Outside this morning in the wet I saw
Leaves dipped in the gilded ink of autumn
Their tips glistening red orange gold
Stems still green, clinging to the warmth of yesterday
Burning wood mingled with smoky coffee
Shiny hay-like grass tinged with verdant moss
Crows flown into the cloud-draped landscape
The muffled sounds of the season arrive.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Monday, April 10, 2006
Accounting
Spring has arrived, and with it longer days and fewer posts. My weekends have been filled with plants, dirt, and the occasional dandelion, and I've been catching up on my reading too. The last couple of books have included Chang and Eng as well as The Great Pretenders (see the link to the right). Last weekend we made mortadella sausage and this weekend we had an unsuccessful attempt at a Hoegarden Belgian-style beer (ice baths + hot glass containers = 5 gallons of mess), but we'll try again until we're feasting on our own concoctions.
We're also about 6 weeks from a vacation - a much deserved one - and one that has seemed far away for a long time. We're spending 9 days in Hawaii, 6 on Kauai, 3 on Oahu and despite the rain and the sewage leaks and dam bursts, we're really looking forward to it. We have a little pink house on the sunny side of Kauai, right across the road from the beach. In Oahu we're blowing a little bit of change on a room in the Outrigger - but hell, it will be worth it.
For those interested, work is work is work just like it always has been, and nothing's new on that front save a few layoffs today and a few resignations. I don't expect anything to change for me, so I'll sit quietly and work hard and go on my happy vacation and that's about that. My parents are coming out for a visit next weekend - the same weekend Lucy Bland's playing on KEXP (woo-hoo!) - and they'll make a trip to Olympia to see the Mikado.
What, you came here today expecting some great thoughts? I've been gone for a few weeks and this is all I come back with?
Yes, for now.
We're also about 6 weeks from a vacation - a much deserved one - and one that has seemed far away for a long time. We're spending 9 days in Hawaii, 6 on Kauai, 3 on Oahu and despite the rain and the sewage leaks and dam bursts, we're really looking forward to it. We have a little pink house on the sunny side of Kauai, right across the road from the beach. In Oahu we're blowing a little bit of change on a room in the Outrigger - but hell, it will be worth it.
For those interested, work is work is work just like it always has been, and nothing's new on that front save a few layoffs today and a few resignations. I don't expect anything to change for me, so I'll sit quietly and work hard and go on my happy vacation and that's about that. My parents are coming out for a visit next weekend - the same weekend Lucy Bland's playing on KEXP (woo-hoo!) - and they'll make a trip to Olympia to see the Mikado.
What, you came here today expecting some great thoughts? I've been gone for a few weeks and this is all I come back with?
Yes, for now.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
And more about Dora
A couple of days after Dora opened the box, after she threw up from the anxiety of knowing, she had a moment of clarity, of true sadness. For all that she had seen had given her perspective, one not so personal but more accurate. And she was humbled by the depth of feeling that she hadn't known before, and she vowed to respect that sadness and honor it with her heart.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Do the Math
My grandmother was 40 when my mother had me. That's four years older than I am this year, and that means when my mother was the age I am now, I was almost 16. That's a lot to digest. I'll break it down.
By 40, my grandmother had lived in three countries (China, Cuba, Texas) in abject poverty and in ample comfort. She had three children, one of whom was in college and the other two on the way there. She and my grandfather were running a successful business, they owned a home, they were becoming US citizens.
By 40, my mother was visiting me at college, grieving the loss of her father, and still working 60 hour weeks for 30 hour pay, running a law office nonetheless.
I was a good kid, I had loving and happy parents - I had access, education, and opportunity that both sets of grandparents had provided. I had no shortage of affection, and while both my parents worked, I never felt they weren't there.
But I can hardly imagine having a 16-year old as the person I am today. Of course, I would have had 16 years to become that parent. But if I were to become a parent, what kind of parent would I be? Would I be the kind of mother that my mother was, that my grandmother was? Could I even be that kind of mother, having 16 more years of experience than they did when they first gave birth? Would that extra 16 years do me any good? Or would I be a neurotic, controlling grown-up with no business having kids, like many people I know?
In some ways I envy my mother and grandmother for having done it so early. They got to grow up - sometimes the hard way - with their daughters. When I went to prom, my mom was the age I am today. I remember shopping for the dress, the jewelry, the makeup. I remember my mother buying me my first razor (that was years before prom, but go along with me here...), my first bra, going with me to my first gyn visit. It was probably terrifying for her, but she never showed it. And our trials were nothing compared to those she and my grandmother went through. When my grandmother was pregnant with my mother, my grandfather left for Cuba, looking for a better life for all of them. My mother was 5 when he came back for them. All that time my grandmother had to find food for this tiny baby girl, sometimes giving my mother the meat from the fish while she sucked the bones. Anything to survive, anything not to starve.
Knowing that, do I have what it takes? I'd be a great girl scout leader - I can show you how to paint pottery, to make pipe cleaner crafts, to make peanut brittle. I'd probably be a pretty good older sister too, revealing the naughty little secrets every girl should know. Heck, I can even put together model cars, hit a baseball, and help with a science project. But could I be the kind of mom I'd want to be for my kids? I don't think you can ever know that before you do it - it's the kind of thing you look back on years later and say, 'yeah, I think I did okay there.' I think this weekend I'll call my mom and tell her what a great job I think she did.
But wait a second, what about my dad?
In many ways, I am the person I am because of my father. Where the women in my life gave me passion, energy, and the shape of my ass, the men showed me the quiet strength of reason. Of planning, of hard work, of patience. Lots of patience. That was the side that got me to 30. As I grow older myself, wondering about my future, I see my father more for his sense of humor, for his kindness and his gentle nature. He is strong and quiet, but never unfair.
And I know that if I'm to become the person I want to be, and maybe even the parent I think I can be, I won't be doing it alone. I don't have plan. Heck, I don't even have a clue. But I'm getting there.
