1. early morning voice overs
2. small wildflowers
3. the tea house
4. short walks that clarify
5. lion's pose
6. throat
7. thresholds
8. pink moons
9. window panes
10. films noir
11. soft foot touching
12. rattle and clink of dishes while reading
13. heirloom tomatoes from the co-op
14. peppers and herbs out back
15. my sisters' voices
16. students with grills
17. communal meals
18. everday mazes
19. letters in the mailbox
20. calendula
21. dreams of the dead
22. taking notes
23. stacks of books
24. small children's pointing fingers
25. the gaze inward
26. solitude's ease
27. brain stretching
28. muscle tickles
29. skin tags
30. endless leg bones
31. the edge of missing people
32. intrasubjectivity
33. soul showers
34. joining
35. towards and further
36. surprising halos
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
clever, clever
(To be read in Andy Rooney's voice:)
You know how, lately, you must secure an especially sensitive on-line account by choosing three questions to which you and only you knows the answer? And you think and think: "What will I always know the answer to?" And then you finally land on three very clever questions that you are sure will prevent any fraudist or theif from busting in and taking all you've got? It's the cleverness I want to disabuse you of, especially if you are a writer and being clever is your specialty.
(To be read in my voice:)
In 2004, I opened an account with ______, and came up with some very clever questions and answers. Typically enough, I never used the on-line account, opting for the old-fashioned way of dealing with my affairs -- through the postal system or on the phone. But recently, feeling even more 21st century than ever, I decided to go back and try to get into the account on-line, only I forgot the password. Inevitably, I could not get ______ to send me the password via email, so I called up and got an operator. The operator told me she could send me an email confirming my password if I could answer the three questions I posed to secure the account when I opened it. Simple enough, I thought. "Okay," I said, "Shoot." I nailed the answers to the first two questions, which I will not, of course, reveal to you on-line (buy me a beer and I'll tell you).
Then came the third question, which the operator introduced by saying, "Okay, and so, now, the last question is . . ." She paused, cleared her voice, and then she deadpanned, "Who is the worst student?"
I was not only stunned by this question, but I was also incredulous about its odd phrasing -- "WHAT? 'Who is the worst student?' What does that mean?" Not even, "Who is the worst student I've ever had?" or "What is the name of the student who did X?" but a brief, almost dull-witted articulation of extremes. I couldn't believe it. Remember, I am the author of this question and I presumed that I would always know the answer.
When I confessed that I was totally stumped, the operator, feeling sorry for me, said, "Well, you wrote the question in 2004, does that jog your memory at all?" "Hm, 2004 . . . 2004 . . . I'd have to look at a grade book," I replied. What was going on in 2004 that was so awful, and why was it that I could no longer access that memory after being triggered by a question designed for its immediate recall? At the same time, I think the question is also a bit green, because it supposes that, really, this student was the worst! ever! and none would ever match her or him in what I am sure was an astonishingly aggressive and endlessly dramatic approach to learning. The question betrays a Chuck who, in 2004, could not -- or would not -- separate the professional and the financial from the emotional. It's a Chuck who chose, finally, not a question at all but, instead, a mood -- one that has no answer, only endless questions attached to it.
And I wondered, at the same time, what other kinds of bizarre questions people ask themselves the answers for in order to access their digital hordings, and how many questions have answers that go unremembered, or that are based on moods. I wondered about mean-spirited questions, sort of like my own, or ones motivated by love, anger, jealousy, loss, broken-heartedness, or delusions of grandeur?
Even though I am hating closure these days, I'll tell you that, while I never figured out the answer to the question, and had to go through a whole rigamarole to get a new password, I feel like the more I think about it, the closer I come to understanding who this might have been and why I thought I'd never forget the answer. Sorry for the vagueness, but I'm still cautious about the limits of pseudonimity.
(To be read in someone else's voice:)
(I know this seems like a lame ploy to keep readers interested in a blog that hasn't been very active these days but, really, the beginning of the academic year along has me taxed in ways I didn't expect!)
You know how, lately, you must secure an especially sensitive on-line account by choosing three questions to which you and only you knows the answer? And you think and think: "What will I always know the answer to?" And then you finally land on three very clever questions that you are sure will prevent any fraudist or theif from busting in and taking all you've got? It's the cleverness I want to disabuse you of, especially if you are a writer and being clever is your specialty.
(To be read in my voice:)
In 2004, I opened an account with ______, and came up with some very clever questions and answers. Typically enough, I never used the on-line account, opting for the old-fashioned way of dealing with my affairs -- through the postal system or on the phone. But recently, feeling even more 21st century than ever, I decided to go back and try to get into the account on-line, only I forgot the password. Inevitably, I could not get ______ to send me the password via email, so I called up and got an operator. The operator told me she could send me an email confirming my password if I could answer the three questions I posed to secure the account when I opened it. Simple enough, I thought. "Okay," I said, "Shoot." I nailed the answers to the first two questions, which I will not, of course, reveal to you on-line (buy me a beer and I'll tell you).
Then came the third question, which the operator introduced by saying, "Okay, and so, now, the last question is . . ." She paused, cleared her voice, and then she deadpanned, "Who is the worst student?"
I was not only stunned by this question, but I was also incredulous about its odd phrasing -- "WHAT? 'Who is the worst student?' What does that mean?" Not even, "Who is the worst student I've ever had?" or "What is the name of the student who did X?" but a brief, almost dull-witted articulation of extremes. I couldn't believe it. Remember, I am the author of this question and I presumed that I would always know the answer.
When I confessed that I was totally stumped, the operator, feeling sorry for me, said, "Well, you wrote the question in 2004, does that jog your memory at all?" "Hm, 2004 . . . 2004 . . . I'd have to look at a grade book," I replied. What was going on in 2004 that was so awful, and why was it that I could no longer access that memory after being triggered by a question designed for its immediate recall? At the same time, I think the question is also a bit green, because it supposes that, really, this student was the worst! ever! and none would ever match her or him in what I am sure was an astonishingly aggressive and endlessly dramatic approach to learning. The question betrays a Chuck who, in 2004, could not -- or would not -- separate the professional and the financial from the emotional. It's a Chuck who chose, finally, not a question at all but, instead, a mood -- one that has no answer, only endless questions attached to it.
And I wondered, at the same time, what other kinds of bizarre questions people ask themselves the answers for in order to access their digital hordings, and how many questions have answers that go unremembered, or that are based on moods. I wondered about mean-spirited questions, sort of like my own, or ones motivated by love, anger, jealousy, loss, broken-heartedness, or delusions of grandeur?
Even though I am hating closure these days, I'll tell you that, while I never figured out the answer to the question, and had to go through a whole rigamarole to get a new password, I feel like the more I think about it, the closer I come to understanding who this might have been and why I thought I'd never forget the answer. Sorry for the vagueness, but I'm still cautious about the limits of pseudonimity.
(To be read in someone else's voice:)
(I know this seems like a lame ploy to keep readers interested in a blog that hasn't been very active these days but, really, the beginning of the academic year along has me taxed in ways I didn't expect!)
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
bettin' on the bull in the heather
What's that Sonic Youth song? The one where Kim Gordon counts by tens?
And the bass booms along a low down dirty beat, keeping you rooted in the earth while her vocals go up into the creaking sky?
The urgency of Kim's message gets more and more heated, only to be tempered by a rat-a-tat on the drums and a shake-a-shake in your right ear.
I'm grooving on this right now, hard core, thinking back to a time when it was the early 90s and I am stuck living in a motel room whose only protection is a broken sliding glass door, and the sink overflows every night with the unflushed waste of other rooms' debris. The smell of cooking fish from the communal kitchen. Everyone's sick. 70s drapery and a bed bolted to the wall. It was cheap. A time when I was new to H/town, fresh from the northeast, thinking "Soon," and "How fast I'll be done here," and "My ideas are abstract and important."
Notice that Kathleen Hanna dances into the frame and sticks out her tongue. She punches Thurston in the face by accident while Kim curls up in a nightie in what looks like a little kid's bedding. Kim has understood something. She stares into the camera and, tacitly, asks the viewer why he's so interested in seeing some betting game gone so weird. Thurston gives a horse a banana.
You can dance to it and feel proud, but you shouldn't expect anyone to leave feeling any better.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=2T4BsnXmJaI
And the bass booms along a low down dirty beat, keeping you rooted in the earth while her vocals go up into the creaking sky?
The urgency of Kim's message gets more and more heated, only to be tempered by a rat-a-tat on the drums and a shake-a-shake in your right ear.
I'm grooving on this right now, hard core, thinking back to a time when it was the early 90s and I am stuck living in a motel room whose only protection is a broken sliding glass door, and the sink overflows every night with the unflushed waste of other rooms' debris. The smell of cooking fish from the communal kitchen. Everyone's sick. 70s drapery and a bed bolted to the wall. It was cheap. A time when I was new to H/town, fresh from the northeast, thinking "Soon," and "How fast I'll be done here," and "My ideas are abstract and important."
