Last night, I had an incredible meal at Travertine, a dark, sleek place on Kenmare Street. The two of us were work-weary and ready to chow-down. First came the house arrancini pomodoro which were a little too fried. We washed them away with a very nice, almost buttery, 2007 Blue Eyed Boy shiraz. The conversation about men started with the appetizers. Pig's head terrine with pickled vegetables, tangy frisee, peppery toast points, and watermelon mustardo and an incredibly tender fish over a zesty, spicey slaw. We moved on to talk about Taipei, Singapore and other far away lands. The next plate was fresh pasta, brussel sprouts, shitakes and a light cream sauce. We sopped up the last bites of savory warmth while reminiscing about hot springs on a mountain top in winter. For our main plates we discussed the future, changing cities, changing jobs, change as possibility and inevitability.
My friend's dish was an incredible duck breast from Long Island that was so tender and flavorful we both thought we'd died and gone to heaven. My lamb was nice too but her duck - buonissimo! Finally, we had a little dessert. She had a fantastic poached pear, flourless cake-type with the most sensual goat's milk gelato flavored with vanilla and ginger (?), served with picholine that were more like rice crispie treats. Our waitress with a pungent smell of her own told us it could be found in Philadelphia. We looked at each other as though the food fairy had given us a mission. My yogurt pannecotta, caramel and fig dessert was quite good but her gelato was almost life-changing.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
My dream of a desert
I told a friend yesterday that I have always had a desire to write. More than to be married, to have children, to be powerful or important, is the desire to create on the page and to be read. And yet, I have been so afraid of being ridiculous or even worse, a mediocre, redundant writer that I kept it secret, much like my earliest, furtive attempts to masturbate as a little girl. The act of writing is that close, that intimate and that primal to me. One writes without assurance of an audience. It is solipsism, it is vanity, it is self-indulgence to write. It is also a desire to create.
All weekend my goal was to put in the hours and work. I vegetated in front of the television instead. When I would think about getting up to write, Harry Potter would do something irresistible and I would lie back down. For me, it takes a stretch of at least four hours to get my mind in the state to let the words come, rather than, force them, like I do in these blog entries. A bit of pressure never hurt anyone but ideally, I need an afternoon or quiet evening. I need to find a way in.
Tim Burton was interviewed by Charlie Rose the other night and he said that his ideas come when he's just spacing out and doing nothing. He also doesn't use computers or cell phones or lead a life filled with normal obligations. He has the luxury of time to free his mind. My dream is of a desert where I have luxurious time to space out, (masturbate) and tack, tack, tack away at the keyboard.
All weekend my goal was to put in the hours and work. I vegetated in front of the television instead. When I would think about getting up to write, Harry Potter would do something irresistible and I would lie back down. For me, it takes a stretch of at least four hours to get my mind in the state to let the words come, rather than, force them, like I do in these blog entries. A bit of pressure never hurt anyone but ideally, I need an afternoon or quiet evening. I need to find a way in.
Tim Burton was interviewed by Charlie Rose the other night and he said that his ideas come when he's just spacing out and doing nothing. He also doesn't use computers or cell phones or lead a life filled with normal obligations. He has the luxury of time to free his mind. My dream is of a desert where I have luxurious time to space out, (masturbate) and tack, tack, tack away at the keyboard.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Wait, and then act
I have moved on from Not That Kind of Girl to Luce Irigaray's To Be Two. And, I think, I am at peace with moving on from my break-up with Princess. I keep thinking about something that Simone de Beauvoir said about women as immanent creatures and men are transcendent. Simply put, women wait and men act. I have been questioning whether or not I have been hiding behind this heart break of mine. I have been questioning why I clung to something that was never going to be. I have been growing tired of these questions, too.
Last week's entry was just a writing exercise born out of a conversation I had with a friend the night before. We spent most of the evening in a pretty intense conversation that I am happy to say ended well. I told her that I was going to meet with Princess. She has been hurting from her own break-up and she was quick to challenge my reasons and to foretell that the meeting would end badly. This hurt and I went to my corner. She went to her corner. Waiting. Over the next hour, we talked about how we are different, how the other can make us feel, how we are vulnerable to each other. I was very honored to have such a difficult conversation with my friend that took so much courage on both our parts. Transcendent.
The next night, I waited in a pub for Princess to arrive. We'd chosen to meet around 6:30 p.m. I was on time. He was late. I still cannot remember all the tiny details but I remember the most important things. I was tongue-tied. Just being across the table from him, I wanted to bargain, negotiate my way back in. He went first and said, "No." He was not changing his mind. He will not be my boyfriend. And he came to tell me in person so that we could stop with this conversation. He asked me if we could begin hanging out because he does consider me a friend but he doesn't want to have this conversation ever again.
And, what did I say? I did tell him that I was sorry that I did not listen to him from the beginning. I did tell him that I have been mad at him for saying he would not act on his feelings and then acting as if he did hold me above all others. I told him that I understood he had reasons to protect himself but I was hurt that those things mattered more to him than I do. We did laugh a little. At the end, he left me with half a beer. When he passed by I reached for his hand and he bent down to press his scruffy cheek next to mine.
