I thought of you yesterday, when it was cold and snowy, and I was Christmas shopping downtown. You, hours and miles and practically a whole other world away in Prague, but still shivering, like me, no doubt. The snow, soft, large flakes that stuck to my eyelashes on their way to the ground, reminded me of a time when I hardly knew you at all. A transition, from Texas to Michigan, and you got lost somehow in the move, faded away, blended into the new, unfamiliar background. You were blurred by the snow that fell that Christmas—the first snow we’d seen in seven years—and every Christmas thereafter. And we lived separate lives those first few years, you and I, connected by blood alone: Nick and Nick’s sister.
The snow, falling on the Harbor, rippled the dark water and made me think of Texas, the river, the Christmas when we all got Rollerblades, and the one when you got a Sega Genesis. I’d lie awake at night and listen to you play; the electric beeps and chimes of each new level drifting through the wall that separated our bedrooms sounded like quarters hitting the bottom of an empty tin, or a distant wind chime, swaying back and forth in the night. Sometimes, you’d yell with excitement. Others, curse with frustration. In the light of day, you’d let me have a turn, or watch, which I preferred, embarrassed to play because I might lose in front of you. I’d pass you the controller when a level got too hard, a double jump was needed, or a kick move that required a complicated combination of keys was necessary. “Here, do this for me,” I would say, and you did, while talking about Green Day, your love of Jazz not yet developed.
But in Michigan, we were separated by another room, or a hallway, in the second house, and I could no longer hear what you were doing at night, was no longer invited to sit with you during the day. There was no more river in which to play Olympics. No more good hiding places for Capture the Flag. Just flat land, a bare yard, a strip mall around the corner with discounted movies, and a mediocre diner that served rubbery eggs. You had your friends, I had mine, and our lives moved in separate directions, each of us becoming someone we’d never been, someone we no longer are.
I bought gifts in a fair trade store, earrings for a variety of girlfriends, as the snow kept falling outside. Dangling, turquoise circles made in India, shiny red squares from Peru. Wooden triangles, made in Kenya, made me smile and picture your face, the wide grin, your round, white head in the middle of six dark faces, laughing through a cloud of smoke in a Nairobi slum, one of many pictures. I was wearing the scarf you got me, carrying the purse, handmade in some African marketplace, material possessions that reflect your good taste, your consideration, your love. And it made me miss you, contemplating Kenyan jewelry, and thinking about how much has changed.
On the way home, I passed a restaurant with outdoor speakers. Small, white Christmas lights sparkled on lamp posts. White Christmas, performed in a high, female voice, broke the quiet snowfall and I thought of Christmas trees. Some ten or twelve feet tall, towering above our tiny family in the high-ceiling den of our San Antonio home, held up by ropes attached to patio door handles. Or smaller trees, in the corner of our Ann Arbor living room, and one in the basement as well. At first decorated with red chili pepper lights, and old, kindergarten classroom ornaments, our childhood faces smiling out at us after all these years. Then decorated by Mom alone, with red or white bows, and lights to match. Each of us coming home from different schools. I wrapped your presents in a cold bedroom, placed them all beneath the tree. We ate seafood, stuffed mushrooms, Italian bread.
And I thought of this year, a tree not yet purchased, decorations still in boxes stacked in the cold, narrow attic. I’ll wrap my gifts alone in my apartment, just two miles from the Harbor, where the snow hits the cold water and disappears. I’ll put them in my trunk, piled in paper bags from a local grocery store, and drive nine hours to get home. We’ll sit in front of the fire on Christmas Eve, Mom, Dad, Lizzy and I, open gifts like we always do, in between appetizer platters and black and white classic movies. But there will be no you. You, far away, living in Prague. The gifts we got you will reach you by plane. Your face, when you open them, we won’t see.
Outside my apartment door, I stopped with my keys and shopping bags in hand, and looked up into the falling snow. The sky, a dim, soft gray, was slowly turning black. A street lamp, blinking on, cast a soft glow across the road, and the snow sparkled and shined as it passed through the light. I turned the key in the door, hours and miles and so far away from where you now live, and shivering, realized just how much I love you.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
In My Mother's Garden (A Thanksgiving Story)
In my mother’s garden, when the air turns cold and the morning dew becomes frost that crunches beneath my father’s footsteps as he leaves for work, the Japanese grasses begin changing colors. Bending and stretching beyond the clusters of wilting daisies, drooping lavender, the grasses fade from green to gold, blinking and shimmering as they turn their faces to the late autumn sun.
I come home for the weekend, in a car packed full of dirty laundry and clean clothing choices, different options for each different day, and find the backyard sparkling like El Dorado, the air pulsing and throbbing with a golden glow.
It is November, and the thriving grasses, dancing and willowy in the cool afternoon breeze, remind me of corn husks, of dinners at a Texas table, rolled tamales, spiced meat. The ground outside was brown and brittle, the river surface coated with fallen leaves. We wore shorts and bulky sweatshirts, played football in the yard. The dogs ran around the house, trotted over the wooden deck, paws slapping the cold wood, they barked at nothing, and we listened, their curious voices echoing over the water.
Here, in my mother’s garden, the seasons change much faster, the heavy saturated air of summer retreating, running, hiding from the brisk evening of fall. Winter creeps up in an instant, closes the door, locks us inside. We huddle beneath blankets beside the fireplace. We drink hot chocolate, warm tea turned cloudy from skim milk. We cook Thanksgiving dinner, my mother moving through the kitchen like a programmed machine: sauerkraut in the crock pot, chop the celery and onions, stuff the turkey, pumpkin pie was done the night before, don’t peel the potatoes too soon or else they’ll brown. I help by being in the way, standing in the middle of the kitchen without a task. Here, I’ll wash that spoon. Hand me that whisk, I’ll stir the gravy. Outside, the Japanese grasses cast their blinding golden glow across the yard, as the sun begins to set and dinnertime approaches.
It is warm in the basement, where my mother has pushed two tables together. Each place is set with fading china dishware, pink flowers rimming a plain white plate. The black and tan cloth napkins I’ve brought with me do not match, but this dinner is informal and my feet are cold because I’m not wearing any socks.
We fill our plates with mashed potatoes. The turkey is moist; the green beans are seasoned with lemon juice, which burns the small cut on my lip. We have forgotten to say what we are thankful for. Everyone’s mouth is full of food, and as we eat, the sun goes down and evening turns to night. The Japanese grasses in my mother’s garden no longer glow and sparkle. Huddled together, they shiver against the cold night air.
I come home for the weekend, in a car packed full of dirty laundry and clean clothing choices, different options for each different day, and find the backyard sparkling like El Dorado, the air pulsing and throbbing with a golden glow.
It is November, and the thriving grasses, dancing and willowy in the cool afternoon breeze, remind me of corn husks, of dinners at a Texas table, rolled tamales, spiced meat. The ground outside was brown and brittle, the river surface coated with fallen leaves. We wore shorts and bulky sweatshirts, played football in the yard. The dogs ran around the house, trotted over the wooden deck, paws slapping the cold wood, they barked at nothing, and we listened, their curious voices echoing over the water.
Here, in my mother’s garden, the seasons change much faster, the heavy saturated air of summer retreating, running, hiding from the brisk evening of fall. Winter creeps up in an instant, closes the door, locks us inside. We huddle beneath blankets beside the fireplace. We drink hot chocolate, warm tea turned cloudy from skim milk. We cook Thanksgiving dinner, my mother moving through the kitchen like a programmed machine: sauerkraut in the crock pot, chop the celery and onions, stuff the turkey, pumpkin pie was done the night before, don’t peel the potatoes too soon or else they’ll brown. I help by being in the way, standing in the middle of the kitchen without a task. Here, I’ll wash that spoon. Hand me that whisk, I’ll stir the gravy. Outside, the Japanese grasses cast their blinding golden glow across the yard, as the sun begins to set and dinnertime approaches.
It is warm in the basement, where my mother has pushed two tables together. Each place is set with fading china dishware, pink flowers rimming a plain white plate. The black and tan cloth napkins I’ve brought with me do not match, but this dinner is informal and my feet are cold because I’m not wearing any socks.
We fill our plates with mashed potatoes. The turkey is moist; the green beans are seasoned with lemon juice, which burns the small cut on my lip. We have forgotten to say what we are thankful for. Everyone’s mouth is full of food, and as we eat, the sun goes down and evening turns to night. The Japanese grasses in my mother’s garden no longer glow and sparkle. Huddled together, they shiver against the cold night air.
Monday, November 12, 2007
A Story With No Title
Rebecca O’Neal has taken up drinking in the morning. Her 3rd story apartment overlooks the playground of the Wolfe Street Academy and she sits out on her balcony, sipping gin and tonics while the children play kickball before the first bell. Before, she’d just smoke a few cigarettes and marvel at the little girl who always wore her hair in perfect pigtails; but after reading several articles about the harmful effects of cigarette smoking and the high likelihood of developing conditions like lung cancer or emphysema, Rebecca switched to gin and tonics. They’re better for her in the long run, she figures, and they get the day going with a sweetness that borders on tart, rather than a dismal cloud of heady grey and a stifling heat against her gums.
