They say it's a zen exercize. Repetition. Tacticle. Soft wool. Colors. Rows bloom like flowers one after the other. Time to connect with friends. With ways of the past. Mothers. Babies. Loved ones. Warmth. Comfort. Protection. Deep sleep. Love. Chatting with sisters. An intimate affair. Daydreaming. Time to gab. Time to be silent. No awkward silences. The yarn fills them. No bordeom. Time to sort out worries. What was she thinking about as she knit this? Look how she took the knots from her furrowed brow and placed them into the fabric. The cloth that bind us. Heirloom treature. Beauty with age.
My grandmother crocheted a blanket for me when I was an infant. As I grew up it was always folded neatly on the end of my bed. Zig-zaggy rows of minty green, pink, yellow and white. (Blue? I don't remember blue though it must have been there.) Even in high school, I would still curl up under it on breezy summer days. The perfect weight for a nap. It's likely now sitting in a moldy box in my mother's basement.
I should call my grandmother today. She's in her 80s. Sick and living with my Aunt and Uncle near Detroit. She's the woman who in her youth played the ukelele! Who scratched my back with her long nails. I remember being shocked when one day, during my mother and father's divorce, she started crying. Her tears were black from her mascara. I had only seen something like that happen on television, and I recall thinking it meant the woman was bad. But there was my own grandmother, crying black tears. Was she bad too? I was confused. She ushered my brother and me upstairs as my mom and dad fought in the kitchen. We had just returned from celebrating my 10th birthday at Chuckee Cheese.
I don't talk about my dad very often. Sometimes people ask. Now that I'm older, they mostly don't. He's retired and living in a rural part of New York State. I haven't spoken to him since 1997. I've heard that since he retired he lifts weights to stay in shape. I am not sure if he helps out with my grandmother.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Monday, February 21, 2005
Only Connect
A strange thing has happened since I started this Blog. I find myself checking it several times a day, although I have nothing to post, and a total of four people know about it. Rationally, I know that nothing will change unless I change it. But I'm craving comments, interaction, recognition. Something more than just my own voice.
I almost sent an e-mail out to my friends and family yesterday, giving them a link to the blog, and asking them to read my writing. But I hestitated. The self-promotion felt awkward. I didn't want my friends to feel I was putting a blog in place of real one-on-one communication with them (like some people do with junk e-mail and chain letters). Also, I felt like maybe I should keep this private. What if I want to rant about someone that's pissed me off? I'd only be able to do that in my old-fashioned, off-line (read: paper) journal, and not on this blog. And I felt I might want to do that here at some point, though I know when it comes time, I'll be too chicken-shit to do it.
Blog space is a hard thing for me to negotiate. Sitting here in the privacy of my living room compels me to reveal truths about myself. But this is public, and the truth is a little freaky. Or mean. Or boring. I abandoned my first blog because I couldn't deal with the fact that my friend Scott was reading it. It was more a personal journal than this is, and I was bitching about Tony, and I'd never bitch about Tony to Scott in real life, so it felt terrible to be doing it virtually. And though it was public, I felt like my privacy was invaded. How dare he read my blog! I didn't want someone I actually knew to read it. I only wanted people I didn't know to read it. I wanted anonymous connection.
***
It's so easy as an adult to drift away into this adult land where you only talk about interior decoration, or travel abroad, or dogs or kids or whatever. I can't remember the last time I had a totally intense, all night, heartwrenching conversation with someone. Where's that connection? That heart in your throat moment when you know someone else is right there with you? (Maybe that wasn't connection. Maybe that was hormones.)
Aren't there just those moments where you're sitting around with the people you love, and you're thinking, "Okay...this is a pleasant conversation, but what do you really think?" If you were to really say that, your companions would probably say, "What do I think about what?" And you would say, "I don't know. About anything. Tell me what you really think." What you would want from them is something dark and deep. Or maybe you just want them to tell you that they have always been in love with you but never had the guts to tell you. Or maybe you don't know what you want, you just think there needs to be more than this. That, before we die, we need to say something real. Something that's more than dogs, or couches or jobs. Say something that hums just like sex, or tastes better than chocolate, and pulls you to me and keeps us there forever.
I almost sent an e-mail out to my friends and family yesterday, giving them a link to the blog, and asking them to read my writing. But I hestitated. The self-promotion felt awkward. I didn't want my friends to feel I was putting a blog in place of real one-on-one communication with them (like some people do with junk e-mail and chain letters). Also, I felt like maybe I should keep this private. What if I want to rant about someone that's pissed me off? I'd only be able to do that in my old-fashioned, off-line (read: paper) journal, and not on this blog. And I felt I might want to do that here at some point, though I know when it comes time, I'll be too chicken-shit to do it.
