Saturday, November 22, 2008
The Heaviness of a Light Conversation (Revised)
I loved the tube. I loved the way the grimy, used smells of the bright velvet seats were covered by the chemical spray of bleach based cleaning products. I loved the perfect English accents of the automated announcers telling me each and every stop and the safety guidelines for ascending and descending the train posted above the sliding exit doors. I loved overhearing trivial phone conversations, especially the ones filled with drama or juicy bits of gossip about people I would never meet. I loved tuning out the wooshing noise of air created by the sudden movements of the train against the multi-colored tiles with my headphones.
The ins and outs of the city, at times, seemed exhausted and old, while at other times I was surprised to find something new in the ancient petrified bodies of the mummies at the British Museum that I had visited more times than I can count, or a new joy in the wetness of my inappropriate footwear when the inevitable drops of rain fell from the sky nearly every day. Borough Market was my vague destination, though my funds were running desperately low and I had no real need to purchase any more exotic foods, or unusual beverage, or bag of nuts. A day like today was different spent alone though; I had to follow my uncreative attempt at adventure, because it was all I had.
While there is thrill in the unknown, there is also thrill in the known, in the something you think you know, but which catches you off guard in a fantastic display of change. To counteract this need for chaos, I rode the tube everyday, even if I had nowhere to go, because I knew the lines, I knew the schedule, and although occasionally it was late, it always arrived, eventually. But you, who sent me on these trips, were different. You were unexpected. And everyday you made me need to go to the store, in a composed, impassive manner; I needed to shop and buy useless and kitschy things and transform them into new and meaningful objects of obsession. Recently, I had gone to Israel and on an intoxicated journey through Tel Aviv received a poster for a flea market torn from a lamp post from a sweet, blond lesbian with soft masculine features; I had taped the colorful, trivial thing to my wall, and though I have moved several times since, it still follows me around and reminds me of her. In short, attraction pushed me in too many directions, but never towards reality.
I took the St. Paul’s stop so that I could walk the half-mile extra in the chilly drizzle over the Millennium Bridge. My steps were slow and deliberate, while the steps that passed me seemed clumsy and unconscious in comparison, as if no one else cared about anything at all. As if all of their minds were simple, clean and vacantly aware, all with an unambiguous and shallow sense of themselves and their directions. The bridge expanded before me in perfect lines of white symmetry above the muted, dull grey water, and maybe my steps were not so much deliberate as heavy.
Thinking back, I suppose you, among others, picked me up when I most needed it. And I suppose that’s why it was so easy to accept it wholeheartedly and unquestionably, along with the consequences such heedlessness tended to bring. Interactions both casual and passionate were complicated by the new scenery, the new limitless density of a real city, and the indescribable feeling that my once subtle emotions were magnified beyond my control. But, like I said, there were consequences, one of them being the intense crush, and subsequent crushing, of what I thought I held dear.
At the market, the imminence of Christmas became apparent, and while I smiled at the ten piece jolly little band in holiday garb perched at the entrance, the realization that I had come alone suddenly stabbed at my vulnerability. Picturesque happiness, represented in steaming Styrofoam cups of mulled wine wrapped around the gloved hands of cheerful families, elicited unwarranted discomfort. As I wandered, disoriented, the whole, pink carcasses of pigs and the half-plucked ducks that hung against the walls of the meat stands blankly stared at me with menace.
I guess you could say I thought you were the one. Maybe not the one, but a one. One of the ones. With youth there is excitement, and with excitement there is an incredible precipitated ability to find what one is looking for, then loose it in less time than it takes to acquire it in the first place.
The nut and candy bins were usually where we stopped when we went together, but now that I stood contemplating the sweet taste of candied macadamia nuts before the colorful spectacle, I realized I had no interest in any of it. I don’t think I ever liked it to begin with. Everyone had liked the nuts too, it seemed like everybody liked the nuts, but I did not like them. The crowd bumped into me unknowingly, allowing me to momentarily join in the general sway of the momentum of the group, but I rooted my feet into the ground. I managed to leave their sight and ventured to what I really wanted, the exotic olive and smelly cheese stand.
Here, I delicately sampled the wide array of pungent olives, some darker, some lighter, some more intense and bursting with tart flavor and some more mild and tame. They were complemented with blocks of cheese attached to tiny toothpicks, and I decided that a firm, pricey Gruyere was the perfect one. Its rich flavor seeped deep into my taste buds and tickled the back of my throat, the perfect addition to the wine and cheese parties that had been frequently occurring in my flat.
