I greatly dislike the unknown. The confused gray place between here and there agitates my concrete desire for sturdiness, clarity, being able to say, "this is why..." Likewise, I loathe the feeling of coming undone. The threads slip further away from the nucleus and grabbing at their illusive strings renders palms nothing more than rope burned and empty. The combination is exhausting and Mom's pending arrival has lit both hissing fuses in unison.
Would I really rather her not come at all? And home...home? Where the hell is this "home" to which she beckons my return? She is not home. The vacation house where she fled is not home...will never be home...with the boat man whose truth she hasn't the decency to unveil. Home is nowhere she could wrap her hands or mind around. Home exists between the lines of tangible things...
Happy Holidays!
I'm told that I will, without a doubt, survive until January and I can't help feeling slightly melodramatic in the initial inquiry. The weight of them and the inevitable defeat of disappointing one with whatever decision answers the question of , "yes, but what do yooou want?" overwhelms my true capabilities of knowing what I want.
...Christmas on the moon and/or lots of white wine.
So it is that space travel is not in the realm of possible things before she shows up at 5 o'clock, and it will be a requirement of less than 24 hours spent with my great protagonist. One can do anything for a short time, or so they say. My understanding was wrong, she made alternate plans to those including Thanksgiving with her only child...the only child she includes in every complaint of marriage and money and hesitates not to burden with the guilt of debts and alliance. For Thanksgiving, she has "her plans" and for Christmas, a vacation to "alleviate the pressure of choice." How kind.
If I were brave enough to tell them how angry their whole approach at this lengthy end actually caused me to be, or how fearful I am that I will ruin my future with the example they have provided, it would probably be easy to cut away the fluff of compassion and cowardice. Maybe then I could be as brutally bitter as them, as raging and as hateful as their tactics. If I were to toughen up my soft spots, to poison my sweetness, to burn away the passion of my heart, maybe then I could say all the things that I stuff down inside of me and dismiss on account of unconditional something or other...
If one doesn't join them when it is realized that they cannot be beat, is it possible that she might come to embody all things on the other side of war? Might she become a pacifist instead of a warrior? Could it be that acting out the opposite is testament to the transparency of fear, and that fate might not have misery written in her stars? That failure could be an avoidable destiny?
I think I'd like to see Christmas in New York.
Showing posts with label New York City. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York City. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
6:09am: Have a good day, soldier :)
Ground Zero 9/2004-----From-----
[###-###-####]
----Message----
You just made my day :)
Have a good day yourself
----End----
Sep 11, 07 (Tue)
6:11am
[###-###-####]
----Message----
You just made my day :)
Have a good day yourself
----End----
Sep 11, 07 (Tue)
6:11am
This is the first realization that today is in fact an anniversary of something harboring so much momentum that six years later it finally touches me. The ripple moves outward from disaster and six layers later I feel the first personal pangs of what followed. Six ringlets after the rock pierced water's surface it dumbly occurs to me to look around and ask what happened. Vested interest does that, I guess, heightens your concern.
I won't attempt to point fingers toward reason or connection of events. The temperment of the world is chaos no matter why, no matter who paid for flight school or who funded training or oil fields or notoriously coined phrases regarding weaponry. These things are not my motive today, as I take one more reckoning step in the direction of acceptance and the knowledge of what lies ahead if this particular course holds steady.
Over the last month I've all but beaten my head against the wall for not knowing more about this War, for shutting myself off, allowing numbness to set in, for choosing to be blissfully ignorant. And today I recall trembling as my 3rd period graphic design class was disturbed by news reports in a teacher's lounge of planes wrecking buildings and trying to understand...a draft?...gas prices?...God?...war, on my figurative doorsteps? The rest of the day was spent swapping glances of confusion with fellow youngsters, finding refuge in a place that no longer makes sense, seeing the cyclical replay of something so foreign that it couldn't possibly be swallowed in its visionary capacity. As a kid, it moved me, it shook me, it molded me like the rest of my generation to value family and friends and time. It was the end of peace and the institution of chronic discourse.