Blog space is a hard thing for me to negotiate. Sitting here in the privacy of my living room compels me to reveal truths about myself. But this is public, and the truth is a little freaky. Or mean. Or boring. I abandoned my first blog because I couldn't deal with the fact that my friend Scott was reading it. It was more a personal journal than this is, and I was bitching about Tony, and I'd never bitch about Tony to Scott in real life, so it felt terrible to be doing it virtually. And though it was public, I felt like my privacy was invaded. How dare he read my blog! I didn't want someone I actually knew to read it. I only wanted people I didn't know to read it. I wanted anonymous connection.
***
It's so easy as an adult to drift away into this adult land where you only talk about interior decoration, or travel abroad, or dogs or kids or whatever. I can't remember the last time I had a totally intense, all night, heartwrenching conversation with someone. Where's that connection? That heart in your throat moment when you know someone else is right there with you? (Maybe that wasn't connection. Maybe that was hormones.)
Aren't there just those moments where you're sitting around with the people you love, and you're thinking, "Okay...this is a pleasant conversation, but what do you really think?" If you were to really say that, your companions would probably say, "What do I think about what?" And you would say, "I don't know. About anything. Tell me what you really think." What you would want from them is something dark and deep. Or maybe you just want them to tell you that they have always been in love with you but never had the guts to tell you. Or maybe you don't know what you want, you just think there needs to be more than this. That, before we die, we need to say something real. Something that's more than dogs, or couches or jobs. Say something that hums just like sex, or tastes better than chocolate, and pulls you to me and keeps us there forever.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Busses and Bugs
The other day, I was waiting for the bus and I saw an earthworm by the side of the road. It was struggling to get somewhere moist and dark, but presently was covered in dry dirt and grit. I wanted to lean over, pick it up and fling it into the grass. But standing there was that guy with the long black braids and the eyeshadow and the combat boots. I would have felt self-conscious picking up a dirty worm in front of him.
And then I saw the bus coming toward me. It was a moment of crisis. Should I pick it up? Would it get run over by the bus? Maybe the bus would just narrowly miss it and the worm would have a chance.
It was agonizing, because the bus kept getting closer and the earthworm was still nowhere near the edge of the curb. And then it was too late! The bus was there and its wheel had stopped right before the worm.
As I climbed up the stairs, I knew that I was witnessing the worm's last moments. It would soon cease to struggle.
I don't know why I feel guilty about stuff like that. One time, there was a guy sitting in front of me on the bus and he had a bug crawling around on the back of his jacket. I wanted to say something, but somehow I felt weird about saying, "there's a bug on your jacket," and touching him to flick it off. So I just sat there and watched it crawl around. It was a harmless little bug, not like a bee or a brown recluse spider.
I saw the guy the next day on the bus again and I still felt bad about it.
And then I saw the bus coming toward me. It was a moment of crisis. Should I pick it up? Would it get run over by the bus? Maybe the bus would just narrowly miss it and the worm would have a chance.
It was agonizing, because the bus kept getting closer and the earthworm was still nowhere near the edge of the curb. And then it was too late! The bus was there and its wheel had stopped right before the worm.
As I climbed up the stairs, I knew that I was witnessing the worm's last moments. It would soon cease to struggle.
I don't know why I feel guilty about stuff like that. One time, there was a guy sitting in front of me on the bus and he had a bug crawling around on the back of his jacket. I wanted to say something, but somehow I felt weird about saying, "there's a bug on your jacket," and touching him to flick it off. So I just sat there and watched it crawl around. It was a harmless little bug, not like a bee or a brown recluse spider.
I saw the guy the next day on the bus again and I still felt bad about it.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Untitled
Crooked tree,
you seemed two things to me at once.
Growing from a crevice in the rock,
your trunk echoing your gnarled root:
it had to wind through stone to taste earth.
An old and hardened man,
yet stooped and fragile.
I knew you!
My friend?
There was something deep
inside that made me think
you loved me,
though you gave me nothing but silence.
What happened to you when I had gone?
Was the winter wind too cold?
I said goodbye,
though I never wanted to leave you alone.
you seemed two things to me at once.
Growing from a crevice in the rock,
your trunk echoing your gnarled root:
it had to wind through stone to taste earth.
An old and hardened man,
yet stooped and fragile.
I knew you!
My friend?
There was something deep
inside that made me think
you loved me,
though you gave me nothing but silence.
What happened to you when I had gone?
Was the winter wind too cold?
