frank champagne

Chichen Itza day 2

2010-01-30T11:20:00.001-06:00

We depart Cancun on the morning of March 20 at 10:00 a.m. Our next stop will be famous Chichen Itza. Built by the Maya, dates from the early Classic period, these ruins tell a fascinating story.

Shown here is the Temple of Kukulkan, known as El Castillo, or the castle. This famous structure has a fascinating history, and some architectural features that will amaze you. We have arranged our trip so that we'll be standing at the base of El Castillo on a very special day – the Vernal Equinox. In fact, we're staying overnight in order to witness the sunset. Sunset is always a beautiful occasion at Chichen Itza, but to be there on the Equinox is truly unforgettable. As the sun sets, the corner of El Castillo casts a shadow in the shape of the plumed serpent Kukulcan - along the west side of the north staircase.

After sunset, there will be a music and light show. The presentation offers an entertaining and informative look at the history of Chichen Itza, as well as an introduction to Maya culture and customs. The brilliance of the visual effects against the night sky is something you will remember forever.

The program will be presented in Spanish. For those who need it, we will provide recorded translations in English and French. The show will be followed by a late-night supper back at the hotel.

Your guide throughout the Yucatan tour is Elena Navar. Elena was born in Merida, the capital of Yucatan. She is looking forward to sharing her culture and some of her favorite places with you.

Trip blog

Your tour guide, Elena Navar, has set up a blog you can post to add pictures and stories about your trip. This is a great way to share your experiences with family and friends back home. It also allows them to get to know your new friends and co-travellers on the tour! Many of you will be travelling with laptops or smartphones, and a courtesy laptop is available to all our guests.

We encourage you to post pictures, stories, impressions, recipes… anything that strikes your interest as you travel through the charming villages, awe-inspiring archeological sites, and breathtaking countryside. Even before our journey begins, feel free to log on and post a picture of yourself, and any information you think might be of interest to your fellow travellers. To log on to the trip blog:

In any Web browser, visit www.yucatantourblog.blogspot.com.
In the tour blog, click the sign in link, as shown here:
Enter the username and password provided as part of your Welcome kit.
Once you are logged in, begin typing your blog.
When you are finished, save the post. Elena will then review all posts and complete the posting process. To save instead of publishing, click this button:

over the rainbow

2008-04-29T17:17:00.001-05:00

It’s the first anniversary of Dad’s death. We’ve all arrived in our cars. Some of us brought things to read. Lizzie arrives a little late. Rick and Deb bring a bottle of wine and a candle. Mom has an excerpt from dad’s journal. I have glasses and a corkscrew. We gather around the grave. Rick pours everyone a glass. Liz says, “Wait!” She runs to her car and puts on this recording of Over the Rainbow, and opens the window and turns up the volume. We stand around and toast and drink. We read our little things and laugh. Uncle George says a prayer. Rick pours the last of the bottle into the dirt at the gravestone and says, “This is for you, Pops.” We leave the bottle on the stone. Over the Rainbow is Mom’s favorite song, and Liz thought she’d like this arrangement. Of course, we all talked too much to really appreciate it then, but Liz plays it again for me afterward, when we’re following Uncle George to another part of the cemetery, so he can say hi to Grandma and Grandpa. Then we go to Armands, for lunch.

Another test?

2007-06-27T17:01:00.001-05:00

Is it even possible? Apparently, yes.

test

2007-06-27T16:46:00.001-05:00

this is a test.

New post to test

2007-04-13T17:43:00.000-05:00

Finally, for experienced hikers who want to see

Complex Suzy; or, “Write for five minutes beginning with ‘Once Upon a Time I’”

2007-04-02T10:03:00.000-05:00

Once Upon a Time I lived without the notion of writing one true sentence. Now, thanks to this assignment, I question every word I consider writing. But that’s not what I want to say about Once Upon a Time I. I mean, how many times in life do you get to say Once Upon a Time I? I don’t want to waste it.

Once upon a time I could have always counted on my eye to wander toward the prospect of a perfect man, a better relationship. I realized this morning, I feel above that now. I think I'm actually, fully happy. But that's not grand enough for Once Upon a Time I, is it? And my first thought, Once Upon a Time I thought things were much simple, is too obvious, too trite. Though it’s funny, just how many ways there are for each individual thing in life not to be simple.

Take Suzy S— at the reunion, for example. Simple version of Suzy: privileged, liberal daughter of important Oak Park family. Wait, was she privileged? I only assume that because her house was on the right side of the tracks and mine wasn’t. I assume they were wealthy, but for all I know her parents worked all hours to make ends meet. But what does privileged really mean anyway? If they did work seventeen jobs between them and still manage to instill social consciousness into their kids, would that make the kids even more privileged?

And come to think of it, I assume they were important people because my mom, who worked a clerical job at the village hall, talked about them like they were. She really looked up to Mrs. S—. Said she was so kind and classy. But what does that mean? Did Mrs. S— nobly fight to advance the rights of minorities in our grudgingly integrated suburb and mom read about it in the meeting minutes she typed up, or was it just that Mrs. S— smiled when she came in to pay her parking tickets? And having paid some huge and I’ll still say it unfair and unwarranted parking tickets in my life, never with a smile… well, you see where this is going.

And I haven’t even gotten to complex Suzy yet: Successful journalist, Pulitzer-nominated, and in the same breath reminding you she didn’t get it, who’s moved on to repping a woman’s rights organization, divorced and raising her kids back in the finally integrated Oak Park. This is not what I imagined for the Suzy I knew. I pictured the perfect family in a wealthy but conscious burb like Wilmette. Big house, loving husband, suitably appreciative but it reads more like a comfortable sense of entitlement.

At the reunion Suzy said, “Yeah, I had this idea that when you make a vow it’s permanent, but he didn’t feel that way.” So here she was. This woman who as a student managed to both ride high in a sorority and date the coolest artist on campus, and help the local Hmong population get acclimated—did I mention she was also a student teacher? Here she was, twenty years later, at the bar where we all used to drink, having a beer and shaking her thick choppy hair and moving to the next subject. Maybe once upon a time things were complicated, and the older I get the simpler they became.

T to J: Do I have a drug problem?

2006-12-08T12:31:00.000-06:00

I was so angry and annoyed and just ready to s-n-a-p snap, not for big reasons, just smallish. Like, because they laundered my curtains instead of dry-cleaning them. So my lovely floor-length curtains I hemmed so they’re be truly floor-length are now six inches off the ground – five inches in spots, it varies. Oh, and as I was hanging them up, before I realized what was so wrong, I was annoyed at how the Dry Clean Only tags always stick out so I cut each one off. Then Dave came in and we gradually realized that what was wrong was that they’d been laundered instead of dry cleaned. And they’d charged me forty bucks.

Fifty-six originally, but I’d gasped, spontaneously, when he said, “Fifty-six dollars.” I said, “Huh?” And he said, “How about forty?” and I said, “That sounds better, thanks,” feeling rather proud to be my mother’s daughter. But my mother wouldn’t have said, “huh,” when she thought the fabric looked kind of puckery. Me, I just thought “oh they must have pressed pleats into them” or something vague, not dealing with what was right in front of me. So when we realized the curtains were ruined and we’d have to take them back down and at least bring them back to the dry cleaners – not because they could undo the damage, but because we had to do something for gosh sake and we might as well try to get the forty bucks back -- I thought, this would never happen to Mom.

Then I remembered that I’d just cut out the Dry Clean Only tags. The tags were vital, because if she tried to go with the “You didn’t specify dry cleaning” defense I could avoid the blustery “Why would I bring them here to pay for having them thrown in the washer when I could do that at home?” which she’d reply to with “I don’t ask why people do things, I just expect them to specify” and simply point derisively to the tags, each of which says in two places “Dry Clean Only.” End of discussion. Except that I couldn’t. Because I’d cut them out.

So I sewed them back on with invisible thread and I didn’t do a very good job. But it was still hard, and then I ate some leftover Thai food while Dave made pumpkin bread, so I didn’t really feel like I ate but I wasn’t hungry, that weird timeless feeling that Dave says he has after every Thanksgiving, that longing for structure without really wanting it enough to achieve it, and hating your lazy self a little for that. And knowing I needed a shower and not wanting to get in there. Reluctant to step into the cold of the tub, just not knowing what I wanted to do, when suddenly I thought, “I’d like to get high.” For the first time in years, it seemed like the only reasonable next thing.

So I started hunting for the little embroidered change purse of Amy’s with the tiny one-hitter, that I’d taken for her once when she had to ride the ferry and didn’t want to get searched. I couldn’t find it anywhere. I thought of every little spot where someone like me might hide a little embroidered purse containing a miniscule amount of a controlled substance. My house-shaped wooden purse, my package of Kotex, my jewelry box, my old train case that I always take to Watervale to serve as the medicine cabinet. I became sure that I had left it somewhere or thrown it out, and this made me more annoyed. So I finally gave up, after checking Grandma’s toolbox, my sock drawer, my letters box, and my wizards can, and I got out the glass pipe Tracy made me long ago, and my Trader Joe’s Green Food jar, which contains some weed from a million years ago, and then I double-checked in the white cabinet, and under the sink, and even in the kitchen junk drawer, which is way too public but I was stumped.

So I came downstairs and smoked in the bathroom. I knew I was high when I asked Dave, “Didja ever notice how cold the shower is?” And he laughed and said I must be high because I’d said, “Didja ever notice.” And he nervously looked at the bathroom exhaust fan and said, “A state trooper is probably out there smelling that and going ‘Hm’” (because of them living across the hall to guard the governor). And I said he was probably out there going “Hm, how do I get some of that?” Then I sat on Dave’s lap and we talked about how disordered his Mac’s desktop was. And he said, “Look at this document that’s been on my desktop for years,” and as he opened it he said, “This is a list of…” and I thought he was going to say, “A list of everyone I’ve crossed off my list,” and started to laugh, but he said, “A list of concerts going back to—“ but then he realized the list was woefully incomplete and useless anyway, so he might as well delete it. Then I mispronounced widgets (hard g), which was good for some laughs.

