Life sucks, but a person can suck it back.
I've been out of writing commission for a few weeks for a variety of reasons, but mostly because we were dealing with 1) the death of David's beloved 87 year-oldgrandfather , 2) a broken air conditioner -- for the fourth
time -- and 3) a sudden swell of fleas in the apartment. Which caused
us to have to 1) move out to a friend's house (thank you, Diana) for a
week, after having just moved in one month before 2) purchase a new
vacuum cleaner, one with a bag so that we could remove it, full of
fleas, after every vacuuming session and take it directly to the trash
and 3) deal with how unpredictable life is overall.
We have been living in the wreck of reality -- without our routines to smooth
over the jagged edges of the way the world falls down around us, every
day. Living this way, there is no other option but to choose to see the
wreck differently, because it's not going to stop changing
catastrophically all the time. Catastrophe is the nature of life.
We have dealt with fleas before, and upon seeing the first baby one hop[e] onto my leg, I spiraled into PTSD so hard, I got the wind knocked out of me when I hit the carpet. My dejection nearly got the best of me. Nevertheless, at 7:45 a.m., I got
online and googled "pest control in Houston."
Which is how I found The Pest King, Mr. Miles Self.
Mr. Self listened to my qualms about using chemicals to combat the fleas,
and he agreed with me. "Chemicals won't work for your problem. I hate
chemicals, and I use them everyday," he said. "What you need to do is
get yourself a good vacuum with a bag, and vacuum every inch of your
house. Move the furniture, lift the bookcases away from the wall, get a
crack 'n crevice tool. The fleas love to hide in the floor boards and
the cracks in the baseboards. Vacuum every inch; and then two days from
now, do it again. Then two days after that, do it again. If you do
that, I think you'll be miles ahead of the game."
"What vacuum cleaners would you recommend?" I asked. I have a Dirt Devil the size of a camper van; it has no bag. I don't mention this to the Pest King. I'm talking to a professional! here.
"Oh, Kirby. Or Electrolux. They're gonna run you a lot of money. It's not going to be cheap. But if I come over there, I'm gonna have to use chemicals and I'm telling
you that's not even gonna work.Chemicals'll only kill the fleas where the substance hits the surface. That's it. There're no residuals in these things anymore. Which is a good thing, but this is why I hate treating for fleas. I'd rather not do it. But I'll come over there for twenty bucks, and if you decide you need me to use
chemicals, we can apply the $20 to the cost, which isn't cheap either."
"Hmmmm," I say. "So the vacuuming -- "
"I have an Oreck, he says. "It's professional, what I use. It's a good machine. It'll cost you a lot, but it's worth it."
So I went to the Oreck store right around the corner from my new apartment. I tried to talk the salesmen into giving me a bunch of free stuff with my purchase. I
told him "my friend told me to come here because you guys would give me
a bunch of free stuff."
"No, you have to pay for the stuff," they said.
I acted perplexed. Diego crawled through the forest of Oreck uprights, set up on the clean, ultra-Hunter green carpet. I looked skeptical.
"We do have one that we're selling for half-price --"
"What's that one?" I said.
"The Teal Edition. It's being discontinued."
"What's the difference? Besides $200?"
"It's teal."
"That's the one I want."
Turns out when I bought the vacuum, they DID throw in some free stuff. Not enough, but whatever.
And as expensive as it was, it was a much better investment, certainly,
than my "free" car, which bled money from me for over 5 years.
And what was my alternative, in any case, to the Oreck? It was either Oreck, or wreck.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Sunday, July 08, 2007
Do It Yourself
So much of writing is about writing, until the writer finds her subject.
For most of my life, my father has been my subject, a premise to which this blog attests. He takes up an enormous amount of space in my consciousness, always has. Now that he's dead, I'll bet he takes up even more.
His number one desire, at least the one he projected to me, was to live a meaningful life. Meaningful to himself, yes, but more importantly meaningful to others. More importantly to him. Or, I don't know....I used to think the latter was more important to him; i.e., the image he portrayed to others. And can we talk about his image for just one second? -- he reveled in it. This portrait of him, done by his Russian painter friend Alexi, occupied the space right beneath the ancestral portrait of Don Juan Forster, hanging above the fireplace.
As you can see by my brother's expressions, we all have our interpretations of my dad's image.
I propose that I hardly knew my father. I only knew him as a dad. Towards the latter part of his life, I was able to see him more as a human being, with parents and children, a man with 100,000 desires, living his best to sate every last one of them before his death.
He was not modest.
But he was honest. That is something I know we all can be proud of about my father. It's a gift to know that no matter the faults of the parent, that same parent is a human being, perfectly flawed because that is the number one condition of "being human." Yet even with the flaw, the parent earns his children's honor.
My father-in-law and I today talked about Coleridge, about Fancy, and threw lines from poems of ours back and forth with one another while sitting on his kitchen floor, with Diego and Clara circling the kitchen table. How perfect that the one thing I could NEVER talk to my father about -- my poetry; for reasons I can only begin to iron out -- is one of the deepest connections I have with my father-in-law: we are both writers, poets primarily. My father-in-law liked my line about "the small wings of speech" from my poem "Chaos Theories". I liked his line from the poem he's working on currently, "So I begin in memory, twisting scraps of [...] into facts" or something near to that.
We talked about how neither of us has read the entire Biographia Literaria, how both of us were obsessed with Coleridge at one point, still are in ways differently than we were before. I explained how I choose a genre in which to write: blog entries are about turning the daily into the daily bread. Fiction is about crafting art from an experience that seems ripe with symbolism. Poetry is about turning to the ether, pulling something from it, and through the imagination, creating something "Fanciful" from the sheer air: A rarity of the imagination, so rare that it makes the indecipherable plain. Poetry clears the mind's eye with all its glorious confusion. And there are no resolutions in poetry, only pauses.
There is a poem of mine that sits in my father's guest bedroom on the floor. It was never hung up on his wall, never fully committed to by either of us. Nevertheless, he'd surprised me with it Christmas 1994, secretly commissioning it through my boyfriend Charlie. Christmas day when I opened up the present in my father's living room, saw this 2'x3' frame of my poem "Mexican Hibiscus" calligraphied on parchment, I gagged. "I thought you'd like to hang that on your wall," he said.
"As if," I thought, choking on my own words as I re-read them silently in front of everyone else around the Christmas tree; the poem was broadcast, you might say.
My father's gesture horrified me at the time: Now I understand the gesture a little more. It was his way of saying "I care," although he honestly didn't care enough to hang it next to his portrait. Of course, I would not have expected him to hang it there. I couldn't hang it in my house, how could I expect him to hang it in his?
His message, as I see it now was "do it yourself." That is, if you want to write poetry that is admired, you have to admire it yourself first. I can trust that message. I've learned it's true over time.
For most of my life, my father has been my subject, a premise to which this blog attests. He takes up an enormous amount of space in my consciousness, always has. Now that he's dead, I'll bet he takes up even more.
His number one desire, at least the one he projected to me, was to live a meaningful life. Meaningful to himself, yes, but more importantly meaningful to others. More importantly to him. Or, I don't know....I used to think the latter was more important to him; i.e., the image he portrayed to others. And can we talk about his image for just one second? -- he reveled in it. This portrait of him, done by his Russian painter friend Alexi, occupied the space right beneath the ancestral portrait of Don Juan Forster, hanging above the fireplace.
As you can see by my brother's expressions, we all have our interpretations of my dad's image.
I propose that I hardly knew my father. I only knew him as a dad. Towards the latter part of his life, I was able to see him more as a human being, with parents and children, a man with 100,000 desires, living his best to sate every last one of them before his death.
He was not modest.
But he was honest. That is something I know we all can be proud of about my father. It's a gift to know that no matter the faults of the parent, that same parent is a human being, perfectly flawed because that is the number one condition of "being human." Yet even with the flaw, the parent earns his children's honor.
My father-in-law and I today talked about Coleridge, about Fancy, and threw lines from poems of ours back and forth with one another while sitting on his kitchen floor, with Diego and Clara circling the kitchen table. How perfect that the one thing I could NEVER talk to my father about -- my poetry; for reasons I can only begin to iron out -- is one of the deepest connections I have with my father-in-law: we are both writers, poets primarily. My father-in-law liked my line about "the small wings of speech" from my poem "Chaos Theories". I liked his line from the poem he's working on currently, "So I begin in memory, twisting scraps of [...] into facts" or something near to that.
We talked about how neither of us has read the entire Biographia Literaria, how both of us were obsessed with Coleridge at one point, still are in ways differently than we were before. I explained how I choose a genre in which to write: blog entries are about turning the daily into the daily bread. Fiction is about crafting art from an experience that seems ripe with symbolism. Poetry is about turning to the ether, pulling something from it, and through the imagination, creating something "Fanciful" from the sheer air: A rarity of the imagination, so rare that it makes the indecipherable plain. Poetry clears the mind's eye with all its glorious confusion. And there are no resolutions in poetry, only pauses.
There is a poem of mine that sits in my father's guest bedroom on the floor. It was never hung up on his wall, never fully committed to by either of us. Nevertheless, he'd surprised me with it Christmas 1994, secretly commissioning it through my boyfriend Charlie. Christmas day when I opened up the present in my father's living room, saw this 2'x3' frame of my poem "Mexican Hibiscus" calligraphied on parchment, I gagged. "I thought you'd like to hang that on your wall," he said.
"As if," I thought, choking on my own words as I re-read them silently in front of everyone else around the Christmas tree; the poem was broadcast, you might say.
My father's gesture horrified me at the time: Now I understand the gesture a little more. It was his way of saying "I care," although he honestly didn't care enough to hang it next to his portrait. Of course, I would not have expected him to hang it there. I couldn't hang it in my house, how could I expect him to hang it in his?
His message, as I see it now was "do it yourself." That is, if you want to write poetry that is admired, you have to admire it yourself first. I can trust that message. I've learned it's true over time.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Hollywood Ending
I was in the mortuary conference room with my siblings, my stepmother, her sister, and my stepsister. The O'Neill family has owned the mortuary since 1898. Mr. O'Neill running the meeting currently heads the family mortuary and is my age, probably. Our families went to church together, so I recognize the boy in him.
He goes on about his services, very thorough and thoughtful. I zone out for a few minutes, answering my phone when my own mother, who's babysitting Clara and Diego, calls to ask when I will be home because she wants to "go do something." Marco shoots me with his stare, "Turn that thing off!" he hisses. His own phone chimes constantly with text message notices, so I hiss back "it was MOM; I have CHILDREN." Death does not bring out the best in all of us.
Suddenly, I hear Mr. O'Neill say something about a "witness cremation."
"Wait. What are you talking about?" I ask.
"The witness cremation," he says. He explains the scenario. "The family can request to be there at the cremation. They are able to view the body and then watch as the body enters the furnace. They can remain in the cremation room as long as they like."
I imagine flames; I imagine a burst of flames enveloping my father's corpse: a pyre.
"Maybe I want to do that," I say. Everyone except Mr. O'Neill looks at me funny.
"I don't want to do that," says my sister.
"Me neither," says my brother.
"No way," says my stepmother. "You're on your own with that one."
"That's okay," I assure them, looking at Mr. O'Neill.
"It isn't like Hollywood," he says, not looking at me.
I'm embarrassed that he's read my mind. "Can I think about it?" I ask him.
"Of course!" he says. "Just let me know as soon as possible, so that I can make the arrangements. We won't do much, just try to make him look a little better. He will have been in the freezer for a few days. It takes a while for the State to create the death certificate, longer now that they have everything computerized."
The feeling in the room was one of generosity, so nothing sounded cold. Death sounded warm and inviting, in fact.
I decided to do the witness cremation. My uncle Pat met me at the mortuary on Wednesday morning. I'd dressed up a little, and I covered my hair -- because it was filthy -- with a scarf. As I left the house that morning, my mother laughed and told me I looked like aMuslim woman. When I arrived at the mortuary, my Uncle Pat laughed and said that when he saw me walk in, he thought I was a Muslim woman.
A different mortician led us into the back room. They brought my father out, his body covered with a white sheet, a terry cloth towel wrapped like turban around the hole in his head where thecraniectomy happened.
My uncle and I stood over him, quietly. Then my uncle said, "He looks like Santa Claus."
"He does," I said, and he did. His face was a little blue, like he'd been driving his sleigh through the north pole all night. A little red and frostbitten. I touched his stomach.
"I kissed my dad when I saw him dead," Uncle Pat said, "and he was so, so cold."
"I don't want to kiss him," I said. But I wanted to touch him one more time. I touched his forehead, whispered, "I love you, dad. Thank you for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever." Tears gushed from my eyes, gathered on the tip of my nose and fell on his body.
The attendants wearing dark suits looked at us with anticipation. We nodded to them. They took hold of the gurney and rolled it toward the furnace. One of them pushed a button and the door of the oven opened. The inside was a large metal
box, and I could see flames reflected in the metal's sheen. They pushed my father in, and the door closed. The attendant pushed another button, and the incinerator geared up and then ignited full force. We stood there for a few more moments, then we left the room. On the way out, I thought to myself, "His mustache looked perfect."
He goes on about his services, very thorough and thoughtful. I zone out for a few minutes, answering my phone when my own mother, who's babysitting Clara and Diego, calls to ask when I will be home because she wants to "go do something." Marco shoots me with his stare, "Turn that thing off!" he hisses. His own phone chimes constantly with text message notices, so I hiss back "it was MOM; I have CHILDREN." Death does not bring out the best in all of us.
Suddenly, I hear Mr. O'Neill say something about a "witness cremation."
"Wait. What are you talking about?" I ask.
"The witness cremation," he says. He explains the scenario. "The family can request to be there at the cremation. They are able to view the body and then watch as the body enters the furnace. They can remain in the cremation room as long as they like."
I imagine flames; I imagine a burst of flames enveloping my father's corpse: a pyre.
"Maybe I want to do that," I say. Everyone except Mr. O'Neill looks at me funny.
"I don't want to do that," says my sister.
"Me neither," says my brother.
"No way," says my stepmother. "You're on your own with that one."
"That's okay," I assure them, looking at Mr. O'Neill.
"It isn't like Hollywood," he says, not looking at me.
I'm embarrassed that he's read my mind. "Can I think about it?" I ask him.
"Of course!" he says. "Just let me know as soon as possible, so that I can make the arrangements. We won't do much, just try to make him look a little better. He will have been in the freezer for a few days. It takes a while for the State to create the death certificate, longer now that they have everything computerized."
The feeling in the room was one of generosity, so nothing sounded cold. Death sounded warm and inviting, in fact.
I decided to do the witness cremation. My uncle Pat met me at the mortuary on Wednesday morning. I'd dressed up a little, and I covered my hair -- because it was filthy -- with a scarf. As I left the house that morning, my mother laughed and told me I looked like aMuslim woman. When I arrived at the mortuary, my Uncle Pat laughed and said that when he saw me walk in, he thought I was a Muslim woman.
A different mortician led us into the back room. They brought my father out, his body covered with a white sheet, a terry cloth towel wrapped like turban around the hole in his head where thecraniectomy happened.
My uncle and I stood over him, quietly. Then my uncle said, "He looks like Santa Claus."
"He does," I said, and he did. His face was a little blue, like he'd been driving his sleigh through the north pole all night. A little red and frostbitten. I touched his stomach.
"I kissed my dad when I saw him dead," Uncle Pat said, "and he was so, so cold."
"I don't want to kiss him," I said. But I wanted to touch him one more time. I touched his forehead, whispered, "I love you, dad. Thank you for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever." Tears gushed from my eyes, gathered on the tip of my nose and fell on his body.