She watches as a young mother kneels down to hug her son, kisses him on the crown of his head. “Now you be good today,” Rebecca imagines her saying. Or, “Mommy will see you this afternoon.” The woman’s hair is long and dark, pulled back into a low ponytail that trails down her spine. She is thin and fit, probably takes kickboxing lessons while her child’s at school, or runs with a dog. Some type of lab or golden retriever. A good dog, though maybe a bit wild. A sweet animal who doesn’t know better than to jump up and put his paws on your chest, or bury his snout in your crotch, but who also licks your hand gently when you aren’t watching, or nuzzles his big head against your leg. That’s the kind of dog this woman must have. A dog that keeps you fit.
Rebecca takes another sip of her drink and fishes her fingers beneath the ice to grab the single wedge of lime trapped on the bottom of the glass. She holds it to her lips and sucks the sour mixture of gin and lime flesh onto her tongue. Two children argue over whether the ball was fair or foul. One of them is round and heavy across the middle. His stomach, folded over the edge of his belted blue jeans, reminds Rebecca of soft peanut butter sliding over the crust of sandwich bread. It just hangs there, drooping ominously, suspended in space. She watches the argument intently, waiting for the fat kid’s stomach to drip the rest of the way down his legs. The other kid, with his orangey-red hair and spotted face is a sure know-it-all. Rebecca rolls a piece of ice around in her mouth as he yells and points repeatedly at a non-exist foul line on the ground. Leaning forward over the railing of her balcony, Rebecca studies the ground for some faded yellow paint, any semblance of a demarcation, but there is none, and the argument ends unresolved, interrupted by the morning bell.
Most of the kids rush off in a hurry, grabbing their book bags, lunch boxes, discarded jackets. They race off to class, hoping to avoid tardiness, as Rebecca tilts her head back and finishes the last of her gin and tonic. But other kids—older, cooler, unashamed—take their time. They kick at the loose stones on the schoolyard’s asphalt. One or two bend down to slowly, carefully retie their shoes. Two boys take turns punching each other back and forth, as they walk to the corner where they’ve stashed their backpacks. A pretty girl, with blonde hair and a ponytail hovers over the right shoulder of what is perhaps a would-be first boyfriend. She laughs cautiously as the boy jokes with his friends, follows close behind when he finally makes his way across the playground towards the school’s doors. She hangs on every word, glances down periodically to check that her just-forming breasts are obvious to those around her, her back arched into a half moon, her chest pressed up and out. She forgets about her neon pink jacket. Leaves it lying in the corner of the schoolyard, soft and bright against the dark asphalt.
When the playground is empty, and Rebecca hears the heavy, metal school doors close behind the last of the children with a dull thud, she gets up from the balcony and goes inside. Finding her shoes, a pair of black flip-flops with a red cloth flower attached to the thong that runs between her large and second toes, she grabs a light jacket and takes the stairs down from her apartment two at a time.
Looking both ways, Rebecca crosses the street and walks toward the schoolyard’s gate. It creaks slightly as she pushes it open, and Rebecca brings her finger to her lips, as if to silence the rusty metal. She walks softly across the asphalt, careful not to kick up too many loose stones, until she reaches the corner of the playground. Kneeling down, Rebecca picks up the neon pink jacket, runs her thumb and forefinger across the collar. She holds the jacket up in the air and shakes it slightly, listens as the zipper lightly jingles.
Back inside, Rebecca O’Neal drops the neon pink jacket on her counter and pours herself another gin and tonic, nearly cutting her finger when she slices a wedge of lime. Walking through the kitchen and living room, stooping down to pick up the sofa pillow that has fallen to the floor and returning it to its rightful place, she makes her way to the bedroom and pulls open the closet door. She places the neon pink jacket on the shelf next to all her other poached treasures: a half-deflated red kickball, a trapper-keeper binder with Dora the Explorer on the front, a pencil kit, a hair bow, a tin lunch box complete with thermos, a red winter hat, a blue mitten for a right hand.
She goes back out onto her balcony and looks out over the empty schoolyard, the sound of children laughing, fat kid and know-it-all kid’s argument still hanging in the air. She takes a sip of her gin and tonic and thinks to herself, “I really ought not drink in the morning. It’s a terrible habit.” She lets the liquor linger on her tongue. Closing her eyes, she turns her face into the sun and swirls the glass in her hand, listening as the ice cubes clack together.
She watches as a young mother kneels down to hug her son, kisses him on the crown of his head. “Now you be good today,” Rebecca imagines her saying. Or, “Mommy will see you this afternoon.” The woman’s hair is long and dark, pulled back into a low ponytail that trails down her spine. She is thin and fit, probably takes kickboxing lessons while her child’s at school, or runs with a dog. Some type of lab or golden retriever. A good dog, though maybe a bit wild. A sweet animal who doesn’t know better than to jump up and put his paws on your chest, or bury his snout in your crotch, but who also licks your hand gently when you aren’t watching, or nuzzles his big head against your leg. That’s the kind of dog this woman must have. A dog that keeps you fit.
Rebecca takes another sip of her drink and fishes her fingers beneath the ice to grab the single wedge of lime trapped on the bottom of the glass. She holds it to her lips and sucks the sour mixture of gin and lime flesh onto her tongue. Two children argue over whether the ball was fair or foul. One of them is round and heavy across the middle. His stomach, folded over the edge of his belted blue jeans, reminds Rebecca of soft peanut butter sliding over the crust of sandwich bread. It just hangs there, drooping ominously, suspended in space. She watches the argument intently, waiting for the fat kid’s stomach to drip the rest of the way down his legs. The other kid, with his orangey-red hair and spotted face is a sure know-it-all. Rebecca rolls a piece of ice around in her mouth as he yells and points repeatedly at a non-exist foul line on the ground. Leaning forward over the railing of her balcony, Rebecca studies the ground for some faded yellow paint, any semblance of a demarcation, but there is none, and the argument ends unresolved, interrupted by the morning bell.
Most of the kids rush off in a hurry, grabbing their book bags, lunch boxes, discarded jackets. They race off to class, hoping to avoid tardiness, as Rebecca tilts her head back and finishes the last of her gin and tonic. But other kids—older, cooler, unashamed—take their time. They kick at the loose stones on the schoolyard’s asphalt. One or two bend down to slowly, carefully retie their shoes. Two boys take turns punching each other back and forth, as they walk to the corner where they’ve stashed their backpacks. A pretty girl, with blonde hair and a ponytail hovers over the right shoulder of what is perhaps a would-be first boyfriend. She laughs cautiously as the boy jokes with his friends, follows close behind when he finally makes his way across the playground towards the school’s doors. She hangs on every word, glances down periodically to check that her just-forming breasts are obvious to those around her, her back arched into a half moon, her chest pressed up and out. She forgets about her neon pink jacket. Leaves it lying in the corner of the schoolyard, soft and bright against the dark asphalt.
When the playground is empty, and Rebecca hears the heavy, metal school doors close behind the last of the children with a dull thud, she gets up from the balcony and goes inside. Finding her shoes, a pair of black flip-flops with a red cloth flower attached to the thong that runs between her large and second toes, she grabs a light jacket and takes the stairs down from her apartment two at a time.
Looking both ways, Rebecca crosses the street and walks toward the schoolyard’s gate. It creaks slightly as she pushes it open, and Rebecca brings her finger to her lips, as if to silence the rusty metal. She walks softly across the asphalt, careful not to kick up too many loose stones, until she reaches the corner of the playground. Kneeling down, Rebecca picks up the neon pink jacket, runs her thumb and forefinger across the collar. She holds the jacket up in the air and shakes it slightly, listens as the zipper lightly jingles.
Back inside, Rebecca O’Neal drops the neon pink jacket on her counter and pours herself another gin and tonic, nearly cutting her finger when she slices a wedge of lime. Walking through the kitchen and living room, stooping down to pick up the sofa pillow that has fallen to the floor and returning it to its rightful place, she makes her way to the bedroom and pulls open the closet door. She places the neon pink jacket on the shelf next to all her other poached treasures: a half-deflated red kickball, a trapper-keeper binder with Dora the Explorer on the front, a pencil kit, a hair bow, a tin lunch box complete with thermos, a red winter hat, a blue mitten for a right hand.
She goes back out onto her balcony and looks out over the empty schoolyard, the sound of children laughing, fat kid and know-it-all kid’s argument still hanging in the air. She takes a sip of her gin and tonic and thinks to herself, “I really ought not drink in the morning. It’s a terrible habit.” She lets the liquor linger on her tongue. Closing her eyes, she turns her face into the sun and swirls the glass in her hand, listening as the ice cubes clack together.
