I remember a time, several years ago now, unbelievably, when MMS and I spent the earlier part of a night roaming about the narrow city and its even narrower streets on our bikes, hopping off now and then to pop inside a bar for a chilled beer, the satisfying sinking of a few eight balls, and the pleasant company of strangers that we had grown so accustomed to in that time. That night, though, we quickly grew bored of the unchanging conversations with our random encounters, so we again straddled our bikes and sped off toward the bridge to return to a much bigger island, which held our shared home.
We ascended the first half of the bridge -- cracks, fences, shadows, wind, dark-blue sky -- and when we reached the middle we stopped. Neither of us asked each other, or ourselves, why we had decided to stop, we just did, and we both found it appropriate. We set our bikes down on their sides and slinked into a pocket of darkness. MMS lit a joint. Then we began to talk at length. It was one of those conversations where you can almost separate yourself from what you are saying, sort of float above and watch yourself talk. You're listening to yourself almost as much as the person you are talking to is. In this type of instance, being in this particular mood and rare mindset, one is their most honest; because they're not attached to everything they're saying. It's as if to be briefly free of self-consciousness, but also entirely aware of this freedom all the while. Sitting there on the bridge's pavement, cross-legged -- suspended a hundred feet in the air above a dirty, fast-moving river, the rumbling traffic of trains and cars below, situated between bikers and nightwalkers passing on either side -- speaking intimately and openly in what could arguably be a most vulnerable situation, yet we were at ease. It was one of those moments that perpetually binds one person to another. When you both feel completely comfortable and entirely impassive.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Gmail Drafts
I was inspired by this post to sift through my 194 gmail drafts. Here are a few:
1. Dated Wednesday October 17, 2007:
"I told everything about myself in Speak, Memory, and it was not a very pleasant portrait. I appear as a precious person in that book. All that chess and those butterflies. Not very interesting." (A quote from Vladimir Nabokov that I stored away for myself to reread. Today is the first day I saw it since then.)
2. From over a year ago, addressed to a boy I was dating at the time:
"I got off at the Broadway/Nassau subway station this morning and was greeted by the most pungent smell of shit, literal shit. The floor was covered in at least an inch of brown liquid that oozed from an ajar bathroom door. (This surprised me, because I didn't realize people actually used those bathrooms, let alone took shits in them.) I was forced to walk through it because there was no other way to go, and my point is that my feet probably smell too. So, at least for today, you are not alone in your foot odor ailment."
3. From over two years ago. I transcribed three voicemails left on my phone from a man I used to share a bed with. The plan was to send them to my friends, but I never got around to it:
May 20th:
Hey Karen, it’s ________. I just read your email…if you could call it an email…I don’t know what you modern people call it or what some people call it or what futuristic bone-splitting evangelists call it. I assume that robots don’t eat vegetables, but that’s none of my business. I read your email regardless and it made me sad, kind of, or well, I guess pretty prominently sad and relevantly sad. I was hoping to talk to you as I do every time I punch the button that says your name in front of it, but oh well. My state is a lot less interesting than your state. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t make you laugh a little bit… but apparently the satellite service gave me the choice to elongate my voice to you, which is still pretty funny, but I just feel really funny and confusing at this point. But call me… and straddle…something of mine soon. I’m going to call you later tonight with something in my mouth…it could be a toothbrush or a toothpick or a shark’s tooth or a fang or a vampire’s butt or a witch’s ass, who knows….I miss you and I’m tired of missing you, so talk to you soon.
May 21st:
Hi. It’s me. You should call me back…now or later, presumably something in between. Um, I’m not going to say my name because it would be kind of obvious or maybe it’s not as blatant as it seems. Call me. Call this person that’s talking to you. Which you probably won’t have any idea who it could be. [long, melodramatic sigh.] All right, I’ll see you soon somewhere…or later. Bye.
May 22nd:
Hi Karen. Usually I say Hello or…traditional sensibility tells us not to say the name of the person you’re calling…but Karen, Hi. Anyways…
Yeah, you should call me. I just spent a lot of money on this fashion magazine that I thought was in English…but it’s in Italian. The pictures are pretty…pretty - pretty, pretty, pretty and handsome. All the men are really cute and the girls are really pretty and their dresses are great and their shoes are really perfect and it made me think of you. And I want to draw mustaches on their ankles. Be happy sometime and call me. And call me when you’re at that point because I’m not happy at all. I don’t mean to drag you…I don’t mean to strap hooks to your suspenders but I miss you. And I really like you a lot. So do something about your voice and your fingers and make them find me somehow, if they can.
4. From sometime in the past:
"I just wanted you to know that I did like you, and I was liking getting to know you more too. I kind of took it as a sign that you didn't feel the same way when you stopped communicating and making plans to hang out. But I do remember you telling me you wanted to date, so I was a bit confused. Either way, I just wanted you to know how I felt.
And also, you probably have herpes now."
5. From almost two years ago. I don't recall ever writing this down, but I do remember that cat and the step on which I sat:
"I'm sitting on a single concrete stair in front of a closed coffee shop on a darkened street. It's 8pm on a Friday night. There is a dull cone of light seeping from the lamp post a few sidewalk squares down and a faint neon hum from the whiskey bar two blocks away. A feral cat limps over to where I sit; he circles quickly and lies down on the pavement next to the stair. I'm smoking a cigarette and I watch the smoke make patterns in front of my face, exhaling slowly at first and then blowing a quick stream of smoke to stir it all together, making my own fleeting night art.
It's almost winter. I have a coat on and it's cold, so it might as well be winter. There is no one to tell me it's not winter. Every one would agree that winter has definitely arrived. Even though it is too soon for winter. But things arrive too soon all the time -- packages from FedEx, periods, the wrong job, ejaculate. Winter showed up, arm wrestled autumn, and won. It's only the very beginning of November.
A couple walks by, hand-in-hand, boy and girl. I find the boy very attractive and watch him intently as they pass. But since I am below them, very near the ground, they don't notice my stare. Once they are past me I watch the girl's back. I wonder if she knows that I think her boyfriend is attractive. Maybe they are in a rough patch and he is too doting and she is beginning to question her attraction to him. Maybe if she knew that I thought he was attractive it would rekindle something between them. She would remember what it was that drew her to him in the first place. I consider what it would be like to tell her I am attracted to her boyfriend. I can't think of any way to word it without expecting her to get defensive or jealous. It would be too awkward also. But what if I ran up to them, right then, startling the cat and setting him off in the other direction where he would dart through a small, makeshift hole in a fence, and tapped the girlfriend on the shoulder? "Excuse me." I'd say, looking at only her, obviously afraid to make eye contact with the beautiful boy seconds before I'm to admit to my attraction. "Your boyfriend is very handsome. I just thought you should know." Then I would immediately run away, searching for the hole through which the cat just effortlessly jumped through, so that I may too quickly disappear into the dark.
I look up the street towards the couple. They round a corner, now arm-in-arm, and all that's left for me to look at is the long sharp corner of a tall gray apartment building."
1. Dated Wednesday October 17, 2007:
"I told everything about myself in Speak, Memory, and it was not a very pleasant portrait. I appear as a precious person in that book. All that chess and those butterflies. Not very interesting." (A quote from Vladimir Nabokov that I stored away for myself to reread. Today is the first day I saw it since then.)