The attendants wearing dark suits looked at us with anticipation. We nodded to them. They took hold of the gurney and rolled it toward the furnace. One of them pushed a button and the door of the oven opened. The inside was a large metal
box, and I could see flames reflected in the metal's sheen. They pushed my father in, and the door closed. The attendant pushed another button, and the incinerator geared up and then ignited full force. We stood there for a few more moments, then we left the room. On the way out, I thought to myself, "His mustache looked perfect."
Friday, June 29, 2007
Row
Tonight putting Diego to bed is a chore with mixed blessings, or, rather, a blessing and a curse. It takes especially forever, tonight when one is tired and waiting patiently -- oh. so. patiently. -- for the end of the day to come, for a time when it's possible to be alone, or pseudo-alone. One has been waiting; that is, I have been waiting to sit down and listen to my mind for a few extended minutes, to be able to think my own thoughts for a while instead ofanother's, specifically a two year old and ten month old's thoughts.
At these kinds of moments, I imagine that life is a boat, put out to sea, and I am sitting in that boat. And I have a choice to jump boat or to sail on. And so I sail on.
Finally, I get Diego to settle down, to stop saying "Hi!" to everything: the cat, the trees outside, the ceiling. Finally, I am able to nurse him into quietude, to help him drop down into alpha state, to coax him toward sleep. I sing him his favorite song, over and over:
Row, Row, Row your boat,
Gently down the stream,
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.
I sing it to him over and over, as he stares at the shutters, blinking in the last light of the day. He stares, mewls, chuckles and swoons, smiling, toward dreaming.
I sing the song so many times, it takes on that sonorousness of a lesson. I see my father's life, so short. I realize that for the rest of my life, his life and my life with him will be a dream. Whether it be a shared dream, I know not. But I like to believe it will be.
I sing it so many times I start to cry. Life is but a dream. Is it possible to live merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, rowing our boats down the stream, toward the sea?
At these kinds of moments, I imagine that life is a boat, put out to sea, and I am sitting in that boat. And I have a choice to jump boat or to sail on. And so I sail on.
Finally, I get Diego to settle down, to stop saying "Hi!" to everything: the cat, the trees outside, the ceiling. Finally, I am able to nurse him into quietude, to help him drop down into alpha state, to coax him toward sleep. I sing him his favorite song, over and over:
Row, Row, Row your boat,
Gently down the stream,
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.
I sing it to him over and over, as he stares at the shutters, blinking in the last light of the day. He stares, mewls, chuckles and swoons, smiling, toward dreaming.
I sing the song so many times, it takes on that sonorousness of a lesson. I see my father's life, so short. I realize that for the rest of my life, his life and my life with him will be a dream. Whether it be a shared dream, I know not. But I like to believe it will be.
I sing it so many times I start to cry. Life is but a dream. Is it possible to live merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, rowing our boats down the stream, toward the sea?
Sunday, June 24, 2007
the misery and the happiness
We're back in Houston.
Conflicted, because of the weather, inside and outside, we rail against one another, trying to balance the weight of loss with the dream of loss.
It's hard all over.
All over, it's hard.
It's all overhard,
I could leave my feelings like that, all short, terse, oblique and resonant.
Or, I could expound (v.), expose (v.), exposition (v.).
Or, I could keep the energy wound up, coiled in my brain like a snake, swooning into a pounce.
My father died of an aneurysm. And a stroke. He died at 71 years old. 1000 people attended his funeral. The service consisted of a high mass, in the Mexican/Anglo spirit of the place. Mariachis provided the music liturgy, readings were chosen with care (I read the first reading from the Book of Job). Father Art's homily and Tony Moiso (current head of the family that bought the rancho from my family) eulogizing my father captured the girth of Tony's spirit, shared that spirit with all who were there. Truly the attendees formed a pageant of meaningful people from my father's life. It was a celebration of him and the of way he lived.
He was truly, without a doubt, the life of the party.
The California Highway Patrol closed the Ortega Hywy Exit on Interstate 5 for the funeral procession from the Mission Basilica in San Juan Capistrano to the old cemetery, where my father's ashes were buried between his mother and father's graves. The sun was bright. The sky was blue. It was the perfect California day: warm in the sun (almost hot), cool in the shade. With a breeze in the shade, one would be almost cold. After the graveside service, we walked down the hill with our children and extended family and with friends, walking back through town to the mission, or finding our pre-parked cars in one of the “shopping centers” at the bottom of the hill. My mother parked her Toyota Camry in the handicapped spot next to the old Forster Mansion. David and I sat and waited with Clara and Diego for 30 minutes, hoping to finally see my mom walking down the cemetery hill to open the car for us so that we could get going to the fiesta.
Following the funeral was the fiesta out Ortega Highway at Las Amantes Ranch, one of my father's favorite spots on the old Rancho Mission Viejo. Mariachis greeted the guests; picnic tables were dressed with table clothes and covered with shady tents. The beer truck, liquor wagon and Margarita stands served libations constantly and tirelessly. I had half a Margarita. I took two sips of it, set it down and came back to an empty cup. I couldn't eat any of the food because of my dietary restrictions; I drank a lot of water, and it felt like I was swimming in condolences. By the end of the day, I had a headache the size of Iowa.
Nevertheless, I appreciated everyone who came out to say goodbye to Tony and to share this loss with our family.
My father is proud of and grateful to his community. His family is, too.
Thank you.
Conflicted, because of the weather, inside and outside, we rail against one another, trying to balance the weight of loss with the dream of loss.
It's hard all over.
All over, it's hard.
It's all overhard,
I could leave my feelings like that, all short, terse, oblique and resonant.
Or, I could expound (v.), expose (v.), exposition (v.).
Or, I could keep the energy wound up, coiled in my brain like a snake, swooning into a pounce.
My father died of an aneurysm. And a stroke. He died at 71 years old. 1000 people attended his funeral. The service consisted of a high mass, in the Mexican/Anglo spirit of the place. Mariachis provided the music liturgy, readings were chosen with care (I read the first reading from the Book of Job). Father Art's homily and Tony Moiso (current head of the family that bought the rancho from my family) eulogizing my father captured the girth of Tony's spirit, shared that spirit with all who were there. Truly the attendees formed a pageant of meaningful people from my father's life. It was a celebration of him and the of way he lived.
He was truly, without a doubt, the life of the party.
The California Highway Patrol closed the Ortega Hywy Exit on Interstate 5 for the funeral procession from the Mission Basilica in San Juan Capistrano to the old cemetery, where my father's ashes were buried between his mother and father's graves. The sun was bright. The sky was blue. It was the perfect California day: warm in the sun (almost hot), cool in the shade. With a breeze in the shade, one would be almost cold. After the graveside service, we walked down the hill with our children and extended family and with friends, walking back through town to the mission, or finding our pre-parked cars in one of the “shopping centers” at the bottom of the hill. My mother parked her Toyota Camry in the handicapped spot next to the old Forster Mansion. David and I sat and waited with Clara and Diego for 30 minutes, hoping to finally see my mom walking down the cemetery hill to open the car for us so that we could get going to the fiesta.
Following the funeral was the fiesta out Ortega Highway at Las Amantes Ranch, one of my father's favorite spots on the old Rancho Mission Viejo. Mariachis greeted the guests; picnic tables were dressed with table clothes and covered with shady tents. The beer truck, liquor wagon and Margarita stands served libations constantly and tirelessly. I had half a Margarita. I took two sips of it, set it down and came back to an empty cup. I couldn't eat any of the food because of my dietary restrictions; I drank a lot of water, and it felt like I was swimming in condolences. By the end of the day, I had a headache the size of Iowa.
Nevertheless, I appreciated everyone who came out to say goodbye to Tony and to share this loss with our family.
My father is proud of and grateful to his community. His family is, too.
Thank you.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
And There Was Dancing and Music
And movin to the groovin.
I've been purging my books, my life really: going through books and CDs and papers. Jesus I have so many papers. I come from a line of packrats, most notably my father; the man has kept every single item that had any history for him personally, including the first bill he paid after graduating from college. WEST POINT. And don't you forget it.
Papers...what are all these papers? Poems, my own and other peoples, files of things that have personal history for me -- IBP postcards, teaching lessons, shit I don't know what it is nor what it's good for. I got to get rid of my shit.
By the way, we're having a garage sale, an estate sale, really because it's going to be inside our estate, the estate we're leaving for another, smaller, more economical estate. Smaller. Did I say smaller? Small-er-er-er-er. Last week, in preparation for the move, I proclaimed to David that I was only going to take 100 books to the new house, excluding my poetry collection; the entirety of which I refuse to part from. Well, I did give away my 1974 Anthology of Modern Hungarian Poetry. By give away I mean set aside. It'll be for sale on a Friday and Saturday very soon. Probably that's the only one I should keep. Who knows, I'll bet the Hungarians are going to break out as the next Superpoets of the world.
But the dancing and the music, that's what I wanted to talk about. I used to listen to a lot of music, used to purchase these things called CDs. They were more expensive than tapes, but better for some reason...maybe because they never wear out. Right? Or do they? Mine are all worn out, tired and lonely and dusty and slapped all up together with other lonely, dusty CDs. I have music on my ipod now or in my computer or in my distant memory. Do I really need these CDs? No. I do not. So why can't I just wipe them off the shelves into the boxes for the garage sale, I mean estate sale? Because each CD holds at least one memory which is tied to either a song or a mood that dominated during the time I was listening to the CD; and memory is seductive, it requires your time. And I don't have the time to listen to all the music in the world, especially because now I live with three other people who not only compete for my time, but also compete with me for music listening space. Mostly, my children win. I listen to decent children's music (it's catchy!), but I used to listen to good adult music. "Adult music" sounds like it nasty but it's not nasty. I still listen to Bob Dylan; I let Clara listen to a Bob Dylan mix every night for 15 months as her bedtime music. I had to make sure she had his patterns measured into her brain. But after Bob Dylan, the fidelities start to muddy up, the waters get murky. Do I want this Moby? NO. But then I have to listen to it to try and figure out why the fuck I bought it in the first place. There was a song tied to a memory, I'm sure. What about these Joni Mitchells? YES, but she's one of those people that I have to wait for, it's harder to make time for her admist the Reggae Playground or Carol King's Really Rosie. And, really, how many more times am I going to have to listen to Joni Mitchell in my lifetime? I may have listened to her enough. And anyway, I already transferred her to my computer, so she's on my ipod. The ipod takes up a ridiculously less amount of space; therefore, I can get rid of the Joni CDs. But then there are those CDs that I haven't burned yet, like "Tom and Elis" by Antonio Carlos Joabim. Like Coltrane's "A Love Supreme". Like Wilco's double album. Like a bunch of other ones.
But I want to get rid of stuff; I'm interested in travelling light.
I've been purging my books, my life really: going through books and CDs and papers. Jesus I have so many papers. I come from a line of packrats, most notably my father; the man has kept every single item that had any history for him personally, including the first bill he paid after graduating from college. WEST POINT. And don't you forget it.
Papers...what are all these papers? Poems, my own and other peoples, files of things that have personal history for me -- IBP postcards, teaching lessons, shit I don't know what it is nor what it's good for. I got to get rid of my shit.
By the way, we're having a garage sale, an estate sale, really because it's going to be inside our estate, the estate we're leaving for another, smaller, more economical estate. Smaller. Did I say smaller? Small-er-er-er-er. Last week, in preparation for the move, I proclaimed to David that I was only going to take 100 books to the new house, excluding my poetry collection; the entirety of which I refuse to part from. Well, I did give away my 1974 Anthology of Modern Hungarian Poetry. By give away I mean set aside. It'll be for sale on a Friday and Saturday very soon. Probably that's the only one I should keep. Who knows, I'll bet the Hungarians are going to break out as the next Superpoets of the world.
But the dancing and the music, that's what I wanted to talk about. I used to listen to a lot of music, used to purchase these things called CDs. They were more expensive than tapes, but better for some reason...maybe because they never wear out. Right? Or do they? Mine are all worn out, tired and lonely and dusty and slapped all up together with other lonely, dusty CDs. I have music on my ipod now or in my computer or in my distant memory. Do I really need these CDs? No. I do not. So why can't I just wipe them off the shelves into the boxes for the garage sale, I mean estate sale? Because each CD holds at least one memory which is tied to either a song or a mood that dominated during the time I was listening to the CD; and memory is seductive, it requires your time. And I don't have the time to listen to all the music in the world, especially because now I live with three other people who not only compete for my time, but also compete with me for music listening space. Mostly, my children win. I listen to decent children's music (it's catchy!), but I used to listen to good adult music. "Adult music" sounds like it nasty but it's not nasty. I still listen to Bob Dylan; I let Clara listen to a Bob Dylan mix every night for 15 months as her bedtime music. I had to make sure she had his patterns measured into her brain. But after Bob Dylan, the fidelities start to muddy up, the waters get murky. Do I want this Moby? NO. But then I have to listen to it to try and figure out why the fuck I bought it in the first place. There was a song tied to a memory, I'm sure. What about these Joni Mitchells? YES, but she's one of those people that I have to wait for, it's harder to make time for her admist the Reggae Playground or Carol King's Really Rosie. And, really, how many more times am I going to have to listen to Joni Mitchell in my lifetime? I may have listened to her enough. And anyway, I already transferred her to my computer, so she's on my ipod. The ipod takes up a ridiculously less amount of space; therefore, I can get rid of the Joni CDs. But then there are those CDs that I haven't burned yet, like "Tom and Elis" by Antonio Carlos Joabim. Like Coltrane's "A Love Supreme". Like Wilco's double album. Like a bunch of other ones.
But I want to get rid of stuff; I'm interested in travelling light.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
I Want To
I want to say goodbye to Zorca, our gypsy neighbor who's put down roots in the townhouse on the corner of Travis and Stuart: Our psychic friend, our comrade. I will miss her. She has this amazing voice, amazing. It sounds exactly what a crazy old lady's voice should sound like, shrieking and urgent, near-hysterical, yet wise beyond its whelps.
This house we're leaving, it is haunted; we said goodbye to the ghosts. We'd heard about one ghost from a previous tenant who stopped by one evening with his lover because they'd been walking on the sidewalk in front of the house and run into David who was taking out the trash. The previous tenant came upstairs to look around the old place, and he told us the story of the ghost who hurled one of his floor lamps across the room, or something equally catastrophic, when he'd lived here.
We had no episodes like that one. But in fact, we had not-so-subtle catastrophes that could not be attributed per se to ghosts. Like the time the fleas infested, or the time it poured buckets of rain down through the attic door into our bedroom on Memorial Day two years ago. Like the lead paint, the nails sticking out of the warping hardwoods, the general decay everpresent -- from the shedding shingles of white paint adorning the outside, to the squirrel corpses that, while they rot, infuse the air we've had to breathe with the pungent, unmistakable odor of death. Hard to escape that smell; it creeps into everything. Both times our children were just home from being born, an animal rotted beneath the floorboards under the bed I nursed them in.
My father still lies in a drug-induced coma in Mission Hospital in California. They, the doctors, are afraid to allow his brain any stimulation. His brain needs rest, they say. Yes, we say to one another; he needs rest. And he does. My father needs a lot of rest. He has lived hard the past 71 years, a charmed life, as my brother Marco dubs it. He deserves to die a hero in his own mind, my father, which is what he worked his whole life to be: a hero in his own mind.