Then I told him about my dream with the very nice doctor who’d said, “And now let’s talk about your drug problem,” and he said I should write it down. And I said, “Why, it doesn’t mean anything. Nothing happened. I told the doctor, I never tried heroine, and sure maybe very, very occasionally pot but that wasn’t a problem. And he said, “How about morphine?” And pointed to the morphine drip he’d put me on. And I said, “But I’ve never had that before, you put it on me.” And he said, “Yeah, but your body responds to it just like an addict’s.” And that was it. So what’s the meaning in that? And Dave said, “Well, tomorrow you should write it all down and say I told you to.”

But what for??

And why tomorrow?????

You May Blame Me

2006-10-09T12:51:00.000-05:00

Dave, I’m here to say that I take full responsibility for the events that occurred in our home this evening, during your absence. A pizza of the rising crust variety was undoubtedly removed from the freezer, baked, and consumed. Yes, fully consumed. I was the only one home, ergo I am accountable for its disappearance; also for the cave-like arrangement of pillows and blankets on the couch. Turner Classic Movies was certainly playing when you walked in, and I’m the last person to suggest that the dog could have turned on the TV, much less made the pizza or left the vacuum cleaner in the middle of the dining room, plugged in, with the cord stretching to an outlet in the front hall. I’m sorry you tripped.

Although I have no idea what the cord was doing there, I regret any damage to your knee and chin. If there’s one thing I despise, it’s people who start cleaning and then stop halfway through, leaving things worse than when they began. I don’t know who in our household would have the nerve, since it’s only you and me (and the dog) who live here, but I just want to make clear this is something that never should have occurred and it wasn’t me. As for the pizza, the buck stops absolutely right here. I have no idea how it got from freezer to oven to my stomach in its entirety, but if as you say the evidence seems to point my way, then let’s investigate. Let’s get to the bottom of it, so we can get back to the real business of our relationship, the fostering of trust, understanding, and personal growth. My priorities are one hundred and ten percent us, and I take offense at any implication that my eye was off the prize.

Yes, I know your parents will be here first thing in the morning. In fact, the importance of a caring relationship among in-laws and couple is second only to that of the core relationship itself, and anyone who says I don’t seem to give a shit does not know me or what I stand for. I had every intention of not only vacuuming but laying the table for brunch. Details like these tell guests they are not just expected but warmly welcomed. True, the dining room table has a bunch of laundry on it right now – careful, that’s dirty laundry – but I hope you know me well enough to understand I don’t know what it’s doing there.

Dave, after you take the dog for a walk – do you mind? she’s been inside all evening – I think we need to talk. We’ve been together almost three years now. Our relationship has the potential to be a beautiful, lasting haven of comfort, peace, and healthy passion. Or, it can be a tiresome series of blame games, with two MVPs and no one cheering in the stands. I don’t want that; do you? I take it that by walking to the door, you are merely heading out to walk the dog. Bring some bags; the neighbors have been super-bitchy when she craps on their lawn. Don’t even think about not coming back, because I have no intention of giving up on you. I believe in us, and this institution, and I made a vow I aim to keep ‘til death do us part.

Wait. How about this. Go ahead and blame me for everything, period. The pizza, the messy house, the bump on your chin, the Macy’s bill, the virus in the computer, the long brown hairs clogging the bathtub, the lack of brunch fixings, the fact that I have a spa date with my cousin tomorrow at 10 – tell your parents I said hi – the war in Iraq, the confusion over how many planets there actually are, just lay the blame for everything right on my shoulders. I can take it, and continue looking at you with love and acceptance, because I know in my heart of hearts I have done nothing wrong. We are all standing on the ground, Dave, but some of us can see the forest through the trees. Speaking of rural settings, can you pick up some Rocky Road ice cream while you’re out? I have a taste for something sweet.

My Weekend: Sunny, Tasty, Trashy, with Yeast on the Side

2006-10-07T14:46:00.000-05:00

It's sunny here. The leaves are changing nicely, but as they do I notice how many trees along IN-37 have been cut down to make way for the typical strip mall fare.

We're going out to eat tonight with our good friends The Dominating Germans. In many respects they are our best friends, but they also comfortably assume alpha roles with us. The food will be good, they'll ask us about our respective weeks and actually listen to our answers, but eventually they'll bluntly tell us What We Need To Do and I'll feel small and childish. But they won't ask us to swap and I like that about them. We're going to Bonge's. When you guys come visit we'll take you to Bonge's. It's delicious and small and way out of the way in a town of about 13 people, none of whom eat at Bonge's.

Regarding swapping, here's the latest, from an email I got from Amy (of the pierced nipple):

"Well, update.... she IS GOING back home with him to NJ to his parents "surprise 40th wedding anniversary party"... yep, she is going to parade around in front of his family like a slut... I am calling his family tonight and telling them everything.... Janelle and my sister called him and bitched him out.... they deserve each other, and I called Adrianne and she called jerry to make sure Jon knows the truth.... in case she made up some lie..... "

The "she" would be Sara (of the child psychology doctorate). "Him" is Amy's husband Jim. Amy was not invited to Jim's parents' anniversary party. Sara will be "parading around...like a slut" because she's pregnant. Yes, Amy's best friend slept with her husband and is now pregnant, possibly with Jim's child, but she really can't say for sure. "Make sure Jon knows the truth" just means that Amy wants Sara's husband to know what she's doing so he doesn't think Sara's gone somewhere for a conference or something of the like. Honestly, I'm trying to stay out of the gossip stream, but some things can't be ignored. I'll probably see Amy at a party we're going to tonight after dinner.

This morning Molly took her first dose of Nystatin, an anti-fungal that may help improve her autism. A few weeks ago she put up with a variety of tests—blood draws, pee collection, and 3 days of poop collection. Based on the results we’ve been told she’s crawling with yeast, which is apparently common in autistic kids. The theory goes something like this: Molly had lots of ear infections as a baby and I treated each one with an antibiotic. All these antibiotic doses knocked her system out of whack because in addition to treating the ear infection, the antibiotics killed good organisms in her gut which allowed yeast to grow and grow and grow. By taking this ant-fungal, the yeast will die off and be replaced by good bacteria that she’s also taking daily in the form of capsules. In addition to all these tablets she's taking a bunch of other supplements--zinc, magnesium, C, B-6. She's a good sport about it all, but as she heads to the bathroom her handful of tablets, I can't help but wonder if we're buying into something foolish that we'll roll our eyes about later. I suppose we'll keep at it for 6 more months or so, but geez! I'm ready for big results.

By the way, I ate a lot of Quisp when I was growing up in Terre Haute. My mouth would end up ragged with torn skin and the salty potato chips I ate later would burn, but it was worth it. That was one good cereal. (Of course I don't buy such fare for my kids. They're getting gluten-free puffs, flakes, and crisps served with icy cold rice milk.)

Do you ever pick up the National Geographic? This month's issue includes an article by a journalist who had his blood analyzed to see what sorts of nastiness he, as a normal person, was carrying around. It's a horrifying story. He's still got DDT from his childhood. He's loaded with flame-retardants and the stuff in plastic that makes it flexible. With all this fresh in my mind, I bought neither the "Stay Pressed" crisp white shirt nor the "Dry Clean Only" sweater that I saw at Eddie Bauer on Friday. Who knows what's in the faded jeans I bought, but I'm choosing not to look too hard at their label.

Me

2006-09-26T16:17:00.000-05:00

I am a tub of lard, being driven around in a pair of jeans.

How to watch an ICE concert

2006-09-13T11:14:00.000-05:00

One, you can stare at the stage and smile as if amused.
Two, you can stare off into the distance, very serious, like you're waiting for something.

I love seeing the cocktail waitresses coming through in the middle of an elongated chanting sort of carefully timed primal moment on stage. "You all doin' okay?" The guy at the next table has a peach--no, I think it's an apricot tattooed above his elbow. The colors are so lush and vibrant, it looks like an oil painting. It's nice the way the musicians all all seemed to breathe together.

Three, you can poke your nose in a notebook and hope you don't look like you're pretending to be a music critic.

"I'd like to introduce you to a very old friend of..." "Shh!"

The woman next to the apricot guy looks like Mia Farrow. During the first piece John Cage's Credo inUS (David Bowlin on radio), the bandannaed waitress carried a tray of eight or so drinks. As she strode down the steps to a table during a quiet stretched out passage of music, I thought if she stumbles it will be a disaster. But she didn't, and it did that strengthen the piece? Or am I the only one who even thinks it's related? I mean, this is music where the very way someone turns a page may be written into the score. Or at least that's how it feels, so don't blame me if I don't know where the lines are.

Steve Reich up now. It's glorious. It was my mom who taught me to carry small notebooks in my purse. Not because she ever did, but because she's always buying things like little notebooks that I don't otherwise know what to do with.

Adam said this music is the only thing that makes him feel someone has taken the top of his head off. I wonder how you get hold of a tape for this piece. Is there a Samuel French of new music? I keep being drawn to World War One. I mean, this is from World War Two but that's not what I mean. Is there a best time to be born? Before the war, during the war, after? They're all just different forms of disillusionment or intentional allusion. If you are born into the lucky time, it's only lucky if you know it, and if you know it then you also have knowledge of the unlucky times, and knowing of them, how can you really enjoy your luck?

I'm my best when I can't see a thing. The smell of the candle going out reminds me of when bars used to be full of cigarette smoke. It was a moving presence through the air. Now there are only physical bodies. I know that Mary Queen of Scots screwed up big time, but I can't remember how. Ever has it been so.

In new music, unlike in musical comedy, the acts seem to get longer as they go on. The music pries your head open, little by little, then expects you, challenges you to leave it open so it can explore the real ideas that can only be explored in the open space. That's a little different than the big Climax song where it's all about resolving the I Want song. Or, dot dot dot, is it?