Alcohol plays a central role in meetings and other varieties of rendez-vous that develop in persistently crowded social circles. The darkness of bedrooms, hallways and windowsills accompanied by the lulling factor of almost constant intoxication can lead to overly confident proclamations. This is a fact conveniently ignored by most. Was my mind more genuine? To me everyone else was empty and false, lying their way through conversations in the hopes that it would all come true in the end. And it happened over and over and over again.
My chunk of cheese and assorted olives amounted to nine pounds, about 17 dollars. As my bank account dissipated each day, I made no attempt to refill it, and somehow I was able to justify the transaction. My purse was a flowered sack, an endless pit of dark matter. The woman selling the cheese became impatient as I searched by touch through the cluttered contents and she eventually turned to another customer who persistently inquired about the various consistencies of Brie. Finally I decided to actively locate my wallet with my eyes instead of relying on the touch of my clumsy fingers, but as I gazed into the blackness using the waning light of the overcast afternoon, I still didn’t see it. I refused to believe it wasn’t there and in disarray began removing items by the handful and placing them all over the cheese display. Multiple tubes of chapstick, crumpled receipts, a mirror, an unsent postcard, my chunky, temporary phone, change and more were spread out, exposed for all to see. Embarrassed, I mumbled to the woman that I had changed my mind, scooped up the loose items and moved away from the table, into a corner and out of sight. My pulse skyrocketed, my bitter aloneness like a physical injury while I faced this highly unfavorable situation.
My flat seemed miles away, and I held no hope of finding my lost, precious item that could be anywhere by now. It could have been in the hands of a thief, miles away, or right under my nose. It was impossible to tell. Adrenaline lifted my heavy steps, and without thinking twice, I started walking back, without my underground pass, knowing that it would take more time than I could imagine. I had no desire to figure out what had happened; the patter of my numb feet disappeared over the bridge.
The ins and outs of the city, at times, seemed exhausted and old, while at other times I was surprised to find something new in the ancient petrified bodies of the mummies at the British Museum that I had visited more times than I can count, or a new joy in the wetness of my inappropriate footwear when the inevitable drops of rain fell from the sky nearly every day. Borough Market was my vague destination, though my funds were running desperately low and I had no real need to purchase any more exotic foods, or unusual beverage, or bag of nuts. A day like today was different spent alone though; I had to follow my uncreative attempt at adventure, because it was all I had.
While there is thrill in the unknown, there is also thrill in the known, in the something you think you know, but which catches you off guard in a fantastic display of change. To counteract this need for chaos, I rode the tube everyday, even if I had nowhere to go, because I knew the lines, I knew the schedule, and although occasionally it was late, it always arrived, eventually. But you, who sent me on these trips, were different. You were unexpected. And everyday you made me need to go to the store, in a composed, impassive manner; I needed to shop and buy useless and kitschy things and transform them into new and meaningful objects of obsession. Recently, I had gone to Israel and on an intoxicated journey through Tel Aviv received a poster for a flea market torn from a lamp post from a sweet, blond lesbian with soft masculine features; I had taped the colorful, trivial thing to my wall, and though I have moved several times since, it still follows me around and reminds me of her. In short, attraction pushed me in too many directions, but never towards reality.
I took the St. Paul’s stop so that I could walk the half-mile extra in the chilly drizzle over the Millennium Bridge. My steps were slow and deliberate, while the steps that passed me seemed clumsy and unconscious in comparison, as if no one else cared about anything at all. As if all of their minds were simple, clean and vacantly aware, all with an unambiguous and shallow sense of themselves and their directions. The bridge expanded before me in perfect lines of white symmetry above the muted, dull grey water, and maybe my steps were not so much deliberate as heavy.
Thinking back, I suppose you, among others, picked me up when I most needed it. And I suppose that’s why it was so easy to accept it wholeheartedly and unquestionably, along with the consequences such heedlessness tended to bring. Interactions both casual and passionate were complicated by the new scenery, the new limitless density of a real city, and the indescribable feeling that my once subtle emotions were magnified beyond my control. But, like I said, there were consequences, one of them being the intense crush, and subsequent crushing, of what I thought I held dear.
At the market, the imminence of Christmas became apparent, and while I smiled at the ten piece jolly little band in holiday garb perched at the entrance, the realization that I had come alone suddenly stabbed at my vulnerability. Picturesque happiness, represented in steaming Styrofoam cups of mulled wine wrapped around the gloved hands of cheerful families, elicited unwarranted discomfort. As I wandered, disoriented, the whole, pink carcasses of pigs and the half-plucked ducks that hung against the walls of the meat stands blankly stared at me with menace.