Notice that Kathleen Hanna dances into the frame and sticks out her tongue. She punches Thurston in the face by accident while Kim curls up in a nightie in what looks like a little kid's bedding. Kim has understood something. She stares into the camera and, tacitly, asks the viewer why he's so interested in seeing some betting game gone so weird. Thurston gives a horse a banana.
You can dance to it and feel proud, but you shouldn't expect anyone to leave feeling any better.
http://youtube.com/watch?v=2T4BsnXmJaI
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Sunday, August 19, 2007
cone of uncertainty
Erin was easy. If I can just remember not to drive the car into any really deep puddles, I'll be fine. And now there's Dean [remember Dean? ah, boyfriends . . .], who was predicted to wreak havoc all over the Gulf region of the U.S., but more recent evaluations of what will happen next week is that it will head right into the Yucatan, and by that time it will be more of a depression than a hurricane.
The language of weather parallels the language of the psyche: depressions, storms, and floods. Scorchers. Weakening systems. The cone of uncertainty: I picture all treacherous doubts funneling into the top of my head and swirling around in my brain before being pumped to my heart, where they flutter and jump until a more predictable pattern emerges.
Fruit flies. Mosquitoes. Fire ants.
Today I purchased wood filler. The intent is to make the window in the shower look less like a rotting frame and more like -- like a window. Will this work? The window is beyond opening and closing, although we gave it a shot when we first moved in. "It will be nice," I thought, "to have an open window to air out the shower and keep down the mildew. Much nicer than the shower in the old apartment, with that broken gas heater installed in the tiles opposite the shower head." But opening the window requires a serious effort, and every time one of us did, more and more of the frame crumbled off, and more and more of the frame cracked. So this wood filler isn't going to fix anything. It'll just make it look better by filling the wood in where there isn't any. I'll need to use sandpaper.
This is a description of the coffee mug in front of me: a smiling, cross-eyed, grey elephant skips rope against a sea-foam green background, with these words written next to him: TTPbIT-CKOK, TTPbIT-CKOC TDE-TO PYXHYA TTOTOAOK
Yesterday I made pasta sauce using fresh sage from the sage plant Cake left us. Sagacious Cake's sage plant. It was delicious.
The language of weather parallels the language of the psyche: depressions, storms, and floods. Scorchers. Weakening systems. The cone of uncertainty: I picture all treacherous doubts funneling into the top of my head and swirling around in my brain before being pumped to my heart, where they flutter and jump until a more predictable pattern emerges.
Fruit flies. Mosquitoes. Fire ants.
Today I purchased wood filler. The intent is to make the window in the shower look less like a rotting frame and more like -- like a window. Will this work? The window is beyond opening and closing, although we gave it a shot when we first moved in. "It will be nice," I thought, "to have an open window to air out the shower and keep down the mildew. Much nicer than the shower in the old apartment, with that broken gas heater installed in the tiles opposite the shower head." But opening the window requires a serious effort, and every time one of us did, more and more of the frame crumbled off, and more and more of the frame cracked. So this wood filler isn't going to fix anything. It'll just make it look better by filling the wood in where there isn't any. I'll need to use sandpaper.
This is a description of the coffee mug in front of me: a smiling, cross-eyed, grey elephant skips rope against a sea-foam green background, with these words written next to him: TTPbIT-CKOK, TTPbIT-CKOC TDE-TO PYXHYA TTOTOAOK
Yesterday I made pasta sauce using fresh sage from the sage plant Cake left us. Sagacious Cake's sage plant. It was delicious.
Monday, August 13, 2007
feels like
With the "feels like" temperature spiking at 115 degrees in the heart of the city, you've got to really steel yourself for the day's events. What happens when it is this hot? If film noir has taught us anything (which it has), it can only be trouble. Time to hole up, watch The Asphalt Jungle (dir. John Huston, 1950) and Strangers on a Train (dir. Alfred Hitchcock, 1951), and try to make it through the next week.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
august already? (dream)
Where, I ask you, has the summer gone?
I had a dream last night that, with great excitement, I realized that I had bought a fishtank, a large, glowing cube of exotic-looking, fantastically-colored fish that I was keeping on top of my dresser in the bedroom. It was a spectacular sight, especially at night. When I went to feed the fish, I realized how tiny they were, and also realized that the towel I had forgotten that I was carrying was supposed to be placed inside the tank in order to increase the amount of nutrients in their food. Against all rules of logic, the towel, rather than soaking up all of the tank water as I feared, simply disintegrated and fed the fish, who were suddenly large and beautiful, swimming in terrifically complex geometric patterns.
Instead of being satisfied with these results, though, I recklessly went in search of another towel to add, hoping for even better results. I came back to the fish tank, which was still on the same dresser but now so high up I had to climb on the knobs on the dresser to help me reach the top. The whole structure was profoundly unsteady, but I was determined to add another towel. Once I got to the top and peered into the fishtank, I knew my plan might cause problems, but I figured it was too late now, and so I began to put the second towel into the tank. About half-way in, the problems started. The towel was getting very wet and heavy. I noticed that the fish in the tank were frighteningly big, shark-sized, with open mouths and sharp teeth. Much to my horror, I saw that one of the fish was battered and diseased, and that its eyes had been eaten out by the other fish. All of the fish bumped up against the side of the tank with astonishing force. I lost my grip on the dresser, and the whole thing tipped. I clutched the lip of the tank for support and grabbed at the heavy, water-logged towel, thinking it might anchor me.
We fell. Water and fish went everywhere. I scrambled to pick them up to put them back inside the tank, but I couldn't tell which onces were alive and which ones were dead. Some had become so small I couldn't tell if I was holding a fish or not. The room was also very dark, and I worried about stepping on the fish as well as getting bit by them. Their population, since the falling of the tank, had grown significantly. The floor of the bedroom was covered in several inches of water.
Then it dawned on me that I needed help. If the situation was going to improve, I would need to call someone. The realization stopped me in my tracks. Who? Who could I call for help?
(Thanks to Julie Doucet's My Most Secret Desire [Drawn and Quarterly, 2006] for the inspiration, I am sure.)
I had a dream last night that, with great excitement, I realized that I had bought a fishtank, a large, glowing cube of exotic-looking, fantastically-colored fish that I was keeping on top of my dresser in the bedroom. It was a spectacular sight, especially at night. When I went to feed the fish, I realized how tiny they were, and also realized that the towel I had forgotten that I was carrying was supposed to be placed inside the tank in order to increase the amount of nutrients in their food. Against all rules of logic, the towel, rather than soaking up all of the tank water as I feared, simply disintegrated and fed the fish, who were suddenly large and beautiful, swimming in terrifically complex geometric patterns.
Instead of being satisfied with these results, though, I recklessly went in search of another towel to add, hoping for even better results. I came back to the fish tank, which was still on the same dresser but now so high up I had to climb on the knobs on the dresser to help me reach the top. The whole structure was profoundly unsteady, but I was determined to add another towel. Once I got to the top and peered into the fishtank, I knew my plan might cause problems, but I figured it was too late now, and so I began to put the second towel into the tank. About half-way in, the problems started. The towel was getting very wet and heavy. I noticed that the fish in the tank were frighteningly big, shark-sized, with open mouths and sharp teeth. Much to my horror, I saw that one of the fish was battered and diseased, and that its eyes had been eaten out by the other fish. All of the fish bumped up against the side of the tank with astonishing force. I lost my grip on the dresser, and the whole thing tipped. I clutched the lip of the tank for support and grabbed at the heavy, water-logged towel, thinking it might anchor me.
We fell. Water and fish went everywhere. I scrambled to pick them up to put them back inside the tank, but I couldn't tell which onces were alive and which ones were dead. Some had become so small I couldn't tell if I was holding a fish or not. The room was also very dark, and I worried about stepping on the fish as well as getting bit by them. Their population, since the falling of the tank, had grown significantly. The floor of the bedroom was covered in several inches of water.
Then it dawned on me that I needed help. If the situation was going to improve, I would need to call someone. The realization stopped me in my tracks. Who? Who could I call for help?
(Thanks to Julie Doucet's My Most Secret Desire [Drawn and Quarterly, 2006] for the inspiration, I am sure.)
Monday, July 23, 2007
terror, gasoline, and the local
I was driving back from the Y, dreaming of the tempeh, lettuce, and tomato sandwich I was going to get for lunch at Field of Green's [it pains me to keep the apostrophe, but it's their spelling], when I noticed, in my rearview mirror, an enormous, sleek, red pick-up truck bouncing down Montrose towards me. It was lunchtime, and so the traffic was a bit heavy, and the truck stood out because of its color, size, and shiny newness. It stayed behind me for a couple of seconds, then pulled around so that it was in the lane next to me. As we waited for a light to change, the driver of the truck, a man, leaned over, waved, and motioned for me to roll down my window.