T to J: If only I had something to say

2006-08-23T14:52:00.000-05:00

Oh how I'd like to tell you about the trip to Kansas this past weekend, to visit Dave's grandmother and her husband. The sights, sounds, ex-life insurance salesman salesmanship. The heat, photos, passive-aggressive remarks, tidbits of genuinely interesting family history hidden in the mists. The dog who lives outside.

But I can't, because for one thing I just don't seem to want to write anything. I'm too lazy and all I want to do is read. And 2, I'm hauling ass to get my work done because we leave on vacation Saturday morning.

We went sheepherding today. I got bitten by a bee or something. Shannon put meat tenderizer on it and it feels much better.

Checklist item #10: Mentally alert (try reading).

Oh, one thing: I just got an email for "Red Lobster versus Olive Garden!" As I deleted it, I thought of the old Quisp versus Quake thing from my childhood. Did you guys have Quisp and Quake?

--T.

J to T: All Bran and the Indiana State Fair

2006-08-21T10:05:00.000-05:00

ALL BRAN?? ARE YOU CRAZY? I'm glad I got home when I did.

So is that why I'm a smelly bloated mess or should I blame the milkshake I enjoyed at the Dairy Bar at the fair this afternoon? M. and I were both unhappy with our milk-filled bellies for awhile after our shakes, so maybe there's something to the dairy-allergy theory.

We saw big pigs, some really big horses, some bunnies, some sheep (woolly and shaved), some chicks, and a lot of people of all sizes. There was a stand renting those therapeutic electric scooters for the elderly and morbidly obese, so we saw a lot of really large people suffering from road rage as they tried to maneuver through the crowds. But, here's the best thing I saw:

We stopped at the Clarian Health Dance stage. For the whole duration of the fair different dancers demonstrate their artform--belly-dancers, cloggers, Irish dancers, square dancers, urban line dancers, you name it. I always enjoy it quite a bit. Well, today we were there for the last 20 minutes of square dancing. That was pretty good, but even better, I knew the man serving as the caller.

George works in the produce section of our little market, LoBill's (cuz your grocery bill will be, yes, low. It's owned by Marsh.). He's an old guy who when asked how he is will reliably reply, "Fine as frog hair." I love him. And there he was running the show. Introducing people, passing out his card, singing "Ring of Fire" along with a little 45 record, interspersing lyrics with square dancing commands. I teared up. It was so beautiful. The dancers were all happy to be dancing for their audience. The ladies skirts were swinging out and around. (Did you know they wear little lacey pantaloons under their layers of puffy slips?) The men wore shirts or ties that matched their partners' dresses. George was looking proud in his big turquoise ring, bright western shirt, black boots, and stylishly pommaded hair. Despite all the trouble in the world, the swapping, the internet porn, the rotten kids next door, these folks had found one another and were dancing at the Indiana State Fair. And no one laughed.

J.

P.S.
It would have been weird to give Donna the gift card. She'd either think you wanted to swap or she'd never tell you when she broke something for fear that you might think she was hinting. Flowers were good.

that certain something.

2006-05-18T19:53:00.000-05:00

Who am I today. Every day I make the choice. I made every single choice that got me here, change and destiny notwithstanding, so this is what I want. Trouble is, maybe I don’t know that “I” so well. Or maybe I don’t like that “I” so well. Or maybe, this continuing last night’s rant, there’s something big I haven’t learned yet. Namely, how to truly, truly appreciate or more specifically, how to live in where I live, and be centered in that, so that I don’t feel this left-out-ness when reminded of other people’s worlds. I’d like to see them from a greater distance, with greater faith in my choices. I’d also like to reduce my phone bill. Seventy bucks a month, in addition to my cell phone bill, seems like a lot.

Thank you George Bush

2006-04-20T11:03:00.000-05:00

If I read the news more, I'd probably realize this point had been made a million times, but I’m a media recluse, so the thought just occurred to me: I think George Bush is actually doing America a valuable service. He's performing a task that has long needed doing, one that no leader before him has been able to accomplish. He is finally ridding the United States of our superiority complex.

You know the one I mean. Not just the red-faced, old-fashioned, "our corn is higher" sort of bluster you're always reading about in Sinclair Lewis novels. I'm talking about what happened after World War II, when we came to the aid of our European allies and made the world safe for democracy. We were awfully pleased with ourselves after that, and could beat up anybody in the bar because after all, the world owed us.

We've spent a lot of years being quietly or not so quietly smug about our moral superiority. Conflicts like Vietnam or El Salvador or Somalia have certainly tarnished our image of ourselves as selfless purveyors of democracy, but we've always found something good to hold on to. Our bravery, our tenacity, our devotion to duty. But not any more. With our invasion of Iraq, George pushed us a little bit farther than we’d ever been before, in terms of world policing. Since the fall of Baghdad, we’ve shown the world and ourselves just how corrupt, self-serving, and short-sighted we are. We no longer have any image of ourselves to hide behind.

The presidency is a mirror held up to our national character. When we held Nixon or Truman or Clinton up to the mirror, yeah there were some warts, some scars, maybe a crack or two. But the mirror held. When Bush looks into that mirror, he shatters it but good. The shards fly every which way, and they cut deep. Hm. Our national character as a fragmented tumble of bloody bits of glass, each one reflecting a different face of shame, sorrow, and confusion. That sounds about right. Thanks, Mr. Bush!

Become a typist

2006-04-10T17:09:00.000-05:00

Dan Conway, this guy I took a screenwriting class from, said:

"The hardest thing about being a writer is learning to trust yourself. Learn to treat the artist in you with respect, and the artist will learn to trust you."

He also said:

"Your greatest ability as a writer is to hear. Become a typist and not a writer."

Kentucky versus Chicago

2006-04-05T07:53:00.000-05:00

If I were like the woman in the diary I'm reading, I'd say something like, "Sunny day, but cold" at the top of the page. And then down below: "I feel cautiously optimistic." But I wouldn't say why.

She must have written in the evenings, when the events of the day would be known, and the weather too. She never explains the causes, the events behind her feelings. Just, "So and so came over. We washed. We ironed." Every Monday and Tuesday they wash and iron. I, on the other hand, go into great detail about everything I think should be known in order for the feelings I want to vent to be justified. So things like chores and addresses and weather don't come into it much.

Is that it, justification versus documentation? No. We each have a reason for keeping a journal. Mine isn't exactly justification, and hers isn't just documentation. Or maybe we all have the same reason: the need to tell our ideal secret friend. And the differences correspond to our idea of the ideal secret friend. Kentucky diary woman's secret friend would care about weather and which chores got done. My secret friend wants to hold all my stupid thoughts and silly notions and petty complaints so that I don't impose them on anyone else. Or something.

beckett's birthday is coming

2006-04-03T14:44:00.000-05:00

Near the end of his life, Beckett reportedly said something like, "Each word seemed an unnecessary stain upon nothingness." Another quote from him: "I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo."

gazebo

2006-03-27T16:19:00.000-06:00

Apparently I am a gazebo in the summer rain. I'm working with this life coach, Cheryl. She is encouraging me to develop my purpose statement. A purpose statement is the thing you remind yourself of when the gremlins and goblins and ghosts of christmas past pull down the curtain of hopelessness over your eyes. It's the thing you're passionate about. It's the reason you're here. It should contain a metaphor and an impact statement.

What are you passionate about? What do you really live for? Really? Beyond the rice crispie treats and dick powell movies? beyond the guilt and hope? what's that thing?

So I am a gazebo in the summer rain. That's all i know so far.

dog-talkers

2006-03-13T21:34:00.000-06:00

Dog-talkers fall into two camps. One kind of dog-talker starts each sentence with "he's like" or "Riley's like" or, if you're me, "Django's like," followed by the presumed sentiment of the dog, in the presumed voice of the dog. "Moe's like, 'I don't think so!'" or "Django's like, 'I know you have treats, hand 'em over!'"
The other kind of dog talker eschews the intro and lauches right into the sentiment. "Are you kidding? This is some good mud!" "I smell your butt, you don't smell my butt!"
Dog-talking is okay among most other dog owners, but not all. Most dog owners go right along with you and voice their own dog-thoughts. When you get to know another dog owners, or maybe you just hit it off right away, you may take the liberty of voicing each other's dog-thoughts. But what you don't want to do is start dog-talking around a dog owner who doesn't hold with this weird little practice. Because some very awkward silences can ensue.

that whole damning with faint praise thing

2006-03-04T15:12:00.000-06:00

You can't go by what anyone says. I mean, we're all constantly repositioning ourselves in the context of whatever situation we're in. So someone saying "She's a hard worker" could mean "I want to be perceived as higher on the talent food chain to her--but generous" or "I want you to know that I don't consider her talented but I also want you to think I'm classy" or maybe even "She works hard."

Boyfriends I have known

2006-02-28T12:00:00.000-06:00

The boyfriend of why don’t you introduce me as your boyfriend?
The boyfriend of peeled oranges.
The boyfriend of plums, and a sister who said my toenails were too short, and subleases.
The boyfriend of implied mob connections.
The boyfriend of poetry.
The boyfriend of folk songs about Jesus.
The boyfriend of arguments I couldn’t win, whom I married.
The boyfriend of big hands and sports radio.
The spirit boyfriend, who jumped to his death years later.
The musician boyfriend.
The boyfriend of friends in bands.
The lawyer.
The bartender.
The boyfriend of one concert.
The boyfriend of one Christmas party, in the coat room.
The boyfriend who already had a boyfriend.
The boyfriend of nine phone calls.
The boyfriend of email, and the boyfriend of long-hand letters.
Neither took to the other form, or any other form.
The boyfriend of Germanic insistence.
The boyfriend of homoerotic resistance.
The boyfriend of endless discussions about becoming my boyfriend.
The boyfriend of we can’t have sex because we’re not in love.
The boyfriend of I didn’t break up with you, you broke up with me.
The boyfriend of if we’re not married in ten years let’s get together.
The boyfriend of if I move back let’s get together.
The boyfriend of we’re compatible.
The boyfriend of sadness that could not be allayed.
The boyfriend of arrogance who would not be swayed.
The boyfriend of old money who declined to pay.
The accented boyfriend.
The boyfriend of bow lips and jail time.
The boyfriend of laughter, pale and pasty-faced.
The friend's boyfriend.
The boyfriend who left a change sorter.
The boyfriend who left a photo of Greece.
The boyfriend of tiny birds and Ford F-150s.
The boyfriend who left one shirt, blue, neatly folded, in a drawer I don’t open.
I think that was one boyfriend too many.

