Susan tells me that learning to use my power is about learning what I want and how to put it out there in the universe. Not that I'll know the particulars of what I want, but that a basic idea will yield basic results. Well, she's right, and I know that by now. It seems like I put something out there, get something back-- almost as I wanted it-- and then change my mind on the wisdom of said choice. Or I lose faith in that decision.
I had posted something about wanting a combination of each of the men I've dated rolled up into one perfect being right before Jay called me. I know that "perfect," as in 'without flaws,' doesn't exist, but I'd like to think that there is a man "perfect" for me out there somewhere. A precise amalgamation of all that I liked about each guy I've been with. I really like Jay and think that he's certainly got all that I'm looking for, at least what I know of him, but I'm suddenly thinking that if I'm close to finding him here, what downfalls of each will be wrapped up in the package? I'd be freaked out about this all if it didn't feel so right, so simple and easy.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Part II
I hang on to the excitement long enough to imagine sand in soft sheets and hands held in the dark. And when I am able to let go of this and breathe in deeply again, the thoughts rasp hard in my throat. Harder than breath jagged and dry during long run on an ankle still physically pained. Two miles on that is nothing compared with run-away mind on emotion.
Did I really imagine that this cross-country venture would be a good idea? In that split-second of decision making before agreeing to visit, did it even cross my mind that it might not be such a good idea? No, and that’s why I ran with it, full steam ahead. For once, it felt right and I didn't even question it.
“Mars, I think you should come out here, really. I have this ticket you can use, let me get online and see if there are restrictions on it.” He had said it before I knew what he was saying, and as the metronome tick and tock of a tongue to teeth thought echoes across the miles, I listen to him think out loud about this wild idea.
I am sprawled on my couch, readied in shoes and tank top for a run on the beach before the sun goes down. A dusky circle around the water and back. I am planning on getting outside and enjoying the light before it is consumed by the night. But he has different ideas, this spontaneous, light-hearted boy on the other end of the line, and somehow, I’m becoming convinced that they might be good ones.
“Aw, I don’t know. I don’t want to use your ticket.”
“no, see, you could come out here as soon as you get done fishing with your dad, and it’s round-trip and, wait, when are you going fishing?”
His earnest consideration for my trip home jerks me back to reality, and I’m once again wondering what is happening, what has happened to me in the past couple of days.
When I met Jay it was Christmas, and we were at his parent’s house drinking his dad’s home-made wine. Mr. Latore had spent the past 20 minutes showing me each and every piece of his sprawling 20-year-old collection of holiday houses and stores, complete with running water and lights and singing angles. “See, and over here, over here, this is California. This is where Jay and his guys are at. See those homies?”
The elder Latore is funny and kind, eager to show off his landscape and happy to have friends and family around to do it for. Jay and I had talked in the corner about myspace, music, I don’t even remember what else. And later, at the bar, we sat together and talked about Long Beach, and music and travel and how it all fit together into our respective dreams and goals.
When we left the bar that night, I driving my boyfriend’s car, Jay riding along in his best friend’s back seat, I thought back to something Sean had said to me earlier.
“We’re going to meet my friend Jay tonight, I think you’ll like him.” He had said this walking up to Jay’s house in the suburbs.
It hadn’t meant anything to me then; of course I’d like him. I liked all of his friends. But when I met Jay I understood exactly how he had meant it.
In high school, and then college, and even afterwards, the guys I dated were free spirits. The kind of guy who my best friend Nate used to call “fun guys” in jealous condemnation of the drugs and sex and fun I shared with them. They were the kind of boys who got me to go to Alabama in the middle of a semester without telling my parents and without a driver’s license and without any money. The kind of boys who convinced me to pierce soft, feminine flesh because similarly located soft male flesh had been thusly outfitted. They were tattooed, or pierced, and constantly hitching up jeans or strumming imaginary bass riffs in odd moments of idle handedness. Baseball caps turned backwards or knit beanies scrunched down low capped dark, perfectly curled hair and flipped it out in adorable waves around the ears. I hadn’t met a guy exactly like this since the last Jay I had met. And I had liked him, too.
“So. What did you think,” Sean had asked as we walked to his car in the crisp dark.
“Um, yeah, I liked him. He’s exactly the kind of guy I used to date,” I say, honest to the end. “Why not?” I thought to myself. “I’m dating Sean, it’s not like me saying this guy is cool is gonna get weird.”
And it didn’t, not then. And it hasn’t, yet. But as the momentum of my decision to spend a week in Long Beach with this man I barely know catches up to me, I’m wondering just how weird it’s got the potential to get, and the excitment of days past has turned into some sort of knotted tangle in my stomach and legs and chest.
Did I really imagine that this cross-country venture would be a good idea? In that split-second of decision making before agreeing to visit, did it even cross my mind that it might not be such a good idea? No, and that’s why I ran with it, full steam ahead. For once, it felt right and I didn't even question it.
“Mars, I think you should come out here, really. I have this ticket you can use, let me get online and see if there are restrictions on it.” He had said it before I knew what he was saying, and as the metronome tick and tock of a tongue to teeth thought echoes across the miles, I listen to him think out loud about this wild idea.
I am sprawled on my couch, readied in shoes and tank top for a run on the beach before the sun goes down. A dusky circle around the water and back. I am planning on getting outside and enjoying the light before it is consumed by the night. But he has different ideas, this spontaneous, light-hearted boy on the other end of the line, and somehow, I’m becoming convinced that they might be good ones.
“Aw, I don’t know. I don’t want to use your ticket.”
“no, see, you could come out here as soon as you get done fishing with your dad, and it’s round-trip and, wait, when are you going fishing?”
His earnest consideration for my trip home jerks me back to reality, and I’m once again wondering what is happening, what has happened to me in the past couple of days.
When I met Jay it was Christmas, and we were at his parent’s house drinking his dad’s home-made wine. Mr. Latore had spent the past 20 minutes showing me each and every piece of his sprawling 20-year-old collection of holiday houses and stores, complete with running water and lights and singing angles. “See, and over here, over here, this is California. This is where Jay and his guys are at. See those homies?”
The elder Latore is funny and kind, eager to show off his landscape and happy to have friends and family around to do it for. Jay and I had talked in the corner about myspace, music, I don’t even remember what else. And later, at the bar, we sat together and talked about Long Beach, and music and travel and how it all fit together into our respective dreams and goals.
When we left the bar that night, I driving my boyfriend’s car, Jay riding along in his best friend’s back seat, I thought back to something Sean had said to me earlier.
“We’re going to meet my friend Jay tonight, I think you’ll like him.” He had said this walking up to Jay’s house in the suburbs.
It hadn’t meant anything to me then; of course I’d like him. I liked all of his friends. But when I met Jay I understood exactly how he had meant it.
In high school, and then college, and even afterwards, the guys I dated were free spirits. The kind of guy who my best friend Nate used to call “fun guys” in jealous condemnation of the drugs and sex and fun I shared with them. They were the kind of boys who got me to go to Alabama in the middle of a semester without telling my parents and without a driver’s license and without any money. The kind of boys who convinced me to pierce soft, feminine flesh because similarly located soft male flesh had been thusly outfitted. They were tattooed, or pierced, and constantly hitching up jeans or strumming imaginary bass riffs in odd moments of idle handedness. Baseball caps turned backwards or knit beanies scrunched down low capped dark, perfectly curled hair and flipped it out in adorable waves around the ears. I hadn’t met a guy exactly like this since the last Jay I had met. And I had liked him, too.
“So. What did you think,” Sean had asked as we walked to his car in the crisp dark.
“Um, yeah, I liked him. He’s exactly the kind of guy I used to date,” I say, honest to the end. “Why not?” I thought to myself. “I’m dating Sean, it’s not like me saying this guy is cool is gonna get weird.”
And it didn’t, not then. And it hasn’t, yet. But as the momentum of my decision to spend a week in Long Beach with this man I barely know catches up to me, I’m wondering just how weird it’s got the potential to get, and the excitment of days past has turned into some sort of knotted tangle in my stomach and legs and chest.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Part I
It dawns on me somewhere between his third exclamation mark and the second message I get from one of his best friends. I know that the two are “porn buddies,” friends who have a pact that if one dies, the other removes all traces of pornographic material from the former’s life before friends, family and others can find the porn and lose respect for the deceased. I know this about them, because I was dating the former when I met the latter.
And I know that what I am about to do is considered taboo and stupid and maybe even scandalous in some circles. Kind of like owning and admitting to watching porn in polite society. And I’m guilty of having done all of the above before.
“I have some porn of Jay’s. Will you take it to him when you go see him?”
He has been skirting the issue in our last couple of conversations, but now I know that Sean knows that I’m going to go see his friend in a couple of days. I knew, of course, that Sean would be involved in this somehow. Jay did, after all, have to call him to get my number before he called me. I just didn’t know if Jay had happened to tell Sean that he wanted his number because he wanted me, or because he wanted something else.
“Jay liked your blog about Thailand,” Sean had said in that first conversation, that first one we’d had since I returned from Thailand. “Must have been some hot steamy Thai action?”
Sean wouldn’t know if there was hot or cold action if it was in his lap—or maybe only then—and he certainly never would have taken the time to read my blog and find out.
“You could say that,” I said, deferring. “Did you enter the limerick contest?”
We banter about limericks, the way in which he did secure the part of my heart that hadn’t immediately labeled him a sleaze ball. But that was a while ago, last year, in fact, and since then I’ve gotten poetry from other boys, equally empty to me, yet somehow meaningful in its creator’s capacity.
I hadn’t wanted to talk to Sean since I returned, and I hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone, really, since I’d been back. All that had happened to me in Thailand—how could I explain? How could I talk about it, especially with someone like Sean, who never really cared about me in the way I needed him to when things were good, much less falling down around my ears like banana leaves?
When Jay calls me, the first time, I am clearing my apartment, moving things around, trying to say busy and focus the mind that screams and jabbers and jumps through thoughts like chimps above. The number is one I don’t recognize, and the voice is the same, in the immediate moment. But both are a welcome distraction from the boredom that has become my life post-travel.
“Mars? Hey, it’s Jay. What’s going on?”
I am stunned into silence, not really sure why he’s calling me, but assuming it has something to do with my blog. Since January he has been a faithful presence, commenting, critiquing, reading. He seemed especially interested and encouraging of a few of the Thailand blogs, and I’d even received the visual equivalent of schmoopy poetry postings. And I know he had to get my number from Sean. Torn between that interaction and what this one means, I stammer my hellos.
“Eeeah..hey, Jay. Nothin’ much,, man. What’s goin’ on with you?”
With Sean, always on edge to act and behave and look a certain way, I pulled out the dignified salutation of someone greeting a business client. With Jay, the easy slur of someone I used to be slips out. Our conversation is peppered with “dude,” “right on” and several vehement “no ways!”Somewhere around the 75 minute mark I end it and shake my head, laying down to think. There’s nothing to say, and no one to say it to, so I laugh out loud.