A Thing Or Two About Haiku
It’s not haiku if the poem has fifteen lines. I tried telling him this time and again, but he didn’t want to hear it.
“I think I’d know a thing or two about haiku,” he’d say, his voice above the acceptable volume for the reception lobby. “I’m the one writing the haiku, so I think I know a little something about haiku.”
“Okay, okay,” I’d always reply. “You know all about haiku.” But he didn’t.
“It’s a form of Chinese poetry,” he’d tell me.
“Japanese,” I’d reply.
“Each word has to have five or seven syllables.”
“You mean each line.”
“It goes seven, five, seven.”
“Five, seven, five.”
“And you have to have at least 10 lines.”
“Nope, only three.”
“And every line has to rhyme.”
“Actually, there’s no rhyming at all.”
It was always the same with him. “I got a new haiku for you to read.” And I’d have to push 99 on the phone to keep it from ringing, or tell him to hold on for just one second so I could finish dealing with a call. Then I’d just sit and listen as he’d go on and on: 10 lines, 12 lines, 15. One haiku about waking up a new man, feeling sorry for all the mistakes of the past. Another haiku about what one “young punk” said to him that made him yell and curse.
“All these young guys think they’re so tough. Those damn punks make my life rough,” he’d read.
“You know, none of those words have five or seven syllables,” I’d tell him.
“So what?” he’d reply.
“Well you said each word in a haiku is supposed to have five or seven syllables.”
“Yeah, seven syllables. Those-damn-punks-make-my-life-rough. Seven,” he’d count off on his fingers. “I think I know a thing or two about writing haiku.”
“Right, of course. Sorry. I’m just saying.”
“Well you go ahead and try it then,” he’d challenge me, anger mounting in his voice. And then softer, “Will you write me a haiku?”
“Give me ten minutes,” I’d tell him. “I have to take care of a couple things first.”
In precisely ten minutes, he’d be back. “Let me hear the haiku,” he’d say. “I want to see if it is better than mine.”
“Okay,” I’d reply. “Here you go.”
Haiku are short poems
They come to us from Japan
Lines: five, seven, five.
“That’s terrible,” he would say when I was finished. “You really don’t know anything about haiku.”
And I’d just smile and nod my head. “I have to take this call,” I’d tell him, answering the phone.
“I think I’d know a thing or two about haiku,” he’d say, his voice above the acceptable volume for the reception lobby. “I’m the one writing the haiku, so I think I know a little something about haiku.”
“Okay, okay,” I’d always reply. “You know all about haiku.” But he didn’t.
“It’s a form of Chinese poetry,” he’d tell me.
“Japanese,” I’d reply.
“Each word has to have five or seven syllables.”
“You mean each line.”
“It goes seven, five, seven.”
“Five, seven, five.”
“And you have to have at least 10 lines.”
“Nope, only three.”
“And every line has to rhyme.”
“Actually, there’s no rhyming at all.”
It was always the same with him. “I got a new haiku for you to read.” And I’d have to push 99 on the phone to keep it from ringing, or tell him to hold on for just one second so I could finish dealing with a call. Then I’d just sit and listen as he’d go on and on: 10 lines, 12 lines, 15. One haiku about waking up a new man, feeling sorry for all the mistakes of the past. Another haiku about what one “young punk” said to him that made him yell and curse.
“All these young guys think they’re so tough. Those damn punks make my life rough,” he’d read.
“You know, none of those words have five or seven syllables,” I’d tell him.
“So what?” he’d reply.
“Well you said each word in a haiku is supposed to have five or seven syllables.”
“Yeah, seven syllables. Those-damn-punks-make-my-life-rough. Seven,” he’d count off on his fingers. “I think I know a thing or two about writing haiku.”
“Right, of course. Sorry. I’m just saying.”
“Well you go ahead and try it then,” he’d challenge me, anger mounting in his voice. And then softer, “Will you write me a haiku?”
“Give me ten minutes,” I’d tell him. “I have to take care of a couple things first.”
In precisely ten minutes, he’d be back. “Let me hear the haiku,” he’d say. “I want to see if it is better than mine.”
“Okay,” I’d reply. “Here you go.”
Haiku are short poems
They come to us from Japan
Lines: five, seven, five.
“That’s terrible,” he would say when I was finished. “You really don’t know anything about haiku.”
And I’d just smile and nod my head. “I have to take this call,” I’d tell him, answering the phone.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Why The Hiatus
There are times when I feel as though I have nothing good to say. Nothing worth noting. So I don't write. It isn't so much a writer's block as it is just a loss of words, a blankness. My mind is just empty.
There are other times, though, like lately, where my mind is too full. My whole being becomes saturated with ideas, opinions, songs that are stuck in my head, images from film and television that I play over and over again in my mind. I feel so wholly and completely filled up by sensory intake that I don't know where to begin. I can't figure out how to expunge all these thoughts, these images, these sounds, and they almost start to suffocate me. It is like they all just clump together in my mind and I can't separate one from another, can't put any of them down on paper. I can't make sense of what I'm thinking.
My dad, for as long as I can remember, would organize his thoughts into diagrams. At the dinner table, when explaining some complex theory or some new idea that he was planning to present to one of his classes, he would draw figures on paper towels. Three squares all in a row, a line connecting each square to the one before it. Or sometimes he'd draw a large triangle, and within that triangle would be circles and each circle would contain a word, some representation of a larger idea. It never made much sense to me when I had a mouth full of pasta and couple of TV shows that I was worried about missing, but it makes sense to me now.
I have never been a math person. I don't like numbers, equations, complex algorithms. I never saw the value of learning algebra. I remain certain that a calculator can easily do all the math I'll ever need. I like to think in words, not numbers. But I see now the value in math. I recognize its ability to structure and organize a complex world. Squares, triangles, circles on a piece of paper towel, are all just basic geometry. Simple math that creates a sense of order in disorganized world of words. Thoughts go into boxes. Ideas and opinions are grouped by theme, connected by a line drawn from one square to another. This is what I've done, taken the jumbled mess that was rolling around in my head and organized it into diagrams. I can see it more clearly this way. I know now exactly what I'm thinking. It helps to look at my thoughts in this ordered form, each square a different project, a different starting point.
And from this brief foray into the world of math, I have developed a better sense of how to handle my complex world of words. Separation. I have decided to create different spaces for different kinds of thoughts. Thus, from this point forward, this blog will be for creative writing only. Poems, stories, novel excerpts. Feel free to track my progress here. And for other writing, to know what I am thinking, or what is going on in my life, I have created a new blog.
I am hoping that these changes will help me make sense of my own thoughts and keep my head from becoming a jumbled mess. I am hoping these changes will keep me writing and prevent another hiatus.
There are other times, though, like lately, where my mind is too full. My whole being becomes saturated with ideas, opinions, songs that are stuck in my head, images from film and television that I play over and over again in my mind. I feel so wholly and completely filled up by sensory intake that I don't know where to begin. I can't figure out how to expunge all these thoughts, these images, these sounds, and they almost start to suffocate me. It is like they all just clump together in my mind and I can't separate one from another, can't put any of them down on paper. I can't make sense of what I'm thinking.
My dad, for as long as I can remember, would organize his thoughts into diagrams. At the dinner table, when explaining some complex theory or some new idea that he was planning to present to one of his classes, he would draw figures on paper towels. Three squares all in a row, a line connecting each square to the one before it. Or sometimes he'd draw a large triangle, and within that triangle would be circles and each circle would contain a word, some representation of a larger idea. It never made much sense to me when I had a mouth full of pasta and couple of TV shows that I was worried about missing, but it makes sense to me now.
I have never been a math person. I don't like numbers, equations, complex algorithms. I never saw the value of learning algebra. I remain certain that a calculator can easily do all the math I'll ever need. I like to think in words, not numbers. But I see now the value in math. I recognize its ability to structure and organize a complex world. Squares, triangles, circles on a piece of paper towel, are all just basic geometry. Simple math that creates a sense of order in disorganized world of words. Thoughts go into boxes. Ideas and opinions are grouped by theme, connected by a line drawn from one square to another. This is what I've done, taken the jumbled mess that was rolling around in my head and organized it into diagrams. I can see it more clearly this way. I know now exactly what I'm thinking. It helps to look at my thoughts in this ordered form, each square a different project, a different starting point.
And from this brief foray into the world of math, I have developed a better sense of how to handle my complex world of words. Separation. I have decided to create different spaces for different kinds of thoughts. Thus, from this point forward, this blog will be for creative writing only. Poems, stories, novel excerpts. Feel free to track my progress here. And for other writing, to know what I am thinking, or what is going on in my life, I have created a new blog.