Is he big enough to be a hero in my mind? If you know more than a little about my father, more than a little about me, you know that the decision for me to consider my father a hero is one that must be made with the purest love, because my father and I? We fought. Always and consistently: to the death. We fought so hard, we actually hated one another truly and purely at times. But always within that hatred lived the ghost of love, bright love, true love. Real love, no matter what shape it chose to show up in. And I don't even feel bad about romanticizing my father because, in fact, he is a hero in my mind. He lived up to me, to the largeness I required of him. That is no small feat. I'm proud of him.
What I miss most right now is his voice -- the boom and bust of it, his whimsy, his self-satisfied delight in his own observations. In the last five years, most every time I called him (and it was only maybe three times a month), I'd catch him potting his plants, his flowers specifically, around his patio overlooking San Clemente and the Pacific Ocean. He'd tell me what he was doing, and what a perfect day it was. "It's another perfect day here in Southern California," he'd say accusingly.
"It's hot here," I'd say. Or "it's raining," or "it's sorta cold here."
"I don't know why anyone would choose to live in fucking Houston," he'd say. "I live in Paradise."
"It's complicated," I would say sometimes, although rarely. Mostly, I'd just say, "Yeah...."
I wish I had a recording of my father's voice. I have a recording of my brother Marco imitating him, and it's scary, the verisimilitude Marco can capture. He knows how to dramatize my father's gross humanity with expertly observed examples. He's genius, my brother, and I'm grateful for him.
Today, while talking to Marco on the phone, I could hear the ghost of my father in him, and I realized that the ghost of my father has been there, here, with us forever; and therefore, he will be with us forever. And that is enough.
This house we're leaving, it is haunted; we said goodbye to the ghosts. We'd heard about one ghost from a previous tenant who stopped by one evening with his lover because they'd been walking on the sidewalk in front of the house and run into David who was taking out the trash. The previous tenant came upstairs to look around the old place, and he told us the story of the ghost who hurled one of his floor lamps across the room, or something equally catastrophic, when he'd lived here.
We had no episodes like that one. But in fact, we had not-so-subtle catastrophes that could not be attributed per se to ghosts. Like the time the fleas infested, or the time it poured buckets of rain down through the attic door into our bedroom on Memorial Day two years ago. Like the lead paint, the nails sticking out of the warping hardwoods, the general decay everpresent -- from the shedding shingles of white paint adorning the outside, to the squirrel corpses that, while they rot, infuse the air we've had to breathe with the pungent, unmistakable odor of death. Hard to escape that smell; it creeps into everything. Both times our children were just home from being born, an animal rotted beneath the floorboards under the bed I nursed them in.
My father still lies in a drug-induced coma in Mission Hospital in California. They, the doctors, are afraid to allow his brain any stimulation. His brain needs rest, they say. Yes, we say to one another; he needs rest. And he does. My father needs a lot of rest. He has lived hard the past 71 years, a charmed life, as my brother Marco dubs it. He deserves to die a hero in his own mind, my father, which is what he worked his whole life to be: a hero in his own mind.
Is he big enough to be a hero in my mind? If you know more than a little about my father, more than a little about me, you know that the decision for me to consider my father a hero is one that must be made with the purest love, because my father and I? We fought. Always and consistently: to the death. We fought so hard, we actually hated one another truly and purely at times. But always within that hatred lived the ghost of love, bright love, true love. Real love, no matter what shape it chose to show up in. And I don't even feel bad about romanticizing my father because, in fact, he is a hero in my mind. He lived up to me, to the largeness I required of him. That is no small feat. I'm proud of him.
What I miss most right now is his voice -- the boom and bust of it, his whimsy, his self-satisfied delight in his own observations. In the last five years, most every time I called him (and it was only maybe three times a month), I'd catch him potting his plants, his flowers specifically, around his patio overlooking San Clemente and the Pacific Ocean. He'd tell me what he was doing, and what a perfect day it was. "It's another perfect day here in Southern California," he'd say accusingly.
"It's hot here," I'd say. Or "it's raining," or "it's sorta cold here."
"I don't know why anyone would choose to live in fucking Houston," he'd say. "I live in Paradise."
"It's complicated," I would say sometimes, although rarely. Mostly, I'd just say, "Yeah...."
I wish I had a recording of my father's voice. I have a recording of my brother Marco imitating him, and it's scary, the verisimilitude Marco can capture. He knows how to dramatize my father's gross humanity with expertly observed examples. He's genius, my brother, and I'm grateful for him.
Today, while talking to Marco on the phone, I could hear the ghost of my father in him, and I realized that the ghost of my father has been there, here, with us forever; and therefore, he will be with us forever. And that is enough.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
The Seventh Thing
The last thing in this meme streak that you may not know about me is that I am currently in California because my dear, dear dad had an aneurysm yesterday, May 29, and is currently in a coma. I'm here with my siblings and extended family.
I trust that things will be what they will be.
I trust that things will be what they will be.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
The Fourth Thing
I have a 1948 Martin guitar that I never play anymore, and it plays beautifully. I am terrified to sell it, although I fantasize about how much money I could get for it.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The Third Thing
I learned grammar from teaching grammar. Before that, I wrote by ear. I still write by ear, more than by eye. But now my grammar is better. Not perfect, but good enough.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
The Second Thing
The Second Thing people may not know about me is that my favorite contemporary book of poems is Jelly Roll by Kevin Young. And my favorite poem in Jelly Roll is called "Boogie Woogie".
Boogie Woogie
(c) 2003
by Kevin Young
I'll be your lunch
date, your party
favorite--wind
up & watch me run
down--ten
nine eight--
I'm your New
Year's Eve hat
with the propeller
on it--confetti
& kiss me
I'm kazoo for you
fool, counting
down the days
like those numbers
before films, a glimpse
that once, before Abbot
& Costello
a screen test
lady winked & was
gone--spliced in,
us laughing.
Boogie Woogie
(c) 2003
by Kevin Young
I'll be your lunch
date, your party
favorite--wind
up & watch me run
down--ten
nine eight--
I'm your New
Year's Eve hat
with the propeller
on it--confetti
& kiss me
I'm kazoo for you
fool, counting
down the days
like those numbers
before films, a glimpse
that once, before Abbot
& Costello
a screen test
lady winked & was
gone--spliced in,
us laughing.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
The First Thing
Robin, of The Other Mother, tagged me with a meme: 7 things people may not know about me.
The first thing is that I was in a band, a rock band, for seven years. Lead singer, lead songwriter, shitty guitarist. We played at several Houston clubs regularly: Rudyards, Mary Janes, the Edge, the Ale House. Our band was called Shag, and it was born before the movie Austin Powers was born, so it wasn't a geeky cliche at the time, or at least we didn't think so. We chose it for the entendres: it is a haircut (I had a shag in third grade), a baseball play, a dance, a carpet, a fuck. Before I was with Shag, I was in a band called Shiksa -- comprised of two Jewish brothers and me. For Shiksa, I sang and played the bass SO INCREDIBLY BADLY. Shiksa had many, many rehearsals, but only one show, which took place in the living room of the band leader's house. There were at least 27 people there. We had some good songs.
The first thing is that I was in a band, a rock band, for seven years. Lead singer, lead songwriter, shitty guitarist. We played at several Houston clubs regularly: Rudyards, Mary Janes, the Edge, the Ale House. Our band was called Shag, and it was born before the movie Austin Powers was born, so it wasn't a geeky cliche at the time, or at least we didn't think so. We chose it for the entendres: it is a haircut (I had a shag in third grade), a baseball play, a dance, a carpet, a fuck. Before I was with Shag, I was in a band called Shiksa -- comprised of two Jewish brothers and me. For Shiksa, I sang and played the bass SO INCREDIBLY BADLY. Shiksa had many, many rehearsals, but only one show, which took place in the living room of the band leader's house. There were at least 27 people there. We had some good songs.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Gomez
After church on Sundays when I was a little girl, our family ritual was to drive around the San Juan Capistrano valley gomezing, as my dad called it.
To my dad, "to gomez" means to be a busy body. A guy in my dad's high school class named Gomez was always getting into other people's business; hence, the term was born.
For example, when I was little, my dad would often take detours on the way home from Thrifty's or the horse stables, driving through the Kinoshita's snow pea fields, or into some new housing development, around the back roads and side streets of our town, always in an idle sort of way, just to see what was going on, even though nothing was going on usually. When, exasperated, I'd ask him what he was doing, he'd say, "I'm being a gomez; shut up." Likewise, if one of his children seemed too nosy or intrusive regarding his property or doings, he would tell us to stop being such a gomez.
To my dad, "to gomez" means to be a busy body. A guy in my dad's high school class named Gomez was always getting into other people's business; hence, the term was born.
For example, when I was little, my dad would often take detours on the way home from Thrifty's or the horse stables, driving through the Kinoshita's snow pea fields, or into some new housing development, around the back roads and side streets of our town, always in an idle sort of way, just to see what was going on, even though nothing was going on usually. When, exasperated, I'd ask him what he was doing, he'd say, "I'm being a gomez; shut up." Likewise, if one of his children seemed too nosy or intrusive regarding his property or doings, he would tell us to stop being such a gomez.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Nostalgia, noun
When I lived in Spain, in Salamanca, on Calle de Espiritu, I fell ill in the fall and was ill all through the wretchedly cold winter. The illness, so mysterious, never named, sprang upon me with a vengeance, and then settled in, hosted itself in my body, a comfortable guest there I suppose because my body was brittle from starvation, self-imposed. My mind, fuzzed by fever, could not grip the reality of what was happening, and I lived so much a spectator of myself, that I might as well have been watching the movie of my life: a depressing one, at that.
Every day at the comida, the family I lived with, talked around me to one another about the minutia of their lives, catching up, even though they lived on top of one another in a palatial five bedroom apartment that could not have been larger than 1000 square feet. Sometimes, I sat silent throughout the meal. They talked about me to one another, weighing in their opinions about what was wrong with me, as if I were not there. One afternoon, the lady of the house, La Senora, told the family that I was muriendo de nostalgia, dying of nostalgia.
I was only 21, and I translated her diagnosis, this nostalgia, as loneliness. I was dying of loneliness.
Years later, a man who was pursuing me although I had a boyfriend, lived with him even, diagnosed me with the same illness. "You know what your problem is?" he said, a little laughingly. "Your just lonely."
"How can I be lonely," I answered, "when I'm surrounded by people?"
"You don't understand," he said, "do you?"
Years after that, another man, a friend named Christian, told me that he described me to his friends as a beautiful cynic. I took it as a compliment because of the beautiful part. But tonight, I thought of that description as I sat alone on our balcony, not lonely, just alone, and I thought about how this description, which was probably right at the time he said it, was no longer right. Or that I no longer wanted it to be right. To be a cynical person is a way to distance oneself from the fray of life as it happens, to sit outside of one's life, to judge it and dismiss it with a carefully crafted sentence, tossed out lightly, but weighted with sarcasm and defeat tucked inside the sentence's syntax like stones sewn inside the hem of a coat. What is meant to be a terse quip is actually an admission of the incredible longing for connection, for a feeling of fullness and grace. Cynicism can become a mental stone, a heaviness that results in a coldness of being.
Nostalgia is like that, too. Defined as "the condition of homesickness", or "a yearning for situations, people and places in the past" (www.dictionary.com), nostalgia eats away at one's consciousness so that the grace that exists every moment in the present sits like a specter at the banquet table, the same table where one sits, also, surrounded by people, still lonely as a stone.
Every day at the comida, the family I lived with, talked around me to one another about the minutia of their lives, catching up, even though they lived on top of one another in a palatial five bedroom apartment that could not have been larger than 1000 square feet. Sometimes, I sat silent throughout the meal. They talked about me to one another, weighing in their opinions about what was wrong with me, as if I were not there. One afternoon, the lady of the house, La Senora, told the family that I was muriendo de nostalgia, dying of nostalgia.
I was only 21, and I translated her diagnosis, this nostalgia, as loneliness. I was dying of loneliness.
Years later, a man who was pursuing me although I had a boyfriend, lived with him even, diagnosed me with the same illness. "You know what your problem is?" he said, a little laughingly. "Your just lonely."
"How can I be lonely," I answered, "when I'm surrounded by people?"
"You don't understand," he said, "do you?"
Years after that, another man, a friend named Christian, told me that he described me to his friends as a beautiful cynic. I took it as a compliment because of the beautiful part. But tonight, I thought of that description as I sat alone on our balcony, not lonely, just alone, and I thought about how this description, which was probably right at the time he said it, was no longer right. Or that I no longer wanted it to be right. To be a cynical person is a way to distance oneself from the fray of life as it happens, to sit outside of one's life, to judge it and dismiss it with a carefully crafted sentence, tossed out lightly, but weighted with sarcasm and defeat tucked inside the sentence's syntax like stones sewn inside the hem of a coat. What is meant to be a terse quip is actually an admission of the incredible longing for connection, for a feeling of fullness and grace. Cynicism can become a mental stone, a heaviness that results in a coldness of being.
Nostalgia is like that, too. Defined as "the condition of homesickness", or "a yearning for situations, people and places in the past" (www.dictionary.com), nostalgia eats away at one's consciousness so that the grace that exists every moment in the present sits like a specter at the banquet table, the same table where one sits, also, surrounded by people, still lonely as a stone.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Favorite Teen Movies
The Breakfast Club (My mom's best friend in college was Anthony Michael Hall's kindergarten teacher. That guy looked like he was still in kindergarten when he did that movie.)
Pretty in Pink (Psychedelic Furs!)
Valley Girl (Nicholas Cage at his best -- except for Adaptation was awesome, too, and that Vampire movie where he eats the roach, and Moonstruck.... Also, the Plimsouls singing "A Million Miles Away")
Grease (every single part of it)
St. Elmo's Fire (Rob Lowe.)
Pretty in Pink (Psychedelic Furs!)
Valley Girl (Nicholas Cage at his best -- except for Adaptation was awesome, too, and that Vampire movie where he eats the roach, and Moonstruck.... Also, the Plimsouls singing "A Million Miles Away")
Grease (every single part of it)
St. Elmo's Fire (Rob Lowe.)
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Awakening
My friends Christopher and Rachel and I drove back over the Golden Gate
Bridge after spending a day hiking to a beach at the foot of MountTamalpais. We were cranky from the tension of it being the end of a summer, a
long one, in which I'd been leaving for months, on my way to Houston,
TX via Orange County, California. The era hadn't ended yet, but it was
ending, and we didn't want to talk about it. The tension ensued because
our age, then early 20s, was a time when we had no idea what we were
doing nor where we were going next. And because we wanted to speak our
minds to one another, we talked a lot about the meaning of life and
stuff like that. And our earnestness helped us tolerate each other's recklessness.
I was obsessing about a man, a sculptor named Chico, who made robots and installed them in the Exploratorium Museum, where I worked designing an ever elusive group vistor
program, answering phones, and sorting mail. Rachel worked in Group
Benefits there. She and I were there together on days when the public
wasn't, when people like SteveBuscemi were visiting because his wife, the artist Jo Andres, was in residence at the museum.
Christopher and I are close friends from college in Los Angeles,
and when we were in our early 20s, we lived in San Francisco as
struggling young writers, the two of us. And although we weren't living
together (I was a nanny in the Richmond district), we hung out every
day together as friends, struggling young writer friends. And although
Rachel and I worked right next to each other, we never really talked
until the day Chris and I happened upon her wandering alone through the
crowd at the free BonnieRaitt and Jackson Brown Day of the Dead concert at City Hall. From that day, we three were one unit.
And while I was in love with the two of them, and while they were (and still are) two of my best friends, they were SO not supportive of my obsession with Chico, the robot sculptor. And in retrospect, this is how best friends should act -- concerned about you! -- when you are acting all stark and nearly raving mad. And we're crossing the bridge, and I'm chattering on about how I hope torun into the robot sculptor in Seattle, because I'm going there soon to see my friends Ed and Lee and maybe we'll go to his art opening.