“What the hell?” I can’t stifle the laughter inside, any more than I can stifle the smile that is working its way across my face.
“What is going on?”
During our second conversation, sometime between the first exclamation and the last subtly-made point, I understand that Jay wants to see me, even if I’m not exactly sure why. There’s mention of “urgency” and “fun,” promises of calls and sushi in the future.
I lay on my bed and contemplate the hour over and over in my head. At a loss for words and guidance and seeking neither.
And I know that what I am about to do is considered taboo and stupid and maybe even scandalous in some circles. Kind of like owning and admitting to watching porn in polite society. And I’m guilty of having done all of the above before.
“I have some porn of Jay’s. Will you take it to him when you go see him?”
He has been skirting the issue in our last couple of conversations, but now I know that Sean knows that I’m going to go see his friend in a couple of days. I knew, of course, that Sean would be involved in this somehow. Jay did, after all, have to call him to get my number before he called me. I just didn’t know if Jay had happened to tell Sean that he wanted his number because he wanted me, or because he wanted something else.
“Jay liked your blog about Thailand,” Sean had said in that first conversation, that first one we’d had since I returned from Thailand. “Must have been some hot steamy Thai action?”
Sean wouldn’t know if there was hot or cold action if it was in his lap—or maybe only then—and he certainly never would have taken the time to read my blog and find out.
“You could say that,” I said, deferring. “Did you enter the limerick contest?”
We banter about limericks, the way in which he did secure the part of my heart that hadn’t immediately labeled him a sleaze ball. But that was a while ago, last year, in fact, and since then I’ve gotten poetry from other boys, equally empty to me, yet somehow meaningful in its creator’s capacity.
I hadn’t wanted to talk to Sean since I returned, and I hadn’t wanted to talk to anyone, really, since I’d been back. All that had happened to me in Thailand—how could I explain? How could I talk about it, especially with someone like Sean, who never really cared about me in the way I needed him to when things were good, much less falling down around my ears like banana leaves?
When Jay calls me, the first time, I am clearing my apartment, moving things around, trying to say busy and focus the mind that screams and jabbers and jumps through thoughts like chimps above. The number is one I don’t recognize, and the voice is the same, in the immediate moment. But both are a welcome distraction from the boredom that has become my life post-travel.
“Mars? Hey, it’s Jay. What’s going on?”
I am stunned into silence, not really sure why he’s calling me, but assuming it has something to do with my blog. Since January he has been a faithful presence, commenting, critiquing, reading. He seemed especially interested and encouraging of a few of the Thailand blogs, and I’d even received the visual equivalent of schmoopy poetry postings. And I know he had to get my number from Sean. Torn between that interaction and what this one means, I stammer my hellos.
“Eeeah..hey, Jay. Nothin’ much,, man. What’s goin’ on with you?”
With Sean, always on edge to act and behave and look a certain way, I pulled out the dignified salutation of someone greeting a business client. With Jay, the easy slur of someone I used to be slips out. Our conversation is peppered with “dude,” “right on” and several vehement “no ways!”Somewhere around the 75 minute mark I end it and shake my head, laying down to think. There’s nothing to say, and no one to say it to, so I laugh out loud.
“What the hell?” I can’t stifle the laughter inside, any more than I can stifle the smile that is working its way across my face.
“What is going on?”
During our second conversation, sometime between the first exclamation and the last subtly-made point, I understand that Jay wants to see me, even if I’m not exactly sure why. There’s mention of “urgency” and “fun,” promises of calls and sushi in the future.
I lay on my bed and contemplate the hour over and over in my head. At a loss for words and guidance and seeking neither.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Amen(ds)
"Marcella?"
His voice is low and rolling, like a dark blue thundercloud over the plains.
I haven't heard it in months, almost a year. So when the man on the phone asks for me in his signature, soft tone, I'm genuinely surprised. I hadn't recognized the area code, but certainly hadn't expected him.
"Hey. It's Ryan."
As if I couldn't tell.
At its best, that voice had been full of promise and potential, like an much-needed storm cloud blown clear and harmlessly over a field after mosturizing soft green growth. At its worst, it accompanied the whirlwind of destruction and worry that being with Ryan sometimes meant. We dated last year, and when I ended things in June, after one chaotic trip too many, I didn't think I'd ever hear his rich voice again.
"Yeah, I know, Ryan. Hi. What's, uh, what's up?"
I had nothing to say and wasn't quite sure where this was headed. When I last talked to my wide-eyed hippie farmer boy, we had been fighting, about his drinking and the destruction of my apartment and the paint all over the floor. I had told him I couldn't handle it anymore, and that his crazy-ass trips to Chicago need not include me anymore.
It wasn't a pretty way, or a nice way to end things, especially with someone I had really wanted in my life as "the one."
But the universe had other things in mind, and so as I waited the half-second for his reply, I mulled over what they could be.
"I'm going to a meditation retreat up by Chicago, and I was wondering, if you'll be around, if you want to hang out. I feel like... well, I feel like I have amends to make with you."
Amends. One of the steps of AA, one of the steps of NA. One of the steps he'd planted his foot upon before.
"Yeah, I'll be around. But you don't have to make amends with me. Make them with yourself, and you'll have made them with me," I told him.
We talked, and about an hour later, decided that meeting up would definitely work, as long as things were calm and steady. Granted, I wouldn't know how to deal with him in that manner, but it was a necessary requirement. After vowing this, and telling me all the ways in which his life had changed, we got off the phone. And then I waited, looking forward to today, wondering what it would bring.
He teaches me, all the time. It's what drew me to him in the first place. When we were together, I had hoped that he could "be the one," because he made me a better person, made me want to do good things and strive for real peace and beauty. You know how some people are good influences, and bring out the best in each other? Or the worst? He brought out the best in me, but unfortunately, I brought out the worst in him. For some reason.
Time "spent" with me was time spent at Goose Island, the brewery I had introduced him to, or Piece, the other brewery I had shared with him. I knew he liked to drink (at that time, as much as me), but I didn't realize that unlike me, he couldn't just shut it off after a couple of beers and bad days. I made life harder for him in that way, during his visits here, but he helped me see my weak spots, and was one of the people on the path to help me seek inner resolve. Even with having to deal his drunk, belligerent ass, I still got the better end of the stick, long-term, I think.
And today he continued to share his subtle lessons with me.
When he called me at 7 am to ask directions from some street I'd never heard of to my street, and didn't even know if he was in Chicago, I sighed and shoved my head back under the brown pillows.
"Fuck. He's going to be a wreck again, as always. Why did I agree to see him?" I thought with dark, rolled eyes. Upon waking a bit, I decided to not be such a bitch and map quest the roads and help him out. After a couple of hours of directions and panicked follow-up calls, I was severely cranky, behind in my job application work, and ready to yell at him when he did arrive. But I bit my tongue instead, and told him to meet me at a local coffee shop when I got done with the work I had to do.
By noon we had settled down to pecan sticky buns and cinnamon rolls, and conversation over hot cups of tea and cocoa. And I was thankful for the presence of mind to bite my tongue earlier.
It's been an interesting month or so for me, what with all of the ex business that keeps popping up, but there is a reason I have all these exs as friends I guess. They are incredible people ( I mean c'mon, I DID pick them to date, after all, for some reasons), and I consider myself blessed to have them in my life now, safely at the distance they are.
We hung out at Target, goofing in the aisles and playing with the gardening stuff and the candle accessories. I even got a new camera to document the trip. And at the end of the day, when it was time for him to meet his ride-share partner and move on to the the ten-day silence, we parted on good terms, with more dirt on each other than many married people (and still just friends, phew).
And today he also taught me about patience and reminded me that it's something to continue working on. How many times have I been lost on the roads of Chicago? Do I want a more knowledgeable friend to blow me off or belittle me next time its me (because I'm sure its coming)? 'Course not. I did, however, also note that my inability to deal with people I expect independence and responsibility from is much higher with him than others. Will be thinking on that one for a while, but am sure it's because it's been shattered so many times with him.
And the other thing I began to believe today, from his example, is that things work themselves out, if you just give them time. Being with a person is a day-by-day process. It's not about tomorrow or next week or next year. All good to consider, but first, it's about getting through just one day with that person.
And we had one nice day.
I'm grateful that he made the effort to stop and mend things. And I hope that he can keep truckin' on the path he's on. If we managed to make it through one day of solid peace and respect for each other, I have hope that it's because he's managed to find some peace and respect within.
His voice is low and rolling, like a dark blue thundercloud over the plains.
I haven't heard it in months, almost a year. So when the man on the phone asks for me in his signature, soft tone, I'm genuinely surprised. I hadn't recognized the area code, but certainly hadn't expected him.
"Hey. It's Ryan."
As if I couldn't tell.
At its best, that voice had been full of promise and potential, like an much-needed storm cloud blown clear and harmlessly over a field after mosturizing soft green growth. At its worst, it accompanied the whirlwind of destruction and worry that being with Ryan sometimes meant. We dated last year, and when I ended things in June, after one chaotic trip too many, I didn't think I'd ever hear his rich voice again.
"Yeah, I know, Ryan. Hi. What's, uh, what's up?"
I had nothing to say and wasn't quite sure where this was headed. When I last talked to my wide-eyed hippie farmer boy, we had been fighting, about his drinking and the destruction of my apartment and the paint all over the floor. I had told him I couldn't handle it anymore, and that his crazy-ass trips to Chicago need not include me anymore.
It wasn't a pretty way, or a nice way to end things, especially with someone I had really wanted in my life as "the one."
But the universe had other things in mind, and so as I waited the half-second for his reply, I mulled over what they could be.
"I'm going to a meditation retreat up by Chicago, and I was wondering, if you'll be around, if you want to hang out. I feel like... well, I feel like I have amends to make with you."
Amends. One of the steps of AA, one of the steps of NA. One of the steps he'd planted his foot upon before.
"Yeah, I'll be around. But you don't have to make amends with me. Make them with yourself, and you'll have made them with me," I told him.
We talked, and about an hour later, decided that meeting up would definitely work, as long as things were calm and steady. Granted, I wouldn't know how to deal with him in that manner, but it was a necessary requirement. After vowing this, and telling me all the ways in which his life had changed, we got off the phone. And then I waited, looking forward to today, wondering what it would bring.
He teaches me, all the time. It's what drew me to him in the first place. When we were together, I had hoped that he could "be the one," because he made me a better person, made me want to do good things and strive for real peace and beauty. You know how some people are good influences, and bring out the best in each other? Or the worst? He brought out the best in me, but unfortunately, I brought out the worst in him. For some reason.