I am hoping that these changes will help me make sense of my own thoughts and keep my head from becoming a jumbled mess. I am hoping these changes will keep me writing and prevent another hiatus.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
Speed of Life
"Slow down, you move too fast." -Simon and Garfunkel, Feeling Groovy
It can be very hard to remember that you still have your whole life ahead of you. I think that as we grow older, we become more and more programmed to think of life in terms of deadlines, due dates, benchmarks. We focus so much energy on the short term. Gone are the days of "when I grow up, I'm going to ____." Grown up time has arrived and the predictions I once made as a child have yet to come true, and I suddenly feel so rushed to turn my once desired future into my realistic present.
Sometimes I forget that I am only 22 and that I have more than enough time to become who I want to be. But still, every little decision, every single small change in life's trajectory, just feels like a land mine waiting to explode. In the last semester of my college career, I decide once and for all that I want to be a writer and KABOOM, it's like the last 3 and 1/2 years have been blown off of my life and I'm back at square one. My degree, which I've worked so hard to earn, qualifies me for nothing. And I feel like the clock is ticking down, and I'll never make up for this lost time. I've got to prove I can be a writer. Get the stories down, edit them, rewrite them, submit them for publication, get my portfolio together. And all within enough time to avoid being the oldest student in a Master's writing program--assuming I can even get into one of those. I read somewhere that in 2005, a 10 year old girl became the youngest published female author in history. I'm already 12 years behind her, and there's no way to crawl back from that kind of deficit.
I'm definitely not alone in my feelings here. Nor am I a part of some small, anomalous group. A friend of mine who is in her last year of college is currently feeling a similar pressure. She suddenly feels like the plans she's had all along are no longer the right plans for her, but she isn't sure what the back up should be. And I somehow come out looking like Confucius in this situation, passing on wisdom and advice that I myself find difficult to take. Then there's my sister, still only a college sophomore, but already feeling like she's running out of time. Does she take the path of creativity, further support and develop her inspiring talent in the field of art? Or does she choose something more "intellectual"? Pick a degree path that self-righteous engineers and biophysics students wouldn't deem a complete waste of time? There's no right or wrong answer here, no sure bet. If she doesn't nurture her creative instinct, will she lose it completely? And if she rejects a more traditional academic training, will she be completely shut out of the job market somewhere down the road? The answer to these questions is somewhat akin to a shoulder shrug. Who knows? Anything can happen. There's no real way to tell. And in the end, it probably doesn't make a whole lot of difference. A degree in Sociology isn't going to make her any less talented as an artist. And a degree in Art of course won't mean that she's devoid of intellect. My sister is who she is: smart and creative; she'll always be that way. And a Bachelor's degree in any field is still just a Bachelor's degree: it only gets you so far, eventually you'll need a little more. And by the time eventually rolls around, you're sure to feel like you should have reached this point years ago, no matter what decisions you made way back in sophomore year.
But there is something to be said for just taking your time and waiting for the eventual. It took my brother nearly six years to graduate from college, and he's no worse off for it. Switching from music to anthropology half way through, he studied things that he found interesting, developed a sense of global cultural awareness, a curiosity about life and the world. Now he lives in Prague teaching English, and sends our family emails that are so funny and creative, I want to read them again and again. Maybe his life is not yet perfect, and it is taking time to adjust to living in a foreign place; but eventually he'll feel more and more settled. It takes a little time and there's no sense in rushing what you can't control. When you're just learning the language and you're so far away from home, you have to take things as they come. Because in truth, life is a gradual process, growing and changing over thousands and thousands of years.
This is what I am trying to remember, to convince myself of. That progress, whether evolutionary or personal, has its own natural time line. And if I die tomorrow, and an after life exists, I'll more likely think to myself, "I wish I'd eaten paella one last time," than, "I wish I had majored in creative writing so that I could have gotten an entry level position at a publishing company and seen first hand the process of turning pages into books." I'm more likely to wish that I would have kissed Daniel goodbye in the morning, rather than wish that I would have completed my first novel.
I am trying to remember that life is about more than just finding a job, excelling in a career. It is about loving people, helping them when they need your help. It is about feeling connected to family, despite the distance between you. Life is about living each day one at a time, taking each moment as it comes, and not forcing it to turn into the next. And sometimes, when you are trying to become a writer, life is about creating time that otherwise doesn't exist. About developing new space, new years, new lives. I need to stop racing through my life, rushing to become who I want to be. I have the entire past at my disposal, and endless future that I can create. I just have to put it down on the page. Let it develop on its own, in good time. I'm only 22; I have my whole life ahead of me. Besides, if I accomplish all of my goals in the next ten years, what will I have left to look forward to? That could make for an impossibly long lifetime.
It can be very hard to remember that you still have your whole life ahead of you. I think that as we grow older, we become more and more programmed to think of life in terms of deadlines, due dates, benchmarks. We focus so much energy on the short term. Gone are the days of "when I grow up, I'm going to ____." Grown up time has arrived and the predictions I once made as a child have yet to come true, and I suddenly feel so rushed to turn my once desired future into my realistic present.
Sometimes I forget that I am only 22 and that I have more than enough time to become who I want to be. But still, every little decision, every single small change in life's trajectory, just feels like a land mine waiting to explode. In the last semester of my college career, I decide once and for all that I want to be a writer and KABOOM, it's like the last 3 and 1/2 years have been blown off of my life and I'm back at square one. My degree, which I've worked so hard to earn, qualifies me for nothing. And I feel like the clock is ticking down, and I'll never make up for this lost time. I've got to prove I can be a writer. Get the stories down, edit them, rewrite them, submit them for publication, get my portfolio together. And all within enough time to avoid being the oldest student in a Master's writing program--assuming I can even get into one of those. I read somewhere that in 2005, a 10 year old girl became the youngest published female author in history. I'm already 12 years behind her, and there's no way to crawl back from that kind of deficit.
I'm definitely not alone in my feelings here. Nor am I a part of some small, anomalous group. A friend of mine who is in her last year of college is currently feeling a similar pressure. She suddenly feels like the plans she's had all along are no longer the right plans for her, but she isn't sure what the back up should be. And I somehow come out looking like Confucius in this situation, passing on wisdom and advice that I myself find difficult to take. Then there's my sister, still only a college sophomore, but already feeling like she's running out of time. Does she take the path of creativity, further support and develop her inspiring talent in the field of art? Or does she choose something more "intellectual"? Pick a degree path that self-righteous engineers and biophysics students wouldn't deem a complete waste of time? There's no right or wrong answer here, no sure bet. If she doesn't nurture her creative instinct, will she lose it completely? And if she rejects a more traditional academic training, will she be completely shut out of the job market somewhere down the road? The answer to these questions is somewhat akin to a shoulder shrug. Who knows? Anything can happen. There's no real way to tell. And in the end, it probably doesn't make a whole lot of difference. A degree in Sociology isn't going to make her any less talented as an artist. And a degree in Art of course won't mean that she's devoid of intellect. My sister is who she is: smart and creative; she'll always be that way. And a Bachelor's degree in any field is still just a Bachelor's degree: it only gets you so far, eventually you'll need a little more. And by the time eventually rolls around, you're sure to feel like you should have reached this point years ago, no matter what decisions you made way back in sophomore year.
But there is something to be said for just taking your time and waiting for the eventual. It took my brother nearly six years to graduate from college, and he's no worse off for it. Switching from music to anthropology half way through, he studied things that he found interesting, developed a sense of global cultural awareness, a curiosity about life and the world. Now he lives in Prague teaching English, and sends our family emails that are so funny and creative, I want to read them again and again. Maybe his life is not yet perfect, and it is taking time to adjust to living in a foreign place; but eventually he'll feel more and more settled. It takes a little time and there's no sense in rushing what you can't control. When you're just learning the language and you're so far away from home, you have to take things as they come. Because in truth, life is a gradual process, growing and changing over thousands and thousands of years.
This is what I am trying to remember, to convince myself of. That progress, whether evolutionary or personal, has its own natural time line. And if I die tomorrow, and an after life exists, I'll more likely think to myself, "I wish I'd eaten paella one last time," than, "I wish I had majored in creative writing so that I could have gotten an entry level position at a publishing company and seen first hand the process of turning pages into books." I'm more likely to wish that I would have kissed Daniel goodbye in the morning, rather than wish that I would have completed my first novel.
