at college for the first time. he wrote exactly the way he spoke, so it was like he was suddenly alive again, correcting my grammar, making me laugh, telling me stories, giving me advice. each letter contained stamps from all over the world, though i don't remember that i had collected them. suddenly, with these stamps all over the place and his voice hovering just outside of each ear (even though i can only actually hear out of the right one) it was like he was everywhere at once.
...i cannot remember the last time i felt this happy.
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