I wasn't sure. I've had some problems with men in trucks and other large vehicles that have ended badly. There was that time, right after 9.11, when a man from Whole Foods was sure it was me who threw a carton of raw eggs on his SUV, which had "Bomb His Ass and Take the Gas" and "I'll Be for Peace after We Get a Piece of Them" signs and American flags decorating its windows. That whole thing went on for fucking months, almost a full year. And how many times have I been riding my bike only to be nearly run down by some asshole driving a Hummer, speeding through the urban landscape like he's fleeing a scud-missle attack? H. and I were once almost killed by a man driving an SUV so large it couldn't fit around us in a supermarket parking lot and so the driver decided to teach us a lesson by nearly running us over and then coming to a screeching halt, getting out of the cab, and demanding to know which one of us touched his car while his terrified children watched from the tinted windows.
Feeling generous, I took the risk anyway, and rolled down my window. Maybe he needed directions to the vegan lunch place I was about to visit . . . I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head up.
"Yeah?"
"Hey!" he yelled, leaning way over, wild-eyed, frantically gesturing. The truck was so wide it could easily have fit four or five other people in the front. "I need your help!! I drove off this morning without any money and my truck really needs some gas!! I'm on empty!! Would you pull over so I can borrow some cash?? -- I just need a couple of bucks to make it home!!"
What!? I almost laughed out loud. "Um, no," I said, shaking my head and looking back at the traffic light, which was about to change to green.
But the guy was pissed. "FAGGOT!!!" he yelled, and gunned his motor and sped off down Montrose, swerving as fast he could in and out of the lanes.
Ouch. You'd think I'd be used to it by now since it's a word that I've been accosted with ever since I can remember. Still, it stings. Anyone whose ever been called a faggot knows this. Anyone who has ever been mean enough to use the term to describe someone else knows its easy power. I'd say, in the past five years, someone yells this at me about twice a year. It always catches me off guard, especially since it happens when I least expect it -- like today, or like the time I was unlocking my bike at the Half Price Books and a school bus rode past and a chorus of children screamed it at the top of their lungs from their windows, or the time I was walking down to one of my favorite watering holes and someone yelled it from a truck window, or the time I was camping with H. and someone yelled it at us as we were packing up our tent, or the time I was visiting friends in Austin and their crazy neighbor started to interrogate me about faggots, or . . . well, you get the drift. And, look, I know that this guy was -- clearly -- out of his mind. I know, I know . . . it was just the icing on the cake, really.
But, it makes you think about terror and terrorism, and anti-gay violence, injurious speech, and the cultural and emotional trauma that it takes so many of us so many years to get the fuck over; and you think about that big red truck and that man's frenzied truck-to-car begging for money so he could fuel it, and you think that maybe this is not some Mad Max future, but right now, right here.
What did this guy actually think was going to happen, anyway? That I was going to say, "O, you poor man! Yes, let's drive past the homeless vet begging for booze money on the median strip and the gaggle of street kids looking to stir up some trade and park safely in the Exxon station so I can get out of my car and meet you face to face, at which point, I am sure you will not stick a gun or knife in my face and rob me or, worse, shoot me or stab me. Yes, please, by all means, let's pull over -- the wax job on your truck clearly indicates that you need me to buy you some gas. In fact, let's use my credit card so you can fish the receipt out of the trash and steal my identity after I drive away."
I reminded myself that tailing this guy and trying to run him off the road was not a good idea. I took a deep breath and put my turn signal on. "It's gonna be alright," I said to myself, "It's gonna be tempeh, lettuce, and tomato. It's gonna be a little cup of vegan gumbo soup. It's gonna be a slice of lemon in your glass of water -- you'll love it," I promised myself, "you really will."
I wasn't sure. I've had some problems with men in trucks and other large vehicles that have ended badly. There was that time, right after 9.11, when a man from Whole Foods was sure it was me who threw a carton of raw eggs on his SUV, which had "Bomb His Ass and Take the Gas" and "I'll Be for Peace after We Get a Piece of Them" signs and American flags decorating its windows. That whole thing went on for fucking months, almost a full year. And how many times have I been riding my bike only to be nearly run down by some asshole driving a Hummer, speeding through the urban landscape like he's fleeing a scud-missle attack? H. and I were once almost killed by a man driving an SUV so large it couldn't fit around us in a supermarket parking lot and so the driver decided to teach us a lesson by nearly running us over and then coming to a screeching halt, getting out of the cab, and demanding to know which one of us touched his car while his terrified children watched from the tinted windows.
Feeling generous, I took the risk anyway, and rolled down my window. Maybe he needed directions to the vegan lunch place I was about to visit . . . I raised my eyebrows and tilted my head up.
"Yeah?"
"Hey!" he yelled, leaning way over, wild-eyed, frantically gesturing. The truck was so wide it could easily have fit four or five other people in the front. "I need your help!! I drove off this morning without any money and my truck really needs some gas!! I'm on empty!! Would you pull over so I can borrow some cash?? -- I just need a couple of bucks to make it home!!"
What!? I almost laughed out loud. "Um, no," I said, shaking my head and looking back at the traffic light, which was about to change to green.
But the guy was pissed. "FAGGOT!!!" he yelled, and gunned his motor and sped off down Montrose, swerving as fast he could in and out of the lanes.
Ouch. You'd think I'd be used to it by now since it's a word that I've been accosted with ever since I can remember. Still, it stings. Anyone whose ever been called a faggot knows this. Anyone who has ever been mean enough to use the term to describe someone else knows its easy power. I'd say, in the past five years, someone yells this at me about twice a year. It always catches me off guard, especially since it happens when I least expect it -- like today, or like the time I was unlocking my bike at the Half Price Books and a school bus rode past and a chorus of children screamed it at the top of their lungs from their windows, or the time I was walking down to one of my favorite watering holes and someone yelled it from a truck window, or the time I was camping with H. and someone yelled it at us as we were packing up our tent, or the time I was visiting friends in Austin and their crazy neighbor started to interrogate me about faggots, or . . . well, you get the drift. And, look, I know that this guy was -- clearly -- out of his mind. I know, I know . . . it was just the icing on the cake, really.
But, it makes you think about terror and terrorism, and anti-gay violence, injurious speech, and the cultural and emotional trauma that it takes so many of us so many years to get the fuck over; and you think about that big red truck and that man's frenzied truck-to-car begging for money so he could fuel it, and you think that maybe this is not some Mad Max future, but right now, right here.
What did this guy actually think was going to happen, anyway? That I was going to say, "O, you poor man! Yes, let's drive past the homeless vet begging for booze money on the median strip and the gaggle of street kids looking to stir up some trade and park safely in the Exxon station so I can get out of my car and meet you face to face, at which point, I am sure you will not stick a gun or knife in my face and rob me or, worse, shoot me or stab me. Yes, please, by all means, let's pull over -- the wax job on your truck clearly indicates that you need me to buy you some gas. In fact, let's use my credit card so you can fish the receipt out of the trash and steal my identity after I drive away."
I reminded myself that tailing this guy and trying to run him off the road was not a good idea. I took a deep breath and put my turn signal on. "It's gonna be alright," I said to myself, "It's gonna be tempeh, lettuce, and tomato. It's gonna be a little cup of vegan gumbo soup. It's gonna be a slice of lemon in your glass of water -- you'll love it," I promised myself, "you really will."
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
remember (what everyone else forgets)
I was sort of dreading the trip back east to the family reunion. The whole idea of reuniting with people who I felt I had nothing in common with seemed like a chore, an obligation. My strongest memories of this side of the family are the two-dozen or so cousins I would see once a year, those who would tease me for reading inside while everyone else was outside playing hockey. These are the guys who couldn't believe I knew nothing whatsoever about the big game that was playing on TV on Thanksgiving. I would just be patient and wait for it to be over. More recently, I would see these cousins at my sisters' weddings, and it was hard to explain the academic job search, how you could be a "doctor" and still have a hard time making ends meet, the problem of adjunct teaching at four different campuses, what I was writing about, not to mention the queer thing. It was easier to speak in vague generalities like, "Yeah, I like living in Houston" and "Teaching is going well" and then direct the conversation back to easier subjects like marriage and kids.