I am trying to remember that life is about more than just finding a job, excelling in a career. It is about loving people, helping them when they need your help. It is about feeling connected to family, despite the distance between you. Life is about living each day one at a time, taking each moment as it comes, and not forcing it to turn into the next. And sometimes, when you are trying to become a writer, life is about creating time that otherwise doesn't exist. About developing new space, new years, new lives. I need to stop racing through my life, rushing to become who I want to be. I have the entire past at my disposal, and endless future that I can create. I just have to put it down on the page. Let it develop on its own, in good time. I'm only 22; I have my whole life ahead of me. Besides, if I accomplish all of my goals in the next ten years, what will I have left to look forward to? That could make for an impossibly long lifetime.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Finding My Future Inside My Desk Drawer
I cleaned out my desk this afternoon in a somewhat feng shui moment, a whole organize your life to organize your mind, kind of thing. It worked, I think. Somehow, knowing that all my little sticky pads are in one drawer, and all the random miscellaneous papers that I'm afraid to throw out because I'm not sure why I needed them in the first place are in another, seems to help. I feel clear and fresh. I feel okay, even good. Cleanliness and organization does this for me. It lets me see my life as it, lets me recognize again all the good things that have existed all along, but were before lost beneath the clutter of stress and emotions.
I do this every now and then, really clean house, fix things up. I get my life in order. And almost every time, I uncover some artifact from a period of disorder. A note on a pad outlining a story of despair, about a character whose name is not my own, but whose life is undoubtedly mine. Or sometimes, like this time, it is a poem. Something I wrote with great care, heartfelt emotion. Usually it sucks. Most times, I hate it. I just throw them away, these crappy manifestations of sorrowful times, pathetic writing. But today I found one that is pretty good. I really like it, and I remember it. I remember writing this poem. I remember the feeling behind it, the situation that led to it. I remember this time, when I felt so sad, so desperate, and Daniel wanted to help me so much. But he couldn't. He didn't understand, couldn't understand, and he never really has, despite trying so hard and so valiantly. This is what I wrote one time, when I hurt Daniel without meaning to. A time when I looked into his eyes and thought that I could see his heart breaking. A time when he loved me so much, as much as he loves me now, as much as he's always loved me. But a time, like so many other times, when his love was not nearly enough.
What I Would Say if I Were You and You Were Me and You, As Me, Were Like This
Love itself does not prepare you for black
when black is no longer a color,
but a state-of-mind,
a life force,
a blanket beneath which to hide.
I know not how to find you,
where even to search
when you're not in any of the obvious places,
or not obvious ones that I've stumbled upon in the past
through luck, or understanding, or perhaps even cunning.
You are lost now to black,
cloaked in incomprehensibility
because I can think only in terms of color,
black as absorption of light,
the absence of all other color,
antithesis of white.
I see not how black is a hole,
a depth beyond reason or tangibility,
a realm of being that I cannot reach into--
a place where I love you
never seems to be enough.
Perhaps it is not the stuff of great poets, but of great realizations. When I read this poem again today, took in every single word and had the moment of composition flood back over me, I felt so incredibly lucky. I am so immensely lucky to have a man who tries so hard to understand me, even when he knows he can't. To have a man that loves me so fully, and so honestly that he refuses to forfeit that love even when I won't accept it. I've been having these thoughts lately, like any normal human being, that question whether or not I'm ready to get married. I fear that I am too young. I worry because I can't know for sure that everything will work out, fret because I can't predict the future. But when I read this poem and thought back on the years I've spent with Daniel, I realized that it isn't about knowing for sure. It isn't about being prepared for everything that might happen. Because preparation is not always possible. And sometimes, even love isn't enough. It is about having faith. About trusting each other enough to stick together through whatever comes our way. It is about doing something simple, like cleaning out your desk, and realizing something so monumental, like that you're ready to get married, and that together, you have come such a long way.
I do this every now and then, really clean house, fix things up. I get my life in order. And almost every time, I uncover some artifact from a period of disorder. A note on a pad outlining a story of despair, about a character whose name is not my own, but whose life is undoubtedly mine. Or sometimes, like this time, it is a poem. Something I wrote with great care, heartfelt emotion. Usually it sucks. Most times, I hate it. I just throw them away, these crappy manifestations of sorrowful times, pathetic writing. But today I found one that is pretty good. I really like it, and I remember it. I remember writing this poem. I remember the feeling behind it, the situation that led to it. I remember this time, when I felt so sad, so desperate, and Daniel wanted to help me so much. But he couldn't. He didn't understand, couldn't understand, and he never really has, despite trying so hard and so valiantly. This is what I wrote one time, when I hurt Daniel without meaning to. A time when I looked into his eyes and thought that I could see his heart breaking. A time when he loved me so much, as much as he loves me now, as much as he's always loved me. But a time, like so many other times, when his love was not nearly enough.
What I Would Say if I Were You and You Were Me and You, As Me, Were Like This
Love itself does not prepare you for black
when black is no longer a color,
but a state-of-mind,
a life force,
a blanket beneath which to hide.
I know not how to find you,
where even to search
when you're not in any of the obvious places,
or not obvious ones that I've stumbled upon in the past
through luck, or understanding, or perhaps even cunning.
You are lost now to black,
cloaked in incomprehensibility
because I can think only in terms of color,
black as absorption of light,
the absence of all other color,
antithesis of white.
I see not how black is a hole,
a depth beyond reason or tangibility,
a realm of being that I cannot reach into--
a place where I love you
never seems to be enough.
Perhaps it is not the stuff of great poets, but of great realizations. When I read this poem again today, took in every single word and had the moment of composition flood back over me, I felt so incredibly lucky. I am so immensely lucky to have a man who tries so hard to understand me, even when he knows he can't. To have a man that loves me so fully, and so honestly that he refuses to forfeit that love even when I won't accept it. I've been having these thoughts lately, like any normal human being, that question whether or not I'm ready to get married. I fear that I am too young. I worry because I can't know for sure that everything will work out, fret because I can't predict the future. But when I read this poem and thought back on the years I've spent with Daniel, I realized that it isn't about knowing for sure. It isn't about being prepared for everything that might happen. Because preparation is not always possible. And sometimes, even love isn't enough. It is about having faith. About trusting each other enough to stick together through whatever comes our way. It is about doing something simple, like cleaning out your desk, and realizing something so monumental, like that you're ready to get married, and that together, you have come such a long way.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
All The World's A Stage
"Sometimes, I find it's easy to be myself. Sometimes, I find it's better to be somebody else."
-Dave Matthews, "So Much To Say"
I am finding more and more that life is really all about acting, about playing a role. This is what my mother always used to tell me when I had to do something I didn't like. "Just think of yourself as an actor," she would say. "This is just a part that you've been picked to play." I have taken this advice to heart over the years, and it is now an essential part of getting through my day to day routine. I play music in my head, create the soundtrack for the film that is my life. In the morning when I come into work, I sit in my dark office (the florescent lights give me a headache), stare mindlessly at the computer screen and think of melancholy music, songs with hints of emptiness, boredom, monotony.
When I'm working with participants, heroin addicts who have been using for 10+ years, I put on a smile, act like someone who is free of judgments. I go over their drug histories, ask if they've used PCP in the past 6 months. "God no," they sometimes reply. "You have to be crazy to use that shit." I smile and nod, "Yeah...so no PCP in the past 6 months then?" I say, but what I really mean is: "You're a fucking idiot. Crazy is shooting $100 of heroin into your veins on a daily basis." It's all about acting, pretending that you are not fazed. It's about lying, accepting the abnormal as normal. And, of course, about swallowing your smart tongue.
I come home and go running, another opportunity for a flawless performance. I do not love to run. I see all these people cross my path, smiles on their faces, their backs straight, their strides even. That is not me. I feel like a wobbling mass of flesh when I am running. My t-shirt feels like it weighs 1000 pounds, my shoes another 500 each. I sweat profusely. My face turns remarkably red. Not the red of blushing cheeks and sun-kissed skin, but red like a tomato. Red like the neck of a stereotypical hillbilly. So red it looks like my head might burst. But I keep going. I pretend that I am someone who is good at running, who enjoys it immensely. I pretend to get joy from each stride, pride from each step. I pretend that my knees don't hurt so much that I could almost crumple from the pain. I play the part of someone whose legs are strong and steady. Someone who runs five miles with ease, every day.
My apartment is a mess, but I don't clean it. This goes against every part of who I am. I like things to be obsessively neat. I don't like to shower in a dirty tub. I don't like my clothes strewn about on the floor. I could stay up all night cleaning if I had to, and I would, but I am tired. So I act as though I'm someone who doesn't care. Mess becomes my middle name. Clutter is suddenly a comfort. I know that I need my rest. I need to sleep. So I pretend to be a person that can ignore the mess, a person whose need for order is not bordering on clinically insane.
But there are times when I'm not acting, when the real me leads her life. Daniel holds me and I melt into him, cry into his chest if I need to, let him stroke my hair. I watch The Office and laugh uproariously, fully, sometimes for too long. This is me, this is the way I like to laugh. Or I'll hold my sweet little kitten in my arms and squeeze him so tightly, kiss his little head over and over. I talk to my mother on the phone and feel no need to change face. If I'm sad, I let her know it. If I'm happy, she's sure to tell. Sometimes, it is so easy to just be me, to avoid the need for acting, to only play the part of myself. But sometimes, it is better to live my life as someone else, to approach those undesirable tasks like an actor approaches an undesirable scene. I'm not always going to like the role that I've been given, but I'll sure as hell act my ass off anyway.