By 40, my grandmother had lived in three countries (China, Cuba, Texas) in abject poverty and in ample comfort. She had three children, one of whom was in college and the other two on the way there. She and my grandfather were running a successful business, they owned a home, they were becoming US citizens.
By 40, my mother was visiting me at college, grieving the loss of her father, and still working 60 hour weeks for 30 hour pay, running a law office nonetheless.
I was a good kid, I had loving and happy parents - I had access, education, and opportunity that both sets of grandparents had provided. I had no shortage of affection, and while both my parents worked, I never felt they weren't there.
But I can hardly imagine having a 16-year old as the person I am today. Of course, I would have had 16 years to become that parent. But if I were to become a parent, what kind of parent would I be? Would I be the kind of mother that my mother was, that my grandmother was? Could I even be that kind of mother, having 16 more years of experience than they did when they first gave birth? Would that extra 16 years do me any good? Or would I be a neurotic, controlling grown-up with no business having kids, like many people I know?
In some ways I envy my mother and grandmother for having done it so early. They got to grow up - sometimes the hard way - with their daughters. When I went to prom, my mom was the age I am today. I remember shopping for the dress, the jewelry, the makeup. I remember my mother buying me my first razor (that was years before prom, but go along with me here...), my first bra, going with me to my first gyn visit. It was probably terrifying for her, but she never showed it. And our trials were nothing compared to those she and my grandmother went through. When my grandmother was pregnant with my mother, my grandfather left for Cuba, looking for a better life for all of them. My mother was 5 when he came back for them. All that time my grandmother had to find food for this tiny baby girl, sometimes giving my mother the meat from the fish while she sucked the bones. Anything to survive, anything not to starve.
Knowing that, do I have what it takes? I'd be a great girl scout leader - I can show you how to paint pottery, to make pipe cleaner crafts, to make peanut brittle. I'd probably be a pretty good older sister too, revealing the naughty little secrets every girl should know. Heck, I can even put together model cars, hit a baseball, and help with a science project. But could I be the kind of mom I'd want to be for my kids? I don't think you can ever know that before you do it - it's the kind of thing you look back on years later and say, 'yeah, I think I did okay there.' I think this weekend I'll call my mom and tell her what a great job I think she did.
But wait a second, what about my dad?
In many ways, I am the person I am because of my father. Where the women in my life gave me passion, energy, and the shape of my ass, the men showed me the quiet strength of reason. Of planning, of hard work, of patience. Lots of patience. That was the side that got me to 30. As I grow older myself, wondering about my future, I see my father more for his sense of humor, for his kindness and his gentle nature. He is strong and quiet, but never unfair.
And I know that if I'm to become the person I want to be, and maybe even the parent I think I can be, I won't be doing it alone. I don't have plan. Heck, I don't even have a clue. But I'm getting there.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Ignorance is Piss
Oh, I mean bliss.
Pandora. She fucked it up for all of us. Now all we have is a reference and enough awareness of the story that we use it in business meetings all the time. Except instead of saying, 'better not do that, you'll open a Pandora's Box...' we say, 'that's not really a shitstorm you want to deal with is it?' Okay, close enough.
What do you imagine really happened? Do you think some sort of ghostly spirits of unanticipated stuff flew out of that box?
No, I think Pandora didn't see a thing, but I bet she felt it in her gut. That nauseating ick, the low-level fever that burned her heart, the guilt and dread seeping from her pores. Why? Why did she have to open that damn box? And why haven't we learned?
Pandora. She fucked it up for all of us. Now all we have is a reference and enough awareness of the story that we use it in business meetings all the time. Except instead of saying, 'better not do that, you'll open a Pandora's Box...' we say, 'that's not really a shitstorm you want to deal with is it?' Okay, close enough.
What do you imagine really happened? Do you think some sort of ghostly spirits of unanticipated stuff flew out of that box?
No, I think Pandora didn't see a thing, but I bet she felt it in her gut. That nauseating ick, the low-level fever that burned her heart, the guilt and dread seeping from her pores. Why? Why did she have to open that damn box? And why haven't we learned?
That Chance Encounter
I had a dream last night, a good one I think.
I finally said goodbye to someone who needed to go. It was that odd meeting that I hadn't expected, if only because I thought I was done. But the mind has a sense of humor, and try though I might, I can't forget.
So when the chance came, I said goodbye. I remembered him the way I saw him, but myself I saw as I am today. He looked puzzled. Angry. I turned and walked away.
I finally said goodbye to someone who needed to go. It was that odd meeting that I hadn't expected, if only because I thought I was done. But the mind has a sense of humor, and try though I might, I can't forget.
So when the chance came, I said goodbye. I remembered him the way I saw him, but myself I saw as I am today. He looked puzzled. Angry. I turned and walked away.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Huh, wait...did that just happen?
A few months ago on my way out of New York, my doctor said offhand, 'oh, you're 35. It's time for your baseline and I'm going to write you a script.' For the less fair sex reading this entry, that's a baseline mammogram. A pancake test. A true test that you've hit the age to start worrying. Just that casual comment threw me for a loop - for years I'd heard that women don't need a baseline until 40, but here I was getting written up that I needed to have one before my next birthday. For a moment it was sort of exciting - I got to go first, I get to tell the other younger women in my life what it's like, what to expect. But after that excitement faded, the subtext of what she'd ordered set in.
The script has been attached to my fridge for months, curling at the edges next to the Eat Me magnet from Crif Dog. My first mammogram. This is the gateway test, the one that starts it all. From here on out, it's colonoscopies, bone densities, and other miserable exams to prove you're not yet dying but you're on the way.