How many times do I have to learn, it's not about me?

2006-02-24T09:52:00.000-06:00

So Dave and I are headed out last night, to sit shiva with a friend whose dad died a couple of days ago. Things are tense for a couple of reasons already: we're late, we're nervous, Dave worked all night and it's catching up with him--that's more than a couple.

Why are we late? Because we'd planned to leave at 6:30, but I didn't get into the shower til 7:00. Why not? Probably because I was nervous about going to this event. For all the reasons I usually get nervous about wakes and funerals: I won't know what to say; I won't know anyone; I will be intruding. etc. And given that it's a Jewish friend, I can add, I don't know how to sit shiva. I don't know what to bring. This is not helped by leaving at 7:30 at night.

Baked goods, I have been advised. Something really for the other guests. That's easy. There are many great bakeries around. I can pick something up during the day, when they are open. Except I didn't, because I don't know what I was doing yesterday. Not working on the screenplay. Oh yeah, I spent most of the day messing with audio clips to send Lloyd for Obscure News because I wouldn't be at the meeting. Because I was going to sit shiva. Which, as a nonJew, I don't even feel I have the right to say. I was going to pay my respects while they sat shiva. And of course, in retrospect I could have gone to the meeting because I didn't get in the shower til seven anyway. Anyway.

So the thing starts at seven. It's about a half-hour away. We figure, as long as we get there by eight, eight-fifteen, we're okay.

We get in the car, start driving. Dave asks, "Do you have the directions?" "I thought you had them." Heavy sighs. No one's pointing fingers. We drive home. I run up and get directions which are sitting next to the door. Get back in the car. More heavy sighs. We start out again.

I remind him, "Go up to Kedzie, I need to stop for something to bring."
"Right." He turns onto Kedzie. Most bakeries are closed at 7:30 at night. All the cute little places like Bulldog Bakery, and Kitchen Chicago, and Dinkels. And I don't want to get something from a grocery store. It will look like I didn't plan ahead. But the baclava bakery on Kedzie is always open. And they have fantastic baklava and are very nice. So Dave parks, and I go in. It's 7:30, it will be empty, right?

Almost empty. One guy is leaving with his purchase, a woman is standing at the counter waiting for hers. Perfect. The man behind the counter smiles as I come in. he’s filling a large box with baklava and all kinds of honey-drenched delicacies. Are they all called baklava? The woman says, “You can go ahead, too.”

“Oh no,” I say politely, “That’s all right.” After all, how long can it take to fill her order?

“Thank you very much,” says the man behind the counter. He continues filling the box. The woman is eating a pastry as she waits. The man fills the tray. He hands me a piece of baklava. “For your being so patient,” he says.

“Wow, thank you!” I decide to save it for Dave, who probably doesn’t feel as fat as I do right now.

The man finishes loading the box, and carries it to a work table. There I see a few other filled boxes. Which he then packs into sturdier packing boxes. Which he then secures with strapping tape around every seam. And then adds Nazareth Sweets labels to. And then weighs. And then offers a price to the woman. “How does sixty-seven dollars sound?”

“It sounds great!” she says, and gives him her credit card. Which he processes. Then he takes her unfinished pastry and packs it in a to-go-container, which he then wraps in shrink wrap. And then packs in a small shopping bag. The woman is effusive in her thanks. About twenty minutes have gone by now. In terms of lateness anxiety, I have gone from nervous to resigned. The woman prepares to leave, and I hold the door open for her. I can see Dave sitting in the car. I don’t want to think about what he must be thinking. “Now, what can I do for you?” says the man behind the counter.

“I would just like a box of cookies,” I say.

“From down there?” The man points to the cookie area, a little surprised. Of course he is. He has the best baclava in the entire world, and all different kinds of it, or whatever it’s called. But while waiting, I suddenly wondered, is it disrespectful to bring sweets from a middle eastern establishment, perhaps an Arab establishment, to a Jewish house in mourning? I mean, I don’t know this guy’s politics. What if he hates the Jewish people? But he couldn’t. He’s so nice, and such a good baker. Maybe he is Jewish, for all I know. God, I’m ignorant. And I know my friend David has Arab friends. But still. Does a box of baklava say somehow, screw you? So yeah, I have to go with the possibly less-delicious cookies, because they will be invisible. “Yep,” I answer cheerfully, “just cookies."

But what if he thinks I hate his baklava? I haven’t touched the one he gave me. Is he eyeing the untouched piece in my hand? I take a nibble, to demonstrate my support of his baklava.

Another ten minutes go by as he carefully packs the box. As many times as I say, just an assortment, he consults me on each selection. He also advises on which ones he doesn’t recommend. I want to scream, “Just pack anything,” but I hold it back. At this point, what difference does it make? We’re going to get to Dave’s mom’s house, and everyone including David will be gone, and David’s mom is going to open the door in her nightgown and ask confusedly, Who are you and what do you want? So there’s really no rush.

At last, my cookies are ready. “It’s twelve sixty-seven,” says the man. “Twelve is good.” I get out my money, and we introduce ourselves to each other. He teaches me to pronounce his name.

Khalid loves the Italian people. “I have some Italian friends,” he tells me, “And they are so crazy!” He seals up my box, then slaps a large, pretty “Nazareth Sweets” sticker on the box. I see there’s Arabic writing also on the label. So much for ethnic anonymity. I might as well have done the baklava. And as a matter of fact, I think the first time I had baklava, it was in the house of some Jewish friends. Oh God, get me out of here.

Not yet. “I have something special for you to try,” Khalid says, and begins packing me a to-go container of special treats from the baklava section. “That’s not necessary,” I protest. “It’s to thank you,” he says. He wraps the container in shrink. Then puts it in a small shopping bag.

We say our good byes, and I make it out to the car, where Dave’s been waiting about a half-hour. We sigh heavily. “It’s gonna be one of the nights,” I say carefully. “I’m sorry I was so late. It’s just gonna be like that all night.” Dave nods. We head for the highway, but just before we get there, we run into the scene of a recent accident, where cop cars and an ambulance have gathered. So Dave takes a detour.

Finally, we get to the house. Which is filled with people. And David sees us right away and comes to greet us. And thanks us for the sweets. And hands them to someone and asks her to write down what they are and who brought them. Dave and I exchange a worried glance.

David spends the next half-hour talking with us and making sure we have something to eat and drink, even though as he explains, the family is not supposed to serve others but be served. Which, as so many things in the Jewish faith do, makes so much sense. I love the directness of this religion. The complete acceptance of emotional intensity.

Before we leave, we greet David’s mom. She is beautiful in her naked emotion that somehow doesn’t evoke pity. “It’s been a long, hard week,” she says matter-of-factly.

When we leave, we feel elated. I confess how nervous I was to Dave, and he tells me he felt the same way. “But it’s always better to go,” he says as we drive home. “Because it’s not about us.”

And he’s right. It’s not about anything. It’s just the act of connecting with people we love and care about, at all stages in the cycle of life and death. That’s what makes us whole and alive.

But I do need to get the scoop on the whole baklava thing.

Can't put my finger on it

2006-02-22T11:33:00.000-06:00

I recently booked a voiceover gig. A friend who's a radio producer called me in, as he does from time to time. Easy money, good excuse to catch up with friend, and great opportunity to do some voice work, which I love, without putting in the long hours of trying to get an agent, make a demo, everything I'd have to do to seriously pursue a voiceover career. I consider myself lucky, until I mention it to Mom. "Yeah, I got a voiceover gig coming up."
"Really, Mar? With who, that friend of yours?"
"Yeah, Jim. It sounds fun. It's for a commercial."
"Oh, Mar. I'm so glad he gives you something, to keep you hanging on."

overheard at paradise sushi on valentine's day

2006-02-17T11:27:00.000-06:00

"Well, it's not like I tried to hit him with something."

Retraction

2006-02-10T09:46:00.000-06:00

Today at the park, a woman walked by and complimented my dog. "She has such pretty markings!" I said, "Thank you," and kept walking. Then I stopped under the trees and berated myself. Why did I say thank you, like she was giving me a compliment? Django's marking aren't any of my doing. Am I thanking her for complimenting my taste in dogs? Am I thanking her, like, by proxy for Django, implying that Django would thank her if only she spoke English? Am I thanking her for a comment that wasn't meant as a compliment, but just an observation? Any way you look at it, I'm an idiot. The only worse thing I could do is run after the lady, now halfway across the park, "Um, excuse me! Excuse me!"
"Oh! Hello again." The lady stops.
"Uh, I just wanted to say, what I said back there, I'd like to take it back."
"What you said?"
"You know, saying thank you when you said, about her markings."
The woman is stunned. She doesn't know whether to be insulted or scared. She leashes up her chubby brown Lab. I babble on. "I mean, I think they're pretty markings, too."
"Yes," she says, "They certainly are pretty markings. You are lucky to have such a pretty dog. And you must have great taste, to have picked her out. And you can tell her for me, I'll bet she's a very, very lucky little dog herself. There, are you satisfied? Come on, Brownie." And off they go. Or would. If I had said anything other than thank you.
Which of course I didn't.

Buy your TV from a Technician

2006-02-08T17:59:00.000-06:00

on 294, on the west side of the highway, there is a painted billboard that reads: "Buy your TV from a Technician!" That's it. No organization name. No product name.