I guess you could say I thought you were the one. Maybe not the one, but a one. One of the ones. With youth there is excitement, and with excitement there is an incredible precipitated ability to find what one is looking for, then loose it in less time than it takes to acquire it in the first place.
The nut and candy bins were usually where we stopped when we went together, but now that I stood contemplating the sweet taste of candied macadamia nuts before the colorful spectacle, I realized I had no interest in any of it. I don’t think I ever liked it to begin with. Everyone had liked the nuts too, it seemed like everybody liked the nuts, but I did not like them. The crowd bumped into me unknowingly, allowing me to momentarily join in the general sway of the momentum of the group, but I rooted my feet into the ground. I managed to leave their sight and ventured to what I really wanted, the exotic olive and smelly cheese stand.
Here, I delicately sampled the wide array of pungent olives, some darker, some lighter, some more intense and bursting with tart flavor and some more mild and tame. They were complemented with blocks of cheese attached to tiny toothpicks, and I decided that a firm, pricey Gruyere was the perfect one. Its rich flavor seeped deep into my taste buds and tickled the back of my throat, the perfect addition to the wine and cheese parties that had been frequently occurring in my flat.
Alcohol plays a central role in meetings and other varieties of rendez-vous that develop in persistently crowded social circles. The darkness of bedrooms, hallways and windowsills accompanied by the lulling factor of almost constant intoxication can lead to overly confident proclamations. This is a fact conveniently ignored by most. Was my mind more genuine? To me everyone else was empty and false, lying their way through conversations in the hopes that it would all come true in the end. And it happened over and over and over again.
My chunk of cheese and assorted olives amounted to nine pounds, about 17 dollars. As my bank account dissipated each day, I made no attempt to refill it, and somehow I was able to justify the transaction. My purse was a flowered sack, an endless pit of dark matter. The woman selling the cheese became impatient as I searched by touch through the cluttered contents and she eventually turned to another customer who persistently inquired about the various consistencies of Brie. Finally I decided to actively locate my wallet with my eyes instead of relying on the touch of my clumsy fingers, but as I gazed into the blackness using the waning light of the overcast afternoon, I still didn’t see it. I refused to believe it wasn’t there and in disarray began removing items by the handful and placing them all over the cheese display. Multiple tubes of chapstick, crumpled receipts, a mirror, an unsent postcard, my chunky, temporary phone, change and more were spread out, exposed for all to see. Embarrassed, I mumbled to the woman that I had changed my mind, scooped up the loose items and moved away from the table, into a corner and out of sight. My pulse skyrocketed, my bitter aloneness like a physical injury while I faced this highly unfavorable situation.
My flat seemed miles away, and I held no hope of finding my lost, precious item that could be anywhere by now. It could have been in the hands of a thief, miles away, or right under my nose. It was impossible to tell. Adrenaline lifted my heavy steps, and without thinking twice, I started walking back, without my underground pass, knowing that it would take more time than I could imagine. I had no desire to figure out what had happened; the patter of my numb feet disappeared over the bridge.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The Necessity of Being, More Than Having
“When I see you unexpectedly, not on my own mapped-out controlled terms, I cannot breath. I choke and want everything I have ever put into my body to be immediately expelled. Every piece of food I have ever eaten and every sip of liquid I have ever had needs to come out. Every kiss I have accepted, every touch, to go far, far away. I need to be turned inside out and shaken and slapped. I wasn’t wrong, I wasn’t mistaken.”
Each day she indulge in earthly pleasures with no thought of the afterlife; learning to delve deeper into all the subtle joys of existence and even appreciating the raw wallowing of real sorrow was a process she grasped onto and refused to let go of. Once she realized that it was all necessary, the pleasures, the pain, and that it was up to her to find them everywhere, everyday, and no one could help her or stop her, she could expect nothing else from life. Inflated and distended with feeling, she paraded around elated, judging others for their bare, minimal effort at living. She became disgusted by the jaded, impassive faces that surrounded her, both strangers and friends who exhibited this sad, closed-off American attitude. She wanted to shake these people, tell them that it was okay to try, okay to take risks, to hurt, to ball and cry and wail so hard that the neighbors could hear and become concerned and know that people are capable of treating one another that horribly. Because this was the purpose of life: to feel, whatever that feeling may be.