My older sister is the one who told me that my anxieties were largely a part of a family hangover, and that this is the side of the family who I should feel most connected to -- tall, goofy-looking, working class people with yellow teeth who are just as socially and physically awkward as I am. I didn't really believe it until H. and I showed up for the "day in the park" picnic. Throngs of cousins and their kids stood in what looked like uncomfortable half-circles, smiling in their baseball caps and sunglasses, waiting to figure out what was going to happen next. I thought to myself, if I can walk into a classroom of thirty complete strangers and act like I was born inside a university, then I can, surely, mix in with this group of blood relatives. And so I did. I plunged right in, tapping into that energy that makes me "go" when I'm teaching. I walked right up to somewhat familiar faces and re-introduced myself and H. I turned to give a hug to the next person and asked the kids if their teeth had been stolen or if they fell out on their own. I easily made my way from young to old as if I belonged to this family more than anyone else did.
It was, of course, exhausting, but it mixed things up just right, and before I knew it, the shy, quiet, high strung boy who felt radically alienated from everyone else was gone, and, for the first time, I had animated conversations with all sorts of people in my family, who seemed as relieved as I was that I had lost my fear of being the black sheep.
Alcohol is important to this side of the family, sometimes dangerously so. It was both interesting and a little unsettling to see what happened when the bar opened towards dinner. Certainly the bonds formed in the park over whiffle ball, kite-flying, and hoagie-eating became, in the evening, more lubricated with the addition of old-fashions, manhattans, side-cars, beers, wine, and lots and lots of cigarettes. At one point, late, I realized that half the family was trashed and telling wild stories at the top of their lungs and the other half was slumped over a half-empty drink, ready for bed. In the room where the bar was, a couple of poster boards had baby pictures of everyone in attendance ("Guess the Baby" was a game you could play), along with a couple of candid shots from over the years. One of the candids was an enormously embarrassing photograph of my cousins and me from the mid-1980s. In it, I am fourteen or fifteen. My hair is, like, shorn up the sides and off at a gigantic, bizarre pointy angle to the left side of my head. I am emaciated, with bad acne. A pair of round metal glasses sits on my nose. I'm wearing all black. And even though everyone else in the photo has bad mullets and big permed hair, clad in white jeans and day-glo t-shirts, I am the one who everyone sees as an index of 80s poor taste. The thing to do at this point in the reunion is to yell "Flock of Seagulls!" or "Devo!" and then use your hands to shape an imaginary new wave hairdo before collapsing in laughter. I do it, too, to make sure eveyone knows I am not shy, not the outsider. Then I catch the eye of my cousin T., who I have only met once, and we step out for a smoke.
I remember T. from when we were both eleven. She came to visit my family for about a week, during which time we spent an entire day floating in inner-tubes down the Delaware river. This is all I remember. She's my father's sister's daughter, adopted. We clumsily began a conversation remembering the tubing trip, and then went in circles, talking about her search for her biological parents and the hurt she felt when they were rude to her, telling her to go back to her adoptive parents. We talked about feeling like outsiders, like black sheep. As a teenager, I remember hearing that she was always in trouble, although I don't know exactly what that means, now. I have a cousin on the other side of my family who once accused me of the same thing -- "You were in a lot of trouble in high school, weren't you?" Trouble? It's not something you ever think you are in -- just the way your life goes, unlike regular teenagers' lives, yours will be trouble. We smiled about this, finishing cigarettes.
Then T. asked me what I knew about why her mother and my father were taken from our grandparents as kids. This is something that I always forget to remember -- when my father and his three older sisters were children, they were taken, by the state, from my grandparents. They were also separated from each other. The sisters were put in different foster homes, and my father was put in an orphanage. No one really knows why. One result was that T.'s mother was very badly abused. Eventually, my grandparents regained custody of their kids, and the reason why it happened was never, ever talked about. When my father has asked people from his parents' generation why this happened, he cannot get a straight answer because the response has always been, "Your mother always loved you kids and you better believe she fought tooth and nail to get you back." T.'s interesting observation of this is that, as terrible as the situation was, she believes that the trauma my aunt grew up with is what brought her to adopt her children, and that, had the abuse never taken place, my cousin T. might never have been my cousin.
I really enjoyed this conversation because it was a strange, intimate moment in which secrets were shared and a mystery emerged. It was a serious talk, and it also reminded me why this reunion was, in fact, of historical significance. I come from a family that came very close to being torn apart. My father and his sisters, who organized the reunion, are now the oldest members of the family. The outside conversation with T. shows that those who have always felt the most outside the family can, finally, come together and talk, and that, importantly, we are the ones who will remember what everyone else almost forgets.
My older sister is the one who told me that my anxieties were largely a part of a family hangover, and that this is the side of the family who I should feel most connected to -- tall, goofy-looking, working class people with yellow teeth who are just as socially and physically awkward as I am. I didn't really believe it until H. and I showed up for the "day in the park" picnic. Throngs of cousins and their kids stood in what looked like uncomfortable half-circles, smiling in their baseball caps and sunglasses, waiting to figure out what was going to happen next. I thought to myself, if I can walk into a classroom of thirty complete strangers and act like I was born inside a university, then I can, surely, mix in with this group of blood relatives. And so I did. I plunged right in, tapping into that energy that makes me "go" when I'm teaching. I walked right up to somewhat familiar faces and re-introduced myself and H. I turned to give a hug to the next person and asked the kids if their teeth had been stolen or if they fell out on their own. I easily made my way from young to old as if I belonged to this family more than anyone else did.
It was, of course, exhausting, but it mixed things up just right, and before I knew it, the shy, quiet, high strung boy who felt radically alienated from everyone else was gone, and, for the first time, I had animated conversations with all sorts of people in my family, who seemed as relieved as I was that I had lost my fear of being the black sheep.
Alcohol is important to this side of the family, sometimes dangerously so. It was both interesting and a little unsettling to see what happened when the bar opened towards dinner. Certainly the bonds formed in the park over whiffle ball, kite-flying, and hoagie-eating became, in the evening, more lubricated with the addition of old-fashions, manhattans, side-cars, beers, wine, and lots and lots of cigarettes. At one point, late, I realized that half the family was trashed and telling wild stories at the top of their lungs and the other half was slumped over a half-empty drink, ready for bed. In the room where the bar was, a couple of poster boards had baby pictures of everyone in attendance ("Guess the Baby" was a game you could play), along with a couple of candid shots from over the years. One of the candids was an enormously embarrassing photograph of my cousins and me from the mid-1980s. In it, I am fourteen or fifteen. My hair is, like, shorn up the sides and off at a gigantic, bizarre pointy angle to the left side of my head. I am emaciated, with bad acne. A pair of round metal glasses sits on my nose. I'm wearing all black. And even though everyone else in the photo has bad mullets and big permed hair, clad in white jeans and day-glo t-shirts, I am the one who everyone sees as an index of 80s poor taste. The thing to do at this point in the reunion is to yell "Flock of Seagulls!" or "Devo!" and then use your hands to shape an imaginary new wave hairdo before collapsing in laughter. I do it, too, to make sure eveyone knows I am not shy, not the outsider. Then I catch the eye of my cousin T., who I have only met once, and we step out for a smoke.
I remember T. from when we were both eleven. She came to visit my family for about a week, during which time we spent an entire day floating in inner-tubes down the Delaware river. This is all I remember. She's my father's sister's daughter, adopted. We clumsily began a conversation remembering the tubing trip, and then went in circles, talking about her search for her biological parents and the hurt she felt when they were rude to her, telling her to go back to her adoptive parents. We talked about feeling like outsiders, like black sheep. As a teenager, I remember hearing that she was always in trouble, although I don't know exactly what that means, now. I have a cousin on the other side of my family who once accused me of the same thing -- "You were in a lot of trouble in high school, weren't you?" Trouble? It's not something you ever think you are in -- just the way your life goes, unlike regular teenagers' lives, yours will be trouble. We smiled about this, finishing cigarettes.
Then T. asked me what I knew about why her mother and my father were taken from our grandparents as kids. This is something that I always forget to remember -- when my father and his three older sisters were children, they were taken, by the state, from my grandparents. They were also separated from each other. The sisters were put in different foster homes, and my father was put in an orphanage. No one really knows why. One result was that T.'s mother was very badly abused. Eventually, my grandparents regained custody of their kids, and the reason why it happened was never, ever talked about. When my father has asked people from his parents' generation why this happened, he cannot get a straight answer because the response has always been, "Your mother always loved you kids and you better believe she fought tooth and nail to get you back." T.'s interesting observation of this is that, as terrible as the situation was, she believes that the trauma my aunt grew up with is what brought her to adopt her children, and that, had the abuse never taken place, my cousin T. might never have been my cousin.
I really enjoyed this conversation because it was a strange, intimate moment in which secrets were shared and a mystery emerged. It was a serious talk, and it also reminded me why this reunion was, in fact, of historical significance. I come from a family that came very close to being torn apart. My father and his sisters, who organized the reunion, are now the oldest members of the family. The outside conversation with T. shows that those who have always felt the most outside the family can, finally, come together and talk, and that, importantly, we are the ones who will remember what everyone else almost forgets.