"Does he even know you're gonna be in Seattle?" Rachel asks.
"No" I say.
"What are you? Like Fatal Attraction?" Chris says.
"What. Maybe metaphorically." I say.
"Christa! The world is NOT A METAPHOR," Rachel says.
"But it is to me," I practically whimper.
And it was. And I knew then, as we rode together over the Golden Gate Bridge, that living according to the ways and means of the metaphorical world would not be an easy thing.
Bridge after spending a day hiking to a beach at the foot of MountTamalpais. We were cranky from the tension of it being the end of a summer, a
long one, in which I'd been leaving for months, on my way to Houston,
TX via Orange County, California. The era hadn't ended yet, but it was
ending, and we didn't want to talk about it. The tension ensued because
our age, then early 20s, was a time when we had no idea what we were
doing nor where we were going next. And because we wanted to speak our
minds to one another, we talked a lot about the meaning of life and
stuff like that. And our earnestness helped us tolerate each other's recklessness.
I was obsessing about a man, a sculptor named Chico, who made robots and installed them in the Exploratorium Museum, where I worked designing an ever elusive group vistor
program, answering phones, and sorting mail. Rachel worked in Group
Benefits there. She and I were there together on days when the public
wasn't, when people like SteveBuscemi were visiting because his wife, the artist Jo Andres, was in residence at the museum.
Christopher and I are close friends from college in Los Angeles,
and when we were in our early 20s, we lived in San Francisco as
struggling young writers, the two of us. And although we weren't living
together (I was a nanny in the Richmond district), we hung out every
day together as friends, struggling young writer friends. And although
Rachel and I worked right next to each other, we never really talked
until the day Chris and I happened upon her wandering alone through the
crowd at the free BonnieRaitt and Jackson Brown Day of the Dead concert at City Hall. From that day, we three were one unit.
And while I was in love with the two of them, and while they were (and still are) two of my best friends, they were SO not supportive of my obsession with Chico, the robot sculptor. And in retrospect, this is how best friends should act -- concerned about you! -- when you are acting all stark and nearly raving mad. And we're crossing the bridge, and I'm chattering on about how I hope torun into the robot sculptor in Seattle, because I'm going there soon to see my friends Ed and Lee and maybe we'll go to his art opening.
"Does he even know you're gonna be in Seattle?" Rachel asks.
"No" I say.
"What are you? Like Fatal Attraction?" Chris says.
"What. Maybe metaphorically." I say.
"Christa! The world is NOT A METAPHOR," Rachel says.
"But it is to me," I practically whimper.
And it was. And I knew then, as we rode together over the Golden Gate Bridge, that living according to the ways and means of the metaphorical world would not be an easy thing.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
The Way it Was
I grew up in the OC, which in the current parlance stands for a decadent ennui, a suburban nonchalance, a foyer in a side palace of Hell.
Tonight, Vernon and Adam are younger than we are, in their 20s, and they live in a fantastic old Spanish apartment complex on Main, very Tennesse Williams, very Camino Real. They are visiting us and are outside right now telling stories with David. When Adam asked me if I grew up in Houston, I tell him, sadly, no. I answer Orange County, California, when he asks where I did grow up. "The OC," he says as if he knows something about the place without having ever been there, a common result of the show on ABC or whatever channel it's on. I've never seen the show. But having lived in the real thing, I don't need to see it. I know what it was like to grow up there: awful and awesome. Totally. Simultaneously.
Tonight, Vernon and Adam are younger than we are, in their 20s, and they live in a fantastic old Spanish apartment complex on Main, very Tennesse Williams, very Camino Real. They are visiting us and are outside right now telling stories with David. When Adam asked me if I grew up in Houston, I tell him, sadly, no. I answer Orange County, California, when he asks where I did grow up. "The OC," he says as if he knows something about the place without having ever been there, a common result of the show on ABC or whatever channel it's on. I've never seen the show. But having lived in the real thing, I don't need to see it. I know what it was like to grow up there: awful and awesome. Totally. Simultaneously.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Braindrain #1
My friend Lucy created a film about her obsession (now past) with Ed Norton, Jr. I think it's called My Obsession with Ed. Norton, Jr. She asked me to participate, because apparently when she first confided in me about her crush on Ed Norton, asking what she should do about it, I told her to ask the universe for help. She wanted me to relate that part of her story to her audience.
I'd actually forgotten about saying that to her, although it did sound like something I probably said. Like when I was drunk or something.
But no, actually, the more I thought about it, the more I knew that not only did I say that to her, but also I said it to her in earnest. At the time of her film-making, It was not clear to me whether or not she had taken my advice literally, except for the fact that she did make a film about her obsession, and she did show that film to her now-husband Jeff on one of their first dates, which I happened to be there for; I happened to be there for their initial crush evening, too, and I remember Lucy's thrill at the end of the evening. "I have a crush on Jeff," she said, "and we're going out next weekend."
Now they're married. So maybe she did petition the universe, and instead of meeting Ed Norton, she met her husband; and maybe just ONE of the reasons he fell in love with her was because of her film about her obsession with Ed Norton, her husband an artist and therefore prone to falling in love with talent. And besides, Ed Norton was dating Salma Hayek, so he was already taken.
What is love? Tamarie Cooper explores this in her most recent show -- 20 Love Songs at Infernal Bridegroom Productions. Daniel Adame does this hilarious and heartwrenching dance to "What is Love? (Baby Don't Hurt Me)." And I've heard that Amy Bruce and George Parker's thing called "A Woman's Complex Relationship with her Vibrator" is flat out hysterical. I created a piece called MAW about mother love. It's gonna go up the first two weekends in June. If you've seen any of Tamarie's work, for example her Tamalalia series, you know that she creates shows that are poingnant and hilarious, the kind of comedy that draws us all in, that reminds us of our humanity and, also, of our godliness. She, herself, reads from her teenage journals about, for example, how she decided in 9th grade to become a "cutter" and how she used a pebble to draw first blood from her arm, giving the audience an insider's view into how Tamarie, and the phenomenon that is Tamarie Cooper, came into existence. 20 Love Songs is a show is not to be missed, dear readers. Not to be missed.
===
How many lightbulbs would it take to change the world?
One per household. David heard Michael Bloomberg speak the other day at a Greater Houston Partnership luncheon. Mayor Bloomberg sighted a statistic about how if everyone in New York City replaced one incandescent lightbulb with one fluorescent lightbulb, they could reduce this country's energy costs dramatically [or was it significantly?]. Bloomberg then said that the energy saved this way could power the empire state building for an entire year.
I've been dreaming about green. I want a green house, as in a house that impacts the earth minimally, and that does not emit toxic gasses, fumes and particles into our living space. I want the artist Mara Adamitz Scrupe to design a solar energy system for our house that is also an art installation. I want her to do this on the ranch that I want to own on the Central Coast of California. I plan to own this ranch one day. A medium-size ranch. A place for people I love to come and live and rest. And play. And work, if they want to. I dream sometimes of living in an extended family compound on the ranch that I plan on owning. I probably dream this because I'm away from them so much and I can't remember how miserable I let them make me. Sometimes.
The randomness of tonight's post reminds me of how I write in my notebook. It's what I used to call a "braindrain" with my high school students, a term I stole from my husband David's father, David, before I ever knew my husband David.
The universe works in mysterious and methodical ways.
I'd actually forgotten about saying that to her, although it did sound like something I probably said. Like when I was drunk or something.
But no, actually, the more I thought about it, the more I knew that not only did I say that to her, but also I said it to her in earnest. At the time of her film-making, It was not clear to me whether or not she had taken my advice literally, except for the fact that she did make a film about her obsession, and she did show that film to her now-husband Jeff on one of their first dates, which I happened to be there for; I happened to be there for their initial crush evening, too, and I remember Lucy's thrill at the end of the evening. "I have a crush on Jeff," she said, "and we're going out next weekend."
Now they're married. So maybe she did petition the universe, and instead of meeting Ed Norton, she met her husband; and maybe just ONE of the reasons he fell in love with her was because of her film about her obsession with Ed Norton, her husband an artist and therefore prone to falling in love with talent. And besides, Ed Norton was dating Salma Hayek, so he was already taken.
What is love? Tamarie Cooper explores this in her most recent show -- 20 Love Songs at Infernal Bridegroom Productions. Daniel Adame does this hilarious and heartwrenching dance to "What is Love? (Baby Don't Hurt Me)." And I've heard that Amy Bruce and George Parker's thing called "A Woman's Complex Relationship with her Vibrator" is flat out hysterical. I created a piece called MAW about mother love. It's gonna go up the first two weekends in June. If you've seen any of Tamarie's work, for example her Tamalalia series, you know that she creates shows that are poingnant and hilarious, the kind of comedy that draws us all in, that reminds us of our humanity and, also, of our godliness. She, herself, reads from her teenage journals about, for example, how she decided in 9th grade to become a "cutter" and how she used a pebble to draw first blood from her arm, giving the audience an insider's view into how Tamarie, and the phenomenon that is Tamarie Cooper, came into existence. 20 Love Songs is a show is not to be missed, dear readers. Not to be missed.
===
How many lightbulbs would it take to change the world?
One per household. David heard Michael Bloomberg speak the other day at a Greater Houston Partnership luncheon. Mayor Bloomberg sighted a statistic about how if everyone in New York City replaced one incandescent lightbulb with one fluorescent lightbulb, they could reduce this country's energy costs dramatically [or was it significantly?]. Bloomberg then said that the energy saved this way could power the empire state building for an entire year.
I've been dreaming about green. I want a green house, as in a house that impacts the earth minimally, and that does not emit toxic gasses, fumes and particles into our living space. I want the artist Mara Adamitz Scrupe to design a solar energy system for our house that is also an art installation. I want her to do this on the ranch that I want to own on the Central Coast of California. I plan to own this ranch one day. A medium-size ranch. A place for people I love to come and live and rest. And play. And work, if they want to. I dream sometimes of living in an extended family compound on the ranch that I plan on owning. I probably dream this because I'm away from them so much and I can't remember how miserable I let them make me. Sometimes.
The randomness of tonight's post reminds me of how I write in my notebook. It's what I used to call a "braindrain" with my high school students, a term I stole from my husband David's father, David, before I ever knew my husband David.
The universe works in mysterious and methodical ways.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Favorite Notebook
I found the Campus Notebook by Kokuyo 18 years ago, and I've been using it ever since. It's the best. I have to special order them from Japanese Stationary stores, specifically Kinokuniya stores. So very satisfying!
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Slow Turning
Went to Dan Electro's Guitar Bar tonight to see this singer/songwriter Dan Bern play there. He had another musician with him, a Mr. Coon, who played -- get this -- a cellocaster. CELLOCASTER! This is the instrument I want played in my vicinity more often. It was great.
Anyway, Dan Bern was totally entertaining. Good lyrics. Lots of Bob Dylan echoes, but as my friend Jason says, "that's totally appropriate because Bob Dylan ripped off all his shit, too." Which is true, of course.
It's been so long since I've seen live music and, well, JESUS I used to play live music in Dan Electro's Bar. SHit. I've come so far....
Anyway, seeing Dan Bern reminded me a little bit of when I lived in Los Angeles and would go to McCabe's Guitar store on Pico Blvd. to see John Hiatt. John Hiatt was something I was loving back then when I lived in Los Angeles. A long time ago.
SLOW TURNING
by John Hiatt
When I was a boy,
I thought it just came to ya'
But I never could tell what's mine
So it didn't matter anyway
My only pride and joy
Was this racket down here
Bangin' on an old guitar
And singin' what I had to say
I always thought our house was haunted
But nobody said boo to me
I never did get what I wanted
Now I get what I need
CHORUS:
It's been a slow turnin'
From the inside out
A slow turnin'
But you come about
Slow learnin'
But you learn to sway
A slow turnin' baby
Not fade away
Now I'm in my car
I got the radio on
I'm yellin' at the kids in the back seat
'Cause they're bangin' like Charlie Watts
You think you've come so far
In this one horse town
Then she's laughin' that crazy laugh
'Cause you haven't left the parkin' lot
Time is short and here's the damn thing about it
You're gonna die, gonna die for sure
And you can learn to live with love or without it
But there ain't no cure
There's just a...
REPEAT CHORUS
Anyway, Dan Bern was totally entertaining. Good lyrics. Lots of Bob Dylan echoes, but as my friend Jason says, "that's totally appropriate because Bob Dylan ripped off all his shit, too." Which is true, of course.
It's been so long since I've seen live music and, well, JESUS I used to play live music in Dan Electro's Bar. SHit. I've come so far....
Anyway, seeing Dan Bern reminded me a little bit of when I lived in Los Angeles and would go to McCabe's Guitar store on Pico Blvd. to see John Hiatt. John Hiatt was something I was loving back then when I lived in Los Angeles. A long time ago.
SLOW TURNING
by John Hiatt
When I was a boy,
I thought it just came to ya'
But I never could tell what's mine
So it didn't matter anyway
My only pride and joy
Was this racket down here
Bangin' on an old guitar
And singin' what I had to say
I always thought our house was haunted
But nobody said boo to me
I never did get what I wanted
Now I get what I need
CHORUS:
It's been a slow turnin'
From the inside out
A slow turnin'
But you come about
Slow learnin'
But you learn to sway
A slow turnin' baby
Not fade away
Now I'm in my car
I got the radio on
I'm yellin' at the kids in the back seat
'Cause they're bangin' like Charlie Watts
You think you've come so far
In this one horse town
Then she's laughin' that crazy laugh
'Cause you haven't left the parkin' lot
Time is short and here's the damn thing about it
You're gonna die, gonna die for sure
And you can learn to live with love or without it
But there ain't no cure
There's just a...
REPEAT CHORUS
Friday, May 11, 2007
Storm
The storm last night, which on the Mega Doppler looked like hell hovering over Houston, TX, refreshed me. Oh boy, did I need some refreshment. David and I were caught during the worst part of it up at the Spacetaker office. We were doing some work. Around 9 set out to meet our friends for drinks at Poison Girl, but the rain, thunder and lightning were pounding the area, so we had to stay where we were. Nearing 10 p.m., I started imagining the kids home, awakened by the ferocious thunder and lightning, worried and scared because mommy and daddy weren't home. Their beloved Marcia was with them; nevertheless, in my mind I pictured them staring out the windows at the maelstrom feeling completely crushed by fear of the storm.
David said, "Stop worrying. Clara loves storms."
I said, "Marcia is not answering her phone, so there must be trouble. We need to go home."
When we got home, Marcia was sitting on the couch, and the kids were fast asleep.
"They went to bed around 8," Marcia said. Like they always do. "They've been asleep since then."
I looked at David and said, "You were 100% right." It's so rare that I say this, and I wanted him to revel in the glow of his rightness.
After Marcia left, I realized that I was the one who was scared and frightened by the storm because my parents weren't home. Unlike Clara and Diego, I did not dwell in an area frequented by fierce storms every few weeks/months. Storms rarely happened in my hometown -- once a year at the most -- so when they did, I was consumed by the strangeness, the interrupting power of the storm. I used to fear that we might not come out on the other side of the chaos -- that we would all just be swallowed by the sky's maw.
It's hard, even though I try all the time, to remember that Clara and Diego are totally different people, with different orientations to the world.
David said, "Stop worrying. Clara loves storms."
I said, "Marcia is not answering her phone, so there must be trouble. We need to go home."
When we got home, Marcia was sitting on the couch, and the kids were fast asleep.