2. From over a year ago, addressed to a boy I was dating at the time:
"I got off at the Broadway/Nassau subway station this morning and was greeted by the most pungent smell of shit, literal shit. The floor was covered in at least an inch of brown liquid that oozed from an ajar bathroom door. (This surprised me, because I didn't realize people actually used those bathrooms, let alone took shits in them.) I was forced to walk through it because there was no other way to go, and my point is that my feet probably smell too. So, at least for today, you are not alone in your foot odor ailment."
3. From over two years ago. I transcribed three voicemails left on my phone from a man I used to share a bed with. The plan was to send them to my friends, but I never got around to it:
May 20th:
Hey Karen, it’s ________. I just read your email…if you could call it an email…I don’t know what you modern people call it or what some people call it or what futuristic bone-splitting evangelists call it. I assume that robots don’t eat vegetables, but that’s none of my business. I read your email regardless and it made me sad, kind of, or well, I guess pretty prominently sad and relevantly sad. I was hoping to talk to you as I do every time I punch the button that says your name in front of it, but oh well. My state is a lot less interesting than your state. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t make you laugh a little bit… but apparently the satellite service gave me the choice to elongate my voice to you, which is still pretty funny, but I just feel really funny and confusing at this point. But call me… and straddle…something of mine soon. I’m going to call you later tonight with something in my mouth…it could be a toothbrush or a toothpick or a shark’s tooth or a fang or a vampire’s butt or a witch’s ass, who knows….I miss you and I’m tired of missing you, so talk to you soon.
May 21st:
Hi. It’s me. You should call me back…now or later, presumably something in between. Um, I’m not going to say my name because it would be kind of obvious or maybe it’s not as blatant as it seems. Call me. Call this person that’s talking to you. Which you probably won’t have any idea who it could be. [long, melodramatic sigh.] All right, I’ll see you soon somewhere…or later. Bye.
May 22nd:
Hi Karen. Usually I say Hello or…traditional sensibility tells us not to say the name of the person you’re calling…but Karen, Hi. Anyways…
Yeah, you should call me. I just spent a lot of money on this fashion magazine that I thought was in English…but it’s in Italian. The pictures are pretty…pretty - pretty, pretty, pretty and handsome. All the men are really cute and the girls are really pretty and their dresses are great and their shoes are really perfect and it made me think of you. And I want to draw mustaches on their ankles. Be happy sometime and call me. And call me when you’re at that point because I’m not happy at all. I don’t mean to drag you…I don’t mean to strap hooks to your suspenders but I miss you. And I really like you a lot. So do something about your voice and your fingers and make them find me somehow, if they can.
4. From sometime in the past:
"I just wanted you to know that I did like you, and I was liking getting to know you more too. I kind of took it as a sign that you didn't feel the same way when you stopped communicating and making plans to hang out. But I do remember you telling me you wanted to date, so I was a bit confused. Either way, I just wanted you to know how I felt.
And also, you probably have herpes now."
5. From almost two years ago. I don't recall ever writing this down, but I do remember that cat and the step on which I sat:
"I'm sitting on a single concrete stair in front of a closed coffee shop on a darkened street. It's 8pm on a Friday night. There is a dull cone of light seeping from the lamp post a few sidewalk squares down and a faint neon hum from the whiskey bar two blocks away. A feral cat limps over to where I sit; he circles quickly and lies down on the pavement next to the stair. I'm smoking a cigarette and I watch the smoke make patterns in front of my face, exhaling slowly at first and then blowing a quick stream of smoke to stir it all together, making my own fleeting night art.
It's almost winter. I have a coat on and it's cold, so it might as well be winter. There is no one to tell me it's not winter. Every one would agree that winter has definitely arrived. Even though it is too soon for winter. But things arrive too soon all the time -- packages from FedEx, periods, the wrong job, ejaculate. Winter showed up, arm wrestled autumn, and won. It's only the very beginning of November.
A couple walks by, hand-in-hand, boy and girl. I find the boy very attractive and watch him intently as they pass. But since I am below them, very near the ground, they don't notice my stare. Once they are past me I watch the girl's back. I wonder if she knows that I think her boyfriend is attractive. Maybe they are in a rough patch and he is too doting and she is beginning to question her attraction to him. Maybe if she knew that I thought he was attractive it would rekindle something between them. She would remember what it was that drew her to him in the first place. I consider what it would be like to tell her I am attracted to her boyfriend. I can't think of any way to word it without expecting her to get defensive or jealous. It would be too awkward also. But what if I ran up to them, right then, startling the cat and setting him off in the other direction where he would dart through a small, makeshift hole in a fence, and tapped the girlfriend on the shoulder? "Excuse me." I'd say, looking at only her, obviously afraid to make eye contact with the beautiful boy seconds before I'm to admit to my attraction. "Your boyfriend is very handsome. I just thought you should know." Then I would immediately run away, searching for the hole through which the cat just effortlessly jumped through, so that I may too quickly disappear into the dark.
I look up the street towards the couple. They round a corner, now arm-in-arm, and all that's left for me to look at is the long sharp corner of a tall gray apartment building."
Monday, September 20, 2010
Things I would do if I were rich
1. buy expensive bourbon
2. live with other rich people who buy expensive bourbon so that there is always an unending abundance of expensive bourbon in the house
3. pay someone to change the litter box every day
4. continue smoking at my present (and desirable) rate and pace
5. see all theatrical 3D releases
6. extensive cable for the television (this should really be number one)
7. build a catio for my cat
8. buy expensive jams and maple syrup
9. laundry drop-off at least once every three months
10. install one of those seats in my shower so I can sit down when I take sips of my coffee and expensive bourbon
11. buy tasty coffee
12. subscribe to the most expensive netflix account
2. live with other rich people who buy expensive bourbon so that there is always an unending abundance of expensive bourbon in the house
3. pay someone to change the litter box every day
4. continue smoking at my present (and desirable) rate and pace
5. see all theatrical 3D releases
6. extensive cable for the television (this should really be number one)
7. build a catio for my cat
8. buy expensive jams and maple syrup
9. laundry drop-off at least once every three months
10. install one of those seats in my shower so I can sit down when I take sips of my coffee and expensive bourbon
11. buy tasty coffee
12. subscribe to the most expensive netflix account
Boy, she calls someone
The auburn fringe that was her bangs dangled in front of her eyes in a way that he found pleasing most of the time. She was aware.
The reflection of her red skirt on the water attracted the minnows swirling in the lake just below her bare feet.
She seemed off to him today. Save for her hair, everything else about her seemed different; he didn't like this.
They soon left the dock and walked down the dirt road back to town.
"How 'bout we stop by Sweeney's for a cone?" He asked hopefully.
"Ice cream sounds good." She said sedately.
Inside the malt shoppe they sat on opposite sides of a red vinyl booth.
He stared at her over the brim of his parfait glass, slurping his milkshake. He watched her take a lick of vanilla ice cream and then blinked, opening his eyes just in time to see her take that first bite of cone.
Well, at least she is eating her ice cream, he thought. That is a good sign.
She looked up from her cone and saw him observing her. He smiled. She was going to smile back, but just then a piece of her red hair got caught in her white ice cream, and when she reached to remove the strand, she dropped her cone on the floor.
What was wrong with her?
After their snack they went to the arcade. He played a game of pinball while she leaned against the side of the machine, dreamily holding her head up with the back of her dainty hand. He broke the record and she smiled at him.
Now it was her turn, and he was watching from behind, peering over her shoulder.
What was going on? She didn't even get the bonus ball. She always got the bonus ball. Hell, she usually got the multi-ball most times.