-Dave Matthews, "So Much To Say"
I am finding more and more that life is really all about acting, about playing a role. This is what my mother always used to tell me when I had to do something I didn't like. "Just think of yourself as an actor," she would say. "This is just a part that you've been picked to play." I have taken this advice to heart over the years, and it is now an essential part of getting through my day to day routine. I play music in my head, create the soundtrack for the film that is my life. In the morning when I come into work, I sit in my dark office (the florescent lights give me a headache), stare mindlessly at the computer screen and think of melancholy music, songs with hints of emptiness, boredom, monotony.
When I'm working with participants, heroin addicts who have been using for 10+ years, I put on a smile, act like someone who is free of judgments. I go over their drug histories, ask if they've used PCP in the past 6 months. "God no," they sometimes reply. "You have to be crazy to use that shit." I smile and nod, "Yeah...so no PCP in the past 6 months then?" I say, but what I really mean is: "You're a fucking idiot. Crazy is shooting $100 of heroin into your veins on a daily basis." It's all about acting, pretending that you are not fazed. It's about lying, accepting the abnormal as normal. And, of course, about swallowing your smart tongue.
I come home and go running, another opportunity for a flawless performance. I do not love to run. I see all these people cross my path, smiles on their faces, their backs straight, their strides even. That is not me. I feel like a wobbling mass of flesh when I am running. My t-shirt feels like it weighs 1000 pounds, my shoes another 500 each. I sweat profusely. My face turns remarkably red. Not the red of blushing cheeks and sun-kissed skin, but red like a tomato. Red like the neck of a stereotypical hillbilly. So red it looks like my head might burst. But I keep going. I pretend that I am someone who is good at running, who enjoys it immensely. I pretend to get joy from each stride, pride from each step. I pretend that my knees don't hurt so much that I could almost crumple from the pain. I play the part of someone whose legs are strong and steady. Someone who runs five miles with ease, every day.
My apartment is a mess, but I don't clean it. This goes against every part of who I am. I like things to be obsessively neat. I don't like to shower in a dirty tub. I don't like my clothes strewn about on the floor. I could stay up all night cleaning if I had to, and I would, but I am tired. So I act as though I'm someone who doesn't care. Mess becomes my middle name. Clutter is suddenly a comfort. I know that I need my rest. I need to sleep. So I pretend to be a person that can ignore the mess, a person whose need for order is not bordering on clinically insane.
But there are times when I'm not acting, when the real me leads her life. Daniel holds me and I melt into him, cry into his chest if I need to, let him stroke my hair. I watch The Office and laugh uproariously, fully, sometimes for too long. This is me, this is the way I like to laugh. Or I'll hold my sweet little kitten in my arms and squeeze him so tightly, kiss his little head over and over. I talk to my mother on the phone and feel no need to change face. If I'm sad, I let her know it. If I'm happy, she's sure to tell. Sometimes, it is so easy to just be me, to avoid the need for acting, to only play the part of myself. But sometimes, it is better to live my life as someone else, to approach those undesirable tasks like an actor approaches an undesirable scene. I'm not always going to like the role that I've been given, but I'll sure as hell act my ass off anyway.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
I'm Leaving Home to Head Back Home
Lately, I've been wondering what it takes to develop a sense of being home. Dan and I have been living in Baltimore for three months now, and I suppose it is beginning to feel like this is where we belong. When I come through the apartment door and hear Maggs mewing upstairs, excited about my return, I feel at home. But it's possible that this is only because my apartment is my respite from work, an oasis far from the mind-numbing repetition of the work day. I come home, kick off my high heels, discard my dress pants and sit on the futon, eating cubes of cheese and staring blindly at the television set, unwinding. These moments feel like college, real but unreal. Temporary.
This weekend is Yom Kippur. Dan and I will be returning home, back to Ann Arbor. We'll sit and share drinks over dinner with my parents. We'll pile egg salad or tuna onto bagels to break the fast with his. We'll sleep in the houses we grew up in. We'll see the friends we left behind, or the ones who come in for a weekend visit. It will be the same as always, like any other Yom Kippur, like any other weekend dinner with my folks. And yet, it is completely different, because we don't live in Ann Arbor anymore. We'll be visitors in our own homes.
I suppose a transition by its very nature forces one to feel like a transient. Nothing feels complete or permanent; my old life has yet to catch up to my new one. It is like I am split: half of me here in Baltimore, the other half 500 miles away. "Where are you from?" someone will ask me, and I always say Michigan. "Where do you live?" Upper Fells Point. This is the distinction. One place houses the past, the other houses only the present. But perhaps I continue to exist equally in both. I am still the Claire I used to be, who speaks to her mother more often than her friends. Who watches television shows religiously, finds pleasure in the imaginary lives of others. The same Claire who hears a line, a saying, a quote she likes and scribbles it down on a piece of paper, stuffs it in her desk drawer for safe keeping. A Claire who gets caught up in Michigan football, Tigers baseball, and other sports she doesn't even care about.
But I'm a new Claire too. A Claire who takes the city bus home every day from work, with her head down and sunglasses on, not because she's scared or uncomfortable, but because she needs the downtime, doesn't want to carry on superficial conversations. I'm a Claire who runs along the harbor, tilts her head back when the wind blows over her body. A Claire who scoops her cat up in the morning, kisses him on the head. Who descends the spiral stairs down to the street and begins her day.
I'm looking forward to being back in Ann Arbor, sitting at my parents' kitchen table, staring out a window and seeing the backyard. "I'm going home this weekend," I'll tell my coworkers. Home to Michigan, to my parents. Back home to my home. But when the weekend's over, and Dan and I land safely on the ground at Baltimore-Washington International, I know we'll look at each other and think: ah, finally we're home. And when we come through the apartment door and hear Maggs crying out to us, I'll know that this is where we belong, this is our house. And I'll get up Monday morning, scoop Maggs up in my arms, kiss his head. I'll put on my dress pants and my high heels. I'll walk down the spiral steps to the street below. And I'll start thinking about how I can't wait until Thanksgiving, when I'll get to go back home.
This weekend is Yom Kippur. Dan and I will be returning home, back to Ann Arbor. We'll sit and share drinks over dinner with my parents. We'll pile egg salad or tuna onto bagels to break the fast with his. We'll sleep in the houses we grew up in. We'll see the friends we left behind, or the ones who come in for a weekend visit. It will be the same as always, like any other Yom Kippur, like any other weekend dinner with my folks. And yet, it is completely different, because we don't live in Ann Arbor anymore. We'll be visitors in our own homes.
I suppose a transition by its very nature forces one to feel like a transient. Nothing feels complete or permanent; my old life has yet to catch up to my new one. It is like I am split: half of me here in Baltimore, the other half 500 miles away. "Where are you from?" someone will ask me, and I always say Michigan. "Where do you live?" Upper Fells Point. This is the distinction. One place houses the past, the other houses only the present. But perhaps I continue to exist equally in both. I am still the Claire I used to be, who speaks to her mother more often than her friends. Who watches television shows religiously, finds pleasure in the imaginary lives of others. The same Claire who hears a line, a saying, a quote she likes and scribbles it down on a piece of paper, stuffs it in her desk drawer for safe keeping. A Claire who gets caught up in Michigan football, Tigers baseball, and other sports she doesn't even care about.
But I'm a new Claire too. A Claire who takes the city bus home every day from work, with her head down and sunglasses on, not because she's scared or uncomfortable, but because she needs the downtime, doesn't want to carry on superficial conversations. I'm a Claire who runs along the harbor, tilts her head back when the wind blows over her body. A Claire who scoops her cat up in the morning, kisses him on the head. Who descends the spiral stairs down to the street and begins her day.
I'm looking forward to being back in Ann Arbor, sitting at my parents' kitchen table, staring out a window and seeing the backyard. "I'm going home this weekend," I'll tell my coworkers. Home to Michigan, to my parents. Back home to my home. But when the weekend's over, and Dan and I land safely on the ground at Baltimore-Washington International, I know we'll look at each other and think: ah, finally we're home. And when we come through the apartment door and hear Maggs crying out to us, I'll know that this is where we belong, this is our house. And I'll get up Monday morning, scoop Maggs up in my arms, kiss his head. I'll put on my dress pants and my high heels. I'll walk down the spiral steps to the street below. And I'll start thinking about how I can't wait until Thanksgiving, when I'll get to go back home.
Hail to the Victors?