Time "spent" with me was time spent at Goose Island, the brewery I had introduced him to, or Piece, the other brewery I had shared with him. I knew he liked to drink (at that time, as much as me), but I didn't realize that unlike me, he couldn't just shut it off after a couple of beers and bad days. I made life harder for him in that way, during his visits here, but he helped me see my weak spots, and was one of the people on the path to help me seek inner resolve. Even with having to deal his drunk, belligerent ass, I still got the better end of the stick, long-term, I think.
And today he continued to share his subtle lessons with me.
When he called me at 7 am to ask directions from some street I'd never heard of to my street, and didn't even know if he was in Chicago, I sighed and shoved my head back under the brown pillows.
"Fuck. He's going to be a wreck again, as always. Why did I agree to see him?" I thought with dark, rolled eyes. Upon waking a bit, I decided to not be such a bitch and map quest the roads and help him out. After a couple of hours of directions and panicked follow-up calls, I was severely cranky, behind in my job application work, and ready to yell at him when he did arrive. But I bit my tongue instead, and told him to meet me at a local coffee shop when I got done with the work I had to do.
By noon we had settled down to pecan sticky buns and cinnamon rolls, and conversation over hot cups of tea and cocoa. And I was thankful for the presence of mind to bite my tongue earlier.
It's been an interesting month or so for me, what with all of the ex business that keeps popping up, but there is a reason I have all these exs as friends I guess. They are incredible people ( I mean c'mon, I DID pick them to date, after all, for some reasons), and I consider myself blessed to have them in my life now, safely at the distance they are.
We hung out at Target, goofing in the aisles and playing with the gardening stuff and the candle accessories. I even got a new camera to document the trip. And at the end of the day, when it was time for him to meet his ride-share partner and move on to the the ten-day silence, we parted on good terms, with more dirt on each other than many married people (and still just friends, phew).
And today he also taught me about patience and reminded me that it's something to continue working on. How many times have I been lost on the roads of Chicago? Do I want a more knowledgeable friend to blow me off or belittle me next time its me (because I'm sure its coming)? 'Course not. I did, however, also note that my inability to deal with people I expect independence and responsibility from is much higher with him than others. Will be thinking on that one for a while, but am sure it's because it's been shattered so many times with him.
And the other thing I began to believe today, from his example, is that things work themselves out, if you just give them time. Being with a person is a day-by-day process. It's not about tomorrow or next week or next year. All good to consider, but first, it's about getting through just one day with that person.
And we had one nice day.
I'm grateful that he made the effort to stop and mend things. And I hope that he can keep truckin' on the path he's on. If we managed to make it through one day of solid peace and respect for each other, I have hope that it's because he's managed to find some peace and respect within.
Wreally?
It's called "wrock."
As in, Wizard rock. As in, Harry Potter.
Wright.
I'd read about Diagon Alley online last week, and after clicking on over to the myspace home for the burgeoning young lads, I decided I just had to go have me a lissen. I mean, c'mon. With young Potter's most recent tales flying snitch circles around my head after my Thailand trip (during which I lugged the ten pound book around in my heavy pack), I just had to go and hear songs like "These days," a melodic heart-string tugger on strings (piano riffs open), about the loss of Fred Weasly. Or works like "Butterbeers and OWLS," with the chompy snark of bass riffs and slightly off-kilter vocals providing me with a head-bobbing buzz and smile.
Always up for all things Harry (not Hairy, that's Hagrid, silly), I roped my friend Brenda into going with me.
We treked through the rain and snow down to Chicago's southside, where the trio was scheduled to play Reggie's smallish stage around 9 pm.
Well, I wish I could tell you that they sounded as good live as they did on that muggle-born roadway of the information superhighway. But we didn't see them. Or hear them, for that matter. There was one nattily dressed musician a few feet away from us at one point, sporting a Ravenclaw-colored tie, but that was about it. By the time the night ended and we trudged back north through the rain, it was apparent that we had somehow missed their set.
I was a bit disheartened when we figured it out, but don't Worry, dear reader, for Wrock bands exist on five continents, and this August, a day-long celebration of the six-year spirit of Potter set to music will be held here.
Until then, if you simply must know more, you can check them out HERE
As in, Wizard rock. As in, Harry Potter.
Wright.
I'd read about Diagon Alley online last week, and after clicking on over to the myspace home for the burgeoning young lads, I decided I just had to go have me a lissen. I mean, c'mon. With young Potter's most recent tales flying snitch circles around my head after my Thailand trip (during which I lugged the ten pound book around in my heavy pack), I just had to go and hear songs like "These days," a melodic heart-string tugger on strings (piano riffs open), about the loss of Fred Weasly. Or works like "Butterbeers and OWLS," with the chompy snark of bass riffs and slightly off-kilter vocals providing me with a head-bobbing buzz and smile.
Always up for all things Harry (not Hairy, that's Hagrid, silly), I roped my friend Brenda into going with me.
We treked through the rain and snow down to Chicago's southside, where the trio was scheduled to play Reggie's smallish stage around 9 pm.
Well, I wish I could tell you that they sounded as good live as they did on that muggle-born roadway of the information superhighway. But we didn't see them. Or hear them, for that matter. There was one nattily dressed musician a few feet away from us at one point, sporting a Ravenclaw-colored tie, but that was about it. By the time the night ended and we trudged back north through the rain, it was apparent that we had somehow missed their set.
I was a bit disheartened when we figured it out, but don't Worry, dear reader, for Wrock bands exist on five continents, and this August, a day-long celebration of the six-year spirit of Potter set to music will be held here.
Until then, if you simply must know more, you can check them out HERE
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Takes a week
I guess I had spent so much time in the last two weeks alone and feeling sorry for myself that I didn’t know how to exist any other way. So I spent the first seven days of life back in the U.S. brooding and wallowing in my writing and my books and my blankets. I simply didn’t know anything else. And I didn’t want to know anything else.
Writing had taken over my life while traveling (momentarily shoving aside disaster), and it felt good to be in my own head so deeply, so clearly. I had told myself that Chicago would be anticlimactic before I had even returned home, and I had vowed to get Thailand out onto the page before I sought to bring life back into my life. I felt like I had discovered things about myself that I needed to cement in the first few days back, to really make sure they didn’t just drift off into the ethers. I didn’t want the ideas I had to become pipe dreams or empty words. So I captured them and put them on the page.
And then I let the solitude and silence go too long. Or too deeply.
I was eating peanut butter cookies last night and writing my last week, the last of the trip, out of my system before I realized I had eaten all but two cookies and hadn’t done a damn thing with my week otherwise. Well, there was the other package of cookies I ate earlier in the week…
I knew that I wanted one week to remember what Chicago was like and start up the gym routine before going out in public or talking to friends. But the danger in that was the comfort I had found in the yoga and the laptop. Or the retreat into them that I imagined to be comfort. It was more like the comfort one finds in a heavy, too-warm blanket: initially soothing, the stifling weight and darkness lulls one into a dangerous stillness, and becomes all encompassing and impossible to throw off in sleep. That was in the heat of my post-return depression.
I had done so much and seen so much and felt so much— each emotion of the trip stayed with me—and I didn’t want to talk about it yet because no one would understand. No one could understand, because I couldn’t even understand it and explain it all.
So I chose to sit with it, hide under it. Sweat it out on my own.
That’s usually how I deal with things. Work them out on my own. Sometimes, a ribbon of emotion gets out and someone sees it. Wanting to help, they pull and pull and unravel the rest of it from within me. Once that happens, there’s nothing left to do but pull the dense fabric of sadness from the spindle and rewind it. Forgetting or ignoring the length of pain only leads to coarser feelings and more stitches later. So the best way to deal with what I couldn’t explain or didn’t want to acknowledge was to just internally untangle it on my own.
The writing, of course, helped. I have a million drafts and versions of articles about the everything and nothing of the trip. None of them are fit for publication, but none of them have to be. Having served their purpose, the cathartic drip pan of pages can now be disposed of. Cleanly.
I know that I’m lucky. Unlike some, I was able to rouse myself from the burning slumber, shake myself into recognition of the slow burn that was creeping upon me and pull the wool off from over my eyes. When I woke up this morning I felt for the first time since I’ve been home that I can maybe talk about it now. I did a little, last night, when out with my friend Brenda. I woke this morning and felt warmth not from the depths of woolen weight, but the light of sun slipping in through slats in the blinds above.
Writing had taken over my life while traveling (momentarily shoving aside disaster), and it felt good to be in my own head so deeply, so clearly. I had told myself that Chicago would be anticlimactic before I had even returned home, and I had vowed to get Thailand out onto the page before I sought to bring life back into my life. I felt like I had discovered things about myself that I needed to cement in the first few days back, to really make sure they didn’t just drift off into the ethers. I didn’t want the ideas I had to become pipe dreams or empty words. So I captured them and put them on the page.
And then I let the solitude and silence go too long. Or too deeply.
I was eating peanut butter cookies last night and writing my last week, the last of the trip, out of my system before I realized I had eaten all but two cookies and hadn’t done a damn thing with my week otherwise. Well, there was the other package of cookies I ate earlier in the week…
I knew that I wanted one week to remember what Chicago was like and start up the gym routine before going out in public or talking to friends. But the danger in that was the comfort I had found in the yoga and the laptop. Or the retreat into them that I imagined to be comfort. It was more like the comfort one finds in a heavy, too-warm blanket: initially soothing, the stifling weight and darkness lulls one into a dangerous stillness, and becomes all encompassing and impossible to throw off in sleep. That was in the heat of my post-return depression.
I had done so much and seen so much and felt so much— each emotion of the trip stayed with me—and I didn’t want to talk about it yet because no one would understand. No one could understand, because I couldn’t even understand it and explain it all.
So I chose to sit with it, hide under it. Sweat it out on my own.
That’s usually how I deal with things. Work them out on my own. Sometimes, a ribbon of emotion gets out and someone sees it. Wanting to help, they pull and pull and unravel the rest of it from within me. Once that happens, there’s nothing left to do but pull the dense fabric of sadness from the spindle and rewind it. Forgetting or ignoring the length of pain only leads to coarser feelings and more stitches later. So the best way to deal with what I couldn’t explain or didn’t want to acknowledge was to just internally untangle it on my own.
The writing, of course, helped. I have a million drafts and versions of articles about the everything and nothing of the trip. None of them are fit for publication, but none of them have to be. Having served their purpose, the cathartic drip pan of pages can now be disposed of. Cleanly.
I know that I’m lucky. Unlike some, I was able to rouse myself from the burning slumber, shake myself into recognition of the slow burn that was creeping upon me and pull the wool off from over my eyes. When I woke up this morning I felt for the first time since I’ve been home that I can maybe talk about it now. I did a little, last night, when out with my friend Brenda. I woke this morning and felt warmth not from the depths of woolen weight, but the light of sun slipping in through slats in the blinds above.