Eventually the news coverage waned. The buzz hushed. I saw the rubble pit almost exactly a year to date - still ashes and tarps and remembrance. As time passed, we forgot, those of us untouched, we moved on in this wide world of violence and we were able to coexist with it, without thought. I became apathetic. The void was cleared and my last visit to Ground Zero yielded surprise as the subways had already been reopened, building band-aids removed, and Burger King was back in working order.
This is how we move away from a wound and toward the eruption of battle, this is also how we forgot [and by we, I only speak for myself]. And so life is ironic and it would seem fitting that a text message reply would remind me. That it would remind me to value relationships, to value the moments of connection, the moments full of heart, to log the laughter and freeze pieces of invaluable living into still shots, to make the most of the hours we have, and to never take for granted a man who walks in the shadows of aftermath - it is all so much to comprehend, but this is the world as we know it.
I sift through the news these days against better advice, and I read the blogs of women who love men living lives in The Sandbox. I bite off morsels so as not to choke while chewing, and I slowly digest the actuality. I realize that I am the most unexpected candidate for such a position, but also that I'm here and willing and I'm all heart [even when it scares me].
[and it does]
...All this rambling of nothing to say that in the sixth year, the eleventh of September means something different. I am six years older, and six years altered, and six years numb no longer.
I won't attempt to point fingers toward reason or connection of events. The temperment of the world is chaos no matter why, no matter who paid for flight school or who funded training or oil fields or notoriously coined phrases regarding weaponry. These things are not my motive today, as I take one more reckoning step in the direction of acceptance and the knowledge of what lies ahead if this particular course holds steady.
Over the last month I've all but beaten my head against the wall for not knowing more about this War, for shutting myself off, allowing numbness to set in, for choosing to be blissfully ignorant. And today I recall trembling as my 3rd period graphic design class was disturbed by news reports in a teacher's lounge of planes wrecking buildings and trying to understand...a draft?...gas prices?...God?...war, on my figurative doorsteps? The rest of the day was spent swapping glances of confusion with fellow youngsters, finding refuge in a place that no longer makes sense, seeing the cyclical replay of something so foreign that it couldn't possibly be swallowed in its visionary capacity. As a kid, it moved me, it shook me, it molded me like the rest of my generation to value family and friends and time. It was the end of peace and the institution of chronic discourse.
Eventually the news coverage waned. The buzz hushed. I saw the rubble pit almost exactly a year to date - still ashes and tarps and remembrance. As time passed, we forgot, those of us untouched, we moved on in this wide world of violence and we were able to coexist with it, without thought. I became apathetic. The void was cleared and my last visit to Ground Zero yielded surprise as the subways had already been reopened, building band-aids removed, and Burger King was back in working order.
This is how we move away from a wound and toward the eruption of battle, this is also how we forgot [and by we, I only speak for myself]. And so life is ironic and it would seem fitting that a text message reply would remind me. That it would remind me to value relationships, to value the moments of connection, the moments full of heart, to log the laughter and freeze pieces of invaluable living into still shots, to make the most of the hours we have, and to never take for granted a man who walks in the shadows of aftermath - it is all so much to comprehend, but this is the world as we know it.
I sift through the news these days against better advice, and I read the blogs of women who love men living lives in The Sandbox. I bite off morsels so as not to choke while chewing, and I slowly digest the actuality. I realize that I am the most unexpected candidate for such a position, but also that I'm here and willing and I'm all heart [even when it scares me].
[and it does]
...All this rambling of nothing to say that in the sixth year, the eleventh of September means something different. I am six years older, and six years altered, and six years numb no longer.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Look at how skinny I was after I had you, and I was 38! See, there's hope.
Mom made an appearance in Music City Wednesday afternoon. My future Californian and I met her for lunch in Franklin at my favorite deli, Bread & Co. No worries concerning expectations here, "My Sandwich," as I have now titled it, was a deliciously amazing combination of multi-grain bread, pulled turkey, avocado, grainy mustard, tomatoes, cheddar, lettuce, and roasted red peppers. Anyway, lunch was great, then off to do some buying for the store she's opening in Mississippi. I think I love shopping enough to be a buyer, whether I have the talent for that kind of work is questionable, but I would at least have the passion. We found some candles and place mats, some stationary, kitchen accessories, etc. It was nice to see her since it's been a while.