It is my personal opinion that one of the best things in life is the discovery that someone is worse than you, at anything. It doesn't feel good to be a loser. I don't like having to hide my head in shame. In sixth grade, I played the alto saxophone in the school band. During class, the band director would call on people at random and make them stand up and play a stanza alone, in front of everyone. I always hated this exercise. I didn't like the feel of a hundred or so eyes burning into me, judging me. I wasn't good at the saxophone and I despised playing it. I would shake when it was my turn and my fingers would slip. I hit the wrong keys. My reed would squeak between my lips. Sweat would form on my brow. But then would come Stephanie Wernke. She sat beside me in band. She wore glasses, her hair was always matted, for some reason she liked to paint her fingernails blue. And she sucked at saxophone. She was terrible, worse than me. She was on a whole other planet of suckiness light years away from the one I inhabited. And it made me feel better, to know that I was better than her. Sure it wasn't much of an accomplishment, to play better than someone whose ability could most likely be rivaled by some smart canine on Letterman's Stupid Pet Tricks, but it felt good to know that I wasn't the worst at saxophone. I wasn't even close.
This is how the University of Michigan football team should feel after this past Saturday's game. They kicked the crap out of Notre Dame. You couldn't really ask for a better outcome when playing one of your biggest rivals, and I understand and respect that my team is now pumped. But let's not get too carried away. It's not like beating Notre Dame was any kind of a challenge. You know those great videos on the Discovery Channel where out in the pride lands, a group lions fiercely chases an antelope. The antelope is quick. It darts back and forth, makes quick cuts, changes directions, tricks the predators. But then, the lions converge from all sides, pull the antelope to the ground, rip it limb from limb. Yeah! Awesome! This wasn't like that. Nope, this game was more like a pack of hungry lions descending on a sick and decrepit antelope, laying motionless on the ground, slowly dying. Of course they're going to kill it. Obviously they'll be able to rip the poor beast limb from limb. And you almost feel bad for the pathetic antelope, until you remember that this how it works. One animal has to die for another one to live. Notre Dame must lose horrifically for Michigan to feel at all redeemed.
And there is at least a small sense of redemption, fleeting as it may be. Finally it is someone else who looks the fool. It wasn't Michigan dropping passes, fumbling snaps. Yeah our true freshman quarterback tried to run a trick play and fell on his ass, but he got right back up and started laughing. He threw three touchdown passes and had a good time. He was fun and charismatic and, let's face it, better than our Senior starter has been thus far. But this still wasn't a kick up your heels and start chanting Big Ten Champions sort of game. I don't feel significantly more confident about facing Penn State now than I did last week. I wouldn't go guaranteeing any victories, and I'm quite certain Mike Hart has no intention of doing so either. Because the truth of it is, Notre Dame sucks. They're awful; and beating them doesn't mean we're good, just better than the worst. I know from experience. It's not as though every time Stephanie Wernke missed a note I somehow grew closer to being Charlie Parker. I was still just as bad as I'd always been, which was worse than everyone else, but much much better than her. And I fear the same is true for Michigan. For now though, it seems necessary to revel in this win, to allow oneself a full week of chest swelling pride. For there are few things better in this life than the opportunity to say "Yeah, we suck. But man, you suck so much more." And there is perhaps nothing better than saying it to Notre Dame.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Is There Any Recourse For the Weary?
I used to play on a soccer team called The Sidekicks. It was an all boys team, and I was the only girl. Each year, we would play in The Labor Day Classic, a weekend-long soccer tournament held on converted polo fields. It was either boiling hot, the South Texas sun beating down all day on the vast, dry, treeless landscape. Or, oddly enough, it was freezing and the wind would whip and rush across the flat terrain and kick up the ground in a swirling mass of dust and pointy grass blades. And we were terrible. If it weren't for the free t-shirts for all participants, if it weren't for orange halves at half time and powdered donuts and juice boxes at the end of the game, it wouldn't have been worth it. It would have been a complete waste of time.
I remember one year, we played a team from Mexico. They had only one girl too, and she was better than me. She was taller, she was faster. Her passes were more accurate. Her crosses curved beautifully into the feet of her waiting teammates. "You'll cover the girl," my coach told me, "because, well...you know." But cover her I did not. She flew past me, she knocked me over, she stole the ball time and time again. And it wasn't just me that was made into a monkey. All across the field these Mexican hotshots left us in the dust. We chased them down the field in vain. They would shoot the ball in one direction, and our goalie would dive in the other. We were beaten, we were scraped, we looked just plain pathetic. I don't think we scored a single goal. I'm quite certain they scored at least 100. I never thought we'd live it down. I never thought we'd bounce back. We were dejected and ashamed. And worst of all, we were really, really sore.
I haven't thought about this experience in years. It was just pee-wee soccer. There's more to life than sports. You grow up, you move on, the days keep coming one after another. The world doesn't end. But the image, the memory of this defeat rushed back to me yesterday, as I sat in my living room, at least 10 years later, watching Oregon absolutely trounce the Wolverines. The same wave of degradation that washed over me when I was 12 and standing red-faced and breathless on a dusty polo-turned-soccer field, was now flooding our apartment. Touchdown, after touchdown, after touchdown. One missed tackle piles onto another and another. Henne throws an interception. Someone fumbles the ball. Moe pokes Curly in the eyes. Nyuck, Nyuck, Nyuck! It was horrendous.
I didn't think it could get much worse after losing to Appalachian State, but clearly I was wrong. I should have know better, I suppose. After our despairing lost to Team Mexico, it was not as though we, The Sidekicks, suddenly became Olympic caliber. We couldn't run any faster the following weekend. We didn't play any better. We weren't suddenly more skilled. And clearly, neither was Michigan after their mortifying defeat. If anything, they made it a point to play even worse than they had the week before. There was at least no indication that efforts to improve had even been made. It was a head-in-hands kind of evening. No singing of The Victors. No thrusting of fists into the air.
It's not even worth it to be angry, when you get the stuffing beat out of you like that. Take a deep breath. Brush the dust off your legs. Lick your dirty fingers and wipe the blood from your scraped knees. Have a sip of water and wipe your soiled face against your sweat-soaked jersey. All you can do is line up and shake hands with the other team. You haven't won The Labor Day Classic; you haven't even qualified for the next round. But you do get to go home, take a cold shower, and contemplate redemption. And perhaps redemption will come. I'm fairly certain The Sidekicks didn't lose every game we played that year. We weren't always so monstrously beaten. We didn't spend every weekend being dragged through the dirt. But we never really lived it down either. After 10 years, I can still see that girl's long, brown ponytail swinging side to side as I hopelessly followed her down the field. I can still remember the burning in my lungs and on my cheeks. The humiliation that seemed to penetrate all the way down to the very marrow of my bones.
I don't believe that Michigan will lose every game they play this season. I know climate control is an ever-increasing world crisis, but hell is not likely to freeze over just yet. Maybe they'll come out strong next week and beat an equally listless Notre Dame (which, along with Ohio State, is really all that matters). Perhaps they'll even pick it up enough to win out the rest of the season, and somehow become the Big 10 Champs. But then again, maybe they won't. And the latter seems far more likely. In the end, though, whichever scenario comes true, no matter how many games they win or lose, they'll still have started out 0 and 2, with a loss to a I-AA team and an absolute desolation by Oregon. Yeah they'll get over. Sure life goes on. One year will flow into the next and a new season will start, and then another and another and so on until global warming kills us all. But they'll never really live it down. Ten years down the road, sitting in their respective living rooms, it will hit them in a rush: Crable will chide himself for blocking the outside man, instead of the inside one; Henne will shake his head in disbelief at his utter lack of ability when it comes to hitting Manningham, wide open, on the long pass; Mike Hart will wonder if he would have been better off going to a different school, instead of wasting four years of impeccable talent with a program that couldn't win a bowl game. Sure there's more to life than sports. More to this world than winning or losing. But embarrassment...well that sticks with you forever. It nestles down deep inside and lies dormant for a while. There's always something that stirs it to the surface, though. It always comes flooding back into your mind and your skin, burning hot against your cheeks like the callous South Texas sun. And you live the moment over again; you can't help it. In your mind, you pull yourself up from the ground after being repeatedly knocked down. You dust yourself off. You put your hands on your hips and shake your head in disbelief. Yeah, you recognize how far you've come, but you still can't help but think: I can't believe we were that bad.
I remember one year, we played a team from Mexico. They had only one girl too, and she was better than me. She was taller, she was faster. Her passes were more accurate. Her crosses curved beautifully into the feet of her waiting teammates. "You'll cover the girl," my coach told me, "because, well...you know." But cover her I did not. She flew past me, she knocked me over, she stole the ball time and time again. And it wasn't just me that was made into a monkey. All across the field these Mexican hotshots left us in the dust. We chased them down the field in vain. They would shoot the ball in one direction, and our goalie would dive in the other. We were beaten, we were scraped, we looked just plain pathetic. I don't think we scored a single goal. I'm quite certain they scored at least 100. I never thought we'd live it down. I never thought we'd bounce back. We were dejected and ashamed. And worst of all, we were really, really sore.