I said goodbye,
though I never wanted to leave you alone.
Wild Ginseng
A secret place, so deep in a thicket
of brambles and thorns, that only the deer
know. Green, tender shoots and knobby roots mirror
a bitter, bright taste that is eaten quick.
Who knows how they feel? Rough tongues chewing love
and swallowing earth's gift of contentment.
Do they sigh with each bite, inhaling the scent
of spring, a belly full of just enough?
Do they whisper thanks, and stop to wonder
how it all came to be? This lovely wood,
that clear cool brook, how is it all so good?
Perhaps it's just like any other
meal, and they graze on toward bark and sweet grass
with no memory, each bite like their last.
of brambles and thorns, that only the deer
know. Green, tender shoots and knobby roots mirror
a bitter, bright taste that is eaten quick.
Who knows how they feel? Rough tongues chewing love
and swallowing earth's gift of contentment.
Do they sigh with each bite, inhaling the scent
of spring, a belly full of just enough?
Do they whisper thanks, and stop to wonder
how it all came to be? This lovely wood,
that clear cool brook, how is it all so good?
Perhaps it's just like any other
meal, and they graze on toward bark and sweet grass
with no memory, each bite like their last.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Bouncer: I Threw Starlee Kine Out
In 1999 I was working for a dot.com called "Gooey Industries." It doesn't matter now what we did. The company went under shortly after I left. Everyone had their dot.com story. Usually involving endless lattes and games of nerf basketball in between freak-out sessions and all-nighters. Instead of endless lattes, we had chain smoking. We pulled all-nighters, but sometimes they would end in a mass firing, where the CEO would accuse staff of being cult members who were out to sabotage the company.
Such was the atmosphere of paranoia at Gooey.
I remember throwing Starlee Kine out of the building one day. If you don't know who she is, she's a producer for This American Life with Ira Glass. Each Sunday I hear Ira mention her name, and occasionally she's involved in a piece. It's weird to have this past moment of paranoia and myopia from my life so frequently thrown back in my face.
At the time, Starlee was working as a reporter for a new spin-off of the magazine Business 2.0. They hadn't even published an issue yet and had tentatively titled it "Buck." (This was error #1. They meant buck as in "dollar," but sounded like a gay porn mag.) She had met our CEO at a party for John Delorean, the famous car designer, and wanted to interview him.
She showed up on Monday morning with a guy who was supposedly the photographer. He didn't have any camera equipment with him. I was expecting a writer from Business 2.0 to be dressed somewhat professionally, have a stack of business cards to hand out, etc. In other words, have some aura of credibility. But both Starlee and photo boy were dressed uber-casual. I think she had a fringy scarf and dangly earrings on, and he was wearing jeans and a jean jacket. Who knows. It was a long time ago.
I was already skeptical, so I asked them to leave. I'm not really the kind of person who does things like that, so I don't know what I would have said. I remember they called later to ask if they could come back if they brought camera equipment this time. So I said "sure." They drove all the way out with only a little point-and-shoot, so I threw them out again. They must have been pissed.
What was I thinking? That they were trying to steal company secrets? There were no secrets. Except that the CEO was an addict and it was likely that he and several of his friends were blowing the investment capital on expensive cars, tropical vacations and vodka.
After I quit, I saw that "Buck" eventually was published, though under a different name. It was about "business culture." And I guess Starlee moved on too. I have this idea that maybe one day I'll randomly meet her again. And I'll tell her the story of when I threw her out and see if she remembers. Maybe she's forgotten, and it was just another day to her. But maybe she'll remember, and she'll say something like, "Yeah, I remember that. You were such a bitch."
Such was the atmosphere of paranoia at Gooey.
I remember throwing Starlee Kine out of the building one day. If you don't know who she is, she's a producer for This American Life with Ira Glass. Each Sunday I hear Ira mention her name, and occasionally she's involved in a piece. It's weird to have this past moment of paranoia and myopia from my life so frequently thrown back in my face.
At the time, Starlee was working as a reporter for a new spin-off of the magazine Business 2.0. They hadn't even published an issue yet and had tentatively titled it "Buck." (This was error #1. They meant buck as in "dollar," but sounded like a gay porn mag.) She had met our CEO at a party for John Delorean, the famous car designer, and wanted to interview him.
She showed up on Monday morning with a guy who was supposedly the photographer. He didn't have any camera equipment with him. I was expecting a writer from Business 2.0 to be dressed somewhat professionally, have a stack of business cards to hand out, etc. In other words, have some aura of credibility. But both Starlee and photo boy were dressed uber-casual. I think she had a fringy scarf and dangly earrings on, and he was wearing jeans and a jean jacket. Who knows. It was a long time ago.
