I used to be really scared of driving across bridges. It was fear intermingled with absolute love, or fear because of love, or something. Who hasn’t fallen in love with Golden Gate, with all that it represents and with its fiery hues against all that blue above and below. A lot of the things that fostered my attachment to it scared me at the same time. The slope upwards, the creeping towards the middle, frightened me most. So much water underneath, and I can’t swim. If in the outer lane, so close to that fragile edge. A sturdy structure, but such a short distance from surface to only air. If in the inner lane, the sounds of fast-moving cars going the other way, and sometimes the subtle shake of the road. As a passenger I unconsciously gripped my seat with one hand and the side of the door with the other. As a driver I alternately went fast and slow, never able to decide which was worse (though impatience usually won out). The instability, the unfamiliarity, the vastness, or my perceptions of these things; all of it made me lose my sense of ground. This normally doesn’t faze me too much, I’m not afraid of heights or roller coasters or anything like that. It’s something about the risk associated with beautiful things.
I grew out of it, at least the specific fear of bridges. I don’t know why or when, just one of those things like not talking to my stuffed animals anymore or not expecting the tooth fairy after awhile. But I still think about it sometimes, and the feeling underlying the fear more than lingers.
In Vermont there are hundreds of covered bridges. The question of why they’re covered came up, and I couldn’t think of a good reason. They span little creeks, and you drive through them in about two seconds. You can see through to the other side before you enter the first. All the ones we saw were red. Some of them smelled like paint. You could see every plank of wood forming their structure. You could walk across them without feeling the very slight elevation. They felt like playgrounds.
I can’t remember the last time I felt that safe, and I wasn’t sure where that was coming from. The smallness, the covering, the utter quietness and stillness—it didn’t really matter, just an illusion of safety, except there wasn’t even the illusion of danger. I had a flashback of how I felt standing on the Golden Gate this summer, cold, the wind blowing ferociously, buried in the fog and feet tiptoe on the ledge. And I thought, they’re not so different. The former, the wonder of my conception of beauty, of what’s worth crossing, how large and intimidating and formidable our minds make things, those excited and scared and naïve goosebumps. The latter, the indescribable comfort that comes from dispelling the fear without losing the immensity, or the image. Feeling the safety and the excitement at once.
I would like to hang onto October for a bit longer.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Tuesday, October 4, 2005
remembering
I’ve told this story to various people and just again recently. I don’t know why it comes up other than I find it amusing. My great-aunt used to make me tea with sugar every afternoon after school. She would boil the water and make a pot even though no one else was around to drink it but me. She would pile on scoops and scoops of sugar because I like it ultra-sugary. She would blow on it to cool it down and warn me that it was hot. Then she would sit and watch me drink it. She put her spices and things in clear jars, sometimes without labels, because she could tell what they were by sight. One time she took the wrong container and put salt in my cup of tea. I think I was ten. My nose and forehead wrinkled with confusion. Then I said, “You put salt in this tea!” She stared blankly at me for a second, and then grinned, and then started laughing. It was so absurdly wrong, and funny. She made me another cup. Maybe one day I will put salt in my kids’ tea, and maybe years later they will remember how sweet the act of caring is.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
place
I'm finding it harder and harder to post because at home I have fleeting thoughts, I'm perpetually sleepy because I know I can sleep, there's little structure to my life and I feel little need to impose one. Though that last feeling is waning. I have California for two more days, and I so want to get back to school, and see everyone, and get settled into our room, and start our last year of classes. I can't wait for A-entry, special-meat Wednesdays, Professor Parker, sweaters, Bernard, frozen yogurt in cake cones.