He reluctantly walked her home after a few more games, as dusk was fast approaching.
Standing on her front porch, she kissed him softly on the cheek and then paused, slightly tilting her head up so her lips were just below his ear. She whispered, "Today, my hair was just a mess."
He walked down the road again, this time alone, towards home.
The reflection of her red skirt on the water attracted the minnows swirling in the lake just below her bare feet.
She seemed off to him today. Save for her hair, everything else about her seemed different; he didn't like this.
They soon left the dock and walked down the dirt road back to town.
"How 'bout we stop by Sweeney's for a cone?" He asked hopefully.
"Ice cream sounds good." She said sedately.
Inside the malt shoppe they sat on opposite sides of a red vinyl booth.
He stared at her over the brim of his parfait glass, slurping his milkshake. He watched her take a lick of vanilla ice cream and then blinked, opening his eyes just in time to see her take that first bite of cone.
Well, at least she is eating her ice cream, he thought. That is a good sign.
She looked up from her cone and saw him observing her. He smiled. She was going to smile back, but just then a piece of her red hair got caught in her white ice cream, and when she reached to remove the strand, she dropped her cone on the floor.
What was wrong with her?
After their snack they went to the arcade. He played a game of pinball while she leaned against the side of the machine, dreamily holding her head up with the back of her dainty hand. He broke the record and she smiled at him.
Now it was her turn, and he was watching from behind, peering over her shoulder.
What was going on? She didn't even get the bonus ball. She always got the bonus ball. Hell, she usually got the multi-ball most times.
He reluctantly walked her home after a few more games, as dusk was fast approaching.
Standing on her front porch, she kissed him softly on the cheek and then paused, slightly tilting her head up so her lips were just below his ear. She whispered, "Today, my hair was just a mess."
He walked down the road again, this time alone, towards home.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
The four right chords can make me cry
"It’s amazing how she has the power to end things. He didn’t make it easy to, didn’t help but only in slightest ways, even supported her staying casually and with comments like, I adore you. To which she replied, beautifully before walking through the door, not enough." —M.M.S., in a remembrance of the past.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Crabs (not the sexy kind)
When I was fourteen my brother got a fish aquarium in his room. He received a 3.6 or something on his report card, and as a reward my parents bought him a super high-tech fish tank that he kept on his dresser near his water bed (his present from the previous semester's stellar grades. My brother snagged all the good parental rewards. All I ever got for making the honor roll, which was always the silver honor roll, never the gold like my brother, was a stupid land-line flip phone and a 98 degrees Christmas CD. But that's beside the point.)
Though it was to be my brother's aquarium, and it was going to go in his room, I was allowed to buy one fish to keep in the tank. Of course, my brother was vehemently opposed to this, but I think my mother felt guilty that her daughter wasn't as bright as her son, and was trying to encourage me.
One afternoon, the three of us drove down the street to Earl May (an Iowan, perhaps Midwestern, pet / landscape design store that always smelled like damp concrete and stale seeds). As soon as we walked in, I immediately sprinted over to the ferret jungle gym and begged for one of the $300 ferrets. I was refused. One tropical fish was all I was allowed.
I scanned the many tanks packed with mostly ugly fish. I, being the aesthetic child that I was, wanted the beta fish. The fish that was kept in its own cubicle of sorts that was suctioned to the side of a larger tank, separated from the other, normal fish. The beta fish was sophisticated and detailed, its tiny scales were blue, purple, and red; all perfectly blending together in such subtlety it made me think it was all one color—some brilliant color I'd never seen before. I announced that that was the fish I wanted, but the salesman quickly informed my mother that this fish was 'volatile', and not the type that could peacefully coexist with other fish. Upon hearing this my brother whined, and my mother refused to buy me a beta fish. (Why I couldn't have had my own tiny bowl of water with my own fish in my own room was beyond me. But perhaps it had to do with my puny, less than desirable 2.5 G.P.A.)
So, instead, I got some stupid kind-of chubby white fish. I can't even remember what type of fish it was, but initially, I hated it. My brother was allowed to buy like five fish, and also, a fucking crab. At first my Mom was hesitant, especially when I let out a tiny shriek at the thought of having a crab in the tank with my fish (suddenly the chubby fish I'd chosen was beloved and needed to be protected by its only defender), but in the end the salesperson told her that a crab could be useful in lieu of a bottom feeder, helping to keep the tank clean of feces and discarded food bits. So, the three of us got back in my mom's mini van with six fish, a tank, some kitschy fake scuba diver and treasure chest set, and a fucking scary iridescent albino crab.
As it turns out, the fish I'd chosen was pregnant. And after a few days, her belly swelled to double its original size. She was huge. I suddenly became infatuated with her in this new state. My fourteen-year-old self identified with her, woman-to-woman. We struggled in all the same ways. She alone in a tank with a fucking crab roaming around on the bottom, and I with a stupid brother bouncing around in his fucking water bed in the room next to my normal boring bed.
I watched dutifully as my fish grew bigger and bigger. I was so excited that she was pregnant. Though, most of my excitement could probably be attributed to my deep hope that the fish would have at least five babies and then, by sheer ownership, I'd suddenly have more fish in my brother's tank than my brother.
About a week later, I went into my brother's room one morning before school to check on my mommy-to-be. She wasn't swimming near the top like she normally was, nor was she idly floating near the wall of the tank, she wasn't stuck in the filter (as I'd heard from someone at school could happen), nor was she inside the fake coral reef playground. I couldn't see her anywhere. I looked down at the tank's lime-green pebble-covered floor (my brother's decision), and saw that fucking crab, sidestepping with its gross claws proudly erect in the air like it was performing for me, mocking me even. Then I saw a glint of white scale slowly fall through the water in front of the crab, followed by another. And, looking more closely at those fucking crab claws, I saw one more piece of white scale clinging to the inside of one of its pinchers. Then I looked to the right and saw my fish, ponderous, floating in the water as lifeless as a discarded candy wrapper. Its abdomen was half-dismembered, its womb ripped open, its insides dangling out of its stomach like the underside of a starfish. I screamed. I'm sure I started crying too. I immediately ran into my mother's room, screaming at her to wake up. My fish was dead, and worse, her children were dead too. It was like my fish was Lacey and the crab was Scott Peterson. "Who kills a pregnant woman?!?!" I screamed to my mom.
Anyways, that was a traumatic experience. And the point of the story is that that one particular instance created in me a deep-rooted fear of crabs. Any size of crab. A great fear that they have the capability of disemboweling my womanhood. Stealing it away, and making me sterile. I hate all crabs.
Though it was to be my brother's aquarium, and it was going to go in his room, I was allowed to buy one fish to keep in the tank. Of course, my brother was vehemently opposed to this, but I think my mother felt guilty that her daughter wasn't as bright as her son, and was trying to encourage me.
One afternoon, the three of us drove down the street to Earl May (an Iowan, perhaps Midwestern, pet / landscape design store that always smelled like damp concrete and stale seeds). As soon as we walked in, I immediately sprinted over to the ferret jungle gym and begged for one of the $300 ferrets. I was refused. One tropical fish was all I was allowed.