Like an undiscoverd work of art
I want him to touch me like the Gardener, like I’m a rich, beautiful plot full of potential and earthen mystery, like my curves and valleys and topography have purpose and difference in yield and required attention. No two plots are the same, and in fact, no two areas of one fertile field are necessary the same type of soil, the same distribution of sand and loam and silt. And If he doesn’t intuit this, as the Gardener did, I want him to study the lay of the land and learn it.
I need him to challenge me and refine me for courtly presentation, as the politician did. He must have the mind of a studied historian, the wit of a jester, the poise of a stately diplomat, although only in the most necessary of amounts. Too much and the charm of sophistication is lost, like a fine Scotch consumed to excess.
His verse must sing with honesty and insight, as the Writer’s verse has. He must be able to craft and compose his dreams and desire and love for me with the care and purpose of a poet writing his own legacy. Yet I need him to be able to edit this prose, not run it on and on and on, dulling its meaning.
His dreams and optimism must be real and achievable, as they were to the Actor. Yet his playing need go no further than the stage. His words, with me, his actions, must be all his. All original.
All of these things I need from the man who is art yet undiscovered, the one who easily and completely turns my artistic talents to more than words and lines on a page. All of these things alone, with nothing else to compliment them, as they existed here, must work together, in one who inspires my world. All of these things and one more, the most important of all, really. For what is an understanding of the physical, or the mental, if it is not complimenting an understanding of the indescribable essence of who I am in all my parts? The dreamer, the actor, the poet, the planter; I too, am each of these things. The diplomat, the jester, the muse drunk on my own power… each of these things, as fundamental to my complimentary half as they are present in me, are hard to grasp and understand. Fluid, always changing, always moving, these pieces of my world must be quietly understood and sought out like the great adventure they are… just as the Wanderer sought to do.
The wanderer. For his downfalls and unsettled manner, his turbulent changes of atmosphere, he understood these parts of me like no other. But, in equal parts unsettled and in search of distant shores, greener grasses, I too, could not settle and remain content with the fluid life that such a journey provides.
There is no importance to the order of application of these parts. Like a song, many parts are layered and harmonized to complete the motif. All murals great and small, are colors and shapes and strokes woven together as part of the panorama. Body, plot, problem, resolution, all move a story from beginning to end. There is no set formula to the application and organization of these elements, they simply must come together to complete the artistic whole.
I need him to challenge me and refine me for courtly presentation, as the politician did. He must have the mind of a studied historian, the wit of a jester, the poise of a stately diplomat, although only in the most necessary of amounts. Too much and the charm of sophistication is lost, like a fine Scotch consumed to excess.
His verse must sing with honesty and insight, as the Writer’s verse has. He must be able to craft and compose his dreams and desire and love for me with the care and purpose of a poet writing his own legacy. Yet I need him to be able to edit this prose, not run it on and on and on, dulling its meaning.
His dreams and optimism must be real and achievable, as they were to the Actor. Yet his playing need go no further than the stage. His words, with me, his actions, must be all his. All original.
All of these things I need from the man who is art yet undiscovered, the one who easily and completely turns my artistic talents to more than words and lines on a page. All of these things alone, with nothing else to compliment them, as they existed here, must work together, in one who inspires my world. All of these things and one more, the most important of all, really. For what is an understanding of the physical, or the mental, if it is not complimenting an understanding of the indescribable essence of who I am in all my parts? The dreamer, the actor, the poet, the planter; I too, am each of these things. The diplomat, the jester, the muse drunk on my own power… each of these things, as fundamental to my complimentary half as they are present in me, are hard to grasp and understand. Fluid, always changing, always moving, these pieces of my world must be quietly understood and sought out like the great adventure they are… just as the Wanderer sought to do.
The wanderer. For his downfalls and unsettled manner, his turbulent changes of atmosphere, he understood these parts of me like no other. But, in equal parts unsettled and in search of distant shores, greener grasses, I too, could not settle and remain content with the fluid life that such a journey provides.
There is no importance to the order of application of these parts. Like a song, many parts are layered and harmonized to complete the motif. All murals great and small, are colors and shapes and strokes woven together as part of the panorama. Body, plot, problem, resolution, all move a story from beginning to end. There is no set formula to the application and organization of these elements, they simply must come together to complete the artistic whole.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Dear Mr. Klosterman
April 12, 2007
Dear Mr. Klosterman:
I have an admission and a request to make. I realize the admission may ruin any chance at the fulfillment of my request, but, oh, so it goes.
I’ve been reading you since high school, when I thought that your larger-than-life self-congratulatory way of looking at the world through writing was over-written. I was not a huge fan, but I kept my SPIN subscriptions coming… I guess I was oddly intrigued. I came from very rural Nebraska. Perhaps you can understand that my narrow mind had only really been exposed to Willa Cather and Mari Sandoz.
In college , in Sioux Falls (I know that Olive Garden well!), and under the guidance of a more worldly and eccentric writing professor, I found my own voice. Which seemed to be along the lines of the same self-congratulatory one I had once disliked in you. I think it has to do with escaping the emptiness of wide open spaces and the monotone lives of everyone you ever knew. I feel pretty proud of myself for not working at Wal-mart or the nursing home, as most of my old friends do.
I live in Chicago these days, after a stint in D.C. at NBC (yeah, television reporting sucked), the Argus Leader and the PR world. I’m working on a book, considering grad school (The good ol’ MFA, Creative non-fiction). My writing style, to a degree, seems to reflect this level of… what I’d call excitement, that my life has been. Telling you all about it would take forever, so, for example, let me just mention that I recently returned from Thailand where I spent time with the Thai mafia and was detained by immigration before returning to the US. The crazy stories—I find them, they find me. My life is my muse. My family, friends—they want that excitement in my stories (perhaps to ease the boredom of their lives?), but then they tell me that my writing is too boastful.
So my request is the answer to a question I’ve been struggling with since I got back from Thailand. How do I reconcile my “boastful” writing with what my audience wants? How do I know what my audience wants? If my writing and my voice isn’t just empty words, but a way of understanding myself and the world, then how do I squelch that voice and “refine it” as one friend suggested? Or do I just tell them to fuck off and find a whole new audience? Do writers—do you—deal with this a lot? (Ok, so it was a bunch of questions, sorry.) I want to hold on to me, in my writing, but I don’t want to sound like some pompous, over-written and under-edited braggart that I’m beginning to feel.
These are very juvenile questions, I know, I know. The whole issue here is that my self-confidence is apparently not getting me anywhere, so I’m being forced to reconsider all I thought I once knew about myself as a writer. Maybe that’s silly. I think it is, but I’m asking your advice as a fellow writer, since these people discouraging me are mere commoners (haha). I’m not sure if you’ve had thoughts on this, or are willing to share, but I’d appreciate anything you can offer. Thanks for your time… and your perspective.
Sincerely,
Mars
So if you don't know, Chuck Klosterman is a senior editor at SPIN magazine and the author of a dozen non-fiction essay collections. His forthcoming novel, "Downtown Owl,"will be released in September by Simon And Schuster.
I used to hate his writing, thinking he was nothing more than a pompous braggart from North Dakota. And for whatever degrees of truth there is in that statement, his IS from North Dakota. The above is a letter I wrote to him today, in an effort to draw some literary criticism from someone who's actually a person of letters.
One of the things I realized in Thailand is that I'm often doing things to wow those at home. That's not the MAIN reason I eat small round balls of an illegal substance in a dimly lit alley way or makeout with a ping-pong princess in one of the red light district's seamier establishments. Those things just sort of happened. In fact, I can't think of a single example of something that I've done to impress someone, except for maybe buy a new dress to wear to some dumb political event. The point is, I've found a need for more honesty and truth with myself. This came about during several uninterrupted hours of writing on the beach, the train, the coffee shop, where ever. So now I'm at home and trying to continue with this tradition of writing established abroad, and I'm also trying to examine myself through my words. That is after all, why I write. To make sense of my world. To analyze people and place and things and my relation to them.
I've had a couple of discussions now with people telling me to tone down my writing. Which is basically like telling me to tone down my life and be quiet.
After the first one, I wrote a great essay in about 20 minutes. No, I'm not posting it because I'm submitting it to the scrutiny of the literary community (my peers), and the journal in mind doesn't accept previously published works.
After the second discussion, I didn't write, but I thought about what this meant on a more personal level. What it meant to me and who I am as a person, removed from who I am as a writer. Being made to feel like the snobby prom queen when high school has been over for years is a pretty lame way to feel as a twenty-five year old. What would I have done in high school, had I been feeling like that? Probably gone off and got wasted, smoked a joint, in an effort to make myself feel better? No, even that is lamer than feeling like a snotty princess. I thought about the fact that my writing is my voice, and had someone not wanted to listen to my voice in high school, I would have taken the hint and simply found a new audience.
Thus the letter. I wrote it, pinned down his correspondence address.. we'll see if I get a response.
In the meantime, a former colleague called me (someone who's also trained as a writer) and we dished on life and location for a while. I told her about my current crisis of faith within my craft, and she said, nonchalantly,
"eh, it's your voice. I've always liked it. You do take the reader into it with you. That's good storytelling."
Dear Mr. Klosterman:
I have an admission and a request to make. I realize the admission may ruin any chance at the fulfillment of my request, but, oh, so it goes.
I’ve been reading you since high school, when I thought that your larger-than-life self-congratulatory way of looking at the world through writing was over-written. I was not a huge fan, but I kept my SPIN subscriptions coming… I guess I was oddly intrigued. I came from very rural Nebraska. Perhaps you can understand that my narrow mind had only really been exposed to Willa Cather and Mari Sandoz.
In college , in Sioux Falls (I know that Olive Garden well!), and under the guidance of a more worldly and eccentric writing professor, I found my own voice. Which seemed to be along the lines of the same self-congratulatory one I had once disliked in you. I think it has to do with escaping the emptiness of wide open spaces and the monotone lives of everyone you ever knew. I feel pretty proud of myself for not working at Wal-mart or the nursing home, as most of my old friends do.
I live in Chicago these days, after a stint in D.C. at NBC (yeah, television reporting sucked), the Argus Leader and the PR world. I’m working on a book, considering grad school (The good ol’ MFA, Creative non-fiction). My writing style, to a degree, seems to reflect this level of… what I’d call excitement, that my life has been. Telling you all about it would take forever, so, for example, let me just mention that I recently returned from Thailand where I spent time with the Thai mafia and was detained by immigration before returning to the US. The crazy stories—I find them, they find me. My life is my muse. My family, friends—they want that excitement in my stories (perhaps to ease the boredom of their lives?), but then they tell me that my writing is too boastful.
So my request is the answer to a question I’ve been struggling with since I got back from Thailand. How do I reconcile my “boastful” writing with what my audience wants? How do I know what my audience wants? If my writing and my voice isn’t just empty words, but a way of understanding myself and the world, then how do I squelch that voice and “refine it” as one friend suggested? Or do I just tell them to fuck off and find a whole new audience? Do writers—do you—deal with this a lot? (Ok, so it was a bunch of questions, sorry.) I want to hold on to me, in my writing, but I don’t want to sound like some pompous, over-written and under-edited braggart that I’m beginning to feel.