Monday, July 09, 2007
quick sketch
At the Bus Stop, in Capital Hill, Sunday night karaoke is sung by the neighborhood's most interesting people, including my old friend Seanna, who performed a killer cover of Sid Vicious' "My Way," and H's old friend GC, who tore it up with a rousing rendition of Modest Mouse's "Float On." The beer was nice and cold, and we drank until no one was left but us, and they threw us out. You should have seen H. do his cover of Gary Newman's "Cars" -- it brought down the house.
Saturday, July 07, 2007
feet out the window (stomach just above intestines)
The unwritten part of this travel is that I have some sort of virus, some bug, which, since about Tuesday, has had me sick -- at first almost unbearably so, frighteningly so, but now almost manageable. Almost, but not totally.
Upon our arrival at Kalaloch, in a nauseated panic, I made a call to my doctor's office. I was told that I needed to stop eating the normal foods that I eat and stick with dried toast, bananas, rice, and tea. That, and to get some rest. Real rest, not hike-for-several-hours-and-then-drive-for-a-few-more kind of rest. After posting my last entry at Port Townsend, I slept for pretty much the entire day and that whole night. I was exhausted and very sad. Today I feel okay, but I am sick of being sick, sick of herbal tea and plain white rice, sick of having to explain to wait staff -- no, no butter, just rice, just toast, no jelly, no jam, just dry, just sprite, no coffee, no cheese, water only, just the broth, do you have any bananas?, no, no cocktail, yes, I am sure I only want an apple . . . I keep thinking I've turned a corner, but not yet.
This morning, we said goodbye to H's cool cousins who live in this amazingly cute 1970s treehouse-looking home in the woods near Bellingham. We drove north to see them yesterday, and had a really chill afternoon and evening, taking in the fresh air, the view, and the trees, talking about politics, driving their biodiesel truck to the co-op for vegetables and cooking, and hanging out with the kids. We spent the night in a camper in their front yard and woke up to singing birds.
We landed in Seattle around noon. We've checked in to the Ace hotel in Belltown, where we've rented a tiny little room with a shared bath on the hallway. It's a pretty hip place, what with the hip-hop being piped into the bathrooms and the tattooed and crooked haircut crowd. We did some much-needed laundry in the basement. Everything is painted white and all the fixtures are clean stainless steel. I've got my bare feet hanging out the window onto 1st street as I type this, and I am trying to will health back into my body, to calm all of my internal organs down. H. is out at a barber shop down the block getting a haircut. We have plans to go see some live music tonight, perhaps meet up with some old friends, but I'm taking it about an hour at a time, which means that I might be just as content reading Don DeLillo's new book, Falling Man, which, so far, is pretty great.
I'll post some photos when I have a couple more minutes.
Upon our arrival at Kalaloch, in a nauseated panic, I made a call to my doctor's office. I was told that I needed to stop eating the normal foods that I eat and stick with dried toast, bananas, rice, and tea. That, and to get some rest. Real rest, not hike-for-several-hours-and-then-drive-for-a-few-more kind of rest. After posting my last entry at Port Townsend, I slept for pretty much the entire day and that whole night. I was exhausted and very sad. Today I feel okay, but I am sick of being sick, sick of herbal tea and plain white rice, sick of having to explain to wait staff -- no, no butter, just rice, just toast, no jelly, no jam, just dry, just sprite, no coffee, no cheese, water only, just the broth, do you have any bananas?, no, no cocktail, yes, I am sure I only want an apple . . . I keep thinking I've turned a corner, but not yet.
This morning, we said goodbye to H's cool cousins who live in this amazingly cute 1970s treehouse-looking home in the woods near Bellingham. We drove north to see them yesterday, and had a really chill afternoon and evening, taking in the fresh air, the view, and the trees, talking about politics, driving their biodiesel truck to the co-op for vegetables and cooking, and hanging out with the kids. We spent the night in a camper in their front yard and woke up to singing birds.
We landed in Seattle around noon. We've checked in to the Ace hotel in Belltown, where we've rented a tiny little room with a shared bath on the hallway. It's a pretty hip place, what with the hip-hop being piped into the bathrooms and the tattooed and crooked haircut crowd. We did some much-needed laundry in the basement. Everything is painted white and all the fixtures are clean stainless steel. I've got my bare feet hanging out the window onto 1st street as I type this, and I am trying to will health back into my body, to calm all of my internal organs down. H. is out at a barber shop down the block getting a haircut. We have plans to go see some live music tonight, perhaps meet up with some old friends, but I'm taking it about an hour at a time, which means that I might be just as content reading Don DeLillo's new book, Falling Man, which, so far, is pretty great.
I'll post some photos when I have a couple more minutes.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
notes on the nose (bald eagle)
It's really too bad you cannot take a photo of scents, because the strongest sense I have been exercizing the past couple of days has been through the nose. Seattle smells strongly of flowers, everywhere you turn. And while I love how jasmine and honeysuckle perfumes the street I live on, Seattle's flowers are an incredible variety of sweetness -- like wandering through a vaporised herbal tea. And after just one day in Seattle, we took a ferry and landed on the Olympic peninsula, which is not only stunning, at times unbelieveable, to see, but also home to a clear air filled with the fresh aroma of coniferous trees.
I think we've been really lucky with the weather, too. The days have been warm and sunny, bright and clear, so you can see gigantic snow-capped mountains on the horizon while you comb the beach for rocks. We've seen lots of deer (some as close as several feet away), butterflies, chipmunks, salmonberries, spittlebugs, a rabbit, seagulls, and little fish swimming in crystal clear waters. The ancient Hoh rainforest was a mesmerizing twisting, draping, and hanging of deep yellows, emerald greens, light golds, and pale oranges against the blue sky. We wandered a trail along the bluffs leading to Dungeoness Spit and ate a picnic lunch. Just as we were leaving the beach, we looked up and could not believe that we were seeing a magnificent bald eagle perched in the branches of a pine. Let's call it part of the national narrative that H. and I are trying piece together whenever we travel during the July 4th weekend.
Right now, we're on-line at a little cafe in Port Townsend, where I'm eating toast and drinking mint tea. We arrived in time yesterday evening to watch some fiddle-players at the Centrum in Fort Worden state park, which looks like this really interesting former-military base turned arts complex slash college campus. We returned to the park for fireworks last night (the temperature drops a bit in the evening, and the strong winds brings a little chill to the air, so folks were wrapped in blankets) and watched them burst over the water. We're staying in a hotel that used to be a brothel, where the different rooms are given women's names. It's got a claw-footed tub!
Tomorrow we're headed north to Bellingham to visit some relatives of H, then back to Seattle for a couple of days. The most important thing to do today is nothing, which I, for one, cannot wait to get to.
I think we've been really lucky with the weather, too. The days have been warm and sunny, bright and clear, so you can see gigantic snow-capped mountains on the horizon while you comb the beach for rocks. We've seen lots of deer (some as close as several feet away), butterflies, chipmunks, salmonberries, spittlebugs, a rabbit, seagulls, and little fish swimming in crystal clear waters. The ancient Hoh rainforest was a mesmerizing twisting, draping, and hanging of deep yellows, emerald greens, light golds, and pale oranges against the blue sky. We wandered a trail along the bluffs leading to Dungeoness Spit and ate a picnic lunch. Just as we were leaving the beach, we looked up and could not believe that we were seeing a magnificent bald eagle perched in the branches of a pine. Let's call it part of the national narrative that H. and I are trying piece together whenever we travel during the July 4th weekend.
Right now, we're on-line at a little cafe in Port Townsend, where I'm eating toast and drinking mint tea. We arrived in time yesterday evening to watch some fiddle-players at the Centrum in Fort Worden state park, which looks like this really interesting former-military base turned arts complex slash college campus. We returned to the park for fireworks last night (the temperature drops a bit in the evening, and the strong winds brings a little chill to the air, so folks were wrapped in blankets) and watched them burst over the water. We're staying in a hotel that used to be a brothel, where the different rooms are given women's names. It's got a claw-footed tub!
Tomorrow we're headed north to Bellingham to visit some relatives of H, then back to Seattle for a couple of days. The most important thing to do today is nothing, which I, for one, cannot wait to get to.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
accomplishments (of sorts)
-Realized I have kept a pretty good blog for an entire year. Only regret the wording of one or two entries (esp. one in which I describe state employees in a way that reeks of self-important, bourgeois expectations). Always interesting to see comments from people I've never met. Blurkers who read this blog should always feel free to comment.
-Finished the semester, graded two big stacks of papers and exams, turned in grades, and then ran screaming from the institution.