I scanned the many tanks packed with mostly ugly fish. I, being the aesthetic child that I was, wanted the beta fish. The fish that was kept in its own cubicle of sorts that was suctioned to the side of a larger tank, separated from the other, normal fish. The beta fish was sophisticated and detailed, its tiny scales were blue, purple, and red; all perfectly blending together in such subtlety it made me think it was all one color—some brilliant color I'd never seen before. I announced that that was the fish I wanted, but the salesman quickly informed my mother that this fish was 'volatile', and not the type that could peacefully coexist with other fish. Upon hearing this my brother whined, and my mother refused to buy me a beta fish. (Why I couldn't have had my own tiny bowl of water with my own fish in my own room was beyond me. But perhaps it had to do with my puny, less than desirable 2.5 G.P.A.)
So, instead, I got some stupid kind-of chubby white fish. I can't even remember what type of fish it was, but initially, I hated it. My brother was allowed to buy like five fish, and also, a fucking crab. At first my Mom was hesitant, especially when I let out a tiny shriek at the thought of having a crab in the tank with my fish (suddenly the chubby fish I'd chosen was beloved and needed to be protected by its only defender), but in the end the salesperson told her that a crab could be useful in lieu of a bottom feeder, helping to keep the tank clean of feces and discarded food bits. So, the three of us got back in my mom's mini van with six fish, a tank, some kitschy fake scuba diver and treasure chest set, and a fucking scary iridescent albino crab.
As it turns out, the fish I'd chosen was pregnant. And after a few days, her belly swelled to double its original size. She was huge. I suddenly became infatuated with her in this new state. My fourteen-year-old self identified with her, woman-to-woman. We struggled in all the same ways. She alone in a tank with a fucking crab roaming around on the bottom, and I with a stupid brother bouncing around in his fucking water bed in the room next to my normal boring bed.
I watched dutifully as my fish grew bigger and bigger. I was so excited that she was pregnant. Though, most of my excitement could probably be attributed to my deep hope that the fish would have at least five babies and then, by sheer ownership, I'd suddenly have more fish in my brother's tank than my brother.
About a week later, I went into my brother's room one morning before school to check on my mommy-to-be. She wasn't swimming near the top like she normally was, nor was she idly floating near the wall of the tank, she wasn't stuck in the filter (as I'd heard from someone at school could happen), nor was she inside the fake coral reef playground. I couldn't see her anywhere. I looked down at the tank's lime-green pebble-covered floor (my brother's decision), and saw that fucking crab, sidestepping with its gross claws proudly erect in the air like it was performing for me, mocking me even. Then I saw a glint of white scale slowly fall through the water in front of the crab, followed by another. And, looking more closely at those fucking crab claws, I saw one more piece of white scale clinging to the inside of one of its pinchers. Then I looked to the right and saw my fish, ponderous, floating in the water as lifeless as a discarded candy wrapper. Its abdomen was half-dismembered, its womb ripped open, its insides dangling out of its stomach like the underside of a starfish. I screamed. I'm sure I started crying too. I immediately ran into my mother's room, screaming at her to wake up. My fish was dead, and worse, her children were dead too. It was like my fish was Lacey and the crab was Scott Peterson. "Who kills a pregnant woman?!?!" I screamed to my mom.
Anyways, that was a traumatic experience. And the point of the story is that that one particular instance created in me a deep-rooted fear of crabs. Any size of crab. A great fear that they have the capability of disemboweling my womanhood. Stealing it away, and making me sterile. I hate all crabs.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Another Way to Watch the Sun Set
First you'll need to lie on your bed, or on a couch, or on a pillow-padded floor. You could lie anywhere really, just as long as it's indoors. Also make sure whatever room you are in has at least one window. It's best if the window(s) opens to the West, but honestly, any or all directions are fine. Make sure the curtains that normally cover the window are drawn back, and/or the blinds are tilted appropriately. Natural sunlight needs to permeate the room. No electric light of any sort should be on, nor should a candle be lit. It is also important that you be reading something. This is a key step. A book is a good choice. I suppose a newspaper would also work. Just as long as it's not a magazine article. (Magazine pages, usually, are too shiny.)
Now begin reading. Don't stop reading. Just read and read. Don't stop to look out the window, stare at the wall, write something down, watch your fingers scratch your ankle, or consult a watch for the time. (Which reminds me, this process should begin around 7pm in the summertime, and 4pm in the winter season. Or, if you want to read for longer, start sooner. But other than checking the time before you begin to read, do not glance away from the text in front of you.)
Continue reading. As you read, the sun will begin to set. You will know this because reading will become increasingly difficult. But do not turn on any lights! Just keep reading. About every ten minutes or so, your eyes will lose focus and they will have to take a moment to readjust. This is due to the diminishing natural light, a direct effect of the Earth's slow roll away from the sun. The light will continue to fade for about an hour, with it becoming more difficult to read every ten minutes. As you keep reading, your pace will slow, and your eyes may feel strained. Keep going.
Eventually the light will disappear altogether. Sometimes this will happen when you are in the middle of a sentence, or even worse, during a really suspenseful, climactic part of the story. These things happen. Or perhaps it will be that just as the sun extinguishes, you complete a sentence! Or, in the most fortuitous of circumstances, you just read the last word of an entire paragraph, or even better, just finished a section, or a chapter, or (gasp!) your mind just uttered the very last word at the end of a book!
Take a moment, now, before you turn on a light, to lie in the darkness. Lay the book on your stomach and feel the weight of your accomplishment. Then you may either turn on the light to continue reading (if necessary), or leave the lights off for the rest of the evening (preferable) and either fall asleep and dream or lie awake and think.
Repeat.
Now begin reading. Don't stop reading. Just read and read. Don't stop to look out the window, stare at the wall, write something down, watch your fingers scratch your ankle, or consult a watch for the time. (Which reminds me, this process should begin around 7pm in the summertime, and 4pm in the winter season. Or, if you want to read for longer, start sooner. But other than checking the time before you begin to read, do not glance away from the text in front of you.)
Continue reading. As you read, the sun will begin to set. You will know this because reading will become increasingly difficult. But do not turn on any lights! Just keep reading. About every ten minutes or so, your eyes will lose focus and they will have to take a moment to readjust. This is due to the diminishing natural light, a direct effect of the Earth's slow roll away from the sun. The light will continue to fade for about an hour, with it becoming more difficult to read every ten minutes. As you keep reading, your pace will slow, and your eyes may feel strained. Keep going.
Eventually the light will disappear altogether. Sometimes this will happen when you are in the middle of a sentence, or even worse, during a really suspenseful, climactic part of the story. These things happen. Or perhaps it will be that just as the sun extinguishes, you complete a sentence! Or, in the most fortuitous of circumstances, you just read the last word of an entire paragraph, or even better, just finished a section, or a chapter, or (gasp!) your mind just uttered the very last word at the end of a book!
Take a moment, now, before you turn on a light, to lie in the darkness. Lay the book on your stomach and feel the weight of your accomplishment. Then you may either turn on the light to continue reading (if necessary), or leave the lights off for the rest of the evening (preferable) and either fall asleep and dream or lie awake and think.
Repeat.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Obvious Child on Brooklyn Vegan
Our film screened at IFC Rooftop Summer Film Festival last Friday. Thanks to all who came!
Read Brooklyn Vegan's coverage of the night here.
Read Brooklyn Vegan's coverage of the night here.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
What Am I? A Bologna Sandwich?
As I've mentioned before, I live in Bushwick. I've resided here for almost three of the five years I've lived in New York City. I remember the day after I moved in, setting out on my own in hot pursuit of a new local laundry mat. Upon rounding the corner, leaving the nearly empty side-street of Grove for the more bustling sidewalks of Broadway, I immediately found myself the recipient of several nicknames: "Hey Princess"; "Snow bunny"; "Sugar cookie"; "Peach", which all were thrown in my direction before I had even walked an entire block.