My friend was right, the evening was painful but I am glad that I went through it. I still see his eyes. He was in pain because this was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid by taking this oath of bachelorhood. He was in pain because seeing me made him remember some good things too. That night, he did not deny that he may be making a big mistake walking away from a relationship with me, but it is his to make. Transcendent.
Last week's entry was just a writing exercise born out of a conversation I had with a friend the night before. We spent most of the evening in a pretty intense conversation that I am happy to say ended well. I told her that I was going to meet with Princess. She has been hurting from her own break-up and she was quick to challenge my reasons and to foretell that the meeting would end badly. This hurt and I went to my corner. She went to her corner. Waiting. Over the next hour, we talked about how we are different, how the other can make us feel, how we are vulnerable to each other. I was very honored to have such a difficult conversation with my friend that took so much courage on both our parts. Transcendent.
The next night, I waited in a pub for Princess to arrive. We'd chosen to meet around 6:30 p.m. I was on time. He was late. I still cannot remember all the tiny details but I remember the most important things. I was tongue-tied. Just being across the table from him, I wanted to bargain, negotiate my way back in. He went first and said, "No." He was not changing his mind. He will not be my boyfriend. And he came to tell me in person so that we could stop with this conversation. He asked me if we could begin hanging out because he does consider me a friend but he doesn't want to have this conversation ever again.
And, what did I say? I did tell him that I was sorry that I did not listen to him from the beginning. I did tell him that I have been mad at him for saying he would not act on his feelings and then acting as if he did hold me above all others. I told him that I understood he had reasons to protect himself but I was hurt that those things mattered more to him than I do. We did laugh a little. At the end, he left me with half a beer. When he passed by I reached for his hand and he bent down to press his scruffy cheek next to mine.
My friend was right, the evening was painful but I am glad that I went through it. I still see his eyes. He was in pain because this was exactly what he'd hoped to avoid by taking this oath of bachelorhood. He was in pain because seeing me made him remember some good things too. That night, he did not deny that he may be making a big mistake walking away from a relationship with me, but it is his to make. Transcendent.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
gypsies, a pocket knife, insomnia, grapes, and a lie
Simon saw smoke rising over the next hill and his heartbeat quickened. He had been walking through a nightmare looking for his family since he'd woken with blood crusted on the left side of his head. The last thing Simon remembered was his mother stroking his face with her finger to her lips, whispering, "Shhh!" He hoped someone he knew was around that campfire.
Simon and his father had often walked barefoot in the tall grass to the Une River to fish on never-ending Sundays. Though he had walked along this dirt path through these fields and over these rolling hills, nothing was recognizable. As he came over the rise he saw a band of gypsies in rags huddled around the fire. His approach was noticed and one of them jumped to his feet and shouted, "You there! Stay where you are!" Simon froze.
The same man hurried toward him. As he approached, Simon noticed he was holding purple grapes in his right hand and his stomach turned. He dared not move but he was overcome with exhaustion, hunger, and fear and despite himself, tears leaked from his eyes. The man was upon him and inspecting him, darting in and out of his jacket pockets and running thumbs over the material, the gypsy finally took out a pocket knife and ran it across Simon's sleeve. His surprise made him jerk and the grapes in the gypsy's clenched teeth shook as he grunted, "Stand still!" Simon obeyed and the man continued his inspection.
A tiny, dark woman appeared next to the man with purple grapes. Her eyes were like smudges of coal and she spoke very slowly, "Are you all by yourself?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face but stopping short of some invisible glass.
"Go back!" the man barked and he shoved her gently. "You're imagining him. Go back!"
Ignoring his command, she said looking at Simon without recognition, "I've not slept for days and days. I have no mother, no father and only these gypsies to keep me. I am a princess! I lived with kings and queens. You are my prince!"
This time the man pushed her hard and the insomniac tumbled to the ground.
"Enough, Mera! Go back to the others, I say!"
Simon looked out over the field and could not see an escape past this rail thin man and his ragtag band. He hoped they would not kill him and eat him.
"Please," Simon whispered and then louder, "Please. I'm looking for my family. Have you met anyone from Innes?"
The man held a fat grape to his dry, cracked lips and made sure that Simon was watching him place the grape in his mouth and bite into its flesh. Simon only cared that the man answer him. He could find something to eat along the way to Une.
Finally, he said, "You are from Innes?"
Simon nodded.
"Then you are the first person I have met these past two terrible days we've camped here from Innes. I have not met any fathers or mothers. You look like you have seen war. We have been hiding under rocks and now we've come out to find food. Nothing survived but we and you!"
"Lie!" shouted Mera. "Sal you lie!"
Sal grabbed Mera and threw her to the ground. She screeched and cackled, wildly and terrifyingly. Simon began to walk backward, he would find no help here and began to run, back to town, away from the fire, the grapes, and the woman with eyes as dark as coal.
I'll explain this later.
Simon and his father had often walked barefoot in the tall grass to the Une River to fish on never-ending Sundays. Though he had walked along this dirt path through these fields and over these rolling hills, nothing was recognizable. As he came over the rise he saw a band of gypsies in rags huddled around the fire. His approach was noticed and one of them jumped to his feet and shouted, "You there! Stay where you are!" Simon froze.