"They went to bed around 8," Marcia said. Like they always do. "They've been asleep since then."
I looked at David and said, "You were 100% right." It's so rare that I say this, and I wanted him to revel in the glow of his rightness.
After Marcia left, I realized that I was the one who was scared and frightened by the storm because my parents weren't home. Unlike Clara and Diego, I did not dwell in an area frequented by fierce storms every few weeks/months. Storms rarely happened in my hometown -- once a year at the most -- so when they did, I was consumed by the strangeness, the interrupting power of the storm. I used to fear that we might not come out on the other side of the chaos -- that we would all just be swallowed by the sky's maw.
It's hard, even though I try all the time, to remember that Clara and Diego are totally different people, with different orientations to the world.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
All Shook Up
Right now there's a rat scratching somewhere in the fireplace's flue. My son is wheezing in his bed. My daughter sleeps, exhausted by her crippling social shyness/paranoia. My joints ache. Nevertheless, I keep trying to find the bright side of everything. Today, I realized that this trying to find the bright side of everything is so Pollyanna of me. I was talking to a new friend, and she mentioned ordering books on Amazon.com, which reminded me of a book I want to order about living gluten-free, which I want to read in my quest to become more healthy, due to my poor health over the past year, including my brain hemorrhage after Diego was born. Off the cuff and enveloped in my response to her comment about Amazon, I mentioned the hemorrhage to her. As in, "did I tell you I had a brain hemorrhage a few months ago?" Like I was asking, "did I tell you I tried this new yellow squash yesterday?"
She seemed aghast by the information, appropriately.
I keep believing that it's no big deal that I had a brain hemorrhage. And because I'm alive and (relatively) well, I suppose it isn't a big deal. Nevertheless, I don't know what the fuck my problem is that I keep trying to see the bright side of a brain hemorrhage.
I even had this idea that I could write a book called THE BRIGHT SIDE OF A BRAIN HEMORRHAGE. It could be my book that makes me a million dollars, and furthermore I will get paid bookoo to travel all over the world giving lectures about my enlightening experiences. The cover art of THE BRIGHT SIDE OF A BRAIN HEMORRHAGE could be one of those classic smiley faces, the yellow button face with two black dots for eyes and the smile, only this smiley face would have a droop on one side of its mouth.
Oh HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. It's all so funny and interesting.
But the fact remains that I could have died, and ultimately this is not only a laughing matter (gallows humor and all), it is also a serious matter. However, it's hard for me to stare into that darkness for too long, because what's the point? There's nothing to see. It's dark. What else can I be but positive and grateful and wildly optimistic about everything? Even though the rat keeps scratching, Diego is still wheezing, Clara continues collapsing in public places when someone says hello to her.
She seemed aghast by the information, appropriately.
I keep believing that it's no big deal that I had a brain hemorrhage. And because I'm alive and (relatively) well, I suppose it isn't a big deal. Nevertheless, I don't know what the fuck my problem is that I keep trying to see the bright side of a brain hemorrhage.
I even had this idea that I could write a book called THE BRIGHT SIDE OF A BRAIN HEMORRHAGE. It could be my book that makes me a million dollars, and furthermore I will get paid bookoo to travel all over the world giving lectures about my enlightening experiences. The cover art of THE BRIGHT SIDE OF A BRAIN HEMORRHAGE could be one of those classic smiley faces, the yellow button face with two black dots for eyes and the smile, only this smiley face would have a droop on one side of its mouth.
Oh HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. It's all so funny and interesting.
But the fact remains that I could have died, and ultimately this is not only a laughing matter (gallows humor and all), it is also a serious matter. However, it's hard for me to stare into that darkness for too long, because what's the point? There's nothing to see. It's dark. What else can I be but positive and grateful and wildly optimistic about everything? Even though the rat keeps scratching, Diego is still wheezing, Clara continues collapsing in public places when someone says hello to her.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
N.B.
Last night after reading my post, David said, "I always forget that."
"Forget what?" I asked.
"Your strict religious upbringing," he said.
I don't think I had a strict religious upbringing, although to some it
may look like I did. I did attend Catholic school from Kindergarten
through 8th grade, and I went with my mother and siblings to church
every day before school. I was taught by an order of dementedly strict
nuns, who told us we would go to hell for laughing at the double entendre
of words like balls or pussy. For a long time I wanted to be a saint when I grew up. However, I was allowed to dance and eat hamburgers and sit next to boys in church. And besides that even the strictest Catholic is still pretty lax compared to, say, an orthodox Jew. Or even a Pentacostal Christian. I mean, Catholics worship a
nearly naked guy who hangs on a cross in front of them at every single mass.
Anyway, it doesn't seem that strict to me now. It did feel strict to me then,
which is why at 16 I decided I would not be Catholic anymore. Which is
why using Jesus to win the Miss San Juan Capistrano, 1984 contest was a
cheap shot, because I didn't even believe in "Jesus" at that point.
Although, to myself, I rationalized my use of Jesus in that situation
by viewing him as a historical figure. And in that vein, I could admire
him from where I stood, more than I admired Barbara Streisand,
regardless of whether or not I believe he was God.
For a long time before that day, Jesus was the person I admired
most. He was my savior -- and not in the "have you accepted Jesus
Christ as your personal lord and savior?" way. He was my savior because
for the majority of my childhood, he was the one I talked to about all
my problems, problems that resulted from growing up in a dysfunctional
family with a wildly alcoholic father. I spent about an hour every
night before falling asleep talking to Jesus, telling him about my day,
asking him for special attention, letting him know I loved him and that
I hoped that I was good enough to get to see him someday in heaven. In
short, he was my confidante during a time when I could confide in no
one else.
And I know I'm not the only one who feels this way: Were it not for the Catholic church, I might still be loving me some Jesus.
"Forget what?" I asked.
"Your strict religious upbringing," he said.
I don't think I had a strict religious upbringing, although to some it
may look like I did. I did attend Catholic school from Kindergarten
through 8th grade, and I went with my mother and siblings to church
every day before school. I was taught by an order of dementedly strict
nuns, who told us we would go to hell for laughing at the double entendre
of words like balls or pussy. For a long time I wanted to be a saint when I grew up. However, I was allowed to dance and eat hamburgers and sit next to boys in church. And besides that even the strictest Catholic is still pretty lax compared to, say, an orthodox Jew. Or even a Pentacostal Christian. I mean, Catholics worship a
nearly naked guy who hangs on a cross in front of them at every single mass.
Anyway, it doesn't seem that strict to me now. It did feel strict to me then,
which is why at 16 I decided I would not be Catholic anymore. Which is
why using Jesus to win the Miss San Juan Capistrano, 1984 contest was a
cheap shot, because I didn't even believe in "Jesus" at that point.
Although, to myself, I rationalized my use of Jesus in that situation
by viewing him as a historical figure. And in that vein, I could admire
him from where I stood, more than I admired Barbara Streisand,
regardless of whether or not I believe he was God.
For a long time before that day, Jesus was the person I admired
most. He was my savior -- and not in the "have you accepted Jesus
Christ as your personal lord and savior?" way. He was my savior because
for the majority of my childhood, he was the one I talked to about all
my problems, problems that resulted from growing up in a dysfunctional
family with a wildly alcoholic father. I spent about an hour every
night before falling asleep talking to Jesus, telling him about my day,
asking him for special attention, letting him know I loved him and that
I hoped that I was good enough to get to see him someday in heaven. In
short, he was my confidante during a time when I could confide in no
one else.
And I know I'm not the only one who feels this way: Were it not for the Catholic church, I might still be loving me some Jesus.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Know Your Audience
In 1984, although Orwell's nightmare didn't exactly come to pass, I was living my own little nightmare out in San Juan Capistrano, Ca. Because my father's family has lived in that town for 7 generations, he felt it my right, nay my familial duty, to become Miss San Juan Capistrano at some point in time. 1984 was that time. I told my dad I did not want to do it, but, as usual, he decided for me that I did.
The Miss San Juan Capistrano Pageant was not a pageant in the strict sense of the word -- there was no pageantry, in fact. Rather there was an essay and an interview. Five girls applied for the job -- I mean, the honor. Whoever won would spend the next year attending ribbon cuttings or presiding over local traditions like "The Hariest Man Contest." Whoever won would be expected to mix and mingle at the Historical Society monthly gatherings; she would preside over Swallow's Day activities like the Old Mission Fiesta and the Swallow's Day parade. She would return her library books on time, drive the speed limit, wear modest clothing, brush her hair regularly.
I remember well the day of the big decision. The city coucil held a luncheon at the El Adobe Restaurant for the final, I don't know, screening? During that luncheon, each candidate was asked to stand at a podium and answer one more question for the judges: who is the person you admire most?
When I got to the podium, I had no idea what to say. At this point, I didn't want to lose because I'm competitive by nature, an Aries, for Christssake. I looked at the judges: the mayor, a couple city coucil members, Carmen O'Malley (the city matriarch), and Father Martin, our parish priest. I leaned into the microphone, and my first inclination was to answer Barbara Streisand. But at the last minute, I looked directly into Father Martin's eyes and said Jesus.
I won.
The Miss San Juan Capistrano Pageant was not a pageant in the strict sense of the word -- there was no pageantry, in fact. Rather there was an essay and an interview. Five girls applied for the job -- I mean, the honor. Whoever won would spend the next year attending ribbon cuttings or presiding over local traditions like "The Hariest Man Contest." Whoever won would be expected to mix and mingle at the Historical Society monthly gatherings; she would preside over Swallow's Day activities like the Old Mission Fiesta and the Swallow's Day parade. She would return her library books on time, drive the speed limit, wear modest clothing, brush her hair regularly.
I remember well the day of the big decision. The city coucil held a luncheon at the El Adobe Restaurant for the final, I don't know, screening? During that luncheon, each candidate was asked to stand at a podium and answer one more question for the judges: who is the person you admire most?
When I got to the podium, I had no idea what to say. At this point, I didn't want to lose because I'm competitive by nature, an Aries, for Christssake. I looked at the judges: the mayor, a couple city coucil members, Carmen O'Malley (the city matriarch), and Father Martin, our parish priest. I leaned into the microphone, and my first inclination was to answer Barbara Streisand. But at the last minute, I looked directly into Father Martin's eyes and said Jesus.
I won.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
On My Running Away
I'm sure my mother's worst nightmares started when we got our drivers' licenses. And I didn't give her any reason to relax. Blue Thunder and I were renown throughout town for "barrelling," as in "down the highway." My father called it ramming around. I remember driving down El Camino Real, my six year old sister sitting sans seatbelt in the passenger seat, telling me to slow down.
One evening during dinner, apropos of nothing, my sister blurted out: "Christa went 70."
My parents grounded me from driving at night for the next three months. During that period of time, I was so miserable -- a prisoner in my own home! -- I ran away. Running away consisted of my calling Patti Orozco one Friday afternoon and asking her to come pick me up. I didn't tell my parents I was leaving, I just packed my backpack with enough clothes for the weekend and went to sit at the bottom of the hill, waiting for Patti to show up in her mom's Dart.
When I saw the black and white Dart pull up the street, I was crestfallen to see Patti's mom driving it, with Patti's five siblings hopping up and down inside as well. They pulled up. Patti's mom rolled down the window and said, "Do your parents know you're coming over to our house?"
"Yes," I lied. I crawled into the back seat. The Orozco clan jumped around me like monkeys. From the front seat, Patti gave me a look that said, "I'm sorry." She could see I was pissed. I mean, I was supposed to be running away!
When we arrived at her house a couple miles from mine, her mom called my mom just to make sure she knew I was spending the night.
That was my one and only attempt at running away. I was such a failure at it, I humiliated myself.
One evening during dinner, apropos of nothing, my sister blurted out: "Christa went 70."
My parents grounded me from driving at night for the next three months. During that period of time, I was so miserable -- a prisoner in my own home! -- I ran away. Running away consisted of my calling Patti Orozco one Friday afternoon and asking her to come pick me up. I didn't tell my parents I was leaving, I just packed my backpack with enough clothes for the weekend and went to sit at the bottom of the hill, waiting for Patti to show up in her mom's Dart.
When I saw the black and white Dart pull up the street, I was crestfallen to see Patti's mom driving it, with Patti's five siblings hopping up and down inside as well. They pulled up. Patti's mom rolled down the window and said, "Do your parents know you're coming over to our house?"
"Yes," I lied. I crawled into the back seat. The Orozco clan jumped around me like monkeys. From the front seat, Patti gave me a look that said, "I'm sorry." She could see I was pissed. I mean, I was supposed to be running away!
When we arrived at her house a couple miles from mine, her mom called my mom just to make sure she knew I was spending the night.
That was my one and only attempt at running away. I was such a failure at it, I humiliated myself.
Saturday, May 05, 2007
Friday, May 04, 2007
From Here to Eternity
In August 1990, I moved from Orange County, CA to Houston, TX. I hauled several boxes of books, a large arm chair and a garbage bag of clothes with me in my 810 Datsun Maxima station wagon. My dad accompanied me, and because it was my dad, we had to take the roundabout route from there to here. And we had to listen to the same "Shell Classics" (as in Shell Gas Station) cassette tape over and over. The only other tape we could listen to was one of my Bob Dylan tapes -- Desire -- and only once every 200 miles or so. It took us three days to get to New Mexico, where we spent a couple days resting in Taos. Then we drove out of town the back way, over the mountain through Angel Fire Ski Resort into Las Vegas, New Mexico. From there we took highway 84 to highway 277, headed toward San Antonio.
Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, I noticed that my toes were getting dripped on underneath the dash. I told my dad. He leaned over while driving, stuck his finger in the drip and then sucked the drip off his finger. "That's not good," he said. I figured he knew what was wrong because he had owned an auto parts store for the majority of my childhood. "It's the air conditioner," he said. "One of the hoses is broken."
That was not good, indeed. Like I said, it was August in Texas. We kept going until we hit the next town; well, the place wasn't even trying to pass as a town, it was just a few buildings on the highway. One of them looked kind of like an autoshop/garage. My dad pulled into the bay where a guy in overalls was hosing down the concrete. "We're closed," the guy said. It was 5 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. "But keep driving down the highway until you see a field full of Chevys," the guy said. "Darrell's place. He can fix it for you."
We headed down the highway. Soon we saw a field full of probably 300 cars, most of them Chevys from all different eras, in all states of disrepair. My dad turned off the highway and into the field. He headed straight toward a farmhouse, then veered sharply around the side of the house. Without stopping, he careened over the lawn, through a clothes line with clothes actually hanging on it, through a bunch of chickens strutting around, and toward the barn. When he reached the barn, he didn't get out, he just honked.
"Dad!" I said, taking my hands away from my eyes.
"What?!" he barked.
"You can't just --"
"Oh shut up. Don't be such a pussy."
Darrell came out of his barn, dressed in jeans and no shirt. My dad stayed seated in the car and waited for Darrell to come up to the window.
"What's going on?" Darrell asked, as if he and my dad had just seen each other the day before. My dad explained the situation. Darrell said he could fix our air conditioning hose, and he did, in less than 15 minutes. When it came time to pay him, my dad offered him $20 bucks and a six pack of Lone Star from our cooler. That was just fine with Darrell.
On our way back to the highway, my dad went around the other side of the house, where instead of a clothes line, there was a bunch of lawn furniture he had to maneuver through. Darrell didn't seem to mind. And as mortified as I was by my dad's behavior, I was more grateful to have our air conditioner working as we pulled back onto the highway and headed straight into the sun.
Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, I noticed that my toes were getting dripped on underneath the dash. I told my dad. He leaned over while driving, stuck his finger in the drip and then sucked the drip off his finger. "That's not good," he said. I figured he knew what was wrong because he had owned an auto parts store for the majority of my childhood. "It's the air conditioner," he said. "One of the hoses is broken."