That was 2007.
Today is different. I still walk down Broadway all the time by myself, but now with nary a call or effusive shout. At first, I thought my hair played a factor. As in early 2007 I was a shoulder-length blond, and since then my hair has been brown, red, and boy-short bleach blond. But my hair is now back to the early 2007 style, and yet the cat calls still don't compare to what I used to get.
So now I am left to wonder, since it's not the hair, what about me, or my neighborhood, has changed in the last three years?
Yes, perhaps the streets of Southern Bushwick are now more used to the sight of a fair-skinned, blond woman walking solo down the street. But also, maybe it's me. Perhaps my expression has grown more smug, and I now appear less innocent-looking. While I gleefully hope that the subtle change in my facial facade is capable of shutting the mouths of horny men, I must admit, though, that I miss them. The cat calls. A girl needs a certain amount of compliments to confirm her outfit decisions or hair style choices. I mean, if people don't say anything, how am I supposed to know if I look good? If a day passes where I'm not randomly shouted at on the street, I'll assume the worst.
Thankfully, there is still the rare and sporadic comment or remark. One weekend last summer, after I'd just switched two loads of clothing from the washer to the dryer, I stepped outside for relief from the stuffy, non air-conditioned confines of the laundry mat. I decided to head north, in search of a cool treat. I purchased a frozen strawberry popsicle from the corner deli and began consuming it on the street as I headed back toward my spinning clothing. On my way, I passed two young gentlemen, clad in baggy denim and wife beaters. They intently stared as I walked by, and somewhere deep inside I hoped that they would say something to me, make me feel like I existed. After all, despite it being laundry day, I had on my tightest pants. But they passed by, and my heart sank. But then, after they were already behind me, one of them said, "I would give anything to be that popsicle, baby."
Finally! After months of silence I at last had the confirmation I'd been waiting for. And I lived off this one simple comment for at least a week, able to again feel confident and secure in my appearance.
And then, a week later, just when the remnant feelings from the former comment were beginning to wear off, I passed two other gentlemen on the street, Bushwick Avenue this time, less than a block from my home, with my apartment building in sight. As I walked by them I began hoping. And again, once my back was to them (this apparently being an opportune moment for them), one of the men shouted, "Suck my dick!"
They couldn't see it, but I was smiling. And their simple comment, which I'm sure they forgot about almost instantly, affirmed my existence in this world for another entire month.
And it is because of these instances that I have to send out a whole-hearted thank you to the men of Bushwick. You make my life worth living.
That was 2007.
Today is different. I still walk down Broadway all the time by myself, but now with nary a call or effusive shout. At first, I thought my hair played a factor. As in early 2007 I was a shoulder-length blond, and since then my hair has been brown, red, and boy-short bleach blond. But my hair is now back to the early 2007 style, and yet the cat calls still don't compare to what I used to get.
So now I am left to wonder, since it's not the hair, what about me, or my neighborhood, has changed in the last three years?
Yes, perhaps the streets of Southern Bushwick are now more used to the sight of a fair-skinned, blond woman walking solo down the street. But also, maybe it's me. Perhaps my expression has grown more smug, and I now appear less innocent-looking. While I gleefully hope that the subtle change in my facial facade is capable of shutting the mouths of horny men, I must admit, though, that I miss them. The cat calls. A girl needs a certain amount of compliments to confirm her outfit decisions or hair style choices. I mean, if people don't say anything, how am I supposed to know if I look good? If a day passes where I'm not randomly shouted at on the street, I'll assume the worst.
Thankfully, there is still the rare and sporadic comment or remark. One weekend last summer, after I'd just switched two loads of clothing from the washer to the dryer, I stepped outside for relief from the stuffy, non air-conditioned confines of the laundry mat. I decided to head north, in search of a cool treat. I purchased a frozen strawberry popsicle from the corner deli and began consuming it on the street as I headed back toward my spinning clothing. On my way, I passed two young gentlemen, clad in baggy denim and wife beaters. They intently stared as I walked by, and somewhere deep inside I hoped that they would say something to me, make me feel like I existed. After all, despite it being laundry day, I had on my tightest pants. But they passed by, and my heart sank. But then, after they were already behind me, one of them said, "I would give anything to be that popsicle, baby."
Finally! After months of silence I at last had the confirmation I'd been waiting for. And I lived off this one simple comment for at least a week, able to again feel confident and secure in my appearance.
And then, a week later, just when the remnant feelings from the former comment were beginning to wear off, I passed two other gentlemen on the street, Bushwick Avenue this time, less than a block from my home, with my apartment building in sight. As I walked by them I began hoping. And again, once my back was to them (this apparently being an opportune moment for them), one of the men shouted, "Suck my dick!"
They couldn't see it, but I was smiling. And their simple comment, which I'm sure they forgot about almost instantly, affirmed my existence in this world for another entire month.
And it is because of these instances that I have to send out a whole-hearted thank you to the men of Bushwick. You make my life worth living.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Off to Portland --
To deliver a somewhat used cookbook with pink-speckled pages from all the beets sliced in its presence to this broad -- the loveliest little sprite with whom I share a fondness for chaise lounges and, at one point if not still, Donna Hayward-inspired skirts and sweaters.
I will deliver the cookbook, frolic in the misty woods, wear clothes that for the first time in almost a year will be within hugging reach of their original owner, and eat a donut or two. And maybe go to a strip club.
I will deliver the cookbook, frolic in the misty woods, wear clothes that for the first time in almost a year will be within hugging reach of their original owner, and eat a donut or two. And maybe go to a strip club.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Mollycoddling the afternoon away
Molly: http://ashortwave.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/bagby_hot_springs.jpg
Get your pants of girl, this is gonna be a wet one
these guys may or may not be there
http://oregonhotsprings.immunenet.com/images/bagbytub.jpg
sorry, I meant "get your pants off." it's early. I need an editor.
Sent at 2:13 PM on Friday
Me: Oh man! Molly, I love log rides!!
and i sincerely HOPE that those guys are there!!
Molly: Well, if you're going to get a log ride they're the only ones capable of giving it to you
Sent at 2:28 PM on Friday
Me: Nice.
Molly: I am happy because I just found out the roads to that place are clear. Usually it's too snowy this time of year to get there!
oh boy!
Me: oh boy(s)!!, you mean
Sent at 2:32 PM on Friday
Molly: well, of course
you'll love the men who hang out there: hawaiian-print board shorts, pit-bulls, soul patch
Sent at 2:35 PM on Friday
Me: I love me a good soul patch
Sent at 2:58 PM on Friday
Molly: a soul patch log jamb
Sent at 3:05 PM on Friday
Me: a patched log, soul jam
Sent at 3:46 PM on Friday
Molly: hawaiian soul, pit jam
Me: jam band, jimmy buffet
Sent at 3:49 PM on Friday
Molly: cheeseburger jam, paradise patch
Sent at 3:54 PM on Friday
Molly is offline. Messages you send will be delivered when Molly comes online.
Me: Ball pit, Rick Warren
Get your pants of girl, this is gonna be a wet one
these guys may or may not be there
http://oregonhotsprings.immunenet.com/images/bagbytub.jpg
sorry, I meant "get your pants off." it's early. I need an editor.
Sent at 2:13 PM on Friday
Me: Oh man! Molly, I love log rides!!
and i sincerely HOPE that those guys are there!!