The same man hurried toward him. As he approached, Simon noticed he was holding purple grapes in his right hand and his stomach turned. He dared not move but he was overcome with exhaustion, hunger, and fear and despite himself, tears leaked from his eyes. The man was upon him and inspecting him, darting in and out of his jacket pockets and running thumbs over the material, the gypsy finally took out a pocket knife and ran it across Simon's sleeve. His surprise made him jerk and the grapes in the gypsy's clenched teeth shook as he grunted, "Stand still!" Simon obeyed and the man continued his inspection.
A tiny, dark woman appeared next to the man with purple grapes. Her eyes were like smudges of coal and she spoke very slowly, "Are you all by yourself?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face but stopping short of some invisible glass.
"Go back!" the man barked and he shoved her gently. "You're imagining him. Go back!"
Ignoring his command, she said looking at Simon without recognition, "I've not slept for days and days. I have no mother, no father and only these gypsies to keep me. I am a princess! I lived with kings and queens. You are my prince!"
This time the man pushed her hard and the insomniac tumbled to the ground.
"Enough, Mera! Go back to the others, I say!"
Simon looked out over the field and could not see an escape past this rail thin man and his ragtag band. He hoped they would not kill him and eat him.
"Please," Simon whispered and then louder, "Please. I'm looking for my family. Have you met anyone from Innes?"
The man held a fat grape to his dry, cracked lips and made sure that Simon was watching him place the grape in his mouth and bite into its flesh. Simon only cared that the man answer him. He could find something to eat along the way to Une.
Finally, he said, "You are from Innes?"
Simon nodded.
"Then you are the first person I have met these past two terrible days we've camped here from Innes. I have not met any fathers or mothers. You look like you have seen war. We have been hiding under rocks and now we've come out to find food. Nothing survived but we and you!"
"Lie!" shouted Mera. "Sal you lie!"
Sal grabbed Mera and threw her to the ground. She screeched and cackled, wildly and terrifyingly. Simon began to walk backward, he would find no help here and began to run, back to town, away from the fire, the grapes, and the woman with eyes as dark as coal.
I'll explain this later.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
As if
My hands look different. My veins are more pronounced, my skin appears thinner, and cross-hatching is visible. I have also noticed fine lines developing under my eyes and that my face shape seems to be changing, rounding a bit, though I've lost some weight in the last few months. I am going to die one day.
When I was in late elementary and early middle school, I was so certain of my purpose, I was going to be a fantastic story-teller. I had had some success as a spinner of tales. Our first house growing up was about seven miles outside of town and the bus service had to cover children that lived as far outside of town as fifteen miles. Depending on the year, we were picked-up toward the beginning of the route or toward the end. The wholesome children on our route were exposed to the trailer park kids - hoodlums who had been to roadside taverns, ate tv dinners on weeknights, and had witnessed violence. They weren't even the scariest kids on the bus. The toughest, meanest kids on the bus were two brothers and a sister who lived above a bar off Highway 51 called Rose's Cantina, a favorite bar of the motorcyclists, possibly Hell's Angels, who rode through town every year. It was legendary in our town because someone had been murdered at the bar.
The oldest brother had bloodshot eyes and we'd call him Satan's spawn behind his back. The middle son had big blue eyes and a mean right hook. Their little sister was ruddy colored and foul-mouthed. They were all foul-mouthed and I was terrified of them. Everyone was terrified of them because Satan's spawn was rumored to keep a knife inside his jacket and the middle son - messenger boy - hit someone almost every day. Messenger boy and I struck up a deal of sorts. The bus was full and the only free spot was next to him, my older brother was fortunately riding the bus (the only time all year) and demanded that Messenger boy move over and let me in.
"You gonna make me?" Messenger boy looked like a lightweight ready to strike.
"I will, if I have to," my brother replied, standing fully 6'2", his hands in fists. The back of the bus was silent, breathless.
Messenger boy wasn't going to mess with a star jock and he moved aside and let me sit on the edge. It was a glorious day on the bus for me. My big brother had saved the day! The next day, I found a seat but it wasn't too far from Messenger boy. I kept my head down but he saw me. He asked me to come sit with him. I did. And over the rest of the school year, we would talk and I would tell him stories that went on for weeks. It was coolest to sit in the very back of the bus, furthest away from the driver. Satan's spawn sat in one of those seats, but when we stopped at Rose's Cantina, Messenger boy made it clear to everyone that if I wanted to sit there, it was my seat. Later that year, there was a fire that burned Rose's Cantina to the ground and I never saw those kids again. I tried the same tactic with two other older boys who lived in Eggleston's Woods, a neighborhood where everyone had an in-ground pool, but they weren't going to get me the back seat, they could only offer me their seats.
I am experiencing a growing urgency to live my life as if I have a clear purpose, which I do not. There are only immediate objectives: go to work for pay; take care of your dog; be good to those around you. When there are visible reminders that life is short, you respond. My life has not changed, I still have to struggle to get to the gym and dread work most days, but there is a stir within.
When I was in late elementary and early middle school, I was so certain of my purpose, I was going to be a fantastic story-teller. I had had some success as a spinner of tales. Our first house growing up was about seven miles outside of town and the bus service had to cover children that lived as far outside of town as fifteen miles. Depending on the year, we were picked-up toward the beginning of the route or toward the end. The wholesome children on our route were exposed to the trailer park kids - hoodlums who had been to roadside taverns, ate tv dinners on weeknights, and had witnessed violence. They weren't even the scariest kids on the bus. The toughest, meanest kids on the bus were two brothers and a sister who lived above a bar off Highway 51 called Rose's Cantina, a favorite bar of the motorcyclists, possibly Hell's Angels, who rode through town every year. It was legendary in our town because someone had been murdered at the bar.