That was not good, indeed. Like I said, it was August in Texas. We kept going until we hit the next town; well, the place wasn't even trying to pass as a town, it was just a few buildings on the highway. One of them looked kind of like an autoshop/garage. My dad pulled into the bay where a guy in overalls was hosing down the concrete. "We're closed," the guy said. It was 5 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. "But keep driving down the highway until you see a field full of Chevys," the guy said. "Darrell's place. He can fix it for you."
We headed down the highway. Soon we saw a field full of probably 300 cars, most of them Chevys from all different eras, in all states of disrepair. My dad turned off the highway and into the field. He headed straight toward a farmhouse, then veered sharply around the side of the house. Without stopping, he careened over the lawn, through a clothes line with clothes actually hanging on it, through a bunch of chickens strutting around, and toward the barn. When he reached the barn, he didn't get out, he just honked.
"Dad!" I said, taking my hands away from my eyes.
"What?!" he barked.
"You can't just --"
"Oh shut up. Don't be such a pussy."
Darrell came out of his barn, dressed in jeans and no shirt. My dad stayed seated in the car and waited for Darrell to come up to the window.
"What's going on?" Darrell asked, as if he and my dad had just seen each other the day before. My dad explained the situation. Darrell said he could fix our air conditioning hose, and he did, in less than 15 minutes. When it came time to pay him, my dad offered him $20 bucks and a six pack of Lone Star from our cooler. That was just fine with Darrell.
On our way back to the highway, my dad went around the other side of the house, where instead of a clothes line, there was a bunch of lawn furniture he had to maneuver through. Darrell didn't seem to mind. And as mortified as I was by my dad's behavior, I was more grateful to have our air conditioner working as we pulled back onto the highway and headed straight into the sun.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Favorite Childhood Games (Card and Board)
Backgammon
Yahtzee
Spoons
Bull Shit
Monopoly
Connect Four
Gin Rummy
Uno
Speed
Parcheesi
War
Clue
Sorry
Life
Yahtzee
Spoons
Bull Shit
Monopoly
Connect Four
Gin Rummy
Uno
Speed
Parcheesi
War
Clue
Sorry
Life
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Lost
Things I lost that broke my heart:
My mother of pearl first communion catechism
One of my grandmother's long, black leather gloves
My Stetson fedora
My plastic blue photo album
My mother of pearl first communion catechism
One of my grandmother's long, black leather gloves
My Stetson fedora
My plastic blue photo album
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
First IBP Play, Next IBP Play
First play I ever saw by the Houston theater company Infernal Bridegroom Productions was Endgame, directed by Jason Nodler. Jim Parsons played Clov and Greg Dean was Hamm. Tamarie Cooper as Nell and Aaron Krohn as Nagg. Beautiful. And memorable. To this day, I remember how hypnotic it was to watch Jim move the stool from window to window.
Next IBP play: Tamarie Cooper's 20 Love Songs. It opens Thursday, May 3 and plays Friday and Saturdays through June 9. During the Houston summer, Tamarie is often lauded by the press for being Houston's most genius physical comedianne, as evidenced by her hilarious, autobiographical creations. This year, she's showcasing the many faces of love -- the sweet, the sick, the sultry, the sorry. Come see the show! And see it more than once. Tamarie has invited some local writers and performers to join her in creating these love songs, and she's rotating the numbers each night, so every show will be different. In June, I'll be part of the showcase, performing a short, original piece about maternal love, entitled MAW.
You can learn more about how to get tickets by going to IBP's website.
Next IBP play: Tamarie Cooper's 20 Love Songs. It opens Thursday, May 3 and plays Friday and Saturdays through June 9. During the Houston summer, Tamarie is often lauded by the press for being Houston's most genius physical comedianne, as evidenced by her hilarious, autobiographical creations. This year, she's showcasing the many faces of love -- the sweet, the sick, the sultry, the sorry. Come see the show! And see it more than once. Tamarie has invited some local writers and performers to join her in creating these love songs, and she's rotating the numbers each night, so every show will be different. In June, I'll be part of the showcase, performing a short, original piece about maternal love, entitled MAW.
You can learn more about how to get tickets by going to IBP's website.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Sing Shorter Songs
Having grown up in Southern California during the 1970s and 80s, I’ve learned a lot about water conservation: Mostly because I grew up during a ten-year drought, from around 1974 to 1984. But, also my mother chose to make her career in the water business. She started out as a schoolteacher, but she quit her teaching career so that she could raise her children. About halfway through that project, she went to work for the water district up the street from our house. A man named Bill Meadows ran it. He was our friend. He hired my mom to teach a water conservation program called "Ricky the Raindrop" to schoolchildren. She would visit all the schools in OC and educate children about the importance of conserving water, about how water was our most precious resource. She passed out Ricky the Raindrop coloring books that explained the course of the water cycle, through evaporation to condensation and back again. Sometimes, we got to help her, like when the newspaper wanted to do a story on her, and she let my brothers and me pretend to be her students. The backs of our heads, and our mom standing in front of a Ricky the Raindrop poster, were featured on the front page of the Orange County Register's Local section.
Soon she started working as a Special Projects manager for the Metropolitan Water District of Orange County (MWDOC -- we called it Mowdock). There, she developed programs like "Captain Hydro!" for high school students. Her programming was so successful, she found herself moving into the political side of water conservation, helping to regulate the way water and wastewater are dealt with in California. For over 21 years, she was a gubernatorial appointee on the California State Water Board. Because of her I could not help but be hyper-aware of how precious is water, and she schooled us daily on how not to waste it.
One of the strongest conservation advertisements ("Give a Hoot, Don't Pollute," being of them) is one I remember from that period: "Sing Shorter Songs in the Shower." The slogan was all over the place, at least from my view, the one with my water-conservation-obsessed mother constantly reminding us to turn off the water while we were brushing our teeth, or while we were sudsing our hands. I remember seeing a huge billboard on the 5 freeway with the slogan in a word bubble above a guy poking his head out of the shower.
I remember how the first summer storm I encountered in Houston stunned me. I heard this clap of thunder, and then it was as if helicopters were pouring lakes down upon my house. I did not understand for a few seconds what exactly was happening. It took me a minute to recognize rain. I laid down on my bed and stared out the window at the August evening down pour. I called my mom immediately.
"Mom, you won't believe the size of the raindrops falling in Houston right now. I swear they're the size of lemons."
"Don't let it fool you," she said. "You still need to conserve water."
I admit that living in Houston, where it rains a lot more than it does in Southern California, has helped me learn to relax a little, in many ways, but specifically around my water use. I can now take a 10-minute shower once in a blue moon, and I don't feel guilty. I can let the water run while I'm brushing my teeth. I even allow Clara to play in the water, letting a thin stream run from the faucet for over 5 minutes, so that she can fill up cups with water and set them around the sink, over and over and over and over. It keeps her occupied while I make dinner or lunch or try to sweep the floor. I don't even fell guilty for doing it, although I worry that I'm sending her the wrong message by letting the water run for so long without turning it off.
More than ever, though, I think about water conservation. My mom is now working on desalination in California. It's a controversial issue, and it sounds crazy. The last time she visited us, we were eating dinner and I asked her laughingly if she thought desal, as the water politicos call it, would ever get off the ground, if there was any way it was going to happen. She got really quiet. She looked at me, her eyes serious as stone, and said, "It has to work. We're running out of water."
FYI: We're running out of water. I have it on pretty good authority, and, also, maybe you've heard the saying, "As goes California, so goes the nation." If California is running out of water, according to my mom, then the whole country is running out of water.
Therefore: This year? become a patriot -- save your country by singing shorter songs in the shower. Our future depends on it.
Soon she started working as a Special Projects manager for the Metropolitan Water District of Orange County (MWDOC -- we called it Mowdock). There, she developed programs like "Captain Hydro!" for high school students. Her programming was so successful, she found herself moving into the political side of water conservation, helping to regulate the way water and wastewater are dealt with in California. For over 21 years, she was a gubernatorial appointee on the California State Water Board. Because of her I could not help but be hyper-aware of how precious is water, and she schooled us daily on how not to waste it.
One of the strongest conservation advertisements ("Give a Hoot, Don't Pollute," being of them) is one I remember from that period: "Sing Shorter Songs in the Shower." The slogan was all over the place, at least from my view, the one with my water-conservation-obsessed mother constantly reminding us to turn off the water while we were brushing our teeth, or while we were sudsing our hands. I remember seeing a huge billboard on the 5 freeway with the slogan in a word bubble above a guy poking his head out of the shower.
I remember how the first summer storm I encountered in Houston stunned me. I heard this clap of thunder, and then it was as if helicopters were pouring lakes down upon my house. I did not understand for a few seconds what exactly was happening. It took me a minute to recognize rain. I laid down on my bed and stared out the window at the August evening down pour. I called my mom immediately.
"Mom, you won't believe the size of the raindrops falling in Houston right now. I swear they're the size of lemons."
"Don't let it fool you," she said. "You still need to conserve water."
I admit that living in Houston, where it rains a lot more than it does in Southern California, has helped me learn to relax a little, in many ways, but specifically around my water use. I can now take a 10-minute shower once in a blue moon, and I don't feel guilty. I can let the water run while I'm brushing my teeth. I even allow Clara to play in the water, letting a thin stream run from the faucet for over 5 minutes, so that she can fill up cups with water and set them around the sink, over and over and over and over. It keeps her occupied while I make dinner or lunch or try to sweep the floor. I don't even fell guilty for doing it, although I worry that I'm sending her the wrong message by letting the water run for so long without turning it off.
More than ever, though, I think about water conservation. My mom is now working on desalination in California. It's a controversial issue, and it sounds crazy. The last time she visited us, we were eating dinner and I asked her laughingly if she thought desal, as the water politicos call it, would ever get off the ground, if there was any way it was going to happen. She got really quiet. She looked at me, her eyes serious as stone, and said, "It has to work. We're running out of water."
FYI: We're running out of water. I have it on pretty good authority, and, also, maybe you've heard the saying, "As goes California, so goes the nation." If California is running out of water, according to my mom, then the whole country is running out of water.
Therefore: This year? become a patriot -- save your country by singing shorter songs in the shower. Our future depends on it.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
What I Learned at the Opera
I didn't get a chance to write last night because we went to the opera -- Aida -- and it lasted for three hours. Not that we stayed that long; we left at intermission, but the 90 minutes we did see felt like three hours. So it exhausted me, the opera.
First of all, the stage at the Wortham is colossal, so large that when Amneris (the undesirable Egyptian princess) and Radames (the hot Egyptian stud) entered for the first time, I sat with my hands in my purse and thought, "Wow, they look like midgets!" When the chorus (Pharaoh’s court/army) entered soon after, I specified (to myself), "Maybe they ARE midgets." Instead of being bothered by how mini these people looked on stage, and it was deeply bothersome, I concluded that it was the POINT of opera to exemplify how we humans, even those of us who think we're larger than life, resemble mere specks on the universal stage. Midgets are giants, metaphorically. And humans? We're like the dust under the opera midgets' feet. After deciding to view the opera this way, I settled down and got into it.
Opera is the story of our lives, the story of our world, told in really loud voices, large gestures, garish costumes and vibratos. It's so over the top because it deserves to be -- many of the stories are monumentally tragic. Aida, for example. Radames is in love with a slave girl, the Ethiopian princess of the warring nation, who suffers Egyptian captivity and serves Amenris, who loves Radames. If you want a synopsis, please google it. Suffice it to say that Radames and Aida are enslaved by their love and suffer a gruesome death -- they're buried alive -- as a result.
Here are some things I learned last night by watching the opera AIDA:
Death Always Wins.
Death conquers Love.
Love Always Wins.
Love conquers Death.
Romantic love is always doomed.
The enemy provides the entertainment.
My purse is an absolute mess.
Ceremony fills the void.
The characters in the opera trust their author.
My vision is failing, but my hearing is compensating, as evidenced by my ability to hear the piece of candy clicking against the teeth of the guy sitting three people to the left of me.
Before the opera began, a voice told us to turn off our cell phones, and of course, I couldn't find mine because my purse is the size of a grocery bag and full of stuff. So I had to sit through the first act with my hands in my purse, making sure that if my cell phone did go off, I'd be able to silence it before Run DMC's "It's Tricky" broke the operatic illusion. With my hands in my purse, I became obsessed with my unaccounted-for cell phone, and the vision of "It's Tricky" interrupting AIDA reduced me to giggles. Then I remembered my hands imprisoned in my purse, and I felt ridiculous. So I removed them, taking the chance that my cell phone might ring. I dropped my purse to the floor and secretly wished it would.
First of all, the stage at the Wortham is colossal, so large that when Amneris (the undesirable Egyptian princess) and Radames (the hot Egyptian stud) entered for the first time, I sat with my hands in my purse and thought, "Wow, they look like midgets!" When the chorus (Pharaoh’s court/army) entered soon after, I specified (to myself), "Maybe they ARE midgets." Instead of being bothered by how mini these people looked on stage, and it was deeply bothersome, I concluded that it was the POINT of opera to exemplify how we humans, even those of us who think we're larger than life, resemble mere specks on the universal stage. Midgets are giants, metaphorically. And humans? We're like the dust under the opera midgets' feet. After deciding to view the opera this way, I settled down and got into it.
Opera is the story of our lives, the story of our world, told in really loud voices, large gestures, garish costumes and vibratos. It's so over the top because it deserves to be -- many of the stories are monumentally tragic. Aida, for example. Radames is in love with a slave girl, the Ethiopian princess of the warring nation, who suffers Egyptian captivity and serves Amenris, who loves Radames. If you want a synopsis, please google it. Suffice it to say that Radames and Aida are enslaved by their love and suffer a gruesome death -- they're buried alive -- as a result.
Here are some things I learned last night by watching the opera AIDA:
Death Always Wins.
Death conquers Love.
Love Always Wins.
Love conquers Death.
Romantic love is always doomed.
The enemy provides the entertainment.
My purse is an absolute mess.
Ceremony fills the void.
The characters in the opera trust their author.
My vision is failing, but my hearing is compensating, as evidenced by my ability to hear the piece of candy clicking against the teeth of the guy sitting three people to the left of me.
Before the opera began, a voice told us to turn off our cell phones, and of course, I couldn't find mine because my purse is the size of a grocery bag and full of stuff. So I had to sit through the first act with my hands in my purse, making sure that if my cell phone did go off, I'd be able to silence it before Run DMC's "It's Tricky" broke the operatic illusion. With my hands in my purse, I became obsessed with my unaccounted-for cell phone, and the vision of "It's Tricky" interrupting AIDA reduced me to giggles. Then I remembered my hands imprisoned in my purse, and I felt ridiculous. So I removed them, taking the chance that my cell phone might ring. I dropped my purse to the floor and secretly wished it would.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Strange Rhyming Phenomenon
There was a series of years -- from high school through college and right after -- when I dated a succession of men whose names rhymed with the one I'd just broken up with.
Sean
Ron
Ted
Ed
Nico
Chico
Sean
Ron
Ted
Ed
Nico
Chico
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Body by Ted
When my mom turned 36, she started working out at an athletic club. She got up at the ding of dawn, left for class and was back by the time we were waking up. She worked hard, reshaping her body back to how it was, or nearly, before she had four children. One morning, she came home wearing a yellow t-shirt over her blue leotard. Across the front of the shirt was written, "Body by Ted: He Makes Me Sweat." My brothers and I were agog.
"Who is TED?" I asked.