These are very juvenile questions, I know, I know. The whole issue here is that my self-confidence is apparently not getting me anywhere, so I’m being forced to reconsider all I thought I once knew about myself as a writer. Maybe that’s silly. I think it is, but I’m asking your advice as a fellow writer, since these people discouraging me are mere commoners (haha). I’m not sure if you’ve had thoughts on this, or are willing to share, but I’d appreciate anything you can offer. Thanks for your time… and your perspective.
Sincerely,
Mars
So if you don't know, Chuck Klosterman is a senior editor at SPIN magazine and the author of a dozen non-fiction essay collections. His forthcoming novel, "Downtown Owl,"will be released in September by Simon And Schuster.
I used to hate his writing, thinking he was nothing more than a pompous braggart from North Dakota. And for whatever degrees of truth there is in that statement, his IS from North Dakota. The above is a letter I wrote to him today, in an effort to draw some literary criticism from someone who's actually a person of letters.
One of the things I realized in Thailand is that I'm often doing things to wow those at home. That's not the MAIN reason I eat small round balls of an illegal substance in a dimly lit alley way or makeout with a ping-pong princess in one of the red light district's seamier establishments. Those things just sort of happened. In fact, I can't think of a single example of something that I've done to impress someone, except for maybe buy a new dress to wear to some dumb political event. The point is, I've found a need for more honesty and truth with myself. This came about during several uninterrupted hours of writing on the beach, the train, the coffee shop, where ever. So now I'm at home and trying to continue with this tradition of writing established abroad, and I'm also trying to examine myself through my words. That is after all, why I write. To make sense of my world. To analyze people and place and things and my relation to them.
I've had a couple of discussions now with people telling me to tone down my writing. Which is basically like telling me to tone down my life and be quiet.
After the first one, I wrote a great essay in about 20 minutes. No, I'm not posting it because I'm submitting it to the scrutiny of the literary community (my peers), and the journal in mind doesn't accept previously published works.
After the second discussion, I didn't write, but I thought about what this meant on a more personal level. What it meant to me and who I am as a person, removed from who I am as a writer. Being made to feel like the snobby prom queen when high school has been over for years is a pretty lame way to feel as a twenty-five year old. What would I have done in high school, had I been feeling like that? Probably gone off and got wasted, smoked a joint, in an effort to make myself feel better? No, even that is lamer than feeling like a snotty princess. I thought about the fact that my writing is my voice, and had someone not wanted to listen to my voice in high school, I would have taken the hint and simply found a new audience.
Thus the letter. I wrote it, pinned down his correspondence address.. we'll see if I get a response.
In the meantime, a former colleague called me (someone who's also trained as a writer) and we dished on life and location for a while. I told her about my current crisis of faith within my craft, and she said, nonchalantly,
"eh, it's your voice. I've always liked it. You do take the reader into it with you. That's good storytelling."
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Bury my head in sand
It seems so sophomoric, like I'm reading the notes and scribbles of a first-year j-school student's account of summer vacation. But it's not that. It's online, it's been published, and it's mine. The writing in question is a piece I wrote a few years ago for the Christian Science Monitor. The essay is a reflection on my trip to Egypt, with attention paid to Cairo and the multitudionous call to prayer. I wrote it, as I said, years ago, but it got lost in the editor's inbox or files or something, and she didn't run it until last February, even though she had promised its publication almost immediately after receiving it.
It was a heady acceptance for me. My first international publication of a work, and coming as it did, right after my stroke, I was elated. I've seen my byline before, but seeing it, finally, almost a year ago, in the Monitor, was a great feeling.
Now, back from Thailand with a notebook full of essays and notes and such, I'm eager to follow it up with something else, something better. And that's what I was working on when the message arrived in my inbox. The writer I most want to work with in the Creative Non-Fiction Master's program emailed me today, asking if he could help me out with anything. So I sent him my questions, concerns, humor via a few lines of typed out text. I had pulled up the old Monitor article to send to him, but as I read through it, I though, "Jeez. Did I really write this? Who's going to admit me to an advanced writing program when I write like this, and use it as an example of my best stuff? "
As I said, Jeez. I 'spose, if anything, he and the admittance board would read it and nod in agreement that I needed all the help I could get, signing me up on the spot and hell, even paying my tuition so as to eliminate one more butcher of the English language and its harmony as prose. Then again, maybe they'd just pack me off on the next flight to Egypt and write me off as a lost cause.
I'm not sure what direction to take my writing now, but I do know that I feel completely renewed in my quest to be paid for my words. I've shied away from journalism for so long now that I've seen a lot of other positions and jobs, and none are as good. So it's back to the drawing board. onotepad, I guess, as I ready myself to head back into the world of hacks.
It was a heady acceptance for me. My first international publication of a work, and coming as it did, right after my stroke, I was elated. I've seen my byline before, but seeing it, finally, almost a year ago, in the Monitor, was a great feeling.
Now, back from Thailand with a notebook full of essays and notes and such, I'm eager to follow it up with something else, something better. And that's what I was working on when the message arrived in my inbox. The writer I most want to work with in the Creative Non-Fiction Master's program emailed me today, asking if he could help me out with anything. So I sent him my questions, concerns, humor via a few lines of typed out text. I had pulled up the old Monitor article to send to him, but as I read through it, I though, "Jeez. Did I really write this? Who's going to admit me to an advanced writing program when I write like this, and use it as an example of my best stuff? "
As I said, Jeez. I 'spose, if anything, he and the admittance board would read it and nod in agreement that I needed all the help I could get, signing me up on the spot and hell, even paying my tuition so as to eliminate one more butcher of the English language and its harmony as prose. Then again, maybe they'd just pack me off on the next flight to Egypt and write me off as a lost cause.
I'm not sure what direction to take my writing now, but I do know that I feel completely renewed in my quest to be paid for my words. I've shied away from journalism for so long now that I've seen a lot of other positions and jobs, and none are as good. So it's back to the drawing board. onotepad, I guess, as I ready myself to head back into the world of hacks.
Crying out for...
One time, he dropped a big bag of frozen fish on my head. It wasn’t intentional, I was playing on the floor by the fridge, and he was rummaging around in the freezer for the fish. He caught the stacked wall of frozen packages before it cascaded out of the cold dark space and buried me, but one big pink, icy chunk of walleye landed on my head. I was probably around 5, maybe younger, because my dad and I still hung out all the time at that point. No school yet. The fish scared me, but didn’t really hurt. It just sort of interrupted my play. But it hurt him.
“Oh,sweetheart! Are you ok? I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to fall out and hit you. Oh, are you ok?”
Sweetheart. This must be serious. Rare for dad to express affection like this, I thought, but with the use of “sweetheart,” I knew he was really moved. He kneeled down and tried to scoop me into his arms, but I was ok, no harm done. And then, as he succeeded in wrapping his strong, tanned arms around me, I lost it. Not because of the pain, but because he had called me “sweetheart.”
“BWaaa….” I’m fine… uwwaa…” I sniffled, letting go of the tears that I didn’t even know were there. This, of course, made him feel even worse.
“Oh Marcella, what can I do?”
It’s been a while since I thought about this incident, this minor memory, but I DO think of it every time I’m at home and digging in the same freezer for frozen fish. The stacked walls of fish, corn, hand-shucked peas makes me think of it. The packages still come sliding out of place, still require a steady hand to extract just one, or an extended arm to keep the whole thing in place. I’m no better at getting just one package out than dad had been twenty years ago. And I’m no better at keeping it together when he offers me something or calls me sweetheart. Especially now, miles from home and playing at being a grownup.
I'd found a moderate level of success here in Chicago, working as communications director for an independent media start-up. But it didn't sing in my heart as I had hoped, so I quit the job in October to focus on writing the book that has been three years (ok, a lifetime) in the making. I tell people it’s a medical comi-tragedy because sometimes I feel uncomfortable saying that it’s a book about me. People look at me, like, “oh, what makes your life so interesting that you think I’d want to read it?” I know that’s what they’re thinking, because a couple of them have said it.
Or, ok with talking about the book, I feel bad for whomever is with me that knows I’m writing the book, because if it’s an old friend, he or she has heard the story of my stroke and recovery a zillion times and knows all about the book and isn’t really all that impressed anymore. Ha, in fact, he or she is probably tired of my self-assured narcissism. Yes, I’m serious. I think I’m great and am sure that it gets old for my friends to have to hear me talk about that to others. An only child, I've been hearing how great I am for the past 25 years. It's now ingrained.
But I digress.
So. I quit my job, knew that the savings I’d been stashing away would carry me through the new year, no problem. And they did. And then I went to Thailand. Still no problem, I pulled the money for the flight out of my savings account and planned on getting by cheaply in a country still friendly with the U.S. dollar. Which was still no problem at first. Halfway through the trip, I’d only spent about $350 when my wallet, passport and other items were lost and dad had to wire me money. A lot of money, as it turns out, was required to get a new passport, immigration stamp and two (yes, 2!) rebooked flights to secure my release from Thailand. But I made it home, much to my parents’ delight.
I, on the otherhand, wasn't sure if I was delighted or defeated or even alive, anymore. I was returning to Chicago, but to what? To whom?
“I missed you,” said dad when we talked on the phone for the first time. “That was all very spooky to me, that stuff. I’m just happy you’re home.”
I had thanked him for bailing me out, as he always has, as he always does. And then today on the phone, I updated him on the progress and success of the job hunt that I’ve been doggedly pursuing since my return last week. I called my mom yesterday, cried, got hung up on, so he called me first thing this morning to make sure I was ok. He still misses me, still wants me to come home.
“You could work for Morie,” he says, when we move past the weather and health and fishing. “His receptionist quit. Call him.”
Morie is my dad’s financial planner. I have a life insurance policy with him too. Last time we talked, it was a heated discussion about why I was going to Thailand and needed some money out of that policy.
“You have no idea what it’s like to almost die at 22, Morie. I’m going to Thailand while I’m young, while I’m able to. I’ll let my money sit in your account if you don’t want to help me. Fine.”
“No, dad… I’ll keep looking here.”
We went on to talk the family, his ex-wife’s continued hassles over my recently dead half-brother; dad’s concerns over whether or not he’s been a good father.
“Dad, you’re a great father. You love us all, you help us all. You do what you can. She’s just bitter and angry and there’s no changing the venom inside of her.”
And then we went back to me.
“Marcella, I want to make sure you have something to keep your mind busy. I’m not going to be around too much longer, and when I’m gone, then there will be nothing. So what the hell. I want you to be happy. I know you’re not doing what you thought you’d be doing by now. If you want to go back to school, I’ll help you…I just.. want you to be happy. I don’t care if you work or not. You know I’ll help you as long as I’m around. But I think if you were doing something, you’d at least feel a little more settled.”