Not to say that home wasn't wonderful. Basically, I saw a lot of movies and a few people. I watched Broken Flowers, 2046, March of the Penguins, Transporter 2, 40-Year-Old Virgin and The Constant Gardener. *Broken Flowers was a little slow and Sarah thought it was pointless, but I liked the concept of revisiting the different people that run through your life, and thinking about what each one says about your own character. It was after she saw *2046 that Sarah texted me, telling me to come home. After seeing the movie I understood that impulse. It was a lot about reaching out, and trying to grasp people who are more like air, smoke even...visible, with presence and movement, but without outline. I don't have the means to describe what it was really about; it would take more expression than I have. Images and lines and phrases come to mind. The line that I referenced once and that both Stephen and Sarah referenced, separately and at different times, was: "Love is about timing." The right time is just as important as the right person, and with that comes the right place because sometimes that's dependent on time. I liked how the main character's experiences flowed into the stories that he wrote, so that you couldn't tell which was informing the other, because it worked both ways. *March of the Penguins was so simple, it was amazing. It didn't need any artifice to convince you of its beauty. This is just the way it works, creation and the affection and sacrifice that come with it are just natural. That's the most optimistic thing I think I've ever seen in a movie. *Transporter 2 was pure entertainment, and fun to see on the big screen since I saw the first one on DVD. *The 40-Year-Old Virgin wasn't as good as I thought it would be, based on its cheesy poster and word of mouth. I didn't think it was that funny, but I can see why people thought it was unique as far as raunchy movies go. It was ultimately really sweet-natured, and about a growing up process, and it managed to support both theories of sex-isn't-everything and sex-is-really-important at the same time. *The Constant Gardener was on par with movies like Schindler's List and Hotel Rwanda, the kind that induce a mixture of inspiration and frustration. You want to prevent and stop such things, you want to help, but the reason you do is the same one that makes it hard to--these are big problems, fueled by the very human tendency to ignore what isn't in front of you. And then afterwards, when you're aware, what do you do? What causes do you choose to pursue and which do you have to leave behind, and will you really help? Africa is so beautiful, and so full of mysteries. That must make it all the harder for those with good intentions to go there.
The people were better than the movies. I saw Richard, ate ice cream with him (Ben & Jerry's, minus the life advice) and drank with him (and got a drunk dial from him a few hours later). I had lunch with Kristina today, and we had our usual updated discussion of the Real World and the actual real world. We talked about her moving houses, and I still can't believe that there will never be another birthday party on Prairie View, no more loitering in her driveway. I visited Steph's new place in Los Altos, and it was so nice to see her again, and strange to see my SoCal rival enjoying and living in NorCal. We hung out with no obligations to study later, and that was also different. I ate sandw(h)iches with Aud before she went back to Portland. Besides the company I like getting together with her because we can stay in Fremont. I know that Fremont residents don't share any particular qualities but there is that natural connection of coming from the same place, especially when we went to a high school comprised mostly of San Josians. It was during our conversation that I started consciously thinking about the role of places. She talked about how home wasn't exactly home anymore, and I told her about my feelings of displacement and the illusion of permanence that I attach to home, and a few days later in her journal she likened herself to water, dispersing to various areas but eventually flowing back to one place. That made me think about how I'm not built to change shape with place in exactly the way I thought. I think adjusting to the East Coast made me downplay the importance of my surroundings. I thought home was a feeling I could assume anywhere that interested me, and I didn't give much thought to how I create that feeling, or how it's created.
When Andrew came to California, and we made our way through San Francisco, I could feel how linked place and not just experience but character are. We both knew we were sharing something different with his visit to my home, and I remembered why I relish opportunities to show people places, college to my friends from home, and home to my college friends. We saw so much of the city, from so many different viewpoints--on the ground, from the car, from the middle of the bay, atop towers and hills, along bridges.
Adventuring with Sarah, in Pacifica and downtown San Jose, made me think about it more too. Driving along the coast to Pacifica, we followed a curve and suddenly, we were driving into the sky. It was just blue, the ocean melted seamlessly into the sky ("where's the horizon?"), and we kept moving and it moved too. Then the completely opposite atmosphere of downtown, a place I should totally feel distant from now--seeing it at the peak of nighttime revelry, seeing the dressed-up and made-up girls, the top-down cars playing loud music--that's not my downtown. My downtown was lines of uniformed high schoolers walking from Notre Dame to the cathedral; it was traipsing around the water fountains and Starbucks and the Tech in summery tank tops and jeans; it was musicals and science fairs and pre-winter-ball dinners. But still, it felt the way the new ND building feels--not mine, but still mine.