-Raised a last glass and said goodbye to long-time close friends A. and S/Z, who are moving to Singapore. Still somewhat in denial about that. Can't really picture Houston without them.
-Packing for trip to Seattle, a city I've never been to but that I've wanted to visit for quite some time. Hope to run into an old friend from my teenage years, who I haven't seen since the early 90s. Plan to spend time on the Olympic Peninsula, visiting the coast and the rainforest.
-Finishing Nick Flynn's Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, a devastating memoir about a son, a father, homelessness, poverty, and work. Read it.
-Contemplating the interviews with Democratic Party presidential candidates I watched on PBS the other night. Journalists of color asked the questions. Particularly excellent was Michel Martin from NPR. She'd finish her question and I'd declare "A-NAL-Y-SIS!" while pointing to the screen.
I'll be posting from the road, y'all.
-Finished the semester, graded two big stacks of papers and exams, turned in grades, and then ran screaming from the institution.
-Raised a last glass and said goodbye to long-time close friends A. and S/Z, who are moving to Singapore. Still somewhat in denial about that. Can't really picture Houston without them.
-Packing for trip to Seattle, a city I've never been to but that I've wanted to visit for quite some time. Hope to run into an old friend from my teenage years, who I haven't seen since the early 90s. Plan to spend time on the Olympic Peninsula, visiting the coast and the rainforest.
-Finishing Nick Flynn's Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, a devastating memoir about a son, a father, homelessness, poverty, and work. Read it.
-Contemplating the interviews with Democratic Party presidential candidates I watched on PBS the other night. Journalists of color asked the questions. Particularly excellent was Michel Martin from NPR. She'd finish her question and I'd declare "A-NAL-Y-SIS!" while pointing to the screen.
I'll be posting from the road, y'all.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
body
In Jennie Livingston's 1989 documentary Paris Is Burning, there's a shot of one of the subjects at a ball, descending the stage, completely naked. "Body!" shouts one of the MCs into a mic from the floor as the crowd goes wild, "Body! Body! Body!"
It is with this in mind that I began the day. An imaginary voice-over followed me from the bedroom to the kitchen and bath, exclaiming the word over and over. My knee has healed, and I took the last dose of nausea-inducing antibodies, but I am dragging stress around with me like a giant bag of rocks. The muscles of my upper-back, neck, and right shoulder are twisted up, stiff and painful, and there's a big red zit next to my right nostril. I'm scruffy. "Body!" I hear echoing in my head, "Body! Body! Body!"
And so what to do? I made an appointment with a place in the neighborhood that advertises for massage. I described the place to a friend, who queried, "THAI massage? Isn't that the kind that finishes with a happy ending?" No, no, I assured her, this place is legit. I looked up the website and it should be fine.
But I wasn't so sure once I got in and I met my massage therapist, Pauline, who was wearing a lot of make-up and, of all things, a short skirt. That seemed unusual. Where were her Birkenstocks? Nose-ring? She led me to a little room and I disrobed, leaving my boxers on for good luck.
"First time here?" she asked. Yes. I laid down on this futon-like mattress and the massage began. A lot of warm oil poured over my back. But she seemed awfully close -- practically sitting right on top of me. Shouldn't I be up on some sort of table?, I wondered, and shouldn't she be walking around this table?
She bent over my shoulder and whispered into my ear, Did I want a simple massage or deep tissue? Deep, I replied, I twisted a muscle in my neck. I could feel her breathing on my neck and she murmured very slowly, "Ahhh . . . IIII liiiike youuurrrr tattoooooo." She pulled one of my arms back and laid my hand so that my fingertips touched right above her knees. A bit hesitantly, I pulled them away. She picked them up and rubbed them, and put them back pretty close to where they were originally.
I decided right then and there that I could very easily say "Stop it" or "That's not why I'm here" if anything more unusual started happening -- No problem. But I was super-disappointed about the whole thing because, really, that's NOT why I was there, and I was afraid that the $80 I spent was not going to do a damn thing for the knots in my back and neck. Okay, I thought, why don't I just take a deep breath, relax into the massage, and see what happens.
A few minutes later, Pauline got up from beside me and, much to my alarm, she removed her skirt. The lights, mind you, were very, very dim, and it wasn't like she was completely naked, but she certainly was no longer wearing the skirt that she came in with. She climbed on top of my back and started, how to describe it? kneeing? yes, kneeing the oil into my shoulders. Kneeing it, if you can picture that, with her thighs sliding back and forth along my sides. It all happened very quickly. When I finally got around to responding, I uttered, a little louder than I wanted to, "Um!?!" She stopped. "Does it hurt?" "No," I said. "Okaaayyy, let me knooooow if it doooeesssss," she soothed. And I thought, But! I can feel! Your crotch muscles! Tightening! Against my spine!
Is this normal? Maybe this is what is meant by "deep tissue."
The knees in the upper-back, though, was super-intense, and they did the trick of pushing the knots in my back flat for about ten minutes. She used her elbows, too, then climbed down off my back and did my legs, head, and neck. The next thing I knew, the massage was over, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe the back-climbing part of things was just the way this woman liked to work. As soon as that part was over, she reattached her skirt and kept on working. So maybe it's all in my head?
Recently a friend of mine, let's call her Wendy, went to visit a massage therapist and had an orgasmic release. Wendy didn't go to the therapist for a happy ending, it just happened that way, and from what I remember of her description, the therapist was very cool about the whole thing. While a different experience from my own, I thought about Wendy's massage as I was walking home, and thought about how work on the body might always verge on the sexual depending on how we think of it.
And so this is how I spent the morning of H/town's Pride Celebration, with a nearly-naked woman sliding around on my back. I have to say, hours later, that something really worked. The knots are still there, but the severity of the stiffness is nowhere near as bad as it was. The massage was actually quite good, although I don't think I'll be going back. It was too oily.
But H. and I will be heading out to the parade this evening, rain or shine. Our street already has little places marked off for the floats. It's one of the good things about living so close to Westheimer -- we can walk to the parade and meander down the street, pop into a bar and have a couple of beers. I know I'll be keeping my eyes peeled for Cyndi Lauper and Margaret Cho, both of whom are in town for a live performance tomorrow, and both of whom are rumored to make an appearance in Montrose tonight. I'll bring the camera.
It is with this in mind that I began the day. An imaginary voice-over followed me from the bedroom to the kitchen and bath, exclaiming the word over and over. My knee has healed, and I took the last dose of nausea-inducing antibodies, but I am dragging stress around with me like a giant bag of rocks. The muscles of my upper-back, neck, and right shoulder are twisted up, stiff and painful, and there's a big red zit next to my right nostril. I'm scruffy. "Body!" I hear echoing in my head, "Body! Body! Body!"
And so what to do? I made an appointment with a place in the neighborhood that advertises for massage. I described the place to a friend, who queried, "THAI massage? Isn't that the kind that finishes with a happy ending?" No, no, I assured her, this place is legit. I looked up the website and it should be fine.
But I wasn't so sure once I got in and I met my massage therapist, Pauline, who was wearing a lot of make-up and, of all things, a short skirt. That seemed unusual. Where were her Birkenstocks? Nose-ring? She led me to a little room and I disrobed, leaving my boxers on for good luck.
"First time here?" she asked. Yes. I laid down on this futon-like mattress and the massage began. A lot of warm oil poured over my back. But she seemed awfully close -- practically sitting right on top of me. Shouldn't I be up on some sort of table?, I wondered, and shouldn't she be walking around this table?
She bent over my shoulder and whispered into my ear, Did I want a simple massage or deep tissue? Deep, I replied, I twisted a muscle in my neck. I could feel her breathing on my neck and she murmured very slowly, "Ahhh . . . IIII liiiike youuurrrr tattoooooo." She pulled one of my arms back and laid my hand so that my fingertips touched right above her knees. A bit hesitantly, I pulled them away. She picked them up and rubbed them, and put them back pretty close to where they were originally.
I decided right then and there that I could very easily say "Stop it" or "That's not why I'm here" if anything more unusual started happening -- No problem. But I was super-disappointed about the whole thing because, really, that's NOT why I was there, and I was afraid that the $80 I spent was not going to do a damn thing for the knots in my back and neck. Okay, I thought, why don't I just take a deep breath, relax into the massage, and see what happens.
A few minutes later, Pauline got up from beside me and, much to my alarm, she removed her skirt. The lights, mind you, were very, very dim, and it wasn't like she was completely naked, but she certainly was no longer wearing the skirt that she came in with. She climbed on top of my back and started, how to describe it? kneeing? yes, kneeing the oil into my shoulders. Kneeing it, if you can picture that, with her thighs sliding back and forth along my sides. It all happened very quickly. When I finally got around to responding, I uttered, a little louder than I wanted to, "Um!?!" She stopped. "Does it hurt?" "No," I said. "Okaaayyy, let me knooooow if it doooeesssss," she soothed. And I thought, But! I can feel! Your crotch muscles! Tightening! Against my spine!