Molly: Well, if you're going to get a log ride they're the only ones capable of giving it to you
Sent at 2:28 PM on Friday
Me: Nice.
Molly: I am happy because I just found out the roads to that place are clear. Usually it's too snowy this time of year to get there!
oh boy!
Me: oh boy(s)!!, you mean
Sent at 2:32 PM on Friday
Molly: well, of course
you'll love the men who hang out there: hawaiian-print board shorts, pit-bulls, soul patch
Sent at 2:35 PM on Friday
Me: I love me a good soul patch
Sent at 2:58 PM on Friday
Molly: a soul patch log jamb
Sent at 3:05 PM on Friday
Me: a patched log, soul jam
Sent at 3:46 PM on Friday
Molly: hawaiian soul, pit jam
Me: jam band, jimmy buffet
Sent at 3:49 PM on Friday
Molly: cheeseburger jam, paradise patch
Sent at 3:54 PM on Friday
Molly is offline. Messages you send will be delivered when Molly comes online.
Me: Ball pit, Rick Warren
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Portland Oregon Women's Film Festival
The schedule for the 2010 Portland Oregon Women's Film Festival, Obvious Child's second film festival appearance. Conveniently screened right after "Whore" and just before "Bollywood". Perfect. Though, I wish we followed "Catechism". Still, we're practically famous.
Also, for local people -- there's a screening of the film this Monday, the 22nd at The Tea Lounge in Park Slope. Info here.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The World Is What It Is
These girls are of the purest gold wound in the softest silk from the most luminous worm.
G: i heart pooping with james franco
ME: can you imagine an emoticon for james franco?
G: a big smiling dick
G: i heart pooping with james franco
ME: can you imagine an emoticon for james franco?
G: a big smiling dick
Saturday, February 6, 2010
I WANTED TO TELL YOU...YOUR VOICE FILLS MY HEART WITH DIVINE LIGHT
Dario Argento made a Phantom of the Opera film in the 90s?! Good night!
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Life Lessons
I'm learning so many new things about my self out there in the real world! Like this...
Today at my internship my already torn skirt (it has a small tear on the side, which looks like an intentional modest slit) got caught on the toilet paper dispenser in the bathroom and ripped all the way up to my butt.
Luckily, I have a friend in the office and after we batted around a few unsuitable suggestions (paper clip, glue stick, scotch tape, butterfly stickers) we came to the best solution: stapler. I took it into the bathroom and locked myself behind a stall. I sat down on the toilet, skirt in my lap, and began stapling the side seam back together. Very soon though, a flock of women came in and gathered around the sink and in the two stalls on either side of me. Now, if you don't know, staplers happen to have a very distinct sound, and finding myself no longer alone, I grew very self-conscious of the noise I was making. I tried to imagine what several repeated stapler clicks coming from inside a stall might sound like to other people. So I stopped and waited, and when a toilet flushed I rapidly finished the job.
Well, turns out, regular staples aren't meant to hold fabric together. I left my internship in the afternoon, staples still in tact, and got on the subway to go uptown to my other job. I'd forgotten all about my skirt mishap and when I bent over to sit down, the staples relented and the rip burst apart, exposing my entire thigh (covered in tights, thankfully) and releasing a loud rip noise that sounded like a fart. People looked at me. The staples were now noticeable, sticking out and bent, the occasional one pricking my skin. But I had seven more stops to go before I could get off. So I just sat there. I sat quietly, trying to anticipate the motions of the train in effort to keep my body still and prevent any further staple pokes. Soon enough, the people turned away from me and back to their newspapers and video games. All except the guy on the end of the train who was wearing a trash bag. He was still looking at me. And I was OK with that.
What I learned: there is nothing to be ashamed of, I am rather resourceful, and I might have a thing for homeless men.
Nonrelated:
Below, a google earth shot of a friend's parents' house. It's in Iowa and the human-looking image in the grass behind the house is a garden that was intentionally designed to look like a fetus when viewed from above. An homage to Jesus.
View Larger Map
Today at my internship my already torn skirt (it has a small tear on the side, which looks like an intentional modest slit) got caught on the toilet paper dispenser in the bathroom and ripped all the way up to my butt.
Luckily, I have a friend in the office and after we batted around a few unsuitable suggestions (paper clip, glue stick, scotch tape, butterfly stickers) we came to the best solution: stapler. I took it into the bathroom and locked myself behind a stall. I sat down on the toilet, skirt in my lap, and began stapling the side seam back together. Very soon though, a flock of women came in and gathered around the sink and in the two stalls on either side of me. Now, if you don't know, staplers happen to have a very distinct sound, and finding myself no longer alone, I grew very self-conscious of the noise I was making. I tried to imagine what several repeated stapler clicks coming from inside a stall might sound like to other people. So I stopped and waited, and when a toilet flushed I rapidly finished the job.
Well, turns out, regular staples aren't meant to hold fabric together. I left my internship in the afternoon, staples still in tact, and got on the subway to go uptown to my other job. I'd forgotten all about my skirt mishap and when I bent over to sit down, the staples relented and the rip burst apart, exposing my entire thigh (covered in tights, thankfully) and releasing a loud rip noise that sounded like a fart. People looked at me. The staples were now noticeable, sticking out and bent, the occasional one pricking my skin. But I had seven more stops to go before I could get off. So I just sat there. I sat quietly, trying to anticipate the motions of the train in effort to keep my body still and prevent any further staple pokes. Soon enough, the people turned away from me and back to their newspapers and video games. All except the guy on the end of the train who was wearing a trash bag. He was still looking at me. And I was OK with that.
What I learned: there is nothing to be ashamed of, I am rather resourceful, and I might have a thing for homeless men.
Nonrelated:
Below, a google earth shot of a friend's parents' house. It's in Iowa and the human-looking image in the grass behind the house is a garden that was intentionally designed to look like a fetus when viewed from above. An homage to Jesus.
View Larger Map
Sunday, January 24, 2010
American Beauty
Friend and loyal follower of my blog, Ryan, recently posted a clip from one of my all-time favorite film scenes.
When I was in high school, junior year to be exact, I was able to recite, word-for-word, nearly every line from the film American Beauty. My friends and I would get many laughs during a slow day in the chemistry lab by taking turns acting out the hysterical Carolyn Burnham (“This is a $4,000 sofa, upholstered in Italian silk. It is not just a couch!”), or the cool, recently liberated Lester Burnahm (“It’s just a couch. This isn’t life. This is just stuff. And lately it’s become more important to you than living. Well honey, that’s just nuts.”). It was also this particular role, underscored by his John Doe in Se7en, that beget my long, still withstanding crush on Kevin Spacey.
For some reason, as of recent, discussion of this film has come up amongst my friends and coworkers. Most people I’ve talked to do not like this film. Actually, most despise it. When I ask why, they mostly just roll their eyes and say something like, “Oh that bag. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Yes, that line, and that whole scene in particular, is pretty terrible. But if we all think back to some of the sappy, melodramatic things we said and did when we were sixteen (the age of the character in the film who calls the bag dancing in the breeze 'beautiful'), I’m sure we’d all roll our eyes in response as well. (I, for one, used to pretend to be a stoner, wore hemp necklaces, and scrawled Simon & Garfunkel lyrics all over my school notebook.) American Beauty haters will also note the sappy, dramatic feel of the film—the dark lighting, the slow, emo-like instrumental score, the bright, striking, and contrasting colors, the cliché lines about life, etc. But there is nary a Hollywood film that doesn’t contain these elements . . . (cough) Wes Anderson (cough). These sappy, emotional shots and scenes are the connective tissue that often caters the film to a wider audience, which means more money, which is all Hollywood really cares for anyway. It’s the small subtle elements that the filmmaker sneaks in, the stuff that slips by the general movie-goer, that makes a Hollywood film good. Does American Beauty contain these nuances? To an extent. And I think it’s evident in the acting and the dialogue. If I were to see American Beauty for the first time today, I may feel differently. But when I first saw it, at the tender and impressionable age of fifteen, I thought it was brilliant.