But when are all of the things that usually happen at this age going to start happening? I didn't freak out when I turned 30 - and given the circumstances I had every right to do so. That first (and as of now only) silver hair? I protected it feverishly, proud to finally have earned a stripe. But it fell out soon thereafter and I've not found another since. And what about the clock? The oh-my-god-please-don't-let-me-fall-victim-to-my-body alarm clock? That's my name for it, the phenomenon that takes perfectly rational women and suddenly makes them hormonal and unpredictable. This, to me, would be like Spock getting Bendii Syndrome (look it up in Wikipedia!) - after a lifetime devoted to study and reason, the ultimate curse is losing one's mind. I have never been able to comprehend how a woman could wake up one day and suddenly decide it was time.
And then I realized it's a slow process, losing one's mind. It doesn't happen overnight, it's not so easy to see. Somewhere along the way while you've been struggling against it, you realize the struggle is the change. And that all of the hallmarks are there, that somehow you've subconsciously made changes in your life that you think will make you happy, but they've been stepping stones on a path your body tricked you into taking. But as soon as you wrote that you think, 'but I don't really feel tricked, I am really happy.' And then you realize it's already happening. It may not be the same for everyone; god forbid I wake up thinking ineedababypleasenowihavetogetpregnant. But there's something, I know it's there.
So here I sit in my kitchen looking at the yellowing script. Mortality is a post-it on my fridge and the tone in my alarm that will never let me sleep again.
The script has been attached to my fridge for months, curling at the edges next to the Eat Me magnet from Crif Dog. My first mammogram. This is the gateway test, the one that starts it all. From here on out, it's colonoscopies, bone densities, and other miserable exams to prove you're not yet dying but you're on the way.
But when are all of the things that usually happen at this age going to start happening? I didn't freak out when I turned 30 - and given the circumstances I had every right to do so. That first (and as of now only) silver hair? I protected it feverishly, proud to finally have earned a stripe. But it fell out soon thereafter and I've not found another since. And what about the clock? The oh-my-god-please-don't-let-me-fall-victim-to-my-body alarm clock? That's my name for it, the phenomenon that takes perfectly rational women and suddenly makes them hormonal and unpredictable. This, to me, would be like Spock getting Bendii Syndrome (look it up in Wikipedia!) - after a lifetime devoted to study and reason, the ultimate curse is losing one's mind. I have never been able to comprehend how a woman could wake up one day and suddenly decide it was time.
And then I realized it's a slow process, losing one's mind. It doesn't happen overnight, it's not so easy to see. Somewhere along the way while you've been struggling against it, you realize the struggle is the change. And that all of the hallmarks are there, that somehow you've subconsciously made changes in your life that you think will make you happy, but they've been stepping stones on a path your body tricked you into taking. But as soon as you wrote that you think, 'but I don't really feel tricked, I am really happy.' And then you realize it's already happening. It may not be the same for everyone; god forbid I wake up thinking ineedababypleasenowihavetogetpregnant. But there's something, I know it's there.
So here I sit in my kitchen looking at the yellowing script. Mortality is a post-it on my fridge and the tone in my alarm that will never let me sleep again.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Tripping Over Myself
Sometimes I don't really realize I can break my own fall. Problem is, I'm responsible for the pace at which I move, the clumsy footwork and the sometimes searing, sometimes blinded focus that gets me into trouble.
I said only last week that I was having trouble writing. My friend Geoff and I talked about this a bit - he's a comedian, and it turns out, has noticed this too. When everything's good, the well dries up. The bitter seems overly bitter, the ascerbic too sharp. He joked that the best comedians were addicts of some sort - alcohol, drugs, pain, whatever - and I'd have to argue the same for good writers. Not that I fall into that category, but I understand how it's difficult to get that clarity when your world is so blindingly happy. It's when life is interrupted that the words flow so effortlessly. When things come into sharp relief it's usually a sign that something's amiss, even if it's just a little off. Or that it's all hormonal and lunar. I'll give you that.
So it's time to brace myself. I can see the ground approaching only because I know I've gotten sloppy in my walk. I don't need to be in a hurry, sometimes I forget that that's not the goal. Yes, there is a goal, but that's not the point. I don't have some Britney-driving-towards-stardom hunger. Sometimes I need to just slow down. I'm sometimes startled by my own intensity, god know what this does to those around me. If it drives you as nuts as it drives me, I'm so thankful that you're still here.
I said only last week that I was having trouble writing. My friend Geoff and I talked about this a bit - he's a comedian, and it turns out, has noticed this too. When everything's good, the well dries up. The bitter seems overly bitter, the ascerbic too sharp. He joked that the best comedians were addicts of some sort - alcohol, drugs, pain, whatever - and I'd have to argue the same for good writers. Not that I fall into that category, but I understand how it's difficult to get that clarity when your world is so blindingly happy. It's when life is interrupted that the words flow so effortlessly. When things come into sharp relief it's usually a sign that something's amiss, even if it's just a little off. Or that it's all hormonal and lunar. I'll give you that.
So it's time to brace myself. I can see the ground approaching only because I know I've gotten sloppy in my walk. I don't need to be in a hurry, sometimes I forget that that's not the goal. Yes, there is a goal, but that's not the point. I don't have some Britney-driving-towards-stardom hunger. Sometimes I need to just slow down. I'm sometimes startled by my own intensity, god know what this does to those around me. If it drives you as nuts as it drives me, I'm so thankful that you're still here.
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Oregon Sunset
It was beautiful and we had a wonderful time. We didn't want to come home. This was the view from our deck.Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Getting Away
For the first time in a long time, I'm taking a day off to play. This week brings the first real break I've had since returning to Seattle from New York, and it's much deserved and much needed. Not that things aren't what I'd hoped they'd be here - they're better than I could have ever imagined - but we all need time away from the everyday, even here. So starting Friday morning I'm getting away from it all. Away from the office and its politics, away from the budget and the relocation plans, away from the phone and the computer. We're packing the (new!) car Friday morning and driving to the Oregon coast for some storm watching, some good dinners with friends, and some quiet.