Is this normal? Maybe this is what is meant by "deep tissue."
The knees in the upper-back, though, was super-intense, and they did the trick of pushing the knots in my back flat for about ten minutes. She used her elbows, too, then climbed down off my back and did my legs, head, and neck. The next thing I knew, the massage was over, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe the back-climbing part of things was just the way this woman liked to work. As soon as that part was over, she reattached her skirt and kept on working. So maybe it's all in my head?
Recently a friend of mine, let's call her Wendy, went to visit a massage therapist and had an orgasmic release. Wendy didn't go to the therapist for a happy ending, it just happened that way, and from what I remember of her description, the therapist was very cool about the whole thing. While a different experience from my own, I thought about Wendy's massage as I was walking home, and thought about how work on the body might always verge on the sexual depending on how we think of it.
And so this is how I spent the morning of H/town's Pride Celebration, with a nearly-naked woman sliding around on my back. I have to say, hours later, that something really worked. The knots are still there, but the severity of the stiffness is nowhere near as bad as it was. The massage was actually quite good, although I don't think I'll be going back. It was too oily.
But H. and I will be heading out to the parade this evening, rain or shine. Our street already has little places marked off for the floats. It's one of the good things about living so close to Westheimer -- we can walk to the parade and meander down the street, pop into a bar and have a couple of beers. I know I'll be keeping my eyes peeled for Cyndi Lauper and Margaret Cho, both of whom are in town for a live performance tomorrow, and both of whom are rumored to make an appearance in Montrose tonight. I'll bring the camera.
Friday, June 15, 2007
daily rain
It's been rough, these past few days, but I'm glad for the rain. For the past couple of days, it comes down hard out of a dark grey sky in wide curtains, lightening and thunder like angry exclamation points.
Those damn antibiotics didn't work, and I've been back to see the doctor. Now I'm on round two, this time I'm on something stronger that takes just about all of the energy out of me. Gosh, it is really just astonishing how exhausted a person can be after doing practically nothing all day. I guess that's called "rest." I'm not very fond of it.
Wednesday I went to have an MRI done on my knee and I went to see a specialist. I go back again this afternoon, to see what has developed.
I've had two dreams about going to visit a friend who is out of town who doesn't realize she's left her apartment unlocked.
Those damn antibiotics didn't work, and I've been back to see the doctor. Now I'm on round two, this time I'm on something stronger that takes just about all of the energy out of me. Gosh, it is really just astonishing how exhausted a person can be after doing practically nothing all day. I guess that's called "rest." I'm not very fond of it.
Wednesday I went to have an MRI done on my knee and I went to see a specialist. I go back again this afternoon, to see what has developed.
I've had two dreams about going to visit a friend who is out of town who doesn't realize she's left her apartment unlocked.
Monday, June 04, 2007
knee, i worship thee
all knobby patella and elastic cartilage, bending at my whim . . .
Why You Should Not Get a Knee Infection:
1. It hurts.
2. It's gross.
3. It'll make you sick with fever.
4. It will make you think that someone has a pin in a doll somewhere.
5. It will force you to look up subcutaenous infections on WebMD where you will learn about necrotizing faciitis and its symptoms. You will quietly decide that you have this and the resulting panic will ebb and flow all day.
6. It will make you spend a lot of time inside, which will make you very cranky. And paranoid.
7. It will cause you to miss work during a condensed summer schedule where every minute counts.
8. Like some colds, it will seem like you are 100% cured in the morning, but will get worse as the day goes on, and leave you distressed and exhausted by nightfall.
9. It will call attention to your other, non-infected knee, and you will start to compare and contrast the two, out loud, to anyone who you can get to look at them (especially your partner, who has been very, very kind), even if it has only been about an hour since the last time you rolled up your cuffs for inspection.
2. You might get some anti-inflammatory drugs, which act like mild-sedatives.
3. You might have vivid dreams every night about people from your past.
4. You might have time to read.
5. It might become fodder for a blog entry.
Why You Should Not Get a Knee Infection:
1. It hurts.
2. It's gross.
3. It'll make you sick with fever.
4. It will make you think that someone has a pin in a doll somewhere.
5. It will force you to look up subcutaenous infections on WebMD where you will learn about necrotizing faciitis and its symptoms. You will quietly decide that you have this and the resulting panic will ebb and flow all day.
6. It will make you spend a lot of time inside, which will make you very cranky. And paranoid.
7. It will cause you to miss work during a condensed summer schedule where every minute counts.
8. Like some colds, it will seem like you are 100% cured in the morning, but will get worse as the day goes on, and leave you distressed and exhausted by nightfall.
9. It will call attention to your other, non-infected knee, and you will start to compare and contrast the two, out loud, to anyone who you can get to look at them (especially your partner, who has been very, very kind), even if it has only been about an hour since the last time you rolled up your cuffs for inspection.
10. It will make you miss your favorite yoga classes.
The Short-List of Good Things about It, if It Does Have to Happen:
1. You might remember how totally awesome your doctor is and it might give you pause over how lucky you are to have health insurance.
1. You might remember how totally awesome your doctor is and it might give you pause over how lucky you are to have health insurance.
2. You might get some anti-inflammatory drugs, which act like mild-sedatives.
3. You might have vivid dreams every night about people from your past.
4. You might have time to read.
5. It might become fodder for a blog entry.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
say "hi" to your knee
When my sister and I were kids, we loved that joke.
About two weeks ago, I twisted my ankle and fell, onto the sidewalk, knee-first, as I was getting out of a car. I scraped up my right knee pretty badly. I treated it with peroxide, band-aids, and neosporin until scabs formed. I thought nothing of it, really. I went swimming in Barton Springs Creek, went to the gym, practiced yoga, went to a few parties, and taught my first classes this week.
Yesterday evening, as I was leaving my office, I noticed a slight pain on the top of my knee, almost like a spider bit me. When I got home, I took a look -- no bite, nothing but the just about healed scab, but the knee-cap was so sensitive and painful. Hot. A few hours later, it was hard to walk. I took some extra-stregth tylenol and drank some chamomile tea, put the knee on ice, and googled "suddenly my knee is killing me" and "why is my knee so hot?" I checked WebMD and called my dad, who sells artificial knee implants to hospital emergency rooms. He told me it sounded like I got bit by a spider and recommended amputation.
At 2am I woke up with some really bad, throbbing pain. I couldn't move the knee very easily, but I got up to take some more tylenol and worried the rest of the morning about what was wrong with me. I called out of work sick and went to the doctor's office around 10.
My doctor tells me the knee is swolen from a subcutaneous infection. Gross! I'm also running a fever. I got a nice big batch of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories to treat it. I spent the day dozing and re-reading The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler. It already feels better, but it'll be a while before I am swinging from the chandeliers. I go back tomorrow for another visit.
The irony of all of this is that, for the past few months, my left knee was suffering from a tear in its cartilege, and it hurt like hell. It finally started to feel better when I kissed the concrete.
About two weeks ago, I twisted my ankle and fell, onto the sidewalk, knee-first, as I was getting out of a car. I scraped up my right knee pretty badly. I treated it with peroxide, band-aids, and neosporin until scabs formed. I thought nothing of it, really. I went swimming in Barton Springs Creek, went to the gym, practiced yoga, went to a few parties, and taught my first classes this week.
Yesterday evening, as I was leaving my office, I noticed a slight pain on the top of my knee, almost like a spider bit me. When I got home, I took a look -- no bite, nothing but the just about healed scab, but the knee-cap was so sensitive and painful. Hot. A few hours later, it was hard to walk. I took some extra-stregth tylenol and drank some chamomile tea, put the knee on ice, and googled "suddenly my knee is killing me" and "why is my knee so hot?" I checked WebMD and called my dad, who sells artificial knee implants to hospital emergency rooms. He told me it sounded like I got bit by a spider and recommended amputation.
At 2am I woke up with some really bad, throbbing pain. I couldn't move the knee very easily, but I got up to take some more tylenol and worried the rest of the morning about what was wrong with me. I called out of work sick and went to the doctor's office around 10.
My doctor tells me the knee is swolen from a subcutaneous infection. Gross! I'm also running a fever. I got a nice big batch of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories to treat it. I spent the day dozing and re-reading The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler. It already feels better, but it'll be a while before I am swinging from the chandeliers. I go back tomorrow for another visit.
The irony of all of this is that, for the past few months, my left knee was suffering from a tear in its cartilege, and it hurt like hell. It finally started to feel better when I kissed the concrete.
Friday, May 25, 2007
seven things (tag, i'm it)
1. I was on a bowling team when I was in the fourth grade.
2. Once, going through airport security in the 90s, I was stopped by a guard who was convinced I was MCA from the Beastie Boys.