My connection to the film today is more about nostalgia than anything else. I came upon the film the year after it was released. I got home from school, plopped myself down on our living room sofa, and turned on the television to watch a Saved by the Bell rerun, as I always did. Instead of finding Zack and Kelly mid-make out, the television screen filled with the image of a woman. She was suspended from a ceiling and her naked body was masked by her blonde hair and covered in red rose petals. I later learned that the film had been left in the VCR by my mother. She’d seen a copy of it resting in the $5 video bin at the grocery store one afternoon and, remembering that it had recently won Best Picture, bought it as an impulse-purchase. Turns out she had paused it at this precise moment because, after only fifteen minutes, she found Kevin Spacey’s lustful longing for his sixteen-year-old daughter’s best friend “weird”. I though, a teenager myself, was naturally intrigued by the half-dressed woman and immediately pressed play, anxiously awaiting for what I hoped would be a follow-up sex scene. The anticipated romp didn’t come, but I continued watching the film anyway. I’d become transfixed. And I watched it in its entirety.
I’m sure the suburban setting reminded me of my own, as well as the characters, representing people I knew in my own life. There were several girls I went to school with who were just like Angela (Mena Suvari’s character)—slutty and bitchy—and I was usually friends with them for some reason. I could also relate to Angela, wanting to have sex with every boy, but never actually going all the way. And I felt like Jane (Thora Birch) too, trapped in a small town and resenting my parents for everything. And every now and then, my mother was capable of emotional breakdowns tantamount to those displayed by Carolyn Burnham. I truly believed that this film was made for me.
After my first viewing I watched it again later that night, and then I watched it dozens of times more. Soon I had memorized all of the dialogue. I even wrote the last line of the film down in my journal. (Further proof that the actions of teenagers are often melodramatic.) And the name of this very blog was inspired by the film, from the scene below.
I think it’s safe to assume that seeing this movie is part of why I moved out of the suburbs, to a city. Why I live in a third-floor apartment instead of a house on a cul-de-sac. Why I take the subway or ride my bike instead of driving a car. I think it planted a tiny idea in my head, an idea which was to be nurtured over the next few years by liberally minded friends and a withdrawal from Catholicism. I was also convinced that the reason my mother didn’t like the film was not because it was weird, but because it reminded her too much of her own life. Maybe this was another reason why I liked it.
In closing, thank you Lester Burnham & co.! Thank you for nothing short of saving my life. And also for giving me the idea to fake a seizure when I get bored at a party. This will be my goal for 2010.
When I was in high school, junior year to be exact, I was able to recite, word-for-word, nearly every line from the film American Beauty. My friends and I would get many laughs during a slow day in the chemistry lab by taking turns acting out the hysterical Carolyn Burnham (“This is a $4,000 sofa, upholstered in Italian silk. It is not just a couch!”), or the cool, recently liberated Lester Burnahm (“It’s just a couch. This isn’t life. This is just stuff. And lately it’s become more important to you than living. Well honey, that’s just nuts.”). It was also this particular role, underscored by his John Doe in Se7en, that beget my long, still withstanding crush on Kevin Spacey.
For some reason, as of recent, discussion of this film has come up amongst my friends and coworkers. Most people I’ve talked to do not like this film. Actually, most despise it. When I ask why, they mostly just roll their eyes and say something like, “Oh that bag. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Yes, that line, and that whole scene in particular, is pretty terrible. But if we all think back to some of the sappy, melodramatic things we said and did when we were sixteen (the age of the character in the film who calls the bag dancing in the breeze 'beautiful'), I’m sure we’d all roll our eyes in response as well. (I, for one, used to pretend to be a stoner, wore hemp necklaces, and scrawled Simon & Garfunkel lyrics all over my school notebook.) American Beauty haters will also note the sappy, dramatic feel of the film—the dark lighting, the slow, emo-like instrumental score, the bright, striking, and contrasting colors, the cliché lines about life, etc. But there is nary a Hollywood film that doesn’t contain these elements . . . (cough) Wes Anderson (cough). These sappy, emotional shots and scenes are the connective tissue that often caters the film to a wider audience, which means more money, which is all Hollywood really cares for anyway. It’s the small subtle elements that the filmmaker sneaks in, the stuff that slips by the general movie-goer, that makes a Hollywood film good. Does American Beauty contain these nuances? To an extent. And I think it’s evident in the acting and the dialogue. If I were to see American Beauty for the first time today, I may feel differently. But when I first saw it, at the tender and impressionable age of fifteen, I thought it was brilliant.
My connection to the film today is more about nostalgia than anything else. I came upon the film the year after it was released. I got home from school, plopped myself down on our living room sofa, and turned on the television to watch a Saved by the Bell rerun, as I always did. Instead of finding Zack and Kelly mid-make out, the television screen filled with the image of a woman. She was suspended from a ceiling and her naked body was masked by her blonde hair and covered in red rose petals. I later learned that the film had been left in the VCR by my mother. She’d seen a copy of it resting in the $5 video bin at the grocery store one afternoon and, remembering that it had recently won Best Picture, bought it as an impulse-purchase. Turns out she had paused it at this precise moment because, after only fifteen minutes, she found Kevin Spacey’s lustful longing for his sixteen-year-old daughter’s best friend “weird”. I though, a teenager myself, was naturally intrigued by the half-dressed woman and immediately pressed play, anxiously awaiting for what I hoped would be a follow-up sex scene. The anticipated romp didn’t come, but I continued watching the film anyway. I’d become transfixed. And I watched it in its entirety.
I’m sure the suburban setting reminded me of my own, as well as the characters, representing people I knew in my own life. There were several girls I went to school with who were just like Angela (Mena Suvari’s character)—slutty and bitchy—and I was usually friends with them for some reason. I could also relate to Angela, wanting to have sex with every boy, but never actually going all the way. And I felt like Jane (Thora Birch) too, trapped in a small town and resenting my parents for everything. And every now and then, my mother was capable of emotional breakdowns tantamount to those displayed by Carolyn Burnham. I truly believed that this film was made for me.
After my first viewing I watched it again later that night, and then I watched it dozens of times more. Soon I had memorized all of the dialogue. I even wrote the last line of the film down in my journal. (Further proof that the actions of teenagers are often melodramatic.) And the name of this very blog was inspired by the film, from the scene below.
I think it’s safe to assume that seeing this movie is part of why I moved out of the suburbs, to a city. Why I live in a third-floor apartment instead of a house on a cul-de-sac. Why I take the subway or ride my bike instead of driving a car. I think it planted a tiny idea in my head, an idea which was to be nurtured over the next few years by liberally minded friends and a withdrawal from Catholicism. I was also convinced that the reason my mother didn’t like the film was not because it was weird, but because it reminded her too much of her own life. Maybe this was another reason why I liked it.