Presumably, someone paid to have that sign created. they paid to have it posted. but who? and why?

Writers' Blog: Why Be A Freelance Writer?

2006-02-07T09:15:00.000-06:00

for future reference. not this particular article, which rounds up the usual suspects, but the blog in general.

Writers' Blog: Why Be A Freelance Writer?

More Thermal Units of Love

2006-02-07T08:46:00.000-06:00

I was in New York for a few days. I wanted to get this book I’d heard about on NPR at this store that was all about love. I was walking by and saw the store. It was next door to a store where they sold love relationships, but that place was more like a dating service. This was more like universal love. A store unabashedly dedicated to the study of love.

I went in and there were books and cards, each one about love. There werew all kinds of people perusing the shelves. A young woman in a sari. A tall bearded man with red hair and blue eyes. The owner was a white man with brown hair—thin and very energetic, happy. He greeted me when I came in but didn’t ask if I needed help. I walked in among all the people browsing the shelves and tried to look like I knew what I was looking for, though suddenly I couldn’t think of the name of the book. At the back of the store I looked at a book called Love: A Meditation in Free Verse. Was that it? I didn’t think so.

I walked back through the store to leave. The owner called after me, “Mar!” How did he know my name? I stopped. He said, “Did you take a picture?”

I realized he’d seen the camera in my open purse when I walked in. He thought I was there to make fun, like they were some weirdo place, but he didn’t mind. I said, “No, I didn’t.”

“Take a picture!”

“Okay, I will! Can I take one with you?” I thought maybe against a wall of books would be nice. The owner called the redheaded guy over and handed him the camera. The redhead looked at me suspiciously, and I explained. “I heard about this place on NPR and they were talking about this book. I knew I’d be in New York in a few days, so I figured I’d just come by.”

The redhead gave the bookstore owner a little shove and said, “See? NPR.” The owner nodded. Red continued, “You could have done a promotion around that.”

The bookstore owner shrugged. This was apparently an old battle between them. “Yes, yes. Go on, MT.”

How did he know my nickname? I continued, “I had the title clear in my head the whole time, then I walked in here and just totally forgot it."

Red looked me straight in the eyes, and I looked back. Two hearts that beat as one NPR receiver. We looked at the store owner. He smiled. “That happens, MT.”

“You called me Mary when I came in.”

“All women are daughters of Mary.”

“What about MT?”

“More Therms,” he said. “It’s an endearment. It’s short for More Thermal Units of Love.”

There's no mechanic in New York I trust

2006-02-02T14:11:00.000-06:00

I'm listening to Car Talk. Geez this guy is a jerk. "There's no mechanic in New York I trust." How can I express my outrage? And my twinge of guilt because he must be a lonely son-of-a-bitch.
He lives in Yonkers, works in Queens. He wants so bad to make friends with Tom and Ray but he's entrenched in being a clumsy jerk. Jerk, that's too clumsy a word. But what do you call it when someone is so afraid to look like a fawning idiot that he just puts down his subject like a-- oh, is that what I'm doing? And why does it matter? The car talk guys can handle it. I mean, the guy says, "You guys are funny, huh? You're always laughin'. You gotta be stupid to be funny, right?" And somehow they get him to tell them his problem, and once he gets it out he falls over himself trying to insert invitations to them to come fix his car themselves. "I don't trust-- There's no mechanic in New York I trust. Can you come fix it? I'll give you a danish."
To all this the Car Talk guys glide over it. They don't even bother to reply. I mean, they're classy. So in the time it takes me to rant about this guy they've moved on and are helping someone else. So why am I even talking about this? Because of course it resounds in something in me that I hate. Namely, my mix of shame and pride that muddies a simple impulse like admiration. Note to self.

Yep...

2006-02-01T18:16:00.000-06:00

Yep...

My Computer Cart and Me

2006-02-01T17:51:00.000-06:00

I am hopeless. I realize that now. Dan was sitting in here and saw my computer cart and said, “After all that, you ended up with computer cart.”

I was printing out something he’d emailed me to print for him, so I didn’t catch on for a moment. Computer cart. Then I realized I was sitting at one. And I remembered that I’d had another, slightly larger computer cart, back when Dan and I lived together. That one, I got because the old pressed word one at our old place was too yucky to come along to the new condo we were buying together. I wanted all new and streamlined things.

We ended up buying two identical metal computer carts at Ikea. We had this vision of rolling them around in our new condo, working wherever we felt like it. Complete and total freedom. That was before we realized that the carts were too wide to fit through any doorways. And ultimately, that bright shiny new condo, with its freshly sanded floors and sparkling windows, became just another home that was too cluttered, too inconveniently laid out, too full of memories. When in doubt, just add a period and move on.

Dan had moved out one November morning, then moved back in “as friends” until he could find a new place. Meanwhile, I started dating Dave, and a year later Dave and I moved into a bright shiny condo about two blocks from the old one. On the fridge is a list of things we want to do to this place. Dan looked at the list when he came to visit today. “You want to retile the kitchen floor?” He looked at our floor. “Why?”

“We’ve had that list up for a while,” I said defensively. It’s a perfectly good floor, after all. “I want it to be warmer in here, not all white and antiseptic.”

Dan makes me feel like I have my priorities wrong, for caring about the feel of a floor when I could be living instead. But he makes me feel sad too, like he is a drifter looking for a place to call home. It’s hard to believe we were once a couple. We’ve hardened in different molds since then. He lives in Pilsen with a girl just out of college, and Dave and I are here, in a place with a to-do list, a place that is already nice enough as it is.

Dan called this morning at 9:30, to see if I wanted to meet at the dog park. He had to drive Qarly (her real spelling) to a workshop downtown and had a few hours to kill. He wouldn’t like that use of the word kill. I eventually always end up not being able to breathe around the man I love because I take it personally how they’d take offense at my use of the word kill in the wrong context, or how I’d disapprove of theirs, or how they’d take offense at my honesty, or how I’d be destroyed by theirs. Somehow Dave and I keep a respectful distance without being cold and insular.

So I met Dan at the park. His dog Franklin (once ours) ran up to me wearing his little red coat from the Land’s End thrift store, that has “Lama” embroidered on it. The Land’s End thrift store sells new Land’s End merchandise that’s been returned, so either someone had a dog named Lama but the coat didn’t fit, or the embroiderers at Land’s End spelled Lana wrong and had to eat the mistake. My dog Django (also once ours) liked Franklin’s coat because she could grab it and pull him around when they ran. She’s a cattle dog and likes to pull things around. The faster the better.

Dan and I walked and talked, sometimes but not really much taking each other in. More trading information. He told me about his new show that opened last night, and how he drank afterwards for the first time in a long time and it made his head hurt today. And I told him how last week I had a fancy beer at a fancy restaurant and how that hurt my head the next day. It’s like small talk you’d have with anyone at the dog park but it’s not just anyone, it’s a previous part of yourself.

We ran into my friend Rokko and his dog Cinnamon. Rokko recently broke up with his girlfriend and they are now being “friends” and he and I have talked about the many-layered difficulties of this situation, and here I was with Dan. I saw Rokko eyeing him with his half-closed eyes and wondered if he knew who this was. Then Dan asked about some guy who used to come the park, “that big guy who used to come with the big dog who worked in the basement of Marshall Fields?”

“He doesn’t come around anymore,” I said. “His wife left him and he moved to Lincoln Park for a change of scene.” Rokko started backing away. I felt like he somehow thought I was making an analogy to him. Odder still, I felt like I was, but couldn’t think of exactly what the analogy would be. That we all get hurt? And move on?

Anyway, we moved on. Said goodbye to Rokko and kept going. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to get away from us or walk with us so we just headed for the trees. Dan said Rokko was eyeing him, and imitated him. We saw the guy whose wife died last year—though he doesn’t know I know this about him—and his dog Misty, whom Django used to go ballistic at but now just eyed warily as she begged treats from the guy. In fact, there was one horrible incident years ago, when Dan I were together, and the guy’s wife must have still been alive but probably ill, when Misty attacked Django and Dan threw down his coffee and got them apart. The guy didn't help, and it made Dan livid. Now here we were and they seemed like they’d never met before. Am I the only one who thinks this matters?

After the park, Dan and Franklin came over and we all went out for breakfast. We went to a diner in the neighborhood and bumped into neighbor Dave. (We call him neighbor Dave to distinguish him from my Dave.) He’d just sat in a booth and invited us to join him. Breakfast was excellent, and neighbor Dave was the perfect buffer to turn a potentially awkward breakfast with boyfriend and old boyfriend into a cozy breakfast of folks who care about each other in this city of strangers. Dan and neighbor Dave discovered a fascination with scientific theories of what’s going to destroy the world as we know it, and my Dave was informed and interested in all things as he usually is, and I sat back and felt safe and loved.

We left neighbor Dave there to play Sudoku before he left for his haircut. Dan came in to pick up Franklin and his printout. He said how cozy our house is, in a way that made me feel he either pitied me for wasting my time creating coziness when I could be making art, or pitied himself for his headache or his restless spirit that keeps him so much on the move. And I wondered when I’d started reading judgment into everything he says. Because it wasn’t always like there.

Once I was just a woman waking up in his bed one morning to fresh pastries he’d brought me from the Greek bakery down the street and a mug of coffee he’d made. Three or four baklava and other honey-drenched goodies in a little foil container. I was still asleep and he placed the container on the pillow next to me and woke me up. That’s right, it wasn’t coffee, it was a cold glass of water which I crave when I wake up.

His bedroom was in the sunroom of an apartment he shared with two other actors, and the light was beautiful. I feasted on those pastries and basked in the glow of being surprised with a treat. And a few years later, we were at the park, me telling him I made banana bread and him singing me the Farewell to 2005 song he’d written for his show, and neither of us exactly listening but in another way listening hard, to the people we’d become and the friendship we are possibly, or impossibly, trying to have.