The truth is, certain places do move me by nature of more than pretty scenery or tall buildings, or even remaining the same as when I'd known and loved them first. I can't pinpoint all the actual reasons, there are so many and the majority are subtle. I don't have any real questions or definite statements, only that the idea of place is more complicated than I thought, the feeling of it simpler, and my love of it stronger.
Not to say that home wasn't wonderful. Basically, I saw a lot of movies and a few people. I watched Broken Flowers, 2046, March of the Penguins, Transporter 2, 40-Year-Old Virgin and The Constant Gardener. *Broken Flowers was a little slow and Sarah thought it was pointless, but I liked the concept of revisiting the different people that run through your life, and thinking about what each one says about your own character. It was after she saw *2046 that Sarah texted me, telling me to come home. After seeing the movie I understood that impulse. It was a lot about reaching out, and trying to grasp people who are more like air, smoke even...visible, with presence and movement, but without outline. I don't have the means to describe what it was really about; it would take more expression than I have. Images and lines and phrases come to mind. The line that I referenced once and that both Stephen and Sarah referenced, separately and at different times, was: "Love is about timing." The right time is just as important as the right person, and with that comes the right place because sometimes that's dependent on time. I liked how the main character's experiences flowed into the stories that he wrote, so that you couldn't tell which was informing the other, because it worked both ways. *March of the Penguins was so simple, it was amazing. It didn't need any artifice to convince you of its beauty. This is just the way it works, creation and the affection and sacrifice that come with it are just natural. That's the most optimistic thing I think I've ever seen in a movie. *Transporter 2 was pure entertainment, and fun to see on the big screen since I saw the first one on DVD. *The 40-Year-Old Virgin wasn't as good as I thought it would be, based on its cheesy poster and word of mouth. I didn't think it was that funny, but I can see why people thought it was unique as far as raunchy movies go. It was ultimately really sweet-natured, and about a growing up process, and it managed to support both theories of sex-isn't-everything and sex-is-really-important at the same time. *The Constant Gardener was on par with movies like Schindler's List and Hotel Rwanda, the kind that induce a mixture of inspiration and frustration. You want to prevent and stop such things, you want to help, but the reason you do is the same one that makes it hard to--these are big problems, fueled by the very human tendency to ignore what isn't in front of you. And then afterwards, when you're aware, what do you do? What causes do you choose to pursue and which do you have to leave behind, and will you really help? Africa is so beautiful, and so full of mysteries. That must make it all the harder for those with good intentions to go there.
The people were better than the movies. I saw Richard, ate ice cream with him (Ben & Jerry's, minus the life advice) and drank with him (and got a drunk dial from him a few hours later). I had lunch with Kristina today, and we had our usual updated discussion of the Real World and the actual real world. We talked about her moving houses, and I still can't believe that there will never be another birthday party on Prairie View, no more loitering in her driveway. I visited Steph's new place in Los Altos, and it was so nice to see her again, and strange to see my SoCal rival enjoying and living in NorCal. We hung out with no obligations to study later, and that was also different. I ate sandw(h)iches with Aud before she went back to Portland. Besides the company I like getting together with her because we can stay in Fremont. I know that Fremont residents don't share any particular qualities but there is that natural connection of coming from the same place, especially when we went to a high school comprised mostly of San Josians. It was during our conversation that I started consciously thinking about the role of places. She talked about how home wasn't exactly home anymore, and I told her about my feelings of displacement and the illusion of permanence that I attach to home, and a few days later in her journal she likened herself to water, dispersing to various areas but eventually flowing back to one place. That made me think about how I'm not built to change shape with place in exactly the way I thought. I think adjusting to the East Coast made me downplay the importance of my surroundings. I thought home was a feeling I could assume anywhere that interested me, and I didn't give much thought to how I create that feeling, or how it's created.
When Andrew came to California, and we made our way through San Francisco, I could feel how linked place and not just experience but character are. We both knew we were sharing something different with his visit to my home, and I remembered why I relish opportunities to show people places, college to my friends from home, and home to my college friends. We saw so much of the city, from so many different viewpoints--on the ground, from the car, from the middle of the bay, atop towers and hills, along bridges.