In some ways I have the tiniest bit of anxiety about this weekend, if only because I may be the lone person who doesn't know (and have a history with) the others. Am I worried about comparisons? No. Compatibility? Nah, not really. Privacy? Eh, perhaps a little, but it's a big empty beach and a big house and it's only 2 nights. So no. But it's there, like a squeak in the attic somewhere - faint but noticeable nonetheless.
So what are we going to do out there? Well, this time of year the coast is supposedly deserted - it's windy, chilly, and stormy - so we'll spend some time watching storms roll in, taking in long sunsets, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the Milky Way if we get a clear night. There's a fireplace and a hot tub and we're about 100 yards from the surf so I expect plenty of clam digging and shell collecting too.
And of course I've already got a cheesy weepy book picked out - Marley and Me, by John Grogan. It's about a guy and his unruly Laborador Retriever. Not like the one who ate the woman's face in France, but one that's as loveable as he is mischevious. And of course it's a memoir and it's about a dog, so of course the dog dies in the end...but not until after he's changed the guy forever. A classic easy read, described by my friends as a Barnes and Noble book: one you read only while lounging in the big armchairs while 'shopping' at B&N because you'd never actually buy a hard back for full price even though you're dying to read the book (and you can't wait for it in paperback).
But I digress. This weekend is about centering, cleaning house and settling down. So in good spirit, I'm off to bed for a good night's sleep before my workday Friday is here. And then I can leave it all behind.
In some ways I have the tiniest bit of anxiety about this weekend, if only because I may be the lone person who doesn't know (and have a history with) the others. Am I worried about comparisons? No. Compatibility? Nah, not really. Privacy? Eh, perhaps a little, but it's a big empty beach and a big house and it's only 2 nights. So no. But it's there, like a squeak in the attic somewhere - faint but noticeable nonetheless.
So what are we going to do out there? Well, this time of year the coast is supposedly deserted - it's windy, chilly, and stormy - so we'll spend some time watching storms roll in, taking in long sunsets, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the Milky Way if we get a clear night. There's a fireplace and a hot tub and we're about 100 yards from the surf so I expect plenty of clam digging and shell collecting too.
And of course I've already got a cheesy weepy book picked out - Marley and Me, by John Grogan. It's about a guy and his unruly Laborador Retriever. Not like the one who ate the woman's face in France, but one that's as loveable as he is mischevious. And of course it's a memoir and it's about a dog, so of course the dog dies in the end...but not until after he's changed the guy forever. A classic easy read, described by my friends as a Barnes and Noble book: one you read only while lounging in the big armchairs while 'shopping' at B&N because you'd never actually buy a hard back for full price even though you're dying to read the book (and you can't wait for it in paperback).
But I digress. This weekend is about centering, cleaning house and settling down. So in good spirit, I'm off to bed for a good night's sleep before my workday Friday is here. And then I can leave it all behind.
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Housecleaning
This week I cleaned house, for real and in my head.
After a lot of activity the last few weeks, I took a little time to clean out the stuff running around in that empty skull of mine. I'd seen some behavior from friends I wasn't too happy about and it made me think about my own manners, language and baggage. Turns out I can be sort of a judgmental shit, always on my high horse because of the path I've tread. All of that crap has been good character building kind of stuff, but everyone's tired of hearing about my horrible ex-husband and his departure and my selfish and thoughtless ex-boyfriend and his crack whores. If I can't ever let go of the things that have shaped the person I am, I will be held hostage by them. Respect for them, okay. But more time spent than that is waste.
So this weekend I gave up about 15lbs of guilt. Actually, it started with a conversation about egg plates and ended with me throwing away about 2000 pictures from about a dozen years of my life.
I'd been hanging onto pictures - perhaps thinking someday someone would want them - long after the stories in them had expired. Even my wedding dress had seen the inside of the dumpster three years ago, but the evidence remained threaded throughout my stuff. Out it went, in some ways as much for Todd as for me - and these last vestiges of the person I was then went too. I came home lighter, the welcome more welcome the kisses more ardent. The last of the boxes pulled from the dank flooded basement gone through and placed anew in a safe, lighted home.
After a lot of activity the last few weeks, I took a little time to clean out the stuff running around in that empty skull of mine. I'd seen some behavior from friends I wasn't too happy about and it made me think about my own manners, language and baggage. Turns out I can be sort of a judgmental shit, always on my high horse because of the path I've tread. All of that crap has been good character building kind of stuff, but everyone's tired of hearing about my horrible ex-husband and his departure and my selfish and thoughtless ex-boyfriend and his crack whores. If I can't ever let go of the things that have shaped the person I am, I will be held hostage by them. Respect for them, okay. But more time spent than that is waste.
So this weekend I gave up about 15lbs of guilt. Actually, it started with a conversation about egg plates and ended with me throwing away about 2000 pictures from about a dozen years of my life.
I'd been hanging onto pictures - perhaps thinking someday someone would want them - long after the stories in them had expired. Even my wedding dress had seen the inside of the dumpster three years ago, but the evidence remained threaded throughout my stuff. Out it went, in some ways as much for Todd as for me - and these last vestiges of the person I was then went too. I came home lighter, the welcome more welcome the kisses more ardent. The last of the boxes pulled from the dank flooded basement gone through and placed anew in a safe, lighted home.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Blocked
Finally, a day has come when my brain is so full, my body so tired, and everything is all jumbled up that I can't write. More soon.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Not Self Promotion...
Folks, for those who can't get to Seattle to see my favorite local band - Lucy Bland - buy the EP or download from iTunes!
They played last night at Nectar after much airplay on KEXP (kexp.org), and they're scheduled to play at Chop Suey on 2/7.
What are they like? Great vocals, a Rhodes, a cello, beats and guitars - and the random accordion and trombone too. Think Zero 7, Iron and Wine, and the soundtrack to Garden State with a great warm swirly sound all around.
Their shows are listed on the Couch Calendar, but e-mail me if you have questions or want me to pick up an EP for you...