The oldest brother had bloodshot eyes and we'd call him Satan's spawn behind his back. The middle son had big blue eyes and a mean right hook. Their little sister was ruddy colored and foul-mouthed. They were all foul-mouthed and I was terrified of them. Everyone was terrified of them because Satan's spawn was rumored to keep a knife inside his jacket and the middle son - messenger boy - hit someone almost every day. Messenger boy and I struck up a deal of sorts. The bus was full and the only free spot was next to him, my older brother was fortunately riding the bus (the only time all year) and demanded that Messenger boy move over and let me in.
"You gonna make me?" Messenger boy looked like a lightweight ready to strike.
"I will, if I have to," my brother replied, standing fully 6'2", his hands in fists. The back of the bus was silent, breathless.
Messenger boy wasn't going to mess with a star jock and he moved aside and let me sit on the edge. It was a glorious day on the bus for me. My big brother had saved the day! The next day, I found a seat but it wasn't too far from Messenger boy. I kept my head down but he saw me. He asked me to come sit with him. I did. And over the rest of the school year, we would talk and I would tell him stories that went on for weeks. It was coolest to sit in the very back of the bus, furthest away from the driver. Satan's spawn sat in one of those seats, but when we stopped at Rose's Cantina, Messenger boy made it clear to everyone that if I wanted to sit there, it was my seat. Later that year, there was a fire that burned Rose's Cantina to the ground and I never saw those kids again. I tried the same tactic with two other older boys who lived in Eggleston's Woods, a neighborhood where everyone had an in-ground pool, but they weren't going to get me the back seat, they could only offer me their seats.
I am experiencing a growing urgency to live my life as if I have a clear purpose, which I do not. There are only immediate objectives: go to work for pay; take care of your dog; be good to those around you. When there are visible reminders that life is short, you respond. My life has not changed, I still have to struggle to get to the gym and dread work most days, but there is a stir within.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Pulpit Fiction
It's Monday. I have work.
Last night, I watched a pre-recorded Meet The Press on which David Gregory interviews Pastor Rick Warren. I got so angry I fast-forwarded through most of the interview. What set me off was how he did not answer Gregory's question [paraphrasing]: Will you campaign for prop 8 again, knowing now what you do about AIDS through your charity work? Warren's response sounded rehearsed. He said [paraphrasing]"I'm not a politician. I'm a pastor, and my job is to love everybody.
Now to work. Sad face.
Last night, I watched a pre-recorded Meet The Press on which David Gregory interviews Pastor Rick Warren. I got so angry I fast-forwarded through most of the interview. What set me off was how he did not answer Gregory's question [paraphrasing]: Will you campaign for prop 8 again, knowing now what you do about AIDS through your charity work? Warren's response sounded rehearsed. He said [paraphrasing]"I'm not a politician. I'm a pastor, and my job is to love everybody.
Pastor Rick continued saying that he has been very clear about his spiritual stand on homosexuality. Chirp! Chirp! Chirp! Mr. Gregory rolled some footage of his stand against the sin of homosexuality from his powerful pulpit that speaks to tens of thousands every Sunday. I just couldn't stomach anymore.
Ms. Bauer, in Not That Kind of Girl, believes in God and arms herself with a message from her Catholic priest that sinning makes us appreciate the grace. At this point in the story she is a 23 year-old assistant, sleeping in a window in Carroll Gardens. She has yet to loose her virginal faith in God but would she have been able to stomach Rick Warren? Her faith in a God is not vengeful but merciful, not bigoted but accepting.
Ms. Bauer, in Not That Kind of Girl, believes in God and arms herself with a message from her Catholic priest that sinning makes us appreciate the grace. At this point in the story she is a 23 year-old assistant, sleeping in a window in Carroll Gardens. She has yet to loose her virginal faith in God but would she have been able to stomach Rick Warren? Her faith in a God is not vengeful but merciful, not bigoted but accepting.
Her ability to love God and live in the world is challenging to me. She has given up on the idea of finding a place to worship and continues to believe in destiny. Her book is beginning to read a bit like a Christian novels teenagers advocating abstinence, thinking for yourself, and staying true to your inner faith. Despite this underlying message, I am enjoying it.
Now to work. Sad face.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Action = defeat
The Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, I was sure I was going to get laid by the hockey-player with a porn-sized johnson, until we started talking about his ex. A little back story.
Back to last Wednesday night, we're talking about her and he just cannot help telling me about their last encounter and how she'd called him up and told him that all she wanted was to get wasted and screw, and he wanted her even more for that. (That wounded me.) And she's not even the best-looking woman he's been with but there is something about her smell that makes him crazy.
I'm sitting patiently for him to breath and then I said, "You do know why I'm here."
"Oh. You're right. I'm sorry. It's just that you're my sounding board for all of this stuff with her, you know. You're right. I do know."
I figured he'd already been pounding back the vodka and orange so I repeated myself, "You know WHY I'm here?"
"No. What? I thought you said, 'you know I'm here," A brief pause and he said, "Sex?"
Bingo!