In closing, thank you Lester Burnham & co.! Thank you for nothing short of saving my life. And also for giving me the idea to fake a seizure when I get bored at a party. This will be my goal for 2010.
Friday, January 8, 2010
All the unhappiness of man stems from one thing only: that he is incapable of staying quietly in his room.
I am reading The Invention of Solitude by Paul Auster (nonfiction book about father figures: his own, himself, and other dads or dad-like individuals). The above title is a quote by Pascal and is referenced by Auster.
I read the book on the train today. I rode the J into the city with Owl Licks this afternoon. I on my way to babysit on the UES, he on his way to work at the metal shop at Columbia. There was a chubby gay man in green pants who boarded the subway with us at Gates. He was with an older heterosexual couple who looked to be from the Midwest. I guessed they were his parents, visiting. He was taking pictures of them and himself before the three of them walked to the front of the subway car (we were on the first train car) and stared out the window at the expanding tacks as we pushed toward Manhattan. Owl Licks and I had a hearty laugh somewhere over the East River, wedged between the two lanes of traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge. I don't remember what it was that made us laugh, but I think the two of us both needed a serious guffaw and that it didn't matter in the least how it came about. And we were both adamant about carrying the laughter on, all the way across the bridge. Perhaps we had exhausted what we were talking about or maybe we'd become self-conscious and the once earnest laughter had become a nervous continuum of giggles. Either way, I thought that the guy seated across from us probably believed us to be stoned.
I picked up the boy I watch from school and took him in a cab to midtown where he has a tennis lesson. I sat on the sidelines, on a comfortably cushioned wicker bench, and watched as he and three other ten-year-olds were instructed by a lean, tanned young man on the form and footwork of tennis. An older woman, clearly the mother of one of the other boys, walked in towards the end of the lesson and sat down next to me, on a matching wicker chair. At the end, all the boys ran over to the water cooler in front of where we sat and began voraciously chugging. The mother next to me tried to casually start conversation with the attractive, younger tennis instructor. She complimented his ability to keep all the kids respectful and in-check during the lesson. The instructor was standing on the other side of me, leaning against the wall and spinning his racket atop the turf of the court, and I inevitably found myself in the middle of their conversation. I smiled occasionally as they chatted, but had no interest in joining their prattle. He was attractive though. The mother then said something about someone being contrite. I'm not sure who she was referencing but the once talkative instructor suddenly shoved his paper water cup into his mouth, took a long drink, looked at the mother, smiled quickly, said Yes, and looked away, back towards the court where the four boys walked around with slow steps, almost hopping, covering and hiding scattered tennis balls inside fluorescent orange tubes that were taller than themselves. It seemed to me that the instructor didn't know what contrite meant. This might be unfair of me, assuming someone who is good at sports has a poor vocabulary. But his expression looked just like mine does when someone uses a word I don't know. Though, sometimes the proper response is indeed a blank-faced stare followed by a introspective Yes whether or not you know what the other person is talking about.
After the lesson, my boy and I went back to the UES apartment where he lives. He was reading on the couch, waiting for his piano teacher to arrive, while I leafed through the dozens of Christmas card pictures the family had gotten over the holiday season. One was from Justice Clarence Thomas. And his was more like a newsletter than a card. And it wasn't devoted to the children, as most Christmas cards are, but instead to Mr. Thomas himself. It was written in first-person, from the perspective of his wife and filled with lots of colored pictures of Mr. Thomas at Nebraska football games. At one point his wife listed off things that her husband had accomplished during the past year and at the end in parenthesis added, "not to mention being the best husband ever!!"
Another quote from Auster's book:
"Impossible, I realize, to enter another's solitude. If it is true that we can ever come to know another human being, even to a small degree, it is only to the extent that he is willing to make himself known. A man will say: I am cold. Or else he will say nothing, and we will see him shivering. Either way, we will know that he is cold. But what of the man who says nothing and does not shiver? Where all is intractable, where all is hermetic and evasive, one can do no more than observe. But whether one can make sense of what he observes is another matter entirely."
I read the book on the train today. I rode the J into the city with Owl Licks this afternoon. I on my way to babysit on the UES, he on his way to work at the metal shop at Columbia. There was a chubby gay man in green pants who boarded the subway with us at Gates. He was with an older heterosexual couple who looked to be from the Midwest. I guessed they were his parents, visiting. He was taking pictures of them and himself before the three of them walked to the front of the subway car (we were on the first train car) and stared out the window at the expanding tacks as we pushed toward Manhattan. Owl Licks and I had a hearty laugh somewhere over the East River, wedged between the two lanes of traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge. I don't remember what it was that made us laugh, but I think the two of us both needed a serious guffaw and that it didn't matter in the least how it came about. And we were both adamant about carrying the laughter on, all the way across the bridge. Perhaps we had exhausted what we were talking about or maybe we'd become self-conscious and the once earnest laughter had become a nervous continuum of giggles. Either way, I thought that the guy seated across from us probably believed us to be stoned.
I picked up the boy I watch from school and took him in a cab to midtown where he has a tennis lesson. I sat on the sidelines, on a comfortably cushioned wicker bench, and watched as he and three other ten-year-olds were instructed by a lean, tanned young man on the form and footwork of tennis. An older woman, clearly the mother of one of the other boys, walked in towards the end of the lesson and sat down next to me, on a matching wicker chair. At the end, all the boys ran over to the water cooler in front of where we sat and began voraciously chugging. The mother next to me tried to casually start conversation with the attractive, younger tennis instructor. She complimented his ability to keep all the kids respectful and in-check during the lesson. The instructor was standing on the other side of me, leaning against the wall and spinning his racket atop the turf of the court, and I inevitably found myself in the middle of their conversation. I smiled occasionally as they chatted, but had no interest in joining their prattle. He was attractive though. The mother then said something about someone being contrite. I'm not sure who she was referencing but the once talkative instructor suddenly shoved his paper water cup into his mouth, took a long drink, looked at the mother, smiled quickly, said Yes, and looked away, back towards the court where the four boys walked around with slow steps, almost hopping, covering and hiding scattered tennis balls inside fluorescent orange tubes that were taller than themselves. It seemed to me that the instructor didn't know what contrite meant. This might be unfair of me, assuming someone who is good at sports has a poor vocabulary. But his expression looked just like mine does when someone uses a word I don't know. Though, sometimes the proper response is indeed a blank-faced stare followed by a introspective Yes whether or not you know what the other person is talking about.
After the lesson, my boy and I went back to the UES apartment where he lives. He was reading on the couch, waiting for his piano teacher to arrive, while I leafed through the dozens of Christmas card pictures the family had gotten over the holiday season. One was from Justice Clarence Thomas. And his was more like a newsletter than a card. And it wasn't devoted to the children, as most Christmas cards are, but instead to Mr. Thomas himself. It was written in first-person, from the perspective of his wife and filled with lots of colored pictures of Mr. Thomas at Nebraska football games. At one point his wife listed off things that her husband had accomplished during the past year and at the end in parenthesis added, "not to mention being the best husband ever!!"
Another quote from Auster's book:
"Impossible, I realize, to enter another's solitude. If it is true that we can ever come to know another human being, even to a small degree, it is only to the extent that he is willing to make himself known. A man will say: I am cold. Or else he will say nothing, and we will see him shivering. Either way, we will know that he is cold. But what of the man who says nothing and does not shiver? Where all is intractable, where all is hermetic and evasive, one can do no more than observe. But whether one can make sense of what he observes is another matter entirely."
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