"The aerobics instructor," she said.
"That's GROSS, mom," Marco said.
We were young, but we nevertheless intimated the prurience of the slogan's innuendo.
I for one needed to get a look at this Ted, this guy who inspired my mom to embarrass us with his t-shirt at 7 in the morning. Once I saw him, I relaxed. He was clearly not a threat, even though he looked like a skinny Tom Selleck. He was gay.
Soon after that morning when she came home wearing the t-shirt, my brothers and I created a song called "Body by Ted." The chorus..."he makes me sweat." We played this one on our tennis racket guitars during our concerts in front of the bathroom mirror. It was our number one hit.
"Who is TED?" I asked.
"The aerobics instructor," she said.
"That's GROSS, mom," Marco said.
We were young, but we nevertheless intimated the prurience of the slogan's innuendo.
I for one needed to get a look at this Ted, this guy who inspired my mom to embarrass us with his t-shirt at 7 in the morning. Once I saw him, I relaxed. He was clearly not a threat, even though he looked like a skinny Tom Selleck. He was gay.
Soon after that morning when she came home wearing the t-shirt, my brothers and I created a song called "Body by Ted." The chorus..."he makes me sweat." We played this one on our tennis racket guitars during our concerts in front of the bathroom mirror. It was our number one hit.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Mess
This afternoon, David came into the kitchen with the new bottle of olive oil I bought at the store. "Were you planning on taking this to the bathroom?" he asked. He'd found it on a table on the way to the bathroom, where I left it and forgot about it.
I have a problem with mess. It's a problem I try to actively work on improving because it's confusing to live in a mess, especially now with children, who by their nature are mess machines. I don't know why I'm so comfortable in a mess; perhaps it's genetic. Definitely inherited, although my mother abhors mess, so I didn't get it from her. My father's messes are horrifying and GOD FORBID I end up keeping every scrap of every bill that ever arrived in my mailbox. Sometimes I worry....
When I was younger, the number one conflict that occurred between my mom and me was over my mess. "Clean up your room!" rang her constant refrain. I would start to clean it up with excellent intentions and energy, but then I'd find something interesting -- a book, an earring, a plastic horse, a shoe -- and my imagination would spark, and then I'd be floating in some other world, some inner place of reverie. Before I knew it, an hour had passed and my room was still a mess.
It got so bad, the messiness and my mother's harping about it, that around 10 years old, I decided to pray to god to help me out with it. I asked god to grant me powers like Jeannie had in "I Dream of Jeannie," the television show. I sat on the end of my bed, crossed my arms, closed my eyes and nodded my head vigorously, once. Opening one eye, I saw my room still strewn with stuff everywhere.
"Come on, god. If you're real, you'll help me clean my room." Again, I assumed the pose.
Nada.
Now I've started trying to clean my room yogically; that is, I attempt to notice my mess, to become conscious of the feelings I have while I'm tossing or shoving aside the medical bills, the empty bags, the unmatched socks, the boxes of defunct files. I notice but do not judge myself. I'm cultivating a deep intention to clean.
Maybe someday I'll actually get to the actual cleaning part.
I have a problem with mess. It's a problem I try to actively work on improving because it's confusing to live in a mess, especially now with children, who by their nature are mess machines. I don't know why I'm so comfortable in a mess; perhaps it's genetic. Definitely inherited, although my mother abhors mess, so I didn't get it from her. My father's messes are horrifying and GOD FORBID I end up keeping every scrap of every bill that ever arrived in my mailbox. Sometimes I worry....
When I was younger, the number one conflict that occurred between my mom and me was over my mess. "Clean up your room!" rang her constant refrain. I would start to clean it up with excellent intentions and energy, but then I'd find something interesting -- a book, an earring, a plastic horse, a shoe -- and my imagination would spark, and then I'd be floating in some other world, some inner place of reverie. Before I knew it, an hour had passed and my room was still a mess.
It got so bad, the messiness and my mother's harping about it, that around 10 years old, I decided to pray to god to help me out with it. I asked god to grant me powers like Jeannie had in "I Dream of Jeannie," the television show. I sat on the end of my bed, crossed my arms, closed my eyes and nodded my head vigorously, once. Opening one eye, I saw my room still strewn with stuff everywhere.
"Come on, god. If you're real, you'll help me clean my room." Again, I assumed the pose.
Nada.
Now I've started trying to clean my room yogically; that is, I attempt to notice my mess, to become conscious of the feelings I have while I'm tossing or shoving aside the medical bills, the empty bags, the unmatched socks, the boxes of defunct files. I notice but do not judge myself. I'm cultivating a deep intention to clean.
Maybe someday I'll actually get to the actual cleaning part.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Saturday, April 21, 2007
First Memory
We lived in a neighborhood called Las Casitas -- the little houses. I was sitting in a yellow high chair, eating a sugar cookie with yellow icing in the shape of a bunny rabbit. My mother was moving around the kitchen, in and out of my view. I could see through the sliding glass door to the backyard. I was somewhere around 12 months old.
Friday, April 20, 2007
GREASE, 1978
I solve my problems and I see the light
We gotta plug and think, we gotta feed it right
There ain't no danger we can go too far
We start believing now that we can be who we are
Grease is the word
They think our love is just a growing pain
Why don't they understand, It's just a crying shame
Their lips are lying only real is real
We start to find right now we got to be what we feel
Grease is the word
Grease is the word, is the word that you heard
It's got groove it's got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
We take the pressure and we throw away
Conventionality belongs to yesterday
There is a chance that we can make it so far
We start believing now that we can be wo we are
Grease is the word
Grease is the word, is the word that you heard
It's got groove it's got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
This is the life of illusion
Wrapped up in trouble laced with confusion
What we doing here?
We take the pressure and we throw away
Conventionality belongs to yesterday
There is a chance that we can make it so far
We start believing now that we can be who we are
Grease is the word
Grease is the word, is the word that you heard
It's got groove it's got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
Grease is the word, is the word that you heard
It's got groove it's got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
Grease is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Book, Music and Lyrics by Jim Jacobs and Warren Casey
We gotta plug and think, we gotta feed it right
There ain't no danger we can go too far
We start believing now that we can be who we are
Grease is the word
They think our love is just a growing pain
Why don't they understand, It's just a crying shame
Their lips are lying only real is real
We start to find right now we got to be what we feel
Grease is the word
Grease is the word, is the word that you heard
It's got groove it's got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
We take the pressure and we throw away
Conventionality belongs to yesterday
There is a chance that we can make it so far
We start believing now that we can be wo we are
Grease is the word
Grease is the word, is the word that you heard
It's got groove it's got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
This is the life of illusion
Wrapped up in trouble laced with confusion
What we doing here?
We take the pressure and we throw away
Conventionality belongs to yesterday
There is a chance that we can make it so far
We start believing now that we can be who we are
Grease is the word
Grease is the word, is the word that you heard
It's got groove it's got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
Grease is the word, is the word that you heard
It's got groove it's got meaning
Grease is the time, is the place is the motion
Grease is the way we are feeling
Grease is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Is the word
Book, Music and Lyrics by Jim Jacobs and Warren Casey
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Clothing Fads of my Youth
Ditto Jeans
Dolphin Shorts
Sbicca Shoes
Vans
Topsiders
Sergio Valente Jeans
The Preppy Handbook
Izod Shirts
Ralph Lauren polo shirts
I don't know why I can't remember any more. My mother bought most of our clothes at thrift stores, before that was a cool thing to do. She always got us good stuff. Once I was old enough to go by myself, I found great stuff; I remember a Tahitian print shift dress from Saks Fifth Avenue and a raw silk pleated skirt, specifically. People in high school used to ask me where I got my clothes. I felt embarrassed to say St. Vincent de Paul's, especially in status conscious Orange County in the 1980s. I remember when thrifting became popular: suddenly it became much harder, and much more time-consuming, to find cool things. Plus, the stores started to seem dirtier, the clothes more like dead people clothes.
Dolphin Shorts
Sbicca Shoes
Vans
Topsiders
Sergio Valente Jeans
The Preppy Handbook
Izod Shirts
Ralph Lauren polo shirts
I don't know why I can't remember any more. My mother bought most of our clothes at thrift stores, before that was a cool thing to do. She always got us good stuff. Once I was old enough to go by myself, I found great stuff; I remember a Tahitian print shift dress from Saks Fifth Avenue and a raw silk pleated skirt, specifically. People in high school used to ask me where I got my clothes. I felt embarrassed to say St. Vincent de Paul's, especially in status conscious Orange County in the 1980s. I remember when thrifting became popular: suddenly it became much harder, and much more time-consuming, to find cool things. Plus, the stores started to seem dirtier, the clothes more like dead people clothes.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Union Pacific
The Southern Pacific tracks ran through our town, through a depot situated a quarter of a mile from my bedroom window. Every night, I fell asleep -- and it took hours -- to the comings and goings of trains, freight trains and passenger trains, San Juan a significant stop, because of its tourist attraction, the Mission San Juan Capistrano, on the way from Los Angeles to San Diego, or vice versa.
We lived on the East side of the tracks in the old section of town, on Mission Hill. At the top of the hill stood the house my father was born in, surrounded by an adobe wall draped with bougainvillea. For many years during my childhood, we walked our bikes or our skateboards to the top of Don Juan Street, using my father's childhood house as the turn-around point, turned around, pointed our vehicles down the hill and, yelling GERONIMO! let ourselves fly for 1000 feet. This fun was, of course, very dangerous, as there were at least two blind curves in the street. Luckily, there were rarely any cars using the street. Most of the people who lived on our hill were old, as in old timers, as in house-, porch- and patio- bound most of the day. When the streetlights came on, we had to go home.
The trains carried tourists and fruit and whatever else -- sometimes livestock, sometimes coal -- up and down the Pacific coast. Because we lived on a hill, we could see the train pulling into town, especially when the condos near the creek bed were not yet built. Sometimes, while hanging out in the white oak tree in our front yard, we'd see human beings riding the tops of the cargo trains -- illegals who had hopped the trains while they were pulling in and out of towns. Right before the trains would pull into the depot, we saw these people scrambling along the tops of cargo cars, making their way towards the ladders, preparing to dismount and bolt towards the creek bed, where they could disappear into the bamboo forests until it got dark. They could follow the natural bamboo tunnels down the creek and once night fell, hop back on the freight train that pulled through town sometime around 9 p.m.
One night, on our way home from visiting my father's mother, who lived on the West side of the tracks, we were stopped at the railroad crossing by a bunch of police cars. After a long time, the police began to wave us over the tracks with their flashlights. As we drove over the crossing, I looked out the station wagon window and saw 20, maybe 50, small, dusty men sitting "Indian style" on either side of the tracks, their hands clasped around their legs, their foreheads resting on their knees. Some of them looked up as we passed them, the beams from the flashlights catching their eyes, which burned and shone, flat as a cat's caught in a car's headlights at night.
We lived on the East side of the tracks in the old section of town, on Mission Hill. At the top of the hill stood the house my father was born in, surrounded by an adobe wall draped with bougainvillea. For many years during my childhood, we walked our bikes or our skateboards to the top of Don Juan Street, using my father's childhood house as the turn-around point, turned around, pointed our vehicles down the hill and, yelling GERONIMO! let ourselves fly for 1000 feet. This fun was, of course, very dangerous, as there were at least two blind curves in the street. Luckily, there were rarely any cars using the street. Most of the people who lived on our hill were old, as in old timers, as in house-, porch- and patio- bound most of the day. When the streetlights came on, we had to go home.
The trains carried tourists and fruit and whatever else -- sometimes livestock, sometimes coal -- up and down the Pacific coast. Because we lived on a hill, we could see the train pulling into town, especially when the condos near the creek bed were not yet built. Sometimes, while hanging out in the white oak tree in our front yard, we'd see human beings riding the tops of the cargo trains -- illegals who had hopped the trains while they were pulling in and out of towns. Right before the trains would pull into the depot, we saw these people scrambling along the tops of cargo cars, making their way towards the ladders, preparing to dismount and bolt towards the creek bed, where they could disappear into the bamboo forests until it got dark. They could follow the natural bamboo tunnels down the creek and once night fell, hop back on the freight train that pulled through town sometime around 9 p.m.
One night, on our way home from visiting my father's mother, who lived on the West side of the tracks, we were stopped at the railroad crossing by a bunch of police cars. After a long time, the police began to wave us over the tracks with their flashlights. As we drove over the crossing, I looked out the station wagon window and saw 20, maybe 50, small, dusty men sitting "Indian style" on either side of the tracks, their hands clasped around their legs, their foreheads resting on their knees. Some of them looked up as we passed them, the beams from the flashlights catching their eyes, which burned and shone, flat as a cat's caught in a car's headlights at night.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Mistaken Identity
I remember showing up to school on December 8, 1980. Denise Haddad, a
seventh grader was standing at the school gate. "John Lennon died," she
said. "He was shot." In my mind I heard her say, "JackLemmon died; he
was shot." Denise was crying and I did not understand why she was so
upset about JackLemmon's death. I figured her distress was about the violence surrounding his death. She was the only person who mentioned anything about it that whole day. I told a few of my eighth grade classmates, "Hey, did you hear that JackLemmon died?" They were like, "Who's Jack Lemmon?"
That afternoon, when I got home and my mom asked if I had heard about John Lennon's murder, I finally understood. I felt like an idiot. But I did not cry.
seventh grader was standing at the school gate. "John Lennon died," she
said. "He was shot." In my mind I heard her say, "JackLemmon died; he
was shot." Denise was crying and I did not understand why she was so
upset about JackLemmon's death. I figured her distress was about the violence surrounding his death. She was the only person who mentioned anything about it that whole day. I told a few of my eighth grade classmates, "Hey, did you hear that JackLemmon died?" They were like, "Who's Jack Lemmon?"
That afternoon, when I got home and my mom asked if I had heard about John Lennon's murder, I finally understood. I felt like an idiot. But I did not cry.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Oh Maria, Madre Mia
Oh Consuelo del mortal
Amaprame y guiame
A la paz del celestial
I found myself singing this song to Diego before bed a couple nights ago. It was the closing song of the daily mass I attended as a child with my mom and siblings. Mass started at 7:15 a.m., and school started at 8. The mass was in Latin, and lasted 25 minutes, which is short by Catholic standards. I never thought about the words when I sang the song as a child. I sang it because I'd memorized it, just as I had memorized all the prayers in Latin. The entire mass was in a foreign language that I could speak, but I could not understand. Singing it to Diego, I realized that I now knew what the words meant. The song is in Spanish, not Latin.
Oh Mary, my mother
Oh consoler of mortals
Protect me and guide me
to the celestial peace.
Oh Consuelo del mortal
Amaprame y guiame
A la paz del celestial
I found myself singing this song to Diego before bed a couple nights ago. It was the closing song of the daily mass I attended as a child with my mom and siblings. Mass started at 7:15 a.m., and school started at 8. The mass was in Latin, and lasted 25 minutes, which is short by Catholic standards. I never thought about the words when I sang the song as a child. I sang it because I'd memorized it, just as I had memorized all the prayers in Latin. The entire mass was in a foreign language that I could speak, but I could not understand. Singing it to Diego, I realized that I now knew what the words meant. The song is in Spanish, not Latin.
Oh Mary, my mother
Oh consoler of mortals
Protect me and guide me
to the celestial peace.