He smiled, he knew all along what I was after. He said, "Well, to be honest, I don't know if I can. I had it last night at like 3 a.m. But, I was thinking we might just after we've gone out."
I should have gone back to my neighborhood and hung out with my friends, but I wanted to see where this was going. It's really not the sex that I wanted (not anymore) A part of me wanted to be there for him because I could. I also really wanted to go along for the ride that is Mr. Hockey. Going out with him is like riding the tilt-a-whirl that uses alcohol for electricity. It still kinda lights me up, makes me dizzy, and I feel like I've had an experience, every time I see him - good and bad. It may sound weird or sad of me to say, but most of life is not nearly as eventful.
The rest of the evening, we talked with lonely-hearts and party-goers alike who all told Mr. Hockey that I was fantastic and he should hold on to me, that I was a keeper. Around 1:30 a.m. we're outside smoking and we kiss like horny teenagers. I was back on the bandwagon again and we left. Back at his place I think things are going in one direction and then he starts playing music and pours himself a drink. He wants me to wait but I just can't and I pass out.
Here comes the Doogie Houser ending. I have said it before and I'll say it again, recycling is not always cost-effective.
One night a while back, I got pissed-off at him for not giving it up until we'd talked for hours and I just told him that I wasn't with him to TALK but to F*@k and if we weren't going to for another five hours, I had to go. These weren't dinner and conversation length interactions, these were him up and down off the couch, changing the music on the television ten times, going on-and-on about his ex, how great hockey is, how much the market sucks, or how fantastic the early Rolling Stones were but they lost steam after a while. He had called me, after all. I assumed he knew the deal. And his response was beyond. He tried to placate me at first with words - Aw, c'mon! Why so crass? What happened to talking before sex? - and when I wouldn't budge, he yelled in real pain, "SHE BROKE MY HEART!" And that was my cue to leave, but not before I asked him for twenty dollars for a cab home, which he gave me.
Back to last Wednesday night, we're talking about her and he just cannot help telling me about their last encounter and how she'd called him up and told him that all she wanted was to get wasted and screw, and he wanted her even more for that. (That wounded me.) And she's not even the best-looking woman he's been with but there is something about her smell that makes him crazy.
I'm sitting patiently for him to breath and then I said, "You do know why I'm here."
"Oh. You're right. I'm sorry. It's just that you're my sounding board for all of this stuff with her, you know. You're right. I do know."
I figured he'd already been pounding back the vodka and orange so I repeated myself, "You know WHY I'm here?"
"No. What? I thought you said, 'you know I'm here," A brief pause and he said, "Sex?"
Bingo!
He smiled, he knew all along what I was after. He said, "Well, to be honest, I don't know if I can. I had it last night at like 3 a.m. But, I was thinking we might just after we've gone out."
I should have gone back to my neighborhood and hung out with my friends, but I wanted to see where this was going. It's really not the sex that I wanted (not anymore) A part of me wanted to be there for him because I could. I also really wanted to go along for the ride that is Mr. Hockey. Going out with him is like riding the tilt-a-whirl that uses alcohol for electricity. It still kinda lights me up, makes me dizzy, and I feel like I've had an experience, every time I see him - good and bad. It may sound weird or sad of me to say, but most of life is not nearly as eventful.
The rest of the evening, we talked with lonely-hearts and party-goers alike who all told Mr. Hockey that I was fantastic and he should hold on to me, that I was a keeper. Around 1:30 a.m. we're outside smoking and we kiss like horny teenagers. I was back on the bandwagon again and we left. Back at his place I think things are going in one direction and then he starts playing music and pours himself a drink. He wants me to wait but I just can't and I pass out.
Here comes the Doogie Houser ending. I have said it before and I'll say it again, recycling is not always cost-effective.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Turning me over
Last week, I finished Jeff Sharlet's expose on radical fundamentalists influence on politics in America. I have moved on to Carlene Bauer's "Not That Kind of Girl", which is a memoir about how she freed herself from her fundamentalist Christian upbringing. I first read about this book in Time Out. Reading the praise for her first book, I felt a lump in my throat. Carlene has beat me to it, I thought.
Going from Sharlet to Bauer is like going from the Library on Fifth to a bedroom in content and tone. It is so much harder to read Ms. Bauer's book without constantly comparing her experience to my own. Sharlet's book was about discovering a secret world I know very little about, but I know what it is like to grow up born-again. I know how I came the decision to leave the fold and yoke myself unevenly with the world and lost souls.
I'm at the part where Carlene is in love with a brilliant student, Joshua, who was kicked out of the ivy league and ended up at her catholic college in Baltimore. She writes this about how he makes her feel:
Someone had demanded to meet me, and now was demanding to know what I thought about every last thing. Someone was looking at me, taking me in, turning me over in his palm, wondering where to put me. In diners, in cafes, in his minivan, in my room, in his room, on streets under heavy clouds.
On break, she took a job as a waitress to subjugate self to the customer. Carlene decides, while on hands and knees picking french fries from the carpeting underneath the booths after her shift, that she can no longer just be friends with Joshua and endeavors never to speak to him again. Joshua was forcing her to listen to herself, her desires. So, Carlene clarified what she wanted from her relationship with Joshua - while crawling on hands and knees in polyester, as she put it, "mortifying the flesh."