From Franklin, we head back to the city. She wants to see my studio so I oblige the request...two phone calls later (that I kind of dread answering - the drummer and the florist), I come back inside to give her the "tour". She loves the space. She loves the work. And flipping through the old albums she comments on how slim she was 20 years ago, and how cute my "chubby cheeks" were as a babe. She says, "Look at how skinny I was after I had you, and I was 38! See, there's hope."
Yeah, Mom, there's hope...
We then decide on Bosco's for a light dinner of fire roasted pizza and micro-brewed beer. Dinner is delicious, the conversation however, revolving around debunking myths my father has generated, leaves me suddenly wanting a few more drinks, or to scream, but mostly to cry - right there at the bistro table in front of the cute couples playing bingo at the bar.
I call out from work Thursday morning on account of Mom's impromptu visit. We go to Fido for breakfast instead, and I relish my fruit and granola and cup of coffee as an alternative to numb limbs that often occur in the meat locker I will call my office. Afterward she needs to, "get on the road back home to get some work done." So, we say our goodbyes and she and the Magnum head South.
I don't ever do well with that sinking feeling that follows "Goodbye." But the therapy of choice I opt for is a healthy laundering of dirty clothes and finally unpacking the suitcase full of Asheville.
Can a cap-full of laundry detergent possibly dilute an entire weekend? Probably not the generic brand...
I shut the lid of the washer and grab my laptop. I'm going to a coffee shop...one with WiFi. It's time to blog the damn trip to North Carolina.
Portland Brew is sunny and Jeff Buckley is a good mellow choice of background tunes. I sit down with my Odwalla Limeade. I've already had a cup a' joe today...and it's SO too hot for coffee. The blog takes about 2 hours, but I'm happy it's posted when I'm finished. The pictures I think turned out well, even if V told me that I was taking photos like a tourist of sorts. It was a perfect journey. It was the destination that left me a bit surprised. It's over, door closed. It's blogged and laundered now.
Cue window opening.
In a very roundabout way, I stumble upon an incredible musician - Matthew Perryman Jones. And he's playing in an hour and a half at The Bluebird. I'm so going. I IM my future Californian for company to the writers round and he agrees to come with me. Once there I declare that I will marry and bear the children of his chord progressions - his voice and the melodies give me chills. My future Californian raises a brow and whispers to me, "I think that you have devalued the sanctity of marriage."
It's possible.
We go back to my apartment where I do not hesitate to pull out my soapbox. We are both emotional masochists so I know what he's doing to himself. I guess, it takes one to know one. Maybe it frustrates me because I don't understand why I do it to myself, the self-induced torture, or maybe it's just that I want him to understand how much better he is than the mental hell he's creating for himself. I try to explain that by the time I decided to rip off the proverbial band aid instead of continuing its slow and painful removal, I was so angry that I had wasted 6 additional months on the Virginian. I know that it doesn't matter what I say. I'm that person, too.
We put on Little Miss Sunshine. I book a ticket to New York. He tells me about some housing options in LA, shows me some furniture he's been eyeing at IKEA. I take a shower and he's asleep when I get out.
Today I head for Memphis, another weekend away, another 400 miles (round-trip) of loud music and contemplation. I'm beginning to love driving for the first time in my whole driving life. It's Dad's birthday tomorrow, and The Florist's was Wednesday - his party is tonight. It will be an eventful weekend away, and I'm looking forward to not sitting around my apartment trying to relive and pinpoint what went wrong a week ago.
I think I'm going to start my "photo a day" project. We'll see if I can keep the commitment. It's just one picture per day, right?
From Franklin, we head back to the city. She wants to see my studio so I oblige the request...two phone calls later (that I kind of dread answering - the drummer and the florist), I come back inside to give her the "tour". She loves the space. She loves the work. And flipping through the old albums she comments on how slim she was 20 years ago, and how cute my "chubby cheeks" were as a babe. She says, "Look at how skinny I was after I had you, and I was 38! See, there's hope."
Yeah, Mom, there's hope...
We then decide on Bosco's for a light dinner of fire roasted pizza and micro-brewed beer. Dinner is delicious, the conversation however, revolving around debunking myths my father has generated, leaves me suddenly wanting a few more drinks, or to scream, but mostly to cry - right there at the bistro table in front of the cute couples playing bingo at the bar.