They played last night at Nectar after much airplay on KEXP (kexp.org), and they're scheduled to play at Chop Suey on 2/7.
What are they like? Great vocals, a Rhodes, a cello, beats and guitars - and the random accordion and trombone too. Think Zero 7, Iron and Wine, and the soundtrack to Garden State with a great warm swirly sound all around.
Their shows are listed on the Couch Calendar, but e-mail me if you have questions or want me to pick up an EP for you...
Monday, January 23, 2006
DeGama Would Be Proud
I feel like an explorer. You know the kind, you read about them in middle school history class. Coming to the New World in big ships full of stuff, wearing too much armor, groping blindly at everything unfamiliar, trying desperately to map their journey knowing they might not ever go back. At once it's an arrogant exercise - to assume anything needs discovering, because there were plenty of people already here. But I have to imagine that for some at least, it was more than a booty call on behalf of her majesty. To look out over a land so different from the one you left that it changes the person you are - I can't believe that some didn't discover themselves in the process.
And now I stand on this ridge looking over all that is, knowing there's infinite possibility in every direction. I've tried to make this journey before, but I wasn't ready. This time I've shed the armor, left most of the baggage on the pier.
What do you do when you have no map at all?
Somehow quite unexpectedly I found my guide to this land, though he is as unfamiliar in this territory as am I.
How do you tell someone this? That you know enough that you're willing to take the risk in what you don't know? That it won't always be easy, but that you'd rather find out how hard things could be with this person than with any other? And once you know this, what happens next? Do you plot the path or do grope through the bush?
When you've supped at St. Augustine, what do you do next?
Know the direction you want to go, then go.
And now I stand on this ridge looking over all that is, knowing there's infinite possibility in every direction. I've tried to make this journey before, but I wasn't ready. This time I've shed the armor, left most of the baggage on the pier.
What do you do when you have no map at all?
Somehow quite unexpectedly I found my guide to this land, though he is as unfamiliar in this territory as am I.
How do you tell someone this? That you know enough that you're willing to take the risk in what you don't know? That it won't always be easy, but that you'd rather find out how hard things could be with this person than with any other? And once you know this, what happens next? Do you plot the path or do grope through the bush?
When you've supped at St. Augustine, what do you do next?
Know the direction you want to go, then go.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
D'yever...
Ever stop yourself and think, 'wow, am I really here?'
When something just clicks and you realize in that moment that things are undeniably different?
When you look back at your path and wonder how you made it from that last step to the one you're on now, teetering onto the next?
When you think about all your parents taught you, everything anyone tried to impress on you - and you realize that maybe, just maybe everything aligned in a perfect moment and now it's all so clear?
Pinch me. Hmm. Seems I'm already awake.
When something just clicks and you realize in that moment that things are undeniably different?
When you look back at your path and wonder how you made it from that last step to the one you're on now, teetering onto the next?
When you think about all your parents taught you, everything anyone tried to impress on you - and you realize that maybe, just maybe everything aligned in a perfect moment and now it's all so clear?
Pinch me. Hmm. Seems I'm already awake.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Take a moment...
It's been raining for 27 days.
You'd think that's not such a big deal in Seattle, but it's actually a little unusual. Normally it's sort of drizzly and overcast, but it's been dark and cloudy for weeks now and the rain's come down hard. Pot holes have appeared, trees fallen over and venues sparse because folks are tired of going out drenched. Today was actually the first day I woke up and it wasn't raining - the sun's shining and the air is crisp. We got up and took the dog to the Magnuson park - off-leash heaven - and celebrated with all of the other cabin-fevered Seattlites by getting out in the mud. The dogs went nuts...mud everywhere with barking and frothing and humping from the biggest mastiff to the teacup chihuahuas. There was so much life in the park this morning, I almost cried at how happy the dog looked to be running at his own pace. And then there was this moment when I watched the dog walking alongside Todd - about 25 yards ahead - I watched them walk and play and the dog looked up at him, he looked back at me...and that was it. My dog, my shadow and my security standing with my guy, my hopes and my dreams. And I laughed at it all, the sweetness and the absurdity of such happiness.
But the sun comes out only briefly.
Just two days ago I was reading a friend's blog when I stumbled on writings about his father. His dad, a young 62 (just a few years older than my dad) was diagnosed with fronto temporal dementia (FTD) in May of 2004 - and is now no longer the person he once was. This is the first Christmas that he thought of it as being without his dad, because he sits in the room but is no more. He is like a shell of the person he once was, and if my friend listens closely he can almost hear the echoes of his voice in the hollow of his chest. His writing was powerful, the descriptions of his mother unforgettable. We talked about his dad for the first time the next day at work, and listening to him reflect on death gave me respect for the struggle his family faces daily. For all that medicine has given us, it rarely treats those most afflicted - the family.
In this state of mind I found myself at lunch with an old friend whom I hadn't seen in nearly 4 years. He too was facing similar struggles - his mother had a stroke 27 months ago and his father's dementia is like a prison sentence from which there is no release. He comes to work each day so he can afford to take care of them, but at about 6 hours he starts to worry that his father might have forgotten to feed his mother, or worse yet, that he's burned down the house. His only solace from this is Moon, the Golden Retriever his brother left him during a relocation to Hawaii - and I have no doubt that this fragile balance wouldn't be possible without that dog. None but he and the dog will escape, and even they too will succumb eventually. But for now he walks for the parents who cared for him as a child, the dog keeping watch on him.
Only two months ago I was wrapped up in living in New York, my sphere concerned with survival. It's been quiet these last weeks safe from the City, hearing things for the first time - the marvelous texture that has become my life, the privilege I have in the friends I keep, their experiences a borrowed perspective that shapes the person I will be.