Going from Sharlet to Bauer is like going from the Library on Fifth to a bedroom in content and tone. It is so much harder to read Ms. Bauer's book without constantly comparing her experience to my own. Sharlet's book was about discovering a secret world I know very little about, but I know what it is like to grow up born-again. I know how I came the decision to leave the fold and yoke myself unevenly with the world and lost souls.
I'm at the part where Carlene is in love with a brilliant student, Joshua, who was kicked out of the ivy league and ended up at her catholic college in Baltimore. She writes this about how he makes her feel:
Someone had demanded to meet me, and now was demanding to know what I thought about every last thing. Someone was looking at me, taking me in, turning me over in his palm, wondering where to put me. In diners, in cafes, in his minivan, in my room, in his room, on streets under heavy clouds.
On break, she took a job as a waitress to subjugate self to the customer. Carlene decides, while on hands and knees picking french fries from the carpeting underneath the booths after her shift, that she can no longer just be friends with Joshua and endeavors never to speak to him again. Joshua was forcing her to listen to herself, her desires. So, Carlene clarified what she wanted from her relationship with Joshua - while crawling on hands and knees in polyester, as she put it, "mortifying the flesh."
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Burthen
Last night, I arrived at my door just as my dog-walker was bringing Bubbie home for dinner. I asked her how she was and she cried as she told me that her relationship was over. I gave her the biggest hug, but had no better words to say than, I'm so sorry.
I don't know her that well and had no idea about her boyfriend or their relationship. They met soon after she divorced her husband and moved here from D.C. He was fun and sweet and they fell in love. For a year they have lived together in her apartment with his daughter and their dogs, like a happy little family. The trouble was after a long day of working two jobs, she wanted peace and quiet. He had been working alone at home all day and wanted to see his friends, who were over constantly and at all hours. So, after it became too much, she suggested he move out. He refused to move without lashing out and broke-up with her. To which she said, "We take care of them and they take advantage of us."
I have noticed that being a princess or a bitch does have advantages over being accommodating and understanding. I know men who carry more of the household chores, child-rearing and financial management in their relationships. I know how important it is that we are fair and the burden is equal in a relationship. But how does one define fair and equal in a relationship? They are certainly not the same.
In relationships, it is practical to divide the day-to-day responsibilities by facility, just as you would at work. Some people happen to be better with deadlines, follow-through, and time-management. Others are better with throwing parties, creating menus, and video games. In my last serious relationship, I was the former and my boyfriend was the latter. He was a graduate student studying to be the next German-Norwegian Juan Diego Florez with a beer-gut. With my career path, we were never going to be rich but we would be able to buy a place and build a life.
Princess always brought up his lack of fortune and great debt as a reason why he was no good for me. In our last conversation he nearly shouted into the phone, "You'd have to pay my rent!" As if he was saying, "I have gonorrhea!" and I was supposed to react accordingly and run the other way. For the longest time I accepted these outbursts as a defense mechanism. We all carry the failures of past relationships with us and the hurt surfaces at odd times. Now, his song and dance of: I'm-a-poor-boy-with-empty-in-his-pockets-and-nothing-to-loose is just that - a song and dance that pays his freedom and keeps his burthen light.
I don't know her that well and had no idea about her boyfriend or their relationship. They met soon after she divorced her husband and moved here from D.C. He was fun and sweet and they fell in love. For a year they have lived together in her apartment with his daughter and their dogs, like a happy little family. The trouble was after a long day of working two jobs, she wanted peace and quiet. He had been working alone at home all day and wanted to see his friends, who were over constantly and at all hours. So, after it became too much, she suggested he move out. He refused to move without lashing out and broke-up with her. To which she said, "We take care of them and they take advantage of us."
I have noticed that being a princess or a bitch does have advantages over being accommodating and understanding. I know men who carry more of the household chores, child-rearing and financial management in their relationships. I know how important it is that we are fair and the burden is equal in a relationship. But how does one define fair and equal in a relationship? They are certainly not the same.
In relationships, it is practical to divide the day-to-day responsibilities by facility, just as you would at work. Some people happen to be better with deadlines, follow-through, and time-management. Others are better with throwing parties, creating menus, and video games. In my last serious relationship, I was the former and my boyfriend was the latter. He was a graduate student studying to be the next German-Norwegian Juan Diego Florez with a beer-gut. With my career path, we were never going to be rich but we would be able to buy a place and build a life.
Princess always brought up his lack of fortune and great debt as a reason why he was no good for me. In our last conversation he nearly shouted into the phone, "You'd have to pay my rent!" As if he was saying, "I have gonorrhea!" and I was supposed to react accordingly and run the other way. For the longest time I accepted these outbursts as a defense mechanism. We all carry the failures of past relationships with us and the hurt surfaces at odd times. Now, his song and dance of: I'm-a-poor-boy-with-empty-in-his-pockets-and-nothing-to-loose is just that - a song and dance that pays his freedom and keeps his burthen light.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Falter
I question this blog's contribution to building the pedestal on which Princess stands. Am I allowing myself to think like a crushed school girl?
I did write the email that brought me to this corner. I have a position. I deserve to be a priority. Princess had so many other priorities than me. Supreme among them was protecting himself from anything that might divert him from his chosen path. His way is dark and lonely and requires all of his precious attention to maintain.