Why did I say I am hopeless? If anything, I am too full of hope. I seem to believe that old lovers really can be friends, when everyone knows it’s not that simple.I started out wanting to write about this because I felt angry at myself for feeling defensive about my repeated purchases of a computer cart. But we all have our weird little obsessions. Dan’s recent decision never to cut his hair again no matter what. Neighbor Dave putting notes on the windshield of cars that don’t park in a way to make room for a second car. My Dave and his perfectionism with whatever his current project happens to be. These are not limiting factors. We are each of us too complex and also too self-involved to really take in the whole of anyone else, so we pick up on patterns and obsessions, and trade jokes and intimacies on them to show that we see each other, and remember.

It’s not even sad, except maybe in that time-passes sort of way in which everything lovely is sad. But if you buy into that time-is-cyclical and doesn’t actually pass, but rather each moment is laid out side by side, all right now, the storming of the Bastille and the first man on the moon and pastries in bed and the first time Dave kissed me and the moment Dan dropped the coffee, all moments happening now, all folded into time because that’s the only way we can experience it, then it’s really all quite nice. Maybe you haven’t loved and lost, maybe you’ve just been given a hell of a lot of nice moments for one person.

So what if I want to admit right now that this computer cart isn’t quite right either, because the tray keeps sliding back in while I type and it’s just a little high for my wrists? You’ll understand, won’t you, that I’m not obsessing for the wrong reasons. I’m not living a metaphor. I’m just kind of picky about my computer cart interaction. Period.

This is only a test.

2005-07-20T20:55:00.000-05:00

Mavis was Sarah’s cat. Mavis lived to be 20, and had a lot of inner strength. She could sit in the road outside Sarah’s house and make cars stop by staring them down. (I have to trust that the words will come even when I can’t see them.) She once beat up Sarah’s horse. At the end, Sarah held Mavis, though she was not a cat that generally liked being held (I have to trust that the bats up there will not swoop down and attack me) and she told her, "Mavis, I wish I could come with you on this journey. I want to send my heart with you, so I’m sending a little piece of my heart with you. And if you want to leave a little piece of your heart with me, that would be great." And so Mavis died.

And later, when Sarah talked to this animal psychic, the psychic said, "Mavis wants you to be happy but she can’t communicate with you because you’re so sad. She wants you to be happy and to know your two hearts are one." That was a deciding moment for Sarah. That, combined with or prepped by the book she’d come across (and seagulls don’t attack, right?) in her boyfriend’s house in the Hague (he’s Swiss but speaks five languages including English), this book called Excuse Me Your Life is Waiting, which pretty much summed up Sarah’s life to that point, and also the What the Bleep movie, and the associated book about water and the stuff you write on the bottles.

Which reminded me, when I think about communing with spirits, and dipping into the energy of Mookie and JJ, and Dad, and yeah I guess I can stop there and not feel impolite for leaving someone out, but it’s not about speaking English or being polite – though it’s not the latter because at least that’s sort of an emotion. And it’s about emotion. It’s possible, I can commune with them, and I can talk to them, and listen to them, and yeah I think in English, duh, but that’s nothing to get caught up in the details of. Even out here, on the shore of Lake Superior which is milky silver in the moonlight and the moon a copper wafer and the smell of woodsmoke from Stephan’s party in the air, and a little music floating down here to the beach from his yard across the road.

Even here in a sweet little town miles from anywhere and filled with placid tourists and accommodating locals and twinkling lighthouse lights in the distance, even here I feel alarm when a car pulls up and parks. Oh no, are they gonna seize on me, a woman along, and do unspeakable things? And why did I wear a white shirt? And oh no, they crunch so purposefully across the sand, should I run? And of course it’s two girls in sundresses, heading to the water’s edge or Stephan’s party or wherever. And I am so filled with fear, aren’t I, always ready to bubble over and tell me I can’t.

Like the third waterfall today, when it really was too high off the ground at the point where you have to climb across it and feel it trying to push you down the face of rock like it had something against you and couldn’t stop screaming at you about it. And I was shaking so bad, with cold a little because we’d been in the water a long time by then, and a lot with fear, because I didn’t trust my limbs, and I tried once and just couldn’t do it. And I thought I’d do anything, anything in the world rather than step into those footholds and slide across somehow and then have to climb up a slippery wall to get above it. After which, I was promised, the rest was easy, was nothing.

“I really don’t feel like I can do this,” I said to Sarah through chattering yes literally chattering teeth.

"Uh-huh,” she nodded thoughtfully. I think maybe she added, “I know it feels like you can’t” or “I feel like that sometimes.” I don’t really know because I couldn’t really hear her. My whole body was shaking, and the water pounding above and beside us, and the impossibility of the situation making me feel like time had stopped.

Emily was already above the fall, John Kalb had gone first and then come halfway back to help her and had started to help me, patiently in that incredibly patient way of his, showing me with his foot where the ledge was and how I could just slide my feet along because really the downward force of the screaming water helped to push one’s feet into the ledge so really it’s quite easy. But I couldn’t hear him either because I couldn’t even feel my feet or trust them to do anything but fold under my collapsing ankles as I toppled off the ledge and crashed into the rocks below, as I deserved.

As I deserved. The underlying assumption, not just because I feel I’m a bad person but because that’s just what’s bound to happen. Waiting to happen. And so somehow I had backed off the ledge past Sarah and was now sitting on a wide ledge determined that no matter what, I was not going across that waterfall.

I told them I was going down, which I knew was impossible, and was told that it was impossible. That it was much more dangerous to climb down the two waterfalls we’d climbed so far than up this one. Which really wasn’t so bad. “I’m just gonna be behind you with a hand on you,” said Sarah. “And John’s going to hold you from the other side so you can’t possibly fall.” And somehow I was standing, climbing back to that hateful spot, nodding okay, though I knew I was going to fall, or cause someone else to, in my great panic and ill coordination. But there was no other way. I was cold and angry and there was no other way.

So somehow my feet found the ledge and from above Emily shouted for me to find handholds, of which there seemed to be none, and calm, beautiful John Kalb repeated the nonsense about the ledge. But this time I tried to do what he said because what the hell I’m gonna die anyway, and my feet inched across and then somehow I was on the other side, and sort of turned my feet in on the ledge and hauled myself onto the plateau above and landed like a beached wale. It was not pretty, but I wanted as much contact with solid rock as I could get. Belly on rocks, hip and legs all scratched up and that felt great.

And after that it was cake, so I was really shaking. I told Em, “I’ve never been so scared in my life,” Which wasn’t exactly true. I’ve never been so scared and had to use my body to do what needed to done.

And that’s a good thing to be happy about. Just because you think you’re doomed and you can’t trust your body not to hurl you off a cliff, you can still end up just fine, skinny-dipping in an unswimmable lake, and drying off in your underwear in the warm sun, near a family who is pretending they didn’t just see you naked or getting dressed, and posing for the last picture in Em’s disposable waterproof camera, with the people who just saved your life.

what comes around

2004-11-19T10:36:00.000-06:00

The Greeks believed that history is cyclical. Or so it says in this book I’m reading, The Bible Reader. In the intro, “What Is the Bible?,” it says the Greeks would be surprised at the way the Bible shapes history into this linear, one-era-led-to-the-next sort of thing. Because they believed that every age returns to where it starts. Or something like that. I read it late at night, before bed, and not always with my glasses on, so the details aren’t all there. But you get the idea.
And I’m thinking, maybe history still works that way. Maybe the Greeks were right. Because a friend sent me this email tonight, a link to a web site devoted to bad plastic surgery of the stars. And I wasn’t gonna go to the site, but boyfriend Dave came in as I was about to shut down for the night and saw the message and said, “What’s that?” and I clicked the link, and that was it. We started at Rupert Everett, went through Nicole Kidman, Al Pacino, Ah-nold, Halle Barry, click after click we couldn’t stop, and ended up at Nicole Kidman again. Or rather, I did, gazing at those alleged before-and-afters one more time after Dave left to pour himself a Balvenie Doublewood. Could it be true? Is her nose really different? Or is it just the lighting, or the face maturing, like faces do? But no, you look at what’s-her-name’s nose circa 1987, and then again now, and it seems clear. Plastic surgery really is the big deal everyone says it is. And it stuns me. Al Pacino. AL PACINO?
I mean, only yesterday I discovered that I’d drifted back into watching too much TV. Dave and I lay on the couch and channel-surfed. We learned that Channel 2 news in Chicago has a new theme song (“Turn to Two,” repeated several times), that reality TV is still big, and that an episode of “Mystery” you’ve seen twice before still holds up. But in the end, we felt sad after watching TV. Felt like something had been sucked out of us rather than delivered. So today had been filled with discussions about how I might rearrange my living room to demote the TV yet keep it handy for movie watching. Stupid cable jack. Stupid plasma TVs costing so much. Stupid me wasting more time rearranging household objects.
And in the end, the Web site solved it for me. Seeing all those brow lifts and nose jobs and cheek jobs and Chiclet teeth, I felt the Hollywood world shrink down to a sad little box, smaller even than my—no, I won’t go there, that’s not the metaphor I’m after. The metaphor I’m after is the Greek thing. See, I feel like the entertainment age—the one that brought us movie stars and glam legends, has become its own undoing. Somewhere in those before-and-after pix of Al Pacino (Michael Corleone, star of my eleven-year old diary for God’s sake! I had plans for us!), Hollywood crumbled on itself, and became glitterless.
I wonder when the cycle will start up again, and what it will look like. I hope it produces a delivery system that is smaller than twenty-seven by twenty-four by eighteen inches, and doesn’t require a cable jack.