“This lightness, this ability to say anything and everything that may be pressured to escape the tongue, is the most beautiful thing in the world. It is the immediate gratification of softness and lightness that normally takes the effort of a lifetime to achieve, here, now. It is a new softness, the smell of straw, the innocent sounds of pleasure that escape as naturally as the sounds of wind flowing over a bottle, that give it validity. It is no more true than its opposite, however; both are filled with intensity, genuine push and pull between what fits, either melding together, or clashing with violence. Both are a part of being, now or never.”
Monday, September 22, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
Sized
If you could have spoken, what would you have said? The couch sticks to my skin and peels a layer off of me when I stand. The air doesn’t move out of the way when you walk around, and piles and piles of trash add up. No one ever takes it out. And sometimes there’s a hole between then and now. The holes in the ceiling let nothing in.
There’s a free and fleeting moment that’s bigger than us both. It stands not between or around but above, it’s own living, breathing reasoning.
We took a camera and with it painted our world. It took nothing, instead fed it some exterior perspective. I never figured out what the eyes that tumbled down the bumpy hill, spinning, gave to the animals that followed them around.
I’m awake in the places that one sleeps, and asleep where others are awake. Salty sweat pressed into cotton billows. There’s noises in the walls, the pushpins spear the creatures that never come out til night. It’s irregular, it’s regular, it’s a flat note that can’t get better.
There’s a free and fleeting moment that’s bigger than us both. It stands not between or around but above, it’s own living, breathing reasoning.
We took a camera and with it painted our world. It took nothing, instead fed it some exterior perspective. I never figured out what the eyes that tumbled down the bumpy hill, spinning, gave to the animals that followed them around.
I’m awake in the places that one sleeps, and asleep where others are awake. Salty sweat pressed into cotton billows. There’s noises in the walls, the pushpins spear the creatures that never come out til night. It’s irregular, it’s regular, it’s a flat note that can’t get better.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Let's Get Out of this Country, Part II: Finding Abbey Road
It was starting to be that time in London when the rain literally never stops, and it is unwise for anyone to go out of doors without the proper, protective rain gear. Somehow, I survived this entire time period with no boots, no waterproof jacket, no appropriate head gear, none of this, except for an old umbrella that barely managed to open without one of its wires protruding violently close to innocent bystanders’ eyes. For four months I wore an old pair of black vans with matching holes that exposed my big toes and many other parts of my feet. For some reason I was never able to find the right replacement; nothing seemed right. Anyway, on one of these rainy, and of course chilly, afternoons, Lauren and I, finding nothing more productive to do, decided to find Abbey Road. We looked it up online and took the Tube as close to the address as possible, and then figured we could take a bus from there. I had this fishy feeling that something was going to go wrong, because we had never really been to this part of town we were going, and we weren’t even sure if what we had looked up was really THE Abbey Road, or just some other road that happened to also be called Abbey Road. But we went anyway, because Lauren was confident, and while I was not, as usual, I wanted to try to find it anyway.
We took the Tube to this stop that was kind of near this other stop where we had once gone to this football game (at this point I don’t really remember the exact names of any of these places, and you’re just going to have to take my word for it). Although it was only about three in the afternoon, I could already feel the onset of sundown, and the sky delicately changing its hue from a light grey to a darker, more sinister cement-grey. With maps and umbrellas in hand we began the trek, never finding a bus that would take us in the right direction. After what seemed like miles, perhaps two, we began poking our heads in the little businesses that were interspersed between the gentrified, picturesque houses, asking, without much hope, “where we might find Abbey Road, you know, like The Beatles?” Most of these bakery and French launderette owners did not offer us answers in a language we could really understand, and after many of these encounters, one was finally able to assure us that we were walking in the right direction. Literally three hours had passed since we had left our flat, but we continued on, determined to have that picture, the proof that we had been there.
Finally we were on Abbey Road. But where was the cross walk? It turned out that finding the road was not the end of our journey, but just another beginning. The rain soaked up my poor little exposed toes, and although we tried not to admit it aloud, we were both soaked, freezing, and loosing hope. Each time we came to a cross walk one of us would proudly declare that we had found it, that it “totally looks like the picture” only to discover that no, that they all looked the same, that we had no way of knowing. Then, eventually, when nighttime officially fell, it became obvious that we had found it. There was the recording studio, and the graffiti, and love notes to John and Paul and the other guys, all in front of a street where cars whizzed past, not giving a second thought. After several embarrassing tries, we finally got the pictures, after nearly being run over. They are taken at night, of us alone, because there was no one standing around willing to take a picture of both of us together. We got it, but after all that work, the picture kind of makes me wonder why we cared so much. The whole thing was a pretty nerdy endeavor, but then again, most things Lauren and I did were lame, in a really good way.
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