And that’s the heart of the matter. Like the fish on my head, like the conversations we had after I got out of the hospital and spent countless days on the couch opposite my dad’s faded, blue recliner: He feels sorry for me, helpless to remedy the undeserved pain that sometimes comes my way. I’m not the hotshot journalist that we all thought I would be by now, because I don’t trust my broken memory. I’m not even working, f’chrissake, because the stupid seizures that came with the stress of my last job are never going to be as easy to walk away from as that job. And he doesn’t care if I’m even working, is willing to do whatever he can to help his baby and make her life ok, but he can’t even figure out that that is. And neither can she.
And that’s what hurts. Not the unemployment (next step in the book process is editing and rewriting but I want to find a job first), not the stroke stuff anymore, not really. What hurts is that dad wants to help, and can’t. Wants me to come home, but I can't. I have to figure out what I want, here. It’s up to me. Yet in feeling his sorrow and effort to help, I feel more sad and pathetic than I did before. Just like the fish that didn’t hurt and the crocodile tears that flavored it.
“Oh,sweetheart! Are you ok? I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to fall out and hit you. Oh, are you ok?”
Sweetheart. This must be serious. Rare for dad to express affection like this, I thought, but with the use of “sweetheart,” I knew he was really moved. He kneeled down and tried to scoop me into his arms, but I was ok, no harm done. And then, as he succeeded in wrapping his strong, tanned arms around me, I lost it. Not because of the pain, but because he had called me “sweetheart.”
“BWaaa….” I’m fine… uwwaa…” I sniffled, letting go of the tears that I didn’t even know were there. This, of course, made him feel even worse.
“Oh Marcella, what can I do?”
It’s been a while since I thought about this incident, this minor memory, but I DO think of it every time I’m at home and digging in the same freezer for frozen fish. The stacked walls of fish, corn, hand-shucked peas makes me think of it. The packages still come sliding out of place, still require a steady hand to extract just one, or an extended arm to keep the whole thing in place. I’m no better at getting just one package out than dad had been twenty years ago. And I’m no better at keeping it together when he offers me something or calls me sweetheart. Especially now, miles from home and playing at being a grownup.
I'd found a moderate level of success here in Chicago, working as communications director for an independent media start-up. But it didn't sing in my heart as I had hoped, so I quit the job in October to focus on writing the book that has been three years (ok, a lifetime) in the making. I tell people it’s a medical comi-tragedy because sometimes I feel uncomfortable saying that it’s a book about me. People look at me, like, “oh, what makes your life so interesting that you think I’d want to read it?” I know that’s what they’re thinking, because a couple of them have said it.
Or, ok with talking about the book, I feel bad for whomever is with me that knows I’m writing the book, because if it’s an old friend, he or she has heard the story of my stroke and recovery a zillion times and knows all about the book and isn’t really all that impressed anymore. Ha, in fact, he or she is probably tired of my self-assured narcissism. Yes, I’m serious. I think I’m great and am sure that it gets old for my friends to have to hear me talk about that to others. An only child, I've been hearing how great I am for the past 25 years. It's now ingrained.
But I digress.
So. I quit my job, knew that the savings I’d been stashing away would carry me through the new year, no problem. And they did. And then I went to Thailand. Still no problem, I pulled the money for the flight out of my savings account and planned on getting by cheaply in a country still friendly with the U.S. dollar. Which was still no problem at first. Halfway through the trip, I’d only spent about $350 when my wallet, passport and other items were lost and dad had to wire me money. A lot of money, as it turns out, was required to get a new passport, immigration stamp and two (yes, 2!) rebooked flights to secure my release from Thailand. But I made it home, much to my parents’ delight.
I, on the otherhand, wasn't sure if I was delighted or defeated or even alive, anymore. I was returning to Chicago, but to what? To whom?
“I missed you,” said dad when we talked on the phone for the first time. “That was all very spooky to me, that stuff. I’m just happy you’re home.”
I had thanked him for bailing me out, as he always has, as he always does. And then today on the phone, I updated him on the progress and success of the job hunt that I’ve been doggedly pursuing since my return last week. I called my mom yesterday, cried, got hung up on, so he called me first thing this morning to make sure I was ok. He still misses me, still wants me to come home.
“You could work for Morie,” he says, when we move past the weather and health and fishing. “His receptionist quit. Call him.”
Morie is my dad’s financial planner. I have a life insurance policy with him too. Last time we talked, it was a heated discussion about why I was going to Thailand and needed some money out of that policy.
“You have no idea what it’s like to almost die at 22, Morie. I’m going to Thailand while I’m young, while I’m able to. I’ll let my money sit in your account if you don’t want to help me. Fine.”
“No, dad… I’ll keep looking here.”
We went on to talk the family, his ex-wife’s continued hassles over my recently dead half-brother; dad’s concerns over whether or not he’s been a good father.
“Dad, you’re a great father. You love us all, you help us all. You do what you can. She’s just bitter and angry and there’s no changing the venom inside of her.”
And then we went back to me.
“Marcella, I want to make sure you have something to keep your mind busy. I’m not going to be around too much longer, and when I’m gone, then there will be nothing. So what the hell. I want you to be happy. I know you’re not doing what you thought you’d be doing by now. If you want to go back to school, I’ll help you…I just.. want you to be happy. I don’t care if you work or not. You know I’ll help you as long as I’m around. But I think if you were doing something, you’d at least feel a little more settled.”
And that’s the heart of the matter. Like the fish on my head, like the conversations we had after I got out of the hospital and spent countless days on the couch opposite my dad’s faded, blue recliner: He feels sorry for me, helpless to remedy the undeserved pain that sometimes comes my way. I’m not the hotshot journalist that we all thought I would be by now, because I don’t trust my broken memory. I’m not even working, f’chrissake, because the stupid seizures that came with the stress of my last job are never going to be as easy to walk away from as that job. And he doesn’t care if I’m even working, is willing to do whatever he can to help his baby and make her life ok, but he can’t even figure out that that is. And neither can she.
And that’s what hurts. Not the unemployment (next step in the book process is editing and rewriting but I want to find a job first), not the stroke stuff anymore, not really. What hurts is that dad wants to help, and can’t. Wants me to come home, but I can't. I have to figure out what I want, here. It’s up to me. Yet in feeling his sorrow and effort to help, I feel more sad and pathetic than I did before. Just like the fish that didn’t hurt and the crocodile tears that flavored it.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
It's all pretend, Part I
March 11
It comes served to us under the neon glow of false morning light.
An all-American breakfast: fruit, sausage, eggs, toast. Shrink-wrapped sustenance with a smile. The perfect orange circles of yolk on the perfect round disks of white next to perfectly square sheets of toast- it looks like plastic food, like toy replicas we played with in kindergarten during "meals" or at Friend's houses, playing "house."
"It looks like the shit you see in windows at restaurants," Kyle says, before I can even comment. He's right, except we're not at a restaurant, hungry gawkers staring in, potential members of the dining elite allowed to feast with mouths and stomachs, not just eyes. And we're not playing "house," either, although the booth we fill reminds me of a 50s era kitchenette. It's a breakfast nook leftover from years gone by, as aged as the rest of our surroundings. And there is no play for us now, not really. Even if it feels that way.
We're on the No. 51 Express train heading north from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. Maybe we'll be able to play there.In the meantime, breakfast has been served under shallow lights as we creep along through countryside that is hilled and treed like that of anyplace U.S.A., not palmed and tropical as I'd imagined Thailand to be.
This is the second eggs and sausage breakfast I've had. More all-American than the breakfasts I eat at home. I didn't fly 23 hours to eat eggs and toast everyday. I don't know what I DID come for; not this.
I didn't come for upset stomachs, traveler's diarrhea, no, but that's to be expected, isn't it? Yes. And after my last meal on the streets, yesterday afternoon, I've got both the upset stomach and riled innards that will probably only mean one thing once I make it to the silver hole in the train's floor that serves as the toilet.
I had eaten several types of yummy, mini doughnuts; lots of varieties of pad Thai, tom yum, chicken dishes, fruit and all manner of noodley dishes and soups off the Bangkok streets. I wanted to immerse myself in culture through the cuisine. So I dug right in, better than homefries and comfort food anyday. But I hadn't tried the meat balls on a stick, all colors and shapes and types. And I'd been craving them. So I balled up and got a selection: chicken, pork, beef. I was leery of them each day because I wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting out in the sun at any given street stall, and my better judgement told me to avoid them. Since I generally ignore my better judgement, I decided to skip it and take a chance on the culinary curiosity before leaving the city.
The beef balls were delicious. Spicy and tender and just smokey enough to cover the heat and decay that had already begun to set in when I purchased them. Dipped in a hot chili paste, they were fine.
The pork balls, white and almost spongy, tasted fine, it was just the consistency that gave me pause. Dipped in the same sauce, they proved edible. Reservations would come later.
I knew with one bite that the chicken balls would be my undoing, that the meat had long since gone home to roost. Eating these will make me sick, I thought to myself, soaking them in the cilantro red sauce they came with. It wasn't until I bit into a piece of feather that I gave up on the spheres of white meat; I didn't want to find the beak or bit of scaly leg piece. All behind me now, the meal on the tiny tray in front of me was my present concentration.
Filling and just barely enough to hold me over for another five or so hours, these small home style breakfasts are good enough to eat, but that's it. Just enough. Walking around and hauling a 25 pound (yes, really) pack in this heat is enough to make one want more than three squares a day. But it was all I had, so I ate it, jumped out of the robin's egg blue booth as often as possible and loaded up on the tea to fill my tummy when done. I'll just pretend that I'm full.
Empty now, our car (No. B) is devoid of all human conversation, all life save Kyle and I. When he's in his seat and not out smoking in the space between cars or talking to someone in the sink area, that is. I sometimes wonder if we're just acting here, just going through the motions, just making it all up as we go along, not sure of the right words or actions or staging.
It comes served to us under the neon glow of false morning light.
An all-American breakfast: fruit, sausage, eggs, toast. Shrink-wrapped sustenance with a smile. The perfect orange circles of yolk on the perfect round disks of white next to perfectly square sheets of toast- it looks like plastic food, like toy replicas we played with in kindergarten during "meals" or at Friend's houses, playing "house."
"It looks like the shit you see in windows at restaurants," Kyle says, before I can even comment. He's right, except we're not at a restaurant, hungry gawkers staring in, potential members of the dining elite allowed to feast with mouths and stomachs, not just eyes. And we're not playing "house," either, although the booth we fill reminds me of a 50s era kitchenette. It's a breakfast nook leftover from years gone by, as aged as the rest of our surroundings. And there is no play for us now, not really. Even if it feels that way.