Be as a beam of sunshine

2004-06-17T11:54:00.000-05:00

Oh, to be a beam of sunshine warming many who rest beneath its gold. But these busy times, who stops to rest beneath a beam of sunshine? A squirrel? A squirrel might pause, briefly, only if no dogs are around. Yuppie, yappy, pouncing dogs on their PetCo extendo-leashes. Only if no cats are around, cats let out to roam by lonely women who joke with tangential male friends in baby-talk and desperate pleas to make the ride home last longer. “Can we stop at Burger King? Can we stop at Dairy Queen?” With cats of women like that out wandering, a squirrel has no time for sunbeams. A squirrel gets out, gets the nut, and gets back in.

The book on Emily’s table says, Imagine yourself as a beam of sunshine, warming those who need it. Imagine that your sunshine warms them with the things they need. People need shelter and love and delicious food and beautiful clothes. Animals need food and shelter and freedom from fear. Perhaps I warm the squirrel by not warming the squirrel.

Who else could rest beneath my sunbeam? The scoliosis guy in the bald head and black jeans? He walks hesitantly, glasses sweaty, replaying the conversation he would have had on the el he just got off of, had he only talked to the interesting and kind-looking girl or guy. Oh, he needs a beam of sunshine. But his black pleather leather jacket is too warm already. And of course he won’t take it off. Go home, poor moist man. Better luck tomorrow. To both of us.

tips on directing

2004-06-11T12:13:00.000-05:00

What I learned yesterday.
1. People need breaks. Actors and crew both. Yeah, they really do need them. They're not "extra."
2. Every time you add an actor, things get exponentially more complicated.
3. Each scene should be from one character's point of view. Maybe. Even if it shifts through the piece. I think.
4. Rehearsal is really important. Camera rehearsal. THe other part isn't bullshit, but it sort of is. I can't tell anything without the camera.
5. I look cool in headphones.
6. It's okay to call cut in the middle of a take. don't waste time.
7. Don't choose to hate your script in the middle of the shoot. have faith. in the editor, if no one else at the moment.
8. Schedule way more time than you need. not every piece has to be shot in one day.
9. if something's not working, take time away to think about it. don't keep having the actors redo it if you can't tell them clearly what you want. maybe you just need the time to figure out how to say it better.
10. making short films is really, really, beautifully fun.

10 things said and heard last night, or heard and not said, or said and not heard

2004-06-05T13:06:00.000-05:00

1. She's a very successful lesbian.
2. I have absolute faith in us.
3. You're the guy I found exceedingly attractive for months but forgot about immediately after I stopped coming to your bar.
4. We're having a nip.
5.

You know, last night there were ten things. There were ten at least. They intersected and meant something. And now, they've floated away.

This dance of humans is a miracle. No matter how you look at it. Well, especially if no one's, like, shooting anyone or anything.

Some questions about failure

2004-06-01T23:17:00.000-05:00

1. do i let Adam know we didn't get into the festival? He's on vacation, visiting his folks. His first trip home alone in four years and the last before he is a married man. On one hand, he's Jewish, he's used to heartache; on the other, he's probably having a nice time in the world of "We may do a show in New York this Fall."

2. what the hell do I mean by heartache? People get rejected all the time. Kedreb would probably say, think of the hundreds of others of applicants who got a rejection email tonight. My favorite line, "Unfortunately, this is one of those hideous letters that lets you know that you have been unsuccessful for this year." And of course, there's always "Please, do not consider this in any way a slight on your talent, as the quality has been uniformly high and this has been a difficult decision, as we try and select a range of diverse new musicals." The heartache is from seeing myself, the more innocent me, the one who didn't know she was going to be rejected, marching to the post office with my neat package, all my shiny pride in my nice neat package. And the lady behind the counter, as I walked away, calling after me, "There's a lot of hard work in this package." And I was so touched, it was like a movie! And I said, "Keep yer fingers crossed!" Cause that's what Judy Garland would say, ain't it?

3. Why can't I let it slide off? Why can't I be proud that we entered the race, we participated, we gave what we had? But somehow it's hard to be proud when you've failed. And i guess I'm tired of failing. And I know I have the wrong attitude. But it's hard not to feel vindicated, not to feel that as I suspected, the piece is worthless and someone, some kind judging body in New York, has been kind enough to let us know form letter.

4. How to put this in perspective? Why am I not so insecure about my videos? Maybe because they're short, and they more often turn out the way I want, and I don't need anyone to do much with them other than enjoy them, or not. Maybe it has to do with need. Why not just be happy that I get to create. Maybe...

5. Quit putting yourself in a position where you can be judged a failure. That either means, quit trying for anything that requires judgment of any kind (this is a small category) or change your point of view.

6. With all the good things in the world--the miraculous sky tonight, with the moon behind a long, milky cloud that seemed to drift across it like a silk scarf against a woman's cheek, the quiet streets, the dog walking reasonably obediently, me clean and showered and a hard day's work completed--with all these good things and more, why bother about the places I don't fit? There are so many places I do fit. It's vanity, it's greed perhaps, to be put out by the little hurts.

And they are little hurts. No, they're big and you have to process them. No, they're small and you don't need to worry about them. But see, it all goes back to disppointing people and what did they expect and how have you misrepresented yourself and how can you spin this into something good? Dave is out of the shower and I haven't resolved this. And I don't feel I can face another human til I do.

harrumph

2004-05-28T09:33:00.000-05:00

How many ways can you find to loathe yourself before 9am? Rhetorical question. And not really the point, if you can just get past yourself long enough to live, to breathe, to appreciate one tiny fraction of the world around you.

meditation and ice cream

2004-05-26T23:24:00.000-05:00

Tonight, driving home from meditation (well, meditation and ice cream, because it was the last night in the old Kadampa Buddhism space), I told E I started a blog today (I did start one earlier, but it was false and I’ve just started again), and she said, “Why?” And I said (“Because everyone else is doing it?”) … (“Because I filled the last page in my black and white composition book today so I may as well try journaling online?”) … (“Because I feel a desperate need to make a half-assed effort to connect with humanity?”) … “I don’t know,” I said. “Why not”?

“Hmph,” she said.

We agreed that we both felt better after meditation. E felt less frustration with home life. I felt less self-loathing. The possibility of shedding your self-centered burden of guilt for something else, I can't put my finger on it right now, was presented.

Kedreb, the monk who leads the class, talked about exchanging self with others. Not your whole personality, but the object of your intentions. Instead of self-cherishing, cherishing others to the point of meditating on their good as your object. During the meditation part, I tried to focus on the good of those around me. The blond woman in the front row. The guy with the long hair and small goatee, E. First I thought, so instead of meditating on my own petty desires and fears, I’m concentrating on theirs? How does that help anything? And then I felt like I could sort of see this abstract, amorphous “good” floating above us all, that we all yearn to be part of, call it what we will. That worked, and I started seeing larger circles of people—everyone in the room, and their lovers and families and friends, everyone in Chicago, including the dryer repair guy who was curt with me yesterday, and his girlfriend, who called him every two minutes while he was at my house, and the receptionist at the air conditioning place who tried to sell me on their exorbitant “flat rate” repair deal (I have a lot of repair issues going on right now; i won't mention the toilet or the car), and her family, and my family, and D—(do I worry enough about his welfare? Or just what I want from him?), and then everyone in Illinois – Barack Obama, and the governor, and the people downstate, and then the country, which of course led to George Bush, and I began to feel it’s interesting to see everyone in this way, and that you don’t have to approve of them to want their good. Or, it could all be nonsense, like saving up kisses from your dad when he puts you to sleep. Then we all went out for ice cream.

During ice cream, I talked with J, an actor who went Equity three years ago and hasn't worked much since. (That happens in Chicago a lot.) He wants to direct. THird time today I was reminded of the lesson I hopefully learned in the last production: the best thing I can do as a director is to size up the current situation thoughtfully and truthfully, and adjust my plans and priorities accordingly. You have to realize you either have the artistic vision or not, you can't much change that. But you can and must learn to see better, to adapt to situations without feeling you're being put out by changes or problems, or you'll always be reliving the last thing you should have done.

All the same, I should have gotten the turtle sundae instead of the regular sundae. It comes with candied pecans, and mine didn't even have peanuts.

A new Chicago theater company

2004-05-26T11:41:00.000-05:00

At Duke and Jen’s theater benefit, the two undercover cops try to bluff their way in and at the same time find out whether there’s a rave going on. This is happening in a loft in Pilsen which is lived in and regularly rented out to such groups by an artist couple. Duke and Jen have rented it for seven hundred dollars and bought five kegs of Budweiser. They suggest a ten dollar donation—‘suggest’ because as a private home with no license to sell alcohol, they are perched precariously on the inside edge of the law.

They need about a hundred guests to break even, but expect at least three hundred. One of their ranks works in a copy shop, and has printed thousands of flyers which they’ve all been handing out for weeks, so hopes are high. Five hundred would finance the first show, some David Mamet one-act.

Duke’s appointed station is front door of the loft, at the bottom of a staircase the guests must climb. Of course he can’t require that anyone pay because of the legality thing, but they really need to make back their cash and of course earn money for the theater company.

“The worst thing is, one of them looks exactly like Serpico—all thin and swarthy,” says Ben, who prefers to be called Duke. “Other dude is typical Chicago cop—portlier, shorter. And these guys are in khaki clacks and white polo shirts. Their hair is pushed back over the side, but not with any product, you know? And they’re going, ‘It’s ten dollars, but I don’t have to pay, do I?’

“I’m like, ‘Technically, you do not have to pay technically, but you will be doing humanity such a huge favor if you choose to donate ten bucks that you technically, no, do not need to pay. Technically.’

“And the cops are like, ‘Oh, so you have beer here?’ And of course the whole time, people are walking back and forth behind me with big cups. So they think they got me, but I’m like, ‘We don’t know if we’ll offer you some or not.’ Score!
“Then they go, “So what’s the name of your theater company? and I go, ‘Heartbusters!’” When relating this story later, now, in a bare kitchen in Wicker Park, Ben says this to the other members of his company with a grin. Apparently it’s an inside joke. “And the cops say, ‘Heartbusters?’ and I go, ‘Yep, Heartbusters.’