You'd think that's not such a big deal in Seattle, but it's actually a little unusual. Normally it's sort of drizzly and overcast, but it's been dark and cloudy for weeks now and the rain's come down hard. Pot holes have appeared, trees fallen over and venues sparse because folks are tired of going out drenched. Today was actually the first day I woke up and it wasn't raining - the sun's shining and the air is crisp. We got up and took the dog to the Magnuson park - off-leash heaven - and celebrated with all of the other cabin-fevered Seattlites by getting out in the mud. The dogs went nuts...mud everywhere with barking and frothing and humping from the biggest mastiff to the teacup chihuahuas. There was so much life in the park this morning, I almost cried at how happy the dog looked to be running at his own pace. And then there was this moment when I watched the dog walking alongside Todd - about 25 yards ahead - I watched them walk and play and the dog looked up at him, he looked back at me...and that was it. My dog, my shadow and my security standing with my guy, my hopes and my dreams. And I laughed at it all, the sweetness and the absurdity of such happiness.
But the sun comes out only briefly.
Just two days ago I was reading a friend's blog when I stumbled on writings about his father. His dad, a young 62 (just a few years older than my dad) was diagnosed with fronto temporal dementia (FTD) in May of 2004 - and is now no longer the person he once was. This is the first Christmas that he thought of it as being without his dad, because he sits in the room but is no more. He is like a shell of the person he once was, and if my friend listens closely he can almost hear the echoes of his voice in the hollow of his chest. His writing was powerful, the descriptions of his mother unforgettable. We talked about his dad for the first time the next day at work, and listening to him reflect on death gave me respect for the struggle his family faces daily. For all that medicine has given us, it rarely treats those most afflicted - the family.
In this state of mind I found myself at lunch with an old friend whom I hadn't seen in nearly 4 years. He too was facing similar struggles - his mother had a stroke 27 months ago and his father's dementia is like a prison sentence from which there is no release. He comes to work each day so he can afford to take care of them, but at about 6 hours he starts to worry that his father might have forgotten to feed his mother, or worse yet, that he's burned down the house. His only solace from this is Moon, the Golden Retriever his brother left him during a relocation to Hawaii - and I have no doubt that this fragile balance wouldn't be possible without that dog. None but he and the dog will escape, and even they too will succumb eventually. But for now he walks for the parents who cared for him as a child, the dog keeping watch on him.
Only two months ago I was wrapped up in living in New York, my sphere concerned with survival. It's been quiet these last weeks safe from the City, hearing things for the first time - the marvelous texture that has become my life, the privilege I have in the friends I keep, their experiences a borrowed perspective that shapes the person I will be.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Purgatory in the West
Something happened the other day that reminded me just how different life's been since I moved back to Seattle.
I got angry.
Really angry, like lights flashing unpredictable angry. I haven't been like that since I left New York - and I don't care to revisit it anytime soon. But it was the same kind of angry I got in New York, like when that woman yelled at me for stealing her bags when I was actually running after her for having left them at an ATM. But this was a whole other level of low, and I'll tell you about it.
I was coming home from work, making a transfer on the bus at the Montlake freeway station. This is a busy intersection marked by an on-ramp to the highway, lots of University of Washington traffic and it was also rush hour and pouring rain. I walked up to the bus stop to see some people huddled under the bus shelter and one man standing far from it, near the curb where the buses stop (this is about 15' away). He was an elderly Japanese gentleman, probably in his 80s with a cane - and each time a bus came it stopped and opened its doors for him. He peered in but either couldn't see or couldn't tell if it was his bus - I'm assuming here, but he looked sort of disoriented. And he was soaking wet, wearing a baseball cap and a coat that was wet all the way through. He wasn't carrying an umbrella.
I walked over to him to ask if he needed help and he didn't seem to understand what I was asking, so I offered him my umbrella and helped him over to the shelter. What happened next was what made me so angry.
The crowd of people in the shelter sort of shuffled aside - staring at their feet and not making eye contact at all. A woman looked me dead in the eye and said exasperatingly, 'well, he was already wet! what did you expect, for me to give him *my* umbrella?!' I hadn't even said anything, I was just angry at nobody having made an effort. But when she said this, when she exposed how grossly insensitive and selfish she was, I lost it. My coldest tone burst forth, 'What the fuck is wrong with you?! He's like 80 and soaking wet and cold! What the fuck is wrong with you??!!' She braced herself and said it again: 'He was already wet!!'
Just for a moment, just a fraction of a second, I nearly reared back and hit her. I could taste the blood in my mouth and I could certainly hear the pounding in my head.
But I looked back at the old man and I knew it would have probably made him uncomfortable to see people fuss over him like that, so I clenched my jaw and walked away. When I got on the bus 5 minutes later he followed me on, returning my umbrella (I reluctantly took it) and sitting next to me. She followed on too, sitting nearby and mumbling the whole time, 'I don't know what she expected, was I supposed to give him my umbrella too? I mean, he was already wet for crying out loud.'
When I got home, I slammed the door and burst into tears. I had a good hard cry and then washed my face and went out to dinner with a friend.
I thought about it all later - what if I had assumed too much? What if the man didn't want to get on the bus? What if he didn't know where he was going? God, what if he was lost and was suffering from dementia? What if the woman's kid had just died or her husband had left or she'd run over her dog? And did the man get where he was going? Wasn't there anyone out there to look out for him?
I got angry.
Really angry, like lights flashing unpredictable angry. I haven't been like that since I left New York - and I don't care to revisit it anytime soon. But it was the same kind of angry I got in New York, like when that woman yelled at me for stealing her bags when I was actually running after her for having left them at an ATM. But this was a whole other level of low, and I'll tell you about it.
I was coming home from work, making a transfer on the bus at the Montlake freeway station. This is a busy intersection marked by an on-ramp to the highway, lots of University of Washington traffic and it was also rush hour and pouring rain. I walked up to the bus stop to see some people huddled under the bus shelter and one man standing far from it, near the curb where the buses stop (this is about 15' away). He was an elderly Japanese gentleman, probably in his 80s with a cane - and each time a bus came it stopped and opened its doors for him. He peered in but either couldn't see or couldn't tell if it was his bus - I'm assuming here, but he looked sort of disoriented. And he was soaking wet, wearing a baseball cap and a coat that was wet all the way through. He wasn't carrying an umbrella.