Birthday Journal
Woke up. Did yoga. Ate oatmeal. Went to farmer's market. Recycled. Went to Ava's 2nd birthday party. Came home. Went shopping by myself for Janis Joplin costume. Got calls and messages from friends, family. Found enough items to make Janis work -- shirt with bell sleeves, boa for hair, round glasses, beads by Sharon. Came home. Babysat while David did errands (including buying me birthday lottery scratchoffs, which I still haven't scratched off). When David got home, I made dinner -- spiced lentils, basmati rice and kale -- and burnt the kale while Sharon, Aaron and Joy visited. Helped Marcia get kids to bed. David and I left for IBP annual gala -- Tortured Artist Gala, hence the Janis costume. "Look, it's Janic Joplin and David." Saw lots of old friends and some new ones, too. Favorite costumes were the ones of people dressed as IBP company members: Erin Farmer as Tamarie Cooper; Jeff Miller as Joe Folladori; Joe Folladori as Paul Locklear, Mark Yzaguiirre as Jason Nodler. Had portrait made by Katie Jackson and Elizabeth Jackson. Sat in the heart of the building with them for a while (under the stairs). Spent a little time upstairs, too, with the upstairs crowd. Was cajoled onto the dance floor by a beautiful fairy named Gie Gie. Scariest sight on the dance floor: Jennifer Mathieu as Sylvia Plath boogie-ing with a huge smile on her face and an oven on her head. Sang backup with Cathy on "Starmaker" from Soap Opera. IBP band serenaded me with Happy Birthday and Surrender by Cheap Trick. I cried. Came home and breastfed Diego. Watched with David some of the Beckett on Film DVD that he gave me for a birthday present: Rockaby and Endgame. Went to sleep.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Neighborhood Names
In my neighborhood there were two women named Vita. Vita Nieblas lived in a house behind mine, on Don Juan Street, and Vita Reynolds lived in the house in front of mine, on El Camino Real. I lived on a hill, so there was VITA above me and VITA below me. There were also two Ritas: Vita Nieblas's sister Rita, and Rita Donner, who lived down the street from Vita Reynolds. Rita Donner was a third grade teacher at the Old Mission School and probably a lesbian. Dodo (Dolores) lived at the intersection of Don Juan and Ysidora streets. My cousin Nikky lived on the hill behind us. He was married to a woman named Mike and they had a son named Dynamite. Nikky's brother Mugsy lived with them a while. My dad used to walk up the hill to hang out with Nikky, Mike and Mugsy. Those people liked to drink. They had a special room, in fact, for drinking. Really it was their garage, but they'd turned it into their own private saloon. Down in the cul-de-sac at the bottom of our hill, a childless couple, Ken and Barbie, had a backyard as big as a miniature golf course. No one ever used it, but the grass remained trim and clean always. Two houses down from ours, on Guadalupe street, lived the Bomb family. Mrs. Bomb had three boys, Malcolm, James and David. Malcolm was "touched" and would run down the street every morning, air-boxing.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Jumping Jellyfish
When I was three or four, my parents, my brother Marco, my two grandmothers and I traveled to Hawaii for a family holiday. We spent a lot of time at little beaches with one of my dad's old West Point/surfing buddies. Neither of them surfed much anymore; instead they seemed to like sitting on the beach for hours, drinking beer and telling stories about the old days. I remember picnic blankets spread on sand, my mom in a cute bathing suit, and my dad's mom in a mumu. My mom's mom was probably back at the hotel, resting her eyes.
I collected seashells, built sandcastles, waded. At one point, I turned and ran toward the surf, which was miniature, little wavelets lapping the shore. There was a small ditch about 10 feet into the water, which I found by falling into it. When I stood back up, I yelled "Jumping Jellyfish!" The sound of this phrase, coupled with the surprise of finding a perfect little ditch in the my-size surf thrilled me beyond measure. I ran to my mom and tried to communicate my happiness. She gave me a hug and a kiss and told me she loved me. Then I ran back toward the surf, toward the ditch. When I jumped into it and let the waves knock me over, I yelled "Jumping Jellyfish!" I did this over and over and over and over and over. I felt like I could go on doing it forever.
I collected seashells, built sandcastles, waded. At one point, I turned and ran toward the surf, which was miniature, little wavelets lapping the shore. There was a small ditch about 10 feet into the water, which I found by falling into it. When I stood back up, I yelled "Jumping Jellyfish!" The sound of this phrase, coupled with the surprise of finding a perfect little ditch in the my-size surf thrilled me beyond measure. I ran to my mom and tried to communicate my happiness. She gave me a hug and a kiss and told me she loved me. Then I ran back toward the surf, toward the ditch. When I jumped into it and let the waves knock me over, I yelled "Jumping Jellyfish!" I did this over and over and over and over and over. I felt like I could go on doing it forever.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Turn, Turn, Turn
This coming weekend, I turn 40. When I say "I'm going to be 40 years old," that feels strange; like, wrong. But when I say, "I've been alive for 40 years," that feels right, natural. David keeps asking me if I want a party, and I've repeatedly told him no. I just don't have a party in me for turning 40, although I feel wonderful to be turning 40. All my life, my 40th birthday has beamed like a lighthouse on a jetty in the sea of me, beckoning, signaling, guiding me even. I have my suspicions about why, although I cannot talk about them here. They're private in a mystical way.
But as the end of my 30s approaches, I want to acknowledge how grateful I am for my life. Thank you for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever.
But as the end of my 30s approaches, I want to acknowledge how grateful I am for my life. Thank you for everything. I have no complaints whatsoever.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Cutty Sark Snores
Every night when my dad came home from work, he'd pour himself a scotch on the rocks -- either JB or Cutty Sark were his drugs of choice. By the 11 p.m. news, he'd had so many that he passed out on the couch, snoring the drunk snore. Whenever I had to listen to this snore, I imagined slabs of meat hanging in a meat locker.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Renascense
From Edna St. Vincent Milay's poem Renascense
The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky,— 205
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through. 210
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat—the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.
The world stands out on either side
No wider than the heart is wide;
Above the world is stretched the sky,— 205
No higher than the soul is high.
The heart can push the sea and land
Farther away on either hand;
The soul can split the sky in two,
And let the face of God shine through. 210
But East and West will pinch the heart
That can not keep them pushed apart;
And he whose soul is flat—the sky
Will cave in on him by and by.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Friday, April 06, 2007
Resurrection and Immigration
In 1997, my brother overdosed on a speedball and died. At five in the
morning, on a lawn in Oxnard, he blued with the dawn and died. At five
in the morning, or shortly thereafter, a Mexican laborer, a gardener,
or rather a "lawn guy", found him, called for help. Help arrived; EMTs arrived in their ambulance at dawn and resuscitated my brother. My brother was dead and then he was alive. Again.
That my brother was found on the lawn by a Mexican laborer, by a gardener, at five in the morning...I don't know, I feel riddled with suspicion. I don't understand what that gardener was doing at that lawn AT FIVE IN THE MORNING. It just doesn't make rational sense: in the stilldark hours, people are sleeping. What...are they sleeping through the blower,the #1 noisiest thing on the grounds-keeping circuit? Or did this gardener use clipping shears in the dark so as not to wake the sleeping family whose house he tended on the cheap? What kind of house was it?
On the other hand, perhaps it was the laborer's own house, and perhaps he found my brother as he left for work that day, on his way to the tonier areas in the hills of Central California's Ventura County: Westlake Village, Agora Hills, Newbery Park.
A couple years ago, a mockumentary film came out called A Day Without A Mexican. The film highlights how Californians depend on these mostly illegal Mexican immigrants for their wellbeing and prosperity, their way of life. The film is classified as a comedic satire. Were the situation true, however, were these immigrants suddenly to disappear, Californians would be forced to face a deeply grim reality.
I shudder to think on it.
morning, on a lawn in Oxnard, he blued with the dawn and died. At five
in the morning, or shortly thereafter, a Mexican laborer, a gardener,
or rather a "lawn guy", found him, called for help. Help arrived; EMTs arrived in their ambulance at dawn and resuscitated my brother. My brother was dead and then he was alive. Again.
That my brother was found on the lawn by a Mexican laborer, by a gardener, at five in the morning...I don't know, I feel riddled with suspicion. I don't understand what that gardener was doing at that lawn AT FIVE IN THE MORNING. It just doesn't make rational sense: in the stilldark hours, people are sleeping. What...are they sleeping through the blower,the #1 noisiest thing on the grounds-keeping circuit? Or did this gardener use clipping shears in the dark so as not to wake the sleeping family whose house he tended on the cheap? What kind of house was it?
On the other hand, perhaps it was the laborer's own house, and perhaps he found my brother as he left for work that day, on his way to the tonier areas in the hills of Central California's Ventura County: Westlake Village, Agora Hills, Newbery Park.
A couple years ago, a mockumentary film came out called A Day Without A Mexican. The film highlights how Californians depend on these mostly illegal Mexican immigrants for their wellbeing and prosperity, their way of life. The film is classified as a comedic satire. Were the situation true, however, were these immigrants suddenly to disappear, Californians would be forced to face a deeply grim reality.
I shudder to think on it.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Toaster Love
Tell me about burning,
Open-hearted sandwhiching.
Ask me whose bread I butter
Sinfully and sincerely. Seriously,
Tonight we're counting
Every pin on the head of an angel,
Rabbit, Angel Bunny, Puppy Puppy.
Leave it to the beavers to crash
Over the trees. Let's sit here
Vehemently in love. Let's drink,
Eat toast, and laugh about salvation.
-- Christa M. Forster, 2007
Open-hearted sandwhiching.
Ask me whose bread I butter
Sinfully and sincerely. Seriously,
Tonight we're counting
Every pin on the head of an angel,
Rabbit, Angel Bunny, Puppy Puppy.
Leave it to the beavers to crash
Over the trees. Let's sit here
Vehemently in love. Let's drink,
Eat toast, and laugh about salvation.
-- Christa M. Forster, 2007
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
The Friend that Tried
Dear You Know Who You Are,
Dear beautiful dreamer,
nightmare to trial,
guild and denial-
pit of frenzy, where roosters
hack and peck each other
where daisies strap and
lace each other, where
bees hover and flowers
doomed to a room
mate each other,
How are You?
What's new?
I miss you,
sorely,
too.
--2007 Christa M. Forster
Dear beautiful dreamer,
nightmare to trial,
guild and denial-
pit of frenzy, where roosters
hack and peck each other
where daisies strap and
lace each other, where
bees hover and flowers
doomed to a room
mate each other,
How are You?
What's new?
I miss you,
sorely,
too.
--2007 Christa M. Forster
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Karma, Am I Through Yet?
I remember weighing 104 pounds and asking my mom if I was fat. Today I'm 40 pounds heavier and I don't ask anyone if I'm fat anymore because I KNOW I AM. Not necessarily by normal standards, and, yes, I have had two babies in the last three years and so I'm entitled to some of this fatness. It's a mother's right to be a little fat. But I don't want to be fat, so I've been working out and eating pretty much nothing but vegetables, lean meats, and steamed rice. And some cookies now and then everyday. Wheat-free cookies. Still...if time is not linear, and if I still weigh 104 pounds on some other timeline somewhere in the universe, PLEASE let me be kinder to myself and revel in my skinny ass self, rather than worrying about something that isn't even a problem.
Now, NOW, in this timeline I have problems that merit worrying about. The latest is my self-diagnosed stress fracture in my foot. I go to an orthopedist on Wednesday next to get some professional help diagnosing the problem, but until then, can I just say: ENOUGH ALREADY!
Now, NOW, in this timeline I have problems that merit worrying about. The latest is my self-diagnosed stress fracture in my foot. I go to an orthopedist on Wednesday next to get some professional help diagnosing the problem, but until then, can I just say: ENOUGH ALREADY!
Monday, April 02, 2007
Bathtime
When I was in third grade, I innocently admitted to my teacher, a Franciscan nun, that my mom gave me and my brothers our baths together, all three of us in the same tub. Sr. Mary Roch's already sheet white face pinched itself up like she was sucking down a whiskey sour. "Oh how TERRIBLE," she exclaimed. "You must stop that at once, and you must tell your mother to come to school with you tomorrow so that I can talk to her about this."
My mother was pissed! "What do those repressed, frigid nuns know about having kids?" she said. "Do they have any idea how hard it is to give children SEPARATE baths?" I had no idea, so I insisted on my separate bath because it was what Jesus would want me to do, have my own bath so that I could remain pure forever.
My mother was pissed! "What do those repressed, frigid nuns know about having kids?" she said. "Do they have any idea how hard it is to give children SEPARATE baths?" I had no idea, so I insisted on my separate bath because it was what Jesus would want me to do, have my own bath so that I could remain pure forever.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
After Party
David and I went to the Opera Ball After Party Saturday night. Honestly, I was dreading it, but it turned out that we had a lot of fun. We bumped into our old friend George O. Jackson and his sigother, Marjorie (aka Buzzy). We haven't seen them in forever -- they live in Austin. They were our refuge during Hurrican Rita, the safe haven we were headed toward but didn't make it to. Although we ended up safe enough in Katy at the Kayser's, a happening which was one of the most delightful and generous surprises we've had as a family.
At the Opera Ball After Party, David and our friend Mark Yzaguirre were being honored for their community service along with a handful of other "young Houstonians who make a difference in Houston." Mark has been the president of Aurora Picture Show for the past several years, and David created Spacetaker.
After we'd been there for 25 minutes, David left to go to the bathroom and Mark, his wife Katherine, and I started talking about the upcoming IBP Gala, whose theme is the Tortured Artist Gala. We talked about who we'd go as. I said maybe I'd go as Camille Claudel. Claudel was a significant French sculptor who just happened to be Rodin's lover. I could also go as myself.
While we discussed it, I suddenly felt this energy push me forward. I thought I heard Mark say, "turn around," even though he denied he actually said this. I turned and saw Lynn Wyatt standing behind me, with four young men flanking her on either side. I felt like I was breaking the law by obstructing her view to the dance floor, so I moved off to the side. Like it was choreographed, everyone else also moved out of her way, clearing for her a path to the dance floor. She wasn't gonna dance, I don't think. She didn't look any of us in the eye, but she did keep this friendly smile on her face. It was as if she were royalty, and I guess that if Houston had a queen, she'd be it. I felt totally ridiculous standing there, looking at her. But I couldn't stop looking at her, and you know what -- she is a professional-being-looked-at person. Clearly, she has staked her fame on being looked at; she was unflappable. I completely flapped and had to leave the tent to go to the bathroom.
At the Opera Ball After Party, David and our friend Mark Yzaguirre were being honored for their community service along with a handful of other "young Houstonians who make a difference in Houston." Mark has been the president of Aurora Picture Show for the past several years, and David created Spacetaker.
After we'd been there for 25 minutes, David left to go to the bathroom and Mark, his wife Katherine, and I started talking about the upcoming IBP Gala, whose theme is the Tortured Artist Gala. We talked about who we'd go as. I said maybe I'd go as Camille Claudel. Claudel was a significant French sculptor who just happened to be Rodin's lover. I could also go as myself.
While we discussed it, I suddenly felt this energy push me forward. I thought I heard Mark say, "turn around," even though he denied he actually said this. I turned and saw Lynn Wyatt standing behind me, with four young men flanking her on either side. I felt like I was breaking the law by obstructing her view to the dance floor, so I moved off to the side. Like it was choreographed, everyone else also moved out of her way, clearing for her a path to the dance floor. She wasn't gonna dance, I don't think. She didn't look any of us in the eye, but she did keep this friendly smile on her face. It was as if she were royalty, and I guess that if Houston had a queen, she'd be it. I felt totally ridiculous standing there, looking at her. But I couldn't stop looking at her, and you know what -- she is a professional-being-looked-at person. Clearly, she has staked her fame on being looked at; she was unflappable. I completely flapped and had to leave the tent to go to the bathroom.
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