“Serpico goes, ‘You live in Pilsen?’

“I go, ‘Yep, Pilsen,’ Then I totally turn the tables. I’m like, ‘You from Pilsen?’

“ ‘Yep,’ say the cops.

“ ‘You friends with the hosts here?’

“ ‘Yep.’

“ ‘Really!’ I give them a huge grin. ‘Which ones are you friends of?’

“Serpico is just standing there. The fat one goes, ‘Uh, John and Mary.’ And Serpico’s like, ‘Yeah, John and Mary.’ And I’m like, ‘Really! That’s crazy because I know the people who live here, and there’s not a John or Mary among them! Who are you?’
“The cops don’t back down. They go, ‘Who are you?’ And I go, ‘I’m John.’ Major pause. They are so beaten. I’m like, ‘Adios, Serpico. Save me a donut.’ ”

“Score,” says Jen.

On the downside, the company got only 57 guests at the benefit, so tonight they are having a what they call a pity party to finish off the beer and make a few more bucks. There is a bowl on the table for donations. After he tells his story, Duke is handed a class of beer. He begins to drink it, then pauses, “This smells funny. Why does it smell so odd? What is that?”
Jen says shortly, “It’s a little old. Don’t worry, it tastes fine.”
Duke drains the glass.

And that seems to sum them up. They are not complainers, whoever this new theatre company really is. They are together for some reason or other, and they will enjoy that as their natural right.

It was Kurt Elling

2004-05-26T11:39:00.000-05:00

I love him. I love this man singing completely. I love him and he is mine because I love him so. I’m dancing in my living room. It is my home and I get to enjoy that, right? And I do. When I can. When I don’t open the door and my heart just sinks for all we could have been where supposed to become. All I wanted and didn’t let myself want too much because I was afraid I’d end up like this.
“So what, you opted to play it safe? You really cashed in. Oh, that’s right, you were too cheap to invest your true self so you ended with nothing.”
My true self? What’s my true self? Maybe I just knew better.
“Your true self suspends doubt because it doesn’t have time to doubt.”
So maybe it was my true self, disguised as doubt, saving me.
“Okay. Do you feel saved?”

Oh, I wonder if this guy will sing just one more refrain. He is so chocolate-y Harry Connick Walt Whitman in a lounge suit deliciously good. Did I mention that he is the man I love?

Okay, do I feel saved? Well, that depends on whether I’m an optimist or a pessimist. As a pessimist I say No, I feel older with fewer choices, that’s not saved.
Or if I’m an optimist I say God Yes, I feel saved. Look at this moment I get to have, in my home dancing to the voice of the man I love, with this particular set of choices and ingredients to consider. Thank God I’m having a true and delicious moment, not faking or avoiding one somewhere else. Let tomorrow take care of itself.

Wayne Reese, Chris Heim just said, but I think she was talking about this next song, not the one they just played. Who is that guy, the man I live for and have prepared for my whole life up until this very minute? Whoever can he be?

Freedom Rider

2004-05-26T11:32:00.000-05:00

We sit on the second floor porch of the annex at Watervale. We are drowsy and waiting for the second seating dinner bell. It’s supposed to ring at seven-fifteen, but tonight, as usual, it’s running a few minutes behind.

Dan and I went into town today. We went to an estate sale and visited the barbershop cum gun shop and men’s sporting wear store. “Which is really a good idea for men,” Dan observed.” You’re sitting there waiting for your haircut and ‘hey, there’s a few coats I might need.’” I agreed. Then we entered the place and were accosted by a blond but nearly bald or shaved head woman in a black leather jacketed who yelled, “Hey, get me a rifle in there so I can kill my roommate.”

“Okay, I’ll see what I can find,” I said, and we walked in.

Inside, it was grim. Buzzy light above the barber chairs. A stern barber who did not offer to help us. We hunted around cautiously, and Dan bought a pair of Carhardt pants. I listened to a man explain about how he hoped some box of shell casings was still here waiting for him and how he was interested in some rifle they might be getting in. “When do you expect it to come in,” he asked. “Don’t know,” said the stern barber, as he cleaned his combs. We did not linger there.

As we left, the woman loomed, “Where’s my rifle I wanted to kill my roommate?”

“They were too expensive,” I said. Dan kept walking, head ducked.

“Oh,” scrawled the woman with her sloppy, half-drunken or paralyzed speech. “I’ll just have to strangle her instead.”

“Yeah, that’s easier to hide,” I said, making the strangling motion with my hands.

“Yeah?” she yelled, and made the motion with her hands. We drove away.

Then we swam and napped, and now we are sitting on the porch with Tracy and Amy, drinking cocktails and waiting to be served a delicious dinner, one course at a time, with no wallets or purses anywhere nearby.

We are falling jerkily into a state of relaxation. We check each other’s progress, warily, like we are growing new, plaid skins.
Amy has been coming to Watervale for 35 years, since she was a child, and she knows every ritual, every family, every reason things are the way they are. She worked here when she was a teenager. She was a waitress, and the guys work as dishwashers. She tells us where the guys sleep, and that their job is easier than the girls’ jobs.

The Mumbler is a dishwasher. We first noticed him in the dining room last night. He is beautiful, with floppy brown hair and apache cheekbones, and a little huskiness to him. Last night he doubled as the wine master, which seemed to consist of holding out two bottles of wine and letting the guest point to the one they wanted. Head ducked when he sidled past a waitress, speech inaudible when a guest asked about the Cabernet.

He wore an apple red-and-white checked shirt like a guy in a James Dean movie. So we called him the Mumbler, the guy who stands by while the big talker gets the girl. The guy who saves the girl but shuffles off before she can learn his name. The loner. He is so misunderstood!

Another couple joins us, Steve and Sarah. They are staying downstairs, in the suite of rooms called the Post office because that’s what it used to be, back when this resort was a logging town. They are Hyde Park intellectuals. They spent the day reading, on the white Adirondack chairs on the post office porch. They consume big, thick books about politics and history easily, and are intensely interested conversationalists. I suspect they will like the gun shop story, and I’m right. When we tell it, everyone laughs. Amy and Tracy spent the day on the big beach. She knitted and he collected stones, for the rock faces he makes. “It’s amazing how little you can get done,” smiles Amy, “when you have all day to do it in.”
Everyone laughs, me included, and suddenly I am filled with self-loathing. How smug we are, recounting our days and sipping our cocktails. Have I just appropriated the Americana mini-bite, as surely as some journeyer to Paris who visits the Louvre and has lunch at the Eiffel tower and thinks she’s done Paris? Am I a fraud? Is Dan? Is this all a test?

Or is it that we don’t belong here, Dan and I. We haven’t been coming here for years. We don’t know the owners by name. We don’t even have the kind of income that makes vacations a normal routine. A clown and a writer, teetering on the edge of a breakup, without a stock option between us. We don’t even have a favorite table in the dining room. If it weren’t for Amy putting us with her and Tracy on the side porch, we’d probably be stuck in the big dining room with all the families. How dare we?

Suddenly the Mumbler rides by, along the path out front, on a strange-looking bicycle. The wheels are very small and the handlebars are very large, and the whole thing is painted red, white and blue. As he passes our porch, the Mumbler raises one fist in the air and shouts, very clearly, “Freedom!” We all stop and stare. Dan yells back, “Freedom!” and everyone laughs.
Freedom! I grab my book and leave the porch without a word. The Mumbler is gone. Freedom!
I stride down the path toward the inn. I cross out onto the terrace over the lake. I find a lovely chair at the front railing, and sit down with my book. But immediately I am up again. Freedom!

I run to the end of the long pier and contemplate jumping in, clothes and all. Why not? Freedom!
Just then, the second seating dinner bell rings. I run back to the inn, so as to get there first and get the best seat at our table, the one with the open window at my back. And feel no shame.

Not exactly an ad for Crate and Barrel

2004-05-26T11:27:00.000-05:00

Today I went shopping for an armoire. I do not need an armoire. As a point of fact, I do not like armoires. I do not approve of the whole idea of using a piece of bedroom furniture in the living room and hiding your TV in it. They’re too big and they’re not hiding anything. It’s like, you’ve gone from a 27-inch TV to a 72-by 72-inch-everybody-knows-it’s-in-there. Let’s stop kidding ourselves! But that’s what I was doing. Looking for an armoire. I suddenly realized that I need one. Desperately. To hide my TV in.

I had to go to the post office to send out a baby gift to my brother, and as soon as I finished there, I started driving. I tried every store where I could get it and take it home with me immediately, today! Because I can’t wait for delivery. At the same time, I don’t want anything that looks like pressed wood. I’m depressed enough as it is. Why else would I be shopping for unnecessary furniture?

So Target was out. But I tried World Market. And Pier One. And Crate and Barrel, where they had lots of fake antique stuff with long descriptions, as if to justify the steep prices. I noticed that some word was used a lot in those descriptions. Rustic? Can’t remember now, but it made me sneer.

And all the huge fake antique mirrors. Catching views of my misfit self. Tinted glasses, faded jeans, wrinkled shirt, sweaty bare feet in nubuck clogs, hair too long to be short and too short to be long and uncombed and untinted or highlighted like everyone else at Crate & Barrel, with their wedding registry giggles and happy, normal lives. You say no one’s life is normal and happy but I’m telling you, these people were smiling. And not just because they were coming up to another mirror and wanted to try again. Like I was.

The first time I was unprepared, and the deep furrows in my face stunned me. I looked like Al Pacino in a Woolrich shirt! A slight smile improved things, and standing up taller. Not looking directly at my face was also a help. I remembered that I hadn’t had a bath today either, and hated the bride for her squeaky clean shine. What’s wrong with me? Don’t I have the sand? Can I get the sand? Is the sand returnable?

Everything in its place except me, wandering fitfully through the place wondering what last piece of furniture I could rearrange to make myself finally fit. If I break down and go to Ethan Allen, will they let me crawl into the armoires for size?