I call out from work Thursday morning on account of Mom's impromptu visit. We go to Fido for breakfast instead, and I relish my fruit and granola and cup of coffee as an alternative to numb limbs that often occur in the meat locker I will call my office. Afterward she needs to, "get on the road back home to get some work done." So, we say our goodbyes and she and the Magnum head South.
I don't ever do well with that sinking feeling that follows "Goodbye." But the therapy of choice I opt for is a healthy laundering of dirty clothes and finally unpacking the suitcase full of Asheville.
Can a cap-full of laundry detergent possibly dilute an entire weekend? Probably not the generic brand...
I shut the lid of the washer and grab my laptop. I'm going to a coffee shop...one with WiFi. It's time to blog the damn trip to North Carolina.
Portland Brew is sunny and Jeff Buckley is a good mellow choice of background tunes. I sit down with my Odwalla Limeade. I've already had a cup a' joe today...and it's SO too hot for coffee. The blog takes about 2 hours, but I'm happy it's posted when I'm finished. The pictures I think turned out well, even if V told me that I was taking photos like a tourist of sorts. It was a perfect journey. It was the destination that left me a bit surprised. It's over, door closed. It's blogged and laundered now.
Cue window opening.
In a very roundabout way, I stumble upon an incredible musician - Matthew Perryman Jones. And he's playing in an hour and a half at The Bluebird. I'm so going. I IM my future Californian for company to the writers round and he agrees to come with me. Once there I declare that I will marry and bear the children of his chord progressions - his voice and the melodies give me chills. My future Californian raises a brow and whispers to me, "I think that you have devalued the sanctity of marriage."
It's possible.
We go back to my apartment where I do not hesitate to pull out my soapbox. We are both emotional masochists so I know what he's doing to himself. I guess, it takes one to know one. Maybe it frustrates me because I don't understand why I do it to myself, the self-induced torture, or maybe it's just that I want him to understand how much better he is than the mental hell he's creating for himself. I try to explain that by the time I decided to rip off the proverbial band aid instead of continuing its slow and painful removal, I was so angry that I had wasted 6 additional months on the Virginian. I know that it doesn't matter what I say. I'm that person, too.
We put on Little Miss Sunshine. I book a ticket to New York. He tells me about some housing options in LA, shows me some furniture he's been eyeing at IKEA. I take a shower and he's asleep when I get out.
Today I head for Memphis, another weekend away, another 400 miles (round-trip) of loud music and contemplation. I'm beginning to love driving for the first time in my whole driving life. It's Dad's birthday tomorrow, and The Florist's was Wednesday - his party is tonight. It will be an eventful weekend away, and I'm looking forward to not sitting around my apartment trying to relive and pinpoint what went wrong a week ago.
I think I'm going to start my "photo a day" project. We'll see if I can keep the commitment. It's just one picture per day, right?
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Autumn in New York
The flights are booked. I am so there the 4th weekend in September! I can't wait! I'll see The Guggenheim, The Met (again)...and spend an afternoon lounging in Central Park...coffee in The Village...H&M and Century 21 shopping...the sounds, oh the sounds of the city - cabs honking, the people, the buzz...the hum. The food, the bars, maybe Warhol's Factory, a stroll down 5th Ave...
::sigh::
I am the happiest girl in the whole world!
In the WHOLE world!
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
I heart NY
My world is suddenly abuzz with talk of a weekend in The Big Apple...I can hardly contain myself at the mere thought of being back in New York City - and in autumn (perfection)! My heart is rapidly beating, and the breaths catch slightly in my throat as the excitement builds. It might just be enough to pacify the current state of melancholy. ::sigh:: Oh, heaven is NYC in the fall!
I'm thinking September. NYC in late September, and a place to stay in Brooklyn. It's like anticipating Christmas...that actually comes. With forecasts of snow...that are every bit as glorious as you had hoped!
I'm thinking September. NYC in late September, and a place to stay in Brooklyn. It's like anticipating Christmas...that actually comes. With forecasts of snow...that are every bit as glorious as you had hoped!
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