I walked over to him to ask if he needed help and he didn't seem to understand what I was asking, so I offered him my umbrella and helped him over to the shelter. What happened next was what made me so angry.
The crowd of people in the shelter sort of shuffled aside - staring at their feet and not making eye contact at all. A woman looked me dead in the eye and said exasperatingly, 'well, he was already wet! what did you expect, for me to give him *my* umbrella?!' I hadn't even said anything, I was just angry at nobody having made an effort. But when she said this, when she exposed how grossly insensitive and selfish she was, I lost it. My coldest tone burst forth, 'What the fuck is wrong with you?! He's like 80 and soaking wet and cold! What the fuck is wrong with you??!!' She braced herself and said it again: 'He was already wet!!'
Just for a moment, just a fraction of a second, I nearly reared back and hit her. I could taste the blood in my mouth and I could certainly hear the pounding in my head.
But I looked back at the old man and I knew it would have probably made him uncomfortable to see people fuss over him like that, so I clenched my jaw and walked away. When I got on the bus 5 minutes later he followed me on, returning my umbrella (I reluctantly took it) and sitting next to me. She followed on too, sitting nearby and mumbling the whole time, 'I don't know what she expected, was I supposed to give him my umbrella too? I mean, he was already wet for crying out loud.'
When I got home, I slammed the door and burst into tears. I had a good hard cry and then washed my face and went out to dinner with a friend.
I thought about it all later - what if I had assumed too much? What if the man didn't want to get on the bus? What if he didn't know where he was going? God, what if he was lost and was suffering from dementia? What if the woman's kid had just died or her husband had left or she'd run over her dog? And did the man get where he was going? Wasn't there anyone out there to look out for him?
Monday, January 09, 2006
Man, oh man
As if I needed another reason to sing the joys of my favorite town of Seattle...
Home has taken on new meaning. I have met someone who makes me want to get up every morning, just to see the grin on his face. Unbelievable.
Home has taken on new meaning. I have met someone who makes me want to get up every morning, just to see the grin on his face. Unbelievable.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
'No-ing' when
I didn't always have a hard time with no. As a kid I was about as compliant as a kid gets - fastidious to a fault, never walking away from the chance to do homework, even working diligently as a child at my grandparents' restaurant. I never said no, and even more rarely was I ever told no - just because I was always so good at dotting the Is and crossing the Ts, it was hard to say no to me.
That didn't last. Or rather, let me say that didn't last into my 30s.
Today I have an excruciatingly hard time with no - even when it's not directed at me. Maybe that's because I spent 30 years saying yes - or saying nothing. There's got to be a clear reason, rational and thought-out, for no to be okay the first time through. You have to out-think me. In fact, anyone who's ever seen me work knows I work with two clear mantras: Unless you ask, the answer is no --and-- Silence is consent. Both are variations on the same thing - if you don't speak for yourself, you may not like what's coming to you, and in the spirit of self-determination, that's a shitty position to be in. (Ignore that dangling participle, won't you?) It goes along with my earlier post about being active in the choices of your life, that you have nothing to regret if you accept the choices that you made with clear conscience and in good faith.
But...no is a boundary I like to test. I don't relish pushing people in ways they can't go, but I like edging them in directions they won't go. I don't wake up every day thinking about pushing people - that would be arrogant and self righteous. But to be with me, to be my friend and to know me is to understand, in some ways, your own limits - and to work to expand them in whatever way you can. And this doesn't stop with you - I like to be pushed, I like running my hands over my armor until I find that weak underbelly, that soft spot - and then I dig in. Or I invite others to dig in. Is there a boundary there? Is there something undiscovered, a place even I don't know? And does discovering something new and fragile scare you more than it does me? Why?
I am not fearless, I know where my weakest armor is. I am a little afraid of my own reaction to protect those spaces, but I love and respect those people brave enough to go there and take me with them. It's never an easy path, but discovered it is a wonder to behold.
That didn't last. Or rather, let me say that didn't last into my 30s.
Today I have an excruciatingly hard time with no - even when it's not directed at me. Maybe that's because I spent 30 years saying yes - or saying nothing. There's got to be a clear reason, rational and thought-out, for no to be okay the first time through. You have to out-think me. In fact, anyone who's ever seen me work knows I work with two clear mantras: Unless you ask, the answer is no --and-- Silence is consent. Both are variations on the same thing - if you don't speak for yourself, you may not like what's coming to you, and in the spirit of self-determination, that's a shitty position to be in. (Ignore that dangling participle, won't you?) It goes along with my earlier post about being active in the choices of your life, that you have nothing to regret if you accept the choices that you made with clear conscience and in good faith.
But...no is a boundary I like to test. I don't relish pushing people in ways they can't go, but I like edging them in directions they won't go. I don't wake up every day thinking about pushing people - that would be arrogant and self righteous. But to be with me, to be my friend and to know me is to understand, in some ways, your own limits - and to work to expand them in whatever way you can. And this doesn't stop with you - I like to be pushed, I like running my hands over my armor until I find that weak underbelly, that soft spot - and then I dig in. Or I invite others to dig in. Is there a boundary there? Is there something undiscovered, a place even I don't know? And does discovering something new and fragile scare you more than it does me? Why?
I am not fearless, I know where my weakest armor is. I am a little afraid of my own reaction to protect those spaces, but I love and respect those people brave enough to go there and take me with them. It's never an easy path, but discovered it is a wonder to behold.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Taking on Water
One of the best things about having new people in my life is how I'm suddenly exposed to everything that makes up their tastes. New music, new movies, new art, new perspectives unexamined in my own life. I think sometimes people get too comfortable in their own skin and don't take the chance often enough to bring unfamiliarity into their world.