We're on the No. 51 Express train heading north from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. Maybe we'll be able to play there.In the meantime, breakfast has been served under shallow lights as we creep along through countryside that is hilled and treed like that of anyplace U.S.A., not palmed and tropical as I'd imagined Thailand to be.
This is the second eggs and sausage breakfast I've had. More all-American than the breakfasts I eat at home. I didn't fly 23 hours to eat eggs and toast everyday. I don't know what I DID come for; not this.
I didn't come for upset stomachs, traveler's diarrhea, no, but that's to be expected, isn't it? Yes. And after my last meal on the streets, yesterday afternoon, I've got both the upset stomach and riled innards that will probably only mean one thing once I make it to the silver hole in the train's floor that serves as the toilet.
I had eaten several types of yummy, mini doughnuts; lots of varieties of pad Thai, tom yum, chicken dishes, fruit and all manner of noodley dishes and soups off the Bangkok streets. I wanted to immerse myself in culture through the cuisine. So I dug right in, better than homefries and comfort food anyday. But I hadn't tried the meat balls on a stick, all colors and shapes and types. And I'd been craving them. So I balled up and got a selection: chicken, pork, beef. I was leery of them each day because I wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting out in the sun at any given street stall, and my better judgement told me to avoid them. Since I generally ignore my better judgement, I decided to skip it and take a chance on the culinary curiosity before leaving the city.
The beef balls were delicious. Spicy and tender and just smokey enough to cover the heat and decay that had already begun to set in when I purchased them. Dipped in a hot chili paste, they were fine.
The pork balls, white and almost spongy, tasted fine, it was just the consistency that gave me pause. Dipped in the same sauce, they proved edible. Reservations would come later.
I knew with one bite that the chicken balls would be my undoing, that the meat had long since gone home to roost. Eating these will make me sick, I thought to myself, soaking them in the cilantro red sauce they came with. It wasn't until I bit into a piece of feather that I gave up on the spheres of white meat; I didn't want to find the beak or bit of scaly leg piece. All behind me now, the meal on the tiny tray in front of me was my present concentration.
Filling and just barely enough to hold me over for another five or so hours, these small home style breakfasts are good enough to eat, but that's it. Just enough. Walking around and hauling a 25 pound (yes, really) pack in this heat is enough to make one want more than three squares a day. But it was all I had, so I ate it, jumped out of the robin's egg blue booth as often as possible and loaded up on the tea to fill my tummy when done. I'll just pretend that I'm full.
Empty now, our car (No. B) is devoid of all human conversation, all life save Kyle and I. When he's in his seat and not out smoking in the space between cars or talking to someone in the sink area, that is. I sometimes wonder if we're just acting here, just going through the motions, just making it all up as we go along, not sure of the right words or actions or staging.
Monday, April 7, 2008
BAngKok
March 9
They are eager to serve, happy to help, even more eager and happy to take our money. It is a tourist economy that thrives in this city, and we are at the mercy of its workings.
We have been visiting temples, going to the Grand Palace, visiting the Red Light District, relying on public transport. And it is costing us. Not just our baht, which isn't really a big deal, but our sanity.
On the day we visited the Grand Palace, as we pondered the loop of traffic before us and the absence of all crosswalks, lights and attention paid to pedestrians, a nice young Thai man approached us to help.
"You go down there," he said, pointing quite a few blocks away, toward the glowing gold arches of the King's portrait, " and you will find the crosswalk. But it is far. Where are you going?"
He suggested we take the tuk tuk in front of us, telling us that the Grand Palace was closed for the funerary ceremony of the Princess. This was bad. We had read that many times people will tell tourists that temples or other interesting buildings are closed, to get them to go to another place and spend their money there. The "helpful" guy on the street then gets a cut of whatever we spend at the place. The princess (80+ years old) had indeed died right before we got to the country, but would this really be legit?
"The palace is closed until 3. You go on tour, see other temple, then go to palace later," he assured us.
So, he arranged a good fare for us, told the driver where to take us and blessed us on our way.
Now the thing about the tuk tuk drivers is that they are rather notorious for ripping people off, taking them to shops for a bonus from the shop owner, or taking the customers on a wild goose chase to their destination only after stopping to get gas and asking for more money. We were more than leery of this situation, but not seeing any other good option, we hopped in and held on.
Would we really get to see the Festival of monks he promised us at another temple? Would the drive around the city prove to be beneficial in any way? Would we get to the Grand Palace by 3 only to learn that it had been open all this time? Or would the driver's hairpin turns and sideswipe roadshow leave us eating concrete?
After a few quick calls much too close for comfort, we emerged from a glut of big tour buses and made it to the first temple, where a festival was supposed to be underway.
The thin crowd, the loosely bannered stalls.. it looked like a regular weekend market gone bankrupt. But it was one more wat (temple) to check off our list, and I made a couple of friends, in the purring, snuggly kitties that wouldn't leave me alone. Not a complete bust. And the quick movement of the open-air golf cart-like vehicle made the day's oppressive heat somewhat less thick.
Having brought one of Kyle's shirts along with me (all I had backed were skank tops and tube tops- it's Thailand!), we headed to the Grand Palace. The cutoff capris I was wearing got me a pass straight to the inappropriate clothes room, where I had to rent a skirt (100 baht) and make myself decent for the temple. We headed in and immediately got ourselves good and lost among the ceramic tiles and bright colors of the ancient buildings.
Wat Phra Kaew, which is the actual temple within the compound of the former royal residence, was built in 1782 and is Thailand's most important temple. It is the temple of the Emerald Buddha, and yes, that means there is a green stone Buddha resting within the ornate, tiled walls of the compound. Dark and lovely in his golden surroundings, looking at this Buddha gives one the sense of reverence the Thais have for their religion, culture and history. Each temple is very ornate and most of them are as well-kept as this one, but there's something about a Buddha carefully carved out of emerald that is pretty impressive. Maybe it's my own ties to emeralds, which are also revered and important in Colombia's story.
There's all sorts of stuff to look at within this compound, and by the time I made it out of the temple area I wanted to sit and rest. So I did.
And then I got yelled at.
"No sexy! No sexy!!" The small, professional Thai woman was yelling at me and running as quick as her little heeled feet could carry her. All of the women here wear impossible high heels, even if they are wearing jeans and a ratty old Pepsi tee or selling fruit on the street. It's amazing, and entirely uncomfortable looking. This woman was not selling fruit; she was a security guard and she was PISSED that my skirt had the audacity to flip over my thigh in the breeze and expose a slice of brown flesh.
"No sexy! You leave!"
I quickly covered up the indecency and sat back against the marble flower pot.
"See, ok, ok!" I said. She scowled and waved away the male gun-toting security guard.
"Well, did you go into the Palace yet?" asked Kyle as he sauntered over to me.
"Nope, that guy didn't lie to us. The princess is lying in state in there, so we can't go in. The Thais can. Not us though. "
Thailand is not an equal-opportunity employer. Nor recreational playland. While the Thai people were able to enjoy their dead princess (ugh), we were not allowed anywhere near her. And we had to pay to get in (200 bht), while they get in for free. And Thai boxing, transport, all much cheaper for the natives. I'm not necessarily complaining about this, the baht was 30:1, not too shabby. It's just that this most immediate lesson of Thailand's wheelings and dealings and inner workings would be a lesson we learned (or didn't) over and over again.
As we left the white, concrete wall surrounding the compound, I stopped among the growing crush of people and stripped off the t-shirt. If the crowd was going to crush me and black my eyes in its rush to get inside, I at least wanted to be comfortably uncovered for it. This came back to bite me in the ass (of course) as I leaned against another wall, waiting to photograph a neat statue of white elephants.
The white elephant is also a revered symbol here. They are blessed creatures, gifts from Buddha (heaven?) and when a King was lucky enough to have one, he had to create a special environment for it, keep it out of the sun, bar it from working. This is the home of the term "white elephant," meaning something that drains funds and effort in its upkeep. The statue was a cluster of 3 elephants on hing legs balancing some object, and I wanted to wait for the bus between me and it to move, so I could get a good shot. Waiting for a bus to move and actually getting an unobstructed view of something is an effort in futility though. And a good chance for one of the millions of motorcyclists to check you out.
"Mars, that guy is totally checking you out," pointed out Kyle between his chuckles. "Look at him!" I hadn't been ogled too much at this point (the Thais prefer their women to be as white as possible, means less outdoor work), but he didn't seem to care about the color of my skin as he stopped and stared. Gee, how nice.
If only I had stayed in the skirt and tee.
They are eager to serve, happy to help, even more eager and happy to take our money. It is a tourist economy that thrives in this city, and we are at the mercy of its workings.
We have been visiting temples, going to the Grand Palace, visiting the Red Light District, relying on public transport. And it is costing us. Not just our baht, which isn't really a big deal, but our sanity.
On the day we visited the Grand Palace, as we pondered the loop of traffic before us and the absence of all crosswalks, lights and attention paid to pedestrians, a nice young Thai man approached us to help.
"You go down there," he said, pointing quite a few blocks away, toward the glowing gold arches of the King's portrait, " and you will find the crosswalk. But it is far. Where are you going?"
He suggested we take the tuk tuk in front of us, telling us that the Grand Palace was closed for the funerary ceremony of the Princess. This was bad. We had read that many times people will tell tourists that temples or other interesting buildings are closed, to get them to go to another place and spend their money there. The "helpful" guy on the street then gets a cut of whatever we spend at the place. The princess (80+ years old) had indeed died right before we got to the country, but would this really be legit?
"The palace is closed until 3. You go on tour, see other temple, then go to palace later," he assured us.
So, he arranged a good fare for us, told the driver where to take us and blessed us on our way.
Now the thing about the tuk tuk drivers is that they are rather notorious for ripping people off, taking them to shops for a bonus from the shop owner, or taking the customers on a wild goose chase to their destination only after stopping to get gas and asking for more money. We were more than leery of this situation, but not seeing any other good option, we hopped in and held on.
Would we really get to see the Festival of monks he promised us at another temple? Would the drive around the city prove to be beneficial in any way? Would we get to the Grand Palace by 3 only to learn that it had been open all this time? Or would the driver's hairpin turns and sideswipe roadshow leave us eating concrete?
After a few quick calls much too close for comfort, we emerged from a glut of big tour buses and made it to the first temple, where a festival was supposed to be underway.
The thin crowd, the loosely bannered stalls.. it looked like a regular weekend market gone bankrupt. But it was one more wat (temple) to check off our list, and I made a couple of friends, in the purring, snuggly kitties that wouldn't leave me alone. Not a complete bust. And the quick movement of the open-air golf cart-like vehicle made the day's oppressive heat somewhat less thick.