3. I was an altar boy.
4. I am deathly afraid of rollercoasters and almost all carnival rides.
5. I've performed naked in front of a live audience.
6. My first love tattooed my name on her upper-back, near the left shoulder.
7. I've been arrested.
I was tagged by Cake to list seven things you might not know about me. I tag JiP of Bad Texas fame.
2. Once, going through airport security in the 90s, I was stopped by a guard who was convinced I was MCA from the Beastie Boys.
3. I was an altar boy.
4. I am deathly afraid of rollercoasters and almost all carnival rides.
5. I've performed naked in front of a live audience.
6. My first love tattooed my name on her upper-back, near the left shoulder.
7. I've been arrested.
I was tagged by Cake to list seven things you might not know about me. I tag JiP of Bad Texas fame.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
underdog
The first performance artist I ever knew was a woman who lived in the township where I grew up, named Suzanne (pronouced "Susan", from what I can remember). She was known, when I was a kid, for rollerskating up and down the blocks of Delran with her cat in a bag, a wide cape trailing behind her. Capes, long, long skirts, and her rollerskates: she was completely out of place in the mall-obsessed, consumer-savvy Delran of the late-1970s and 1980s. When I was seven, she was probably 23. The kids on my block called her "The Rollerskating Lady." She lived in an apartment complex across the highway. When I was very young, she was like a celebrity. I wanted to ask her questions. She made me so curious: did she *know* she was wearing things that made people gawk, or did she not? Did she *want* for people to look at her funny, or did she want to be accepted? Later, when I was a pre-teen and early-adolescent, even though she was about fifteen years older than me, I thought of her as a kindred spirit -- a weird-o living in an anti-art, pro-athlete, all-white middle-class suburb.
She also had a beautiful voice, and sang in the Catholic church attached to the Catholic school I went to from first- through eighth-grade. She wore her plain brown hair long and straight. She had an Irish face, often scrunched into a contemplative frown. She did not seem to care in the least what anyone thought of her even though it was clear to me that she was an outsider. When I would ask questions about her, my parents told me she was retarded, which did not seem correct to me since she was not, to my mind, the same as other people I knew who bore that description. I have a bad, emotionally-charged memory of being in the second grade, just when school was about to let out for the summer, and hearing stories about how some older boys bought a slice of pizza at the parish carnival and purposely dropped it on the blacktop so they could laugh at her when she walked over and picked it up and ate it.
When I stopped going to mass in high school, I stopped seeing Suzanne. Shortly thereafter, however, my cousins came to visit from north Jersey and asking if we knew Underdog. "Who's Underdog?" "She's this crazy woman from Delran who's been on the Howard Stern Show who has this whole dance that she does." My mother interrupted, "That's Suzanne! And that Howard Stern ought to be ashamed of himself for exploiting that poor girl!" Really? Suzanne? The Rollerskating Lady? She was on Howard Stern?
It was true. Suzanne had made quite a name for herself through Stern's radio and television show as The Underdog Lady. Although I never saw this show, or her performance, I was left with the same feeling about how "funny" she was as the day I heard about dropping the slice of pizza -- a sort of soul-crushing blow to the heart triggered by the awful realization that cruelty comes readily and easily to people, and that people take a real pleasure in watching it happen over and over again.
When I left for college, Stern's book [title?] came out. I heard there was a photo of Suzanne in it. At a bookstore, I opened up right to a page with a photo of Hollyweird Squares, a knock-off on Hollywood Squares and, in one of the squares, sat a tiny little Suzanne with the word "Underdog" marking her square. I looked at the picture for a long time, trying to see the details of her face. I didn't buy it.
Time passed. I moved to Houston and meet people from all over the place. Every once in a while I was reminded of and tried to accurately describe this Suzanne from my childhood, a.k.a. Underdog, a.k.a. the Rollerskating Lady. I have not thought about her for what? -- years, probably. Today, however, my sister forwarded me the Wikipedia entry on Suzanne Muldowney [her full name], and I found out that she has Asperger's Syndrome, and that she has worked hard to shed the Howard Stern years, to bring dignity back to her art by establishing herself to be an artist with a life-long devotion to public performance. Underdog is not her only character, but one of several that she brings to life in public at small-town New Jersey parades and carnivals. This, I think, is really cool.
It's hard, still, though, because (as I discovered over the past, um, three hours has it been?) YouTube videos of her are accompanied by really mean-spirited comments that totally debase her. I can't even watch the stuff left over from Stern. I got about five seconds in to one of her picking up tootsie roll candies at a parade before I had to stop it. Just mean. Horrible. Like the pizza slice. It fucking makes me die inside.
I'm interested in seeing the documentary film about her, though, which got rave reviews from the critics when it screened at the Atlanta Film Festival last year. The trailer makes the film seem decent. You can watch the trailer at www.artofmadness.com.
She also had a beautiful voice, and sang in the Catholic church attached to the Catholic school I went to from first- through eighth-grade. She wore her plain brown hair long and straight. She had an Irish face, often scrunched into a contemplative frown. She did not seem to care in the least what anyone thought of her even though it was clear to me that she was an outsider. When I would ask questions about her, my parents told me she was retarded, which did not seem correct to me since she was not, to my mind, the same as other people I knew who bore that description. I have a bad, emotionally-charged memory of being in the second grade, just when school was about to let out for the summer, and hearing stories about how some older boys bought a slice of pizza at the parish carnival and purposely dropped it on the blacktop so they could laugh at her when she walked over and picked it up and ate it.
When I stopped going to mass in high school, I stopped seeing Suzanne. Shortly thereafter, however, my cousins came to visit from north Jersey and asking if we knew Underdog. "Who's Underdog?" "She's this crazy woman from Delran who's been on the Howard Stern Show who has this whole dance that she does." My mother interrupted, "That's Suzanne! And that Howard Stern ought to be ashamed of himself for exploiting that poor girl!" Really? Suzanne? The Rollerskating Lady? She was on Howard Stern?
It was true. Suzanne had made quite a name for herself through Stern's radio and television show as The Underdog Lady. Although I never saw this show, or her performance, I was left with the same feeling about how "funny" she was as the day I heard about dropping the slice of pizza -- a sort of soul-crushing blow to the heart triggered by the awful realization that cruelty comes readily and easily to people, and that people take a real pleasure in watching it happen over and over again.
When I left for college, Stern's book [title?] came out. I heard there was a photo of Suzanne in it. At a bookstore, I opened up right to a page with a photo of Hollyweird Squares, a knock-off on Hollywood Squares and, in one of the squares, sat a tiny little Suzanne with the word "Underdog" marking her square. I looked at the picture for a long time, trying to see the details of her face. I didn't buy it.
Time passed. I moved to Houston and meet people from all over the place. Every once in a while I was reminded of and tried to accurately describe this Suzanne from my childhood, a.k.a. Underdog, a.k.a. the Rollerskating Lady. I have not thought about her for what? -- years, probably. Today, however, my sister forwarded me the Wikipedia entry on Suzanne Muldowney [her full name], and I found out that she has Asperger's Syndrome, and that she has worked hard to shed the Howard Stern years, to bring dignity back to her art by establishing herself to be an artist with a life-long devotion to public performance. Underdog is not her only character, but one of several that she brings to life in public at small-town New Jersey parades and carnivals. This, I think, is really cool.
It's hard, still, though, because (as I discovered over the past, um, three hours has it been?) YouTube videos of her are accompanied by really mean-spirited comments that totally debase her. I can't even watch the stuff left over from Stern. I got about five seconds in to one of her picking up tootsie roll candies at a parade before I had to stop it. Just mean. Horrible. Like the pizza slice. It fucking makes me die inside.
I'm interested in seeing the documentary film about her, though, which got rave reviews from the critics when it screened at the Atlanta Film Festival last year. The trailer makes the film seem decent. You can watch the trailer at www.artofmadness.com.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
multiple choice
Which of the following is most likely to drive a writer working at home stark raving mad?
a. The all day beep-beep-beeping of bulldozers backing up combined with the upsettingly loud, non-stop sound of explosions and crashes of who knows what? at the construction site right next to where he lives.
b. The terrible screams of cats fucking and fighting under the apartment.
c. The fruit flies swarming in the kitchen.
d. The upstairs neighbors' heavy-footed thudding back and forth across the apartment.
e. All of the above.
a. The all day beep-beep-beeping of bulldozers backing up combined with the upsettingly loud, non-stop sound of explosions and crashes of who knows what? at the construction site right next to where he lives.
b. The terrible screams of cats fucking and fighting under the apartment.
c. The fruit flies swarming in the kitchen.
d. The upstairs neighbors' heavy-footed thudding back and forth across the apartment.
e. All of the above.
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