I haven't thought about this experience in years. It was just pee-wee soccer. There's more to life than sports. You grow up, you move on, the days keep coming one after another. The world doesn't end. But the image, the memory of this defeat rushed back to me yesterday, as I sat in my living room, at least 10 years later, watching Oregon absolutely trounce the Wolverines. The same wave of degradation that washed over me when I was 12 and standing red-faced and breathless on a dusty polo-turned-soccer field, was now flooding our apartment. Touchdown, after touchdown, after touchdown. One missed tackle piles onto another and another. Henne throws an interception. Someone fumbles the ball. Moe pokes Curly in the eyes. Nyuck, Nyuck, Nyuck! It was horrendous.
I didn't think it could get much worse after losing to Appalachian State, but clearly I was wrong. I should have know better, I suppose. After our despairing lost to Team Mexico, it was not as though we, The Sidekicks, suddenly became Olympic caliber. We couldn't run any faster the following weekend. We didn't play any better. We weren't suddenly more skilled. And clearly, neither was Michigan after their mortifying defeat. If anything, they made it a point to play even worse than they had the week before. There was at least no indication that efforts to improve had even been made. It was a head-in-hands kind of evening. No singing of The Victors. No thrusting of fists into the air.
It's not even worth it to be angry, when you get the stuffing beat out of you like that. Take a deep breath. Brush the dust off your legs. Lick your dirty fingers and wipe the blood from your scraped knees. Have a sip of water and wipe your soiled face against your sweat-soaked jersey. All you can do is line up and shake hands with the other team. You haven't won The Labor Day Classic; you haven't even qualified for the next round. But you do get to go home, take a cold shower, and contemplate redemption. And perhaps redemption will come. I'm fairly certain The Sidekicks didn't lose every game we played that year. We weren't always so monstrously beaten. We didn't spend every weekend being dragged through the dirt. But we never really lived it down either. After 10 years, I can still see that girl's long, brown ponytail swinging side to side as I hopelessly followed her down the field. I can still remember the burning in my lungs and on my cheeks. The humiliation that seemed to penetrate all the way down to the very marrow of my bones.
I don't believe that Michigan will lose every game they play this season. I know climate control is an ever-increasing world crisis, but hell is not likely to freeze over just yet. Maybe they'll come out strong next week and beat an equally listless Notre Dame (which, along with Ohio State, is really all that matters). Perhaps they'll even pick it up enough to win out the rest of the season, and somehow become the Big 10 Champs. But then again, maybe they won't. And the latter seems far more likely. In the end, though, whichever scenario comes true, no matter how many games they win or lose, they'll still have started out 0 and 2, with a loss to a I-AA team and an absolute desolation by Oregon. Yeah they'll get over. Sure life goes on. One year will flow into the next and a new season will start, and then another and another and so on until global warming kills us all. But they'll never really live it down. Ten years down the road, sitting in their respective living rooms, it will hit them in a rush: Crable will chide himself for blocking the outside man, instead of the inside one; Henne will shake his head in disbelief at his utter lack of ability when it comes to hitting Manningham, wide open, on the long pass; Mike Hart will wonder if he would have been better off going to a different school, instead of wasting four years of impeccable talent with a program that couldn't win a bowl game. Sure there's more to life than sports. More to this world than winning or losing. But embarrassment...well that sticks with you forever. It nestles down deep inside and lies dormant for a while. There's always something that stirs it to the surface, though. It always comes flooding back into your mind and your skin, burning hot against your cheeks like the callous South Texas sun. And you live the moment over again; you can't help it. In your mind, you pull yourself up from the ground after being repeatedly knocked down. You dust yourself off. You put your hands on your hips and shake your head in disbelief. Yeah, you recognize how far you've come, but you still can't help but think: I can't believe we were that bad.
Friday, September 7, 2007
If It Starts to Crumble, It Surely Soon Will Fall
Dan and I just moved into a new apartment. It's nearly twice the size of our former place. Two floors, big open stairway. We even have a ceiling fan. This is progress, betterment, a change for the best, and in such a short period of time. Maggs, our kitten, adores this new location. He races around the clutter-free, expansive floors. He jumps from floor, to table, to ledge, to counter. And he plays on the stairs. I watched him yesterday, just after I came home from work. He is restless when we are gone, cries relentlessly when the apartment door opens, begs for attention from the minute my foot hits the living room floor. He was racing up and down the stairs. Back and forth, over and over, like a hypnotic pendulum. I watched from the living room couch, my mind and body growing sluggish in the wake of his repetition. Back and forth, back and forth, until he tripped. One paw was caught slightly off guard on the way down; his desire moved faster than his feet. He slid across the soft wood, toppled over the edge of one stair. He let out a little squeal and grabbed hold with one paw, dug one set of claws into the stair's thick flesh, his small body writhing in the air.
He's going to fall, I thought. His paw will slip and he'll come crashing down onto the TV set. He could break his back. He could break the TV screen. But I didn't move to save him. I couldn't get myself to stir. I simply watched, as he dangled from the ledge, and waited for him to fall. But fall, he did not. He got his other paw back onto the stair, and wiggled and scrambled his way back up to safety. He resumed his manic racing.
This is how I've felt lately: like half of me is teetering on the edge, and the other half just sits idly by waiting for me to fall. Sure it might be the stress of moving for the second time in less than three months. And yeah maybe it is the pressure of applying to jobs for which I am not fully qualified while working full time at a job for which I feel nothing but disdain. Whatever the reason, I'm my own worst enemy right now. It's as though my life itself is bipolar: one part a manic, Maggs-like rush, searching for jobs, applying to jobs, unpacking boxes, hanging pictures, organizing shelf after shelf after shelf. And the other part, a slow, sluggish pit of despondency. I don't feel like moving, can't pull myself up. I'm mesmerized by the prospect of watching myself fall.
I know it is just one foot in front of the other. One paw on the stair, and now the next, there you go, just pull up. But I don't have the same agility as my sweet, little kitten. Not the same gall, the same daring. I don't have that same deep-seated desire to push on through, keep on racing. It is one thing to be like Maggs and chase the imaginary, but another thing entirely to chase what is real, while knowing it may only slip further and further away. I am trying to take a lesson from a simpler species, though. Trying to adopt Maggs' Hang In There Baby attitude. I am far too deep inside my own head, too lost in the complexities of my own thoughts, my ambitions. Perhaps it is better to just keep on running, keep on chasing, keep on moving up and down. Maybe it's better to let my desire charge forward faster than my feet. Sure sometimes I'm going to slip. Sometimes I'll probably fall. But more often than not, I'll be able to pull myself back up, and just keep on racing. Right now I may be crumbling, but it's not over yet, all hope is not lost. It's just a matter of pulling myself up from the couch, of getting out of my sluggish rut. It's just a matter of being more like Maggs.
He's going to fall, I thought. His paw will slip and he'll come crashing down onto the TV set. He could break his back. He could break the TV screen. But I didn't move to save him. I couldn't get myself to stir. I simply watched, as he dangled from the ledge, and waited for him to fall. But fall, he did not. He got his other paw back onto the stair, and wiggled and scrambled his way back up to safety. He resumed his manic racing.
This is how I've felt lately: like half of me is teetering on the edge, and the other half just sits idly by waiting for me to fall. Sure it might be the stress of moving for the second time in less than three months. And yeah maybe it is the pressure of applying to jobs for which I am not fully qualified while working full time at a job for which I feel nothing but disdain. Whatever the reason, I'm my own worst enemy right now. It's as though my life itself is bipolar: one part a manic, Maggs-like rush, searching for jobs, applying to jobs, unpacking boxes, hanging pictures, organizing shelf after shelf after shelf. And the other part, a slow, sluggish pit of despondency. I don't feel like moving, can't pull myself up. I'm mesmerized by the prospect of watching myself fall.
I know it is just one foot in front of the other. One paw on the stair, and now the next, there you go, just pull up. But I don't have the same agility as my sweet, little kitten. Not the same gall, the same daring. I don't have that same deep-seated desire to push on through, keep on racing. It is one thing to be like Maggs and chase the imaginary, but another thing entirely to chase what is real, while knowing it may only slip further and further away. I am trying to take a lesson from a simpler species, though. Trying to adopt Maggs' Hang In There Baby attitude. I am far too deep inside my own head, too lost in the complexities of my own thoughts, my ambitions. Perhaps it is better to just keep on running, keep on chasing, keep on moving up and down. Maybe it's better to let my desire charge forward faster than my feet. Sure sometimes I'm going to slip. Sometimes I'll probably fall. But more often than not, I'll be able to pull myself back up, and just keep on racing. Right now I may be crumbling, but it's not over yet, all hope is not lost. It's just a matter of pulling myself up from the couch, of getting out of my sluggish rut. It's just a matter of being more like Maggs.
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