Even though moving back to Seattle was supposed to be a return to the known, there have been so many changes in the last month that it's become a completely new experience for me. I'm also bringing my New York lens to life here, and everything's colored a little differently now.
I find iTunes filled with new music today - and it will take me days to filter the new from the old, to integrate the new sounds into my fabric. A particular favorite is Iron and Wine, a sound sparse, words simple yet rich. There's lots of bossa nova now, much Caetano Veloso, and countless low- and hi-fi bands. Some of note...CocoRosie, everything from Tropicalia Essentials, Deerhoof, and Domenico + 2.
Sometimes I feel like I can't keep up, like there's a fire hose of new things to remember, to understand and to enjoy. I'm constantly challenged and sometimes I feel my absorption rate is inadequate to the task. But at some point I'll catch up or I'll admit my weaknesses and someone will throw me a lifesaver.
Even though moving back to Seattle was supposed to be a return to the known, there have been so many changes in the last month that it's become a completely new experience for me. I'm also bringing my New York lens to life here, and everything's colored a little differently now.
I find iTunes filled with new music today - and it will take me days to filter the new from the old, to integrate the new sounds into my fabric. A particular favorite is Iron and Wine, a sound sparse, words simple yet rich. There's lots of bossa nova now, much Caetano Veloso, and countless low- and hi-fi bands. Some of note...CocoRosie, everything from Tropicalia Essentials, Deerhoof, and Domenico + 2.
Sometimes I feel like I can't keep up, like there's a fire hose of new things to remember, to understand and to enjoy. I'm constantly challenged and sometimes I feel my absorption rate is inadequate to the task. But at some point I'll catch up or I'll admit my weaknesses and someone will throw me a lifesaver.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Once, twice, third time's a charm??!!
Do you ever have something happen over and over again? Either an activity you're forced to repeat for no apparent cause? Or a dream you keep having? Or a conversation with different people that covers the same topic each time?
First time's a fluke, you say. Or maybe the message is badly delivered and you get angry or defensive.
Second time's confusing - you thought you covered it the first time, fixed the problem, addressed it, changed behaviour - something. But you thought you'd learned something.
Third time? That's a pattern. Are you inflexible? Is there something happening around you that makes these things come up over and over? Is it you? Is it me? And how do you work on something you can't figure out? It might be so obvious to everyone else, but you just can't see it - for whatever reason? Do you give up? Do you accept it as fate, a character flaw, deja vu?
First time's a fluke, you say. Or maybe the message is badly delivered and you get angry or defensive.
Second time's confusing - you thought you covered it the first time, fixed the problem, addressed it, changed behaviour - something. But you thought you'd learned something.
Third time? That's a pattern. Are you inflexible? Is there something happening around you that makes these things come up over and over? Is it you? Is it me? And how do you work on something you can't figure out? It might be so obvious to everyone else, but you just can't see it - for whatever reason? Do you give up? Do you accept it as fate, a character flaw, deja vu?
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Out with the old...
Last night after cassoulet and many glasses of wine, I stood on the street with new friends watching fireworks and reflecting on the past year. One New Year's Eve tradition I hadn't seen before was the burning of old, taking in of new. Well, that's what I'm going to call it, for lack of a better term. Everyone gathered strips of paper and wrote things on them that they wanted to rid themselves of - anything from a bad habit to a bad job - and then we burned them, quite ceremoniously, in a recycled whole roasted tomato can. Afterwards, we all raised our glasses and thought about a thing we each wanted to happen for the next year - and then we drank it in, whatever was in our glasses and in our hearts. This is a very different approach to the new year - for me it had always been a pot of black-eyed peas, which signified luck and prosperity for the next year. But that seems to leave good and bad to chance. What I liked about burning and taking in was the fact that whatever was mine to burn and mine to have were mine - and my responsibility to make them happen. Chance is always a player, but less so here. So today I make no black-eyed peas. I'll enjoy the now day-old cassoulet, watching Spike Jonze videos while washing my laundry, thinking about what I need to do for myself to make my frosty-night dreams come true.
That begs the question - how, if at all, do I reflect on the last year? Do I have any regrets? Any missed opportunities? Anything I would change? And what did I burn?
Anyone who knows me knows the answer to this already, but if you don't know it let me say it now. I am the product of every experience I've ever had - good and bad - and I am so very happy with where I am today I can't possibly regret anything I've seen or done. Had I not had the experiences I had, I might not have ever made it to the place I am, either physically or emotionally. Would I do things differently? Next time, perhaps. But would I change anything if I could? No, never. A decision not made or made too late is a decision nonetheless, so whenever I'm faced with choice I know I must participate, otherwise I lose the right to fight. Everything is a choice, life is a choice. Being in it (or being afraid of it) is a choice, and no matter how bad some of the choices have been, I always learn from them. That's my responsibility.
So what does 2006 have in store for me?
Everything. Just wait and see.
But I'm not going to tell you what I burned or what I took in. That's too easy.
That begs the question - how, if at all, do I reflect on the last year? Do I have any regrets? Any missed opportunities? Anything I would change? And what did I burn?
Anyone who knows me knows the answer to this already, but if you don't know it let me say it now. I am the product of every experience I've ever had - good and bad - and I am so very happy with where I am today I can't possibly regret anything I've seen or done. Had I not had the experiences I had, I might not have ever made it to the place I am, either physically or emotionally. Would I do things differently? Next time, perhaps. But would I change anything if I could? No, never. A decision not made or made too late is a decision nonetheless, so whenever I'm faced with choice I know I must participate, otherwise I lose the right to fight. Everything is a choice, life is a choice. Being in it (or being afraid of it) is a choice, and no matter how bad some of the choices have been, I always learn from them. That's my responsibility.
So what does 2006 have in store for me?
Everything. Just wait and see.
But I'm not going to tell you what I burned or what I took in. That's too easy.
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