We spoke last night. I left him a message. He called me back. He was in Tribeca and had finished making orange juice as performance art. I was lying in bed with my dog perched on a mound of pillows just above my head and he was standing in the wind on a street corner. We spoke for a little over a half-hour. It started out harmless enough. He said he was good. I said I missed him. He asked why? I told him I wasn't going to get into an argument about why I missed him. In the end he just rasped that he missed me too.
I asked him why it was so easy for him to walk away? He said, to be frank, you just want me because you can't have me. And you knew that from the beginning. Stop acting like a little girl and be the woman that you are!
To which I said, Then, you were a little boy that first time we slept together and you told me what you wanted after. So, we're even.
He said it (letting me go) was very hard. He said I was beautiful, so,so,so beautiful. He said I was smarter than most he holds dear. He said that I deserve better than him. And he also said that he is ten times the man of most men, that most men aren't worth much.
We went back and forth a bit longer about whether or not I had really thought about what I would be signing up for with him. The most important thing he said was, "For the, what, MONTH, we were together, that's what you would get. That is how it is with me." I would be in for frustration and significant sacrifice. He would make goddamn sure of that.
I feel a tenderness and a yearning for him that I can only describe as love. And I may never understand why we met or how I could want to be a partner on that long, dark path with this man. Perhaps he is right, I am just indulging my crush like a school girl and I should be out there getting my brains fucked out of me. Or something like that is what he said.
Toward the end of our conversation he said that he may be making a huge mistake but he had to get off the phone. I let him go without protest and the line went dead.
I did write the email that brought me to this corner. I have a position. I deserve to be a priority. Princess had so many other priorities than me. Supreme among them was protecting himself from anything that might divert him from his chosen path. His way is dark and lonely and requires all of his precious attention to maintain.
We spoke last night. I left him a message. He called me back. He was in Tribeca and had finished making orange juice as performance art. I was lying in bed with my dog perched on a mound of pillows just above my head and he was standing in the wind on a street corner. We spoke for a little over a half-hour. It started out harmless enough. He said he was good. I said I missed him. He asked why? I told him I wasn't going to get into an argument about why I missed him. In the end he just rasped that he missed me too.
I asked him why it was so easy for him to walk away? He said, to be frank, you just want me because you can't have me. And you knew that from the beginning. Stop acting like a little girl and be the woman that you are!
To which I said, Then, you were a little boy that first time we slept together and you told me what you wanted after. So, we're even.
He said it (letting me go) was very hard. He said I was beautiful, so,so,so beautiful. He said I was smarter than most he holds dear. He said that I deserve better than him. And he also said that he is ten times the man of most men, that most men aren't worth much.
We went back and forth a bit longer about whether or not I had really thought about what I would be signing up for with him. The most important thing he said was, "For the, what, MONTH, we were together, that's what you would get. That is how it is with me." I would be in for frustration and significant sacrifice. He would make goddamn sure of that.
I feel a tenderness and a yearning for him that I can only describe as love. And I may never understand why we met or how I could want to be a partner on that long, dark path with this man. Perhaps he is right, I am just indulging my crush like a school girl and I should be out there getting my brains fucked out of me. Or something like that is what he said.
Toward the end of our conversation he said that he may be making a huge mistake but he had to get off the phone. I let him go without protest and the line went dead.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
The Day After My Birthday
I do not know what day I was born. There is no record. I came into the world one of tens of thousands of girls, with a fifty-fifty chance of never finding a home and receiving the opportunities that I have had. The coin toss was in my favor.
Growing-up I cannot recall my mother or father ever asking for gratitude, not even a hint of it. When I would be overcome by my good fortune and I would ask them why me? They would say, because they loved me from the moment they saw my photo (I look like a space alien in that photo) and it was G*d's plan that I would become their daughter. Perhaps, when they meant that it was G*d's plan that I should feel safe in the truth that nothing happens without his blessing. I am significant, cradled in His omniscience.
Yesterday, they called me from the Pancake House to sing Happy Birthday. It has become a tradition and it brought tears to my eyes. I was overwhelmed by the thought that my life is forever tied to these two people singing into a cell phone in a semi-crowded restaurant at 12:30 pm. Though it may seem like a strange place to think of calling your daughter to wish her well on her birthday, it is in fact, a perfect place because it's essentially their Cheers. Everyone knows them and they have adopted all the young people who wait tables and make the heavenly dutch apple baby. I kinda wished I was there with them.
Yesterday, I went to the Whitney to see Georgia O'Keefe's early abstract charcoals and oil works. The museum worker at the ticket counter asked me if I was a student or under 25. I said thank you and gave her my id.
I am glad now that I went alone. I began to see that O'Keefe was a master of color and shape - what shapes! The exhibit followed her life from her first solo show '291' in 1917 through to her final move to New Mexico in the 40s. And I loved that even in her darkest works she seemed to apply the pastel or oil with a kind of wonder and awe, like she was waiting for the color to sing her a sad, low-down melody or a sea shanty or a love song. Given how much her palette seemed like a concert work to my eyes, her paintings dealing with music as a subject were not nearly as alive as her works from Lake George and her time in New York City.