Adventuring with Sarah, in Pacifica and downtown San Jose, made me think about it more too. Driving along the coast to Pacifica, we followed a curve and suddenly, we were driving into the sky. It was just blue, the ocean melted seamlessly into the sky ("where's the horizon?"), and we kept moving and it moved too. Then the completely opposite atmosphere of downtown, a place I should totally feel distant from now--seeing it at the peak of nighttime revelry, seeing the dressed-up and made-up girls, the top-down cars playing loud music--that's not my downtown. My downtown was lines of uniformed high schoolers walking from Notre Dame to the cathedral; it was traipsing around the water fountains and Starbucks and the Tech in summery tank tops and jeans; it was musicals and science fairs and pre-winter-ball dinners. But still, it felt the way the new ND building feels--not mine, but still mine.
The truth is, certain places do move me by nature of more than pretty scenery or tall buildings, or even remaining the same as when I'd known and loved them first. I can't pinpoint all the actual reasons, there are so many and the majority are subtle. I don't have any real questions or definite statements, only that the idea of place is more complicated than I thought, the feeling of it simpler, and my love of it stronger.
Monday, September 19, 2005
san francisco in two days
At Coit Tower, on the ledges that extend beyond the windows, there are a bunch of coins, mostly pennies but also some nickels and dimes, a few quarters and a handful of foreign pieces. We weren't sure whether we were supposed to add a coin to the collection, or to take a coin as a souvenir. Both were difficult to do, and our first instinct was to add a penny. In our attempt we actually retrieved a quarter someone else left in the pile, and were quick to put it back, not wanting to disturb someone else's interaction with the place. After several tries (none of mine were successful) he managed to get a penny on the very edge, just safe enough to remain there, for who knows how long. As we circled around to see the city through these odd openings, we noticed a lot of other people working very hard to get coins from outside the ledge to the inside, the opposite of what we'd been doing. The idea seems to be an exchange, both ways, instead of one or the other, and I thought that was the simplest and sweetest notion for a place like that. I feel the same about the entire experience, and it's one of the few ineffable experiences I've had that I'm content with leaving that way, unexpressed. Some images instead.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
moving through and on
My first summer in Cambridge is nearing its end. Trying to decide whether I had a good time is impossible, and I’ve concluded that such an experience can’t be narrowed down that way. I had a lot of good times. Summer here is incredibly beautiful. I was able to do many of the summer-in-Boston things I’ve always wanted to do. Sailing didn’t happen, nor did outdoor exercise, nor did Swan Boats, but I won’t give up on those for the future. Staying here was also difficult, and intense, for reasons that have more to do with my interaction with the environment, my relationship with this place, and my general state of mind as far as where I am in my life and how being here reminds me of it, doesn’t let me escape from it. It was hard. I can’t describe it in less vague terms because it’s all hazy to me too. I just know that I was often happy, often unhappy. I guess I’m still coming to terms with the fact that the proportion of my different emotions has changed, that the things that drive me and fulfill me are changing, becoming bigger and requiring more of me, which almost ironically makes it harder for me to make myself happy.
A lot of the superficial unsettledness stemmed from the fact that I was immersed in physics. I’m sorry to those of you who appreciate physics, but oh my God, I hate it. I know that it’s not arbitrary, I know that it explains many things, and I’ve always valued that about science, but honestly I can’t remember the last time I cared so little about a subject. Chemistry and biology have always offered so many analogies to concepts that mattered to me, but I couldn’t find anything in physics. I’m sure they’re there; I’m just not built to see them. It was a good course, well-taught and well-organized, but I’m glad it’s over. Also because I think being in a class I hated put me in a mode of thinking about other things that I didn’t like. Annoyances heightened, anxieties increased. I told Sarah recently that I write so much about things that I like; I should really mention that there are many things that I don’t like. Like when people are selectively nice, or don’t clean up after themselves, and especially when they’re inconsiderate. I know no one likes these things, but I think I get abnormally irritated by them. My biggest pet peeve has always been people kicking the back of my chair, on airplanes and in movie theaters for example. It’s that complete lack of awareness of another person’s