Having brought one of Kyle's shirts along with me (all I had backed were skank tops and tube tops- it's Thailand!), we headed to the Grand Palace. The cutoff capris I was wearing got me a pass straight to the inappropriate clothes room, where I had to rent a skirt (100 baht) and make myself decent for the temple. We headed in and immediately got ourselves good and lost among the ceramic tiles and bright colors of the ancient buildings.
Wat Phra Kaew, which is the actual temple within the compound of the former royal residence, was built in 1782 and is Thailand's most important temple. It is the temple of the Emerald Buddha, and yes, that means there is a green stone Buddha resting within the ornate, tiled walls of the compound. Dark and lovely in his golden surroundings, looking at this Buddha gives one the sense of reverence the Thais have for their religion, culture and history. Each temple is very ornate and most of them are as well-kept as this one, but there's something about a Buddha carefully carved out of emerald that is pretty impressive. Maybe it's my own ties to emeralds, which are also revered and important in Colombia's story.
There's all sorts of stuff to look at within this compound, and by the time I made it out of the temple area I wanted to sit and rest. So I did.
And then I got yelled at.
"No sexy! No sexy!!" The small, professional Thai woman was yelling at me and running as quick as her little heeled feet could carry her. All of the women here wear impossible high heels, even if they are wearing jeans and a ratty old Pepsi tee or selling fruit on the street. It's amazing, and entirely uncomfortable looking. This woman was not selling fruit; she was a security guard and she was PISSED that my skirt had the audacity to flip over my thigh in the breeze and expose a slice of brown flesh.
"No sexy! You leave!"
I quickly covered up the indecency and sat back against the marble flower pot.
"See, ok, ok!" I said. She scowled and waved away the male gun-toting security guard.
"Well, did you go into the Palace yet?" asked Kyle as he sauntered over to me.
"Nope, that guy didn't lie to us. The princess is lying in state in there, so we can't go in. The Thais can. Not us though. "
Thailand is not an equal-opportunity employer. Nor recreational playland. While the Thai people were able to enjoy their dead princess (ugh), we were not allowed anywhere near her. And we had to pay to get in (200 bht), while they get in for free. And Thai boxing, transport, all much cheaper for the natives. I'm not necessarily complaining about this, the baht was 30:1, not too shabby. It's just that this most immediate lesson of Thailand's wheelings and dealings and inner workings would be a lesson we learned (or didn't) over and over again.
As we left the white, concrete wall surrounding the compound, I stopped among the growing crush of people and stripped off the t-shirt. If the crowd was going to crush me and black my eyes in its rush to get inside, I at least wanted to be comfortably uncovered for it. This came back to bite me in the ass (of course) as I leaned against another wall, waiting to photograph a neat statue of white elephants.
The white elephant is also a revered symbol here. They are blessed creatures, gifts from Buddha (heaven?) and when a King was lucky enough to have one, he had to create a special environment for it, keep it out of the sun, bar it from working. This is the home of the term "white elephant," meaning something that drains funds and effort in its upkeep. The statue was a cluster of 3 elephants on hing legs balancing some object, and I wanted to wait for the bus between me and it to move, so I could get a good shot. Waiting for a bus to move and actually getting an unobstructed view of something is an effort in futility though. And a good chance for one of the millions of motorcyclists to check you out.
"Mars, that guy is totally checking you out," pointed out Kyle between his chuckles. "Look at him!" I hadn't been ogled too much at this point (the Thais prefer their women to be as white as possible, means less outdoor work), but he didn't seem to care about the color of my skin as he stopped and stared. Gee, how nice.
If only I had stayed in the skirt and tee.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Loving in the Park
* note that my Thailand blog posting are out of order at this point. Each one is dated and titled like this one, for clarification.
March 8
Her foot is intertwined with his, locked into the dark crease of his knee. They sit folded up into each other on the park bench in front of me, laughing over who-knows-what or just sitting quietly, happy in the silence. To my left, reclined against the park’s western edge of concrete blocks and seats next to the river, another couple nods off in the afternoon sun, heads tipped in and held upright by shoulders warming in the sun. This park is full of lovers, each time I visit, heavy with the Thai essence of pairing off, the intensity of love and connection that seems to be everywhere.
I’m here not as part of a dynamic duo, in this sense of romance and love, but with a friend, so I get to observe, sit and write and think about that it means.
If I were here with a boyfriend, or in some sort of relationship that was anything other than just here for myself, I’d probably be caught up that and what it means to be in love with someone In Thailand and on vacation. But because Kyle’s not my lover-- and is at the dentist, isn't even here in the park with me-- I’ve got the whole afternoon to myself to do exactly what I want, however I want, without the complications (or yes, comfort) of another.
That’s not to say that I feel like I have to entertain him, or vice versa. We have our own comfortable silences to get caught up in. Like a couple of old friends-- which is what we are-- there’s no need to impress or worry or put too much effort into being with each other. The perfect travel companion.
I’m here doing this for myself, looking at my opportunities to write and think away from Chicago and the “real world” as an inner experience achieved through outer stimuli. As silly as that might sound, I really hope that it actually really is all that. And more. I’m trying to decide if grad school will be in my near future; will it be a job, any job at the RIC, just to have a job, or will it be the internship I’ve been banking on since last summer? And if it’s school, is it gonna be speech distorders/therapy, or the MFA, the writing path I’m trying to tell myself is the right one. Speech therapy seems so solid, so secure, so permanent, in a different way. Writing, storytelling- that will always be mine, so why get more schooling in it? I could travel then, and write, yes, but where’s the money for that in writing? Therapy though, solving the riddle of communication and speech and though problems, that’s a commitment. A long-term choice in the making. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Or a real job. But I do want some sort of direction.
I want clarity, closure, an understanding of why and how this trip actually ended up happening after two years of thinking and talking about it.
Only a couple of days into this vacation, I’ve already had a chance to experience the warnings of the guidebooks, the thrill of Thai traffic, the scheming, shifty salespeople and stalls on every corner. I’ve had ideas of my own about all of this, but like travel to any unknown world, like simply going to Chicago’s south side for the first time or walking into a pharaoh’s tomb, Bangkok thus far, has been outside of any of my possible expectations.
Not that I really had too many expectations. I expected the crowds, the traffic, the congestion of Cairo or Colombia, but Bangkok has it’s own, overwhelming flavor.
“Should we stay for three days or so, get your dentist stuff done, then go to Chiang Mai?” I asked Kyle this morning. I think that I’m going to be completely overwhelmed by then, with this craziness.” In theory, it sounds great. Whether or not that happens, I’m not sure. Maybe we’ll fall in love with Bangkok and overdo our stay, cut short something else.
The people are friendly, everyone does, indeed have a smile, as promised in the tour guides and stories and experiences shared. During breakfast on the first morning, at the hotel near the airport, I talked with a Frenchman about the islands he’d been to and the places he’d stayed. With no plans, the entire country is ours, so I’m happy to learn what other people have to say in building our plans.
I have a cousin who studied here recommending a more sophisticated way of traveling that will not happen for us, a book to follow in chasing my own “perfect moment,” and an open month’s worth of time to explore and learn. If this adventure is anything at all like the rest of my travels and trips, it should be a good one. And with the agreed on level of “keeping it platonic,” the tangles and rewards of a relationship should be as far away as the looks in these people’s ayes as they gaze into smiling, brown faces opposite.
March 8
Her foot is intertwined with his, locked into the dark crease of his knee. They sit folded up into each other on the park bench in front of me, laughing over who-knows-what or just sitting quietly, happy in the silence. To my left, reclined against the park’s western edge of concrete blocks and seats next to the river, another couple nods off in the afternoon sun, heads tipped in and held upright by shoulders warming in the sun. This park is full of lovers, each time I visit, heavy with the Thai essence of pairing off, the intensity of love and connection that seems to be everywhere.
I’m here not as part of a dynamic duo, in this sense of romance and love, but with a friend, so I get to observe, sit and write and think about that it means.
If I were here with a boyfriend, or in some sort of relationship that was anything other than just here for myself, I’d probably be caught up that and what it means to be in love with someone In Thailand and on vacation. But because Kyle’s not my lover-- and is at the dentist, isn't even here in the park with me-- I’ve got the whole afternoon to myself to do exactly what I want, however I want, without the complications (or yes, comfort) of another.
That’s not to say that I feel like I have to entertain him, or vice versa. We have our own comfortable silences to get caught up in. Like a couple of old friends-- which is what we are-- there’s no need to impress or worry or put too much effort into being with each other. The perfect travel companion.
I’m here doing this for myself, looking at my opportunities to write and think away from Chicago and the “real world” as an inner experience achieved through outer stimuli. As silly as that might sound, I really hope that it actually really is all that. And more. I’m trying to decide if grad school will be in my near future; will it be a job, any job at the RIC, just to have a job, or will it be the internship I’ve been banking on since last summer? And if it’s school, is it gonna be speech distorders/therapy, or the MFA, the writing path I’m trying to tell myself is the right one. Speech therapy seems so solid, so secure, so permanent, in a different way. Writing, storytelling- that will always be mine, so why get more schooling in it? I could travel then, and write, yes, but where’s the money for that in writing? Therapy though, solving the riddle of communication and speech and though problems, that’s a commitment. A long-term choice in the making. And I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Or a real job. But I do want some sort of direction.
I want clarity, closure, an understanding of why and how this trip actually ended up happening after two years of thinking and talking about it.
Only a couple of days into this vacation, I’ve already had a chance to experience the warnings of the guidebooks, the thrill of Thai traffic, the scheming, shifty salespeople and stalls on every corner. I’ve had ideas of my own about all of this, but like travel to any unknown world, like simply going to Chicago’s south side for the first time or walking into a pharaoh’s tomb, Bangkok thus far, has been outside of any of my possible expectations.
Not that I really had too many expectations. I expected the crowds, the traffic, the congestion of Cairo or Colombia, but Bangkok has it’s own, overwhelming flavor.
“Should we stay for three days or so, get your dentist stuff done, then go to Chiang Mai?” I asked Kyle this morning. I think that I’m going to be completely overwhelmed by then, with this craziness.” In theory, it sounds great. Whether or not that happens, I’m not sure. Maybe we’ll fall in love with Bangkok and overdo our stay, cut short something else.
The people are friendly, everyone does, indeed have a smile, as promised in the tour guides and stories and experiences shared. During breakfast on the first morning, at the hotel near the airport, I talked with a Frenchman about the islands he’d been to and the places he’d stayed. With no plans, the entire country is ours, so I’m happy to learn what other people have to say in building our plans.
I have a cousin who studied here recommending a more sophisticated way of traveling that will not happen for us, a book to follow in chasing my own “perfect moment,” and an open month’s worth of time to explore and learn. If this adventure is anything at all like the rest of my travels and trips, it should be a good one. And with the agreed on level of “keeping it platonic,” the tangles and rewards of a relationship should be as far away as the looks in these people’s ayes as they gaze into smiling, brown faces opposite.
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