I was already skeptical, so I asked them to leave. I'm not really the kind of person who does things like that, so I don't know what I would have said. I remember they called later to ask if they could come back if they brought camera equipment this time. So I said "sure." They drove all the way out with only a little point-and-shoot, so I threw them out again. They must have been pissed.
What was I thinking? That they were trying to steal company secrets? There were no secrets. Except that the CEO was an addict and it was likely that he and several of his friends were blowing the investment capital on expensive cars, tropical vacations and vodka.
After I quit, I saw that "Buck" eventually was published, though under a different name. It was about "business culture." And I guess Starlee moved on too. I have this idea that maybe one day I'll randomly meet her again. And I'll tell her the story of when I threw her out and see if she remembers. Maybe she's forgotten, and it was just another day to her. But maybe she'll remember, and she'll say something like, "Yeah, I remember that. You were such a bitch."
Sunday, February 06, 2005
Obsessive
I didn't know this when I met him, but Tony is obsessive compulsive. I should have known, because his mom has some of the same problems. For years she hoarded baskets and cleaning supplies. They had closets full of shampoo and paper towels. Tony's issues are getting worse by the day. I'm praying that he is accepted into law school so that he will have some place to funnel his now misdirected energy.
Right now, I'm sitting in front of a bowl of rain barrel parts. It's a lovely bowl, turned by hand and glazed with brilliant, earthy glazes. The parts came in plastic packaging, but Tony obsessively unwrapped them and placed them in the bowl.
These are Tony's obsessive traits:
1. REMOVE ALL PACKAGING IF POSSIBLE. Everything gets unwrapped and placed in another container of some kind. Glass jars are a favorite. For example,
2. COLLECT CONTAINERS. This makes obsessive trait #1 possible. At one point, our entire freezer was stacked full of empty beer and wine bottles. Tony brews beer, so having a few of these is understandable. But we had way more than we could ever need. He also likes mason jars, kegs, carboys and other containment devices.
3. DEPARTURE RITUAL.
4. VOCALIZE ABSURDITY. His favorite now is to say "G.R. chicken butt" over and over again. It's a combination of the word "grumpy," which he often calls me, and the third-grade joke,
"Guess What?"
"Chicken butt."
Usuallly it's something a little more embarrasing. For example, he once picked up the phrase "reverse anal" from our friend Kip, who was himself obsessed with the idea that republican women were wild cats in bed. He said they all wore thongs and did reverse anal. I could not get him to explain what reverse anal was.
Sometimes, instead of singing an absurd phrase, he just claps. He has a very lound clap. It hurts my ears.
Right now, I'm sitting in front of a bowl of rain barrel parts. It's a lovely bowl, turned by hand and glazed with brilliant, earthy glazes. The parts came in plastic packaging, but Tony obsessively unwrapped them and placed them in the bowl.
These are Tony's obsessive traits:
1. REMOVE ALL PACKAGING IF POSSIBLE. Everything gets unwrapped and placed in another container of some kind. Glass jars are a favorite. For example,
- Coffee, rice, dried beans get placed in mason jars
- The plastic wrap is immediately removed from the toilet paper and it is stacked below the bathroom sink
2. COLLECT CONTAINERS. This makes obsessive trait #1 possible. At one point, our entire freezer was stacked full of empty beer and wine bottles. Tony brews beer, so having a few of these is understandable. But we had way more than we could ever need. He also likes mason jars, kegs, carboys and other containment devices.
3. DEPARTURE RITUAL.
- Check all doors. Turn handle to make sure it is locked.
- Check stove and oven. Say, "Off, off, off" as he checks. (On bad days he will do this two or three times.)
- Check toaster. Is it unplugged? (He's convinced it may start a fire if it's plugged in.)
- Check all kithen appliances, like the coffee pot.
- Check water faucet. Is it dripping?
- Say "meth lab security," as we deadbolt the front door.
4. VOCALIZE ABSURDITY. His favorite now is to say "G.R. chicken butt" over and over again. It's a combination of the word "grumpy," which he often calls me, and the third-grade joke,
"Guess What?"
"Chicken butt."
Usuallly it's something a little more embarrasing. For example, he once picked up the phrase "reverse anal" from our friend Kip, who was himself obsessed with the idea that republican women were wild cats in bed. He said they all wore thongs and did reverse anal. I could not get him to explain what reverse anal was.
Sometimes, instead of singing an absurd phrase, he just claps. He has a very lound clap. It hurts my ears.
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