As I discovered Georgia O'Keefe for the first time, I so wanted to reach out to Princess and tell him what I thought. But if I had gone with him would I have been much more concerned with his observations than my own? Which brings me to another realization, that I never really understood his artistic process or what he meant in his first email of his "fundamental hostility toward artists and art that drives his artistic production."
Throughout the day I heard from friends and members of my family. My birthday did not pass without notice and I was not alone, although I felt the absence of his presence all day long. Thankfully, my birthday was not spoiled by those wistful moments and I will give myself some of the credit for that but the rest of the credit goes, in particular, to three friends who shared a meal with me and made a true celebration possible.
Growing-up I cannot recall my mother or father ever asking for gratitude, not even a hint of it. When I would be overcome by my good fortune and I would ask them why me? They would say, because they loved me from the moment they saw my photo (I look like a space alien in that photo) and it was G*d's plan that I would become their daughter. Perhaps, when they meant that it was G*d's plan that I should feel safe in the truth that nothing happens without his blessing. I am significant, cradled in His omniscience.
Yesterday, they called me from the Pancake House to sing Happy Birthday. It has become a tradition and it brought tears to my eyes. I was overwhelmed by the thought that my life is forever tied to these two people singing into a cell phone in a semi-crowded restaurant at 12:30 pm. Though it may seem like a strange place to think of calling your daughter to wish her well on her birthday, it is in fact, a perfect place because it's essentially their Cheers. Everyone knows them and they have adopted all the young people who wait tables and make the heavenly dutch apple baby. I kinda wished I was there with them.
Yesterday, I went to the Whitney to see Georgia O'Keefe's early abstract charcoals and oil works. The museum worker at the ticket counter asked me if I was a student or under 25. I said thank you and gave her my id.
I am glad now that I went alone. I began to see that O'Keefe was a master of color and shape - what shapes! The exhibit followed her life from her first solo show '291' in 1917 through to her final move to New Mexico in the 40s. And I loved that even in her darkest works she seemed to apply the pastel or oil with a kind of wonder and awe, like she was waiting for the color to sing her a sad, low-down melody or a sea shanty or a love song. Given how much her palette seemed like a concert work to my eyes, her paintings dealing with music as a subject were not nearly as alive as her works from Lake George and her time in New York City.
As I discovered Georgia O'Keefe for the first time, I so wanted to reach out to Princess and tell him what I thought. But if I had gone with him would I have been much more concerned with his observations than my own? Which brings me to another realization, that I never really understood his artistic process or what he meant in his first email of his "fundamental hostility toward artists and art that drives his artistic production."
Throughout the day I heard from friends and members of my family. My birthday did not pass without notice and I was not alone, although I felt the absence of his presence all day long. Thankfully, my birthday was not spoiled by those wistful moments and I will give myself some of the credit for that but the rest of the credit goes, in particular, to three friends who shared a meal with me and made a true celebration possible.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
I am a spy
I told him that I did not know who I am. We were lying naked, side by side, in the dark. His head moved and he hummed low then said, "You're one of the most self-reflective people I have ever met. It's quite impressive, really." And he said that not knowing myself could be a good thing. An opportunity.
At three in the morning, while lying on his futon in the middle of his studio, he read this to me:
A week or so later, we were also lying side-by-side but this time on my bed, he said to me, "You're a spy in the house of heterosexuality." I think he meant that I am not looking for a conventional heterosexual romantic relationship. And he wanted to know what his part was in my subterfuge. What was his use to my plan to live my life as a free woman, a gypsy?
Pillow talk is supposed to be light and easy, like talking about your favorite way to orgasm. I think that I was yearning for someone to hear me and take what I was thinking, feeling, saying and reflect it back to me. What better place to engage in such a physical and mental exercise, requiring both parties to be so present and so bare, than lying beside each other in the dark? Like a spy.
At three in the morning, while lying on his futon in the middle of his studio, he read this to me:
In reality, the decomposition of all social forms is a blessing. It is for us the ideal condition for a wild, massive experimentation with new arrangements, new fidelities. The famous “parental resignation” has imposed on us a confrontation with the world that demands a precocious lucidity, and foreshadows lovely revolts to come. In the death of the couple, we see the birth of troubling forms of collective affectivity, now that sex is all used up and masculinity and femininity parade around in such moth-eaten clothes, now that three decades of non-stop pornographic innovation have exhausted all the allure of transgression and liberation. We count on making that which is unconditional in relationships the armor of a political solidarity as impenetrable to state interference as a gypsy camp. There is no reason that the interminable subsidies that numerous relatives are compelled to offload onto their proletarianized progeny can’t become a form of patronage in favor of social subversion. “Becoming autonomous,” could just as easily mean learning to fight in the street, to occupy empty houses, to cease working, to love each other madly, and to shoplift.- The Coming Insurrection
A week or so later, we were also lying side-by-side but this time on my bed, he said to me, "You're a spy in the house of heterosexuality." I think he meant that I am not looking for a conventional heterosexual romantic relationship. And he wanted to know what his part was in my subterfuge. What was his use to my plan to live my life as a free woman, a gypsy?
Pillow talk is supposed to be light and easy, like talking about your favorite way to orgasm. I think that I was yearning for someone to hear me and take what I was thinking, feeling, saying and reflect it back to me. What better place to engage in such a physical and mental exercise, requiring both parties to be so present and so bare, than lying beside each other in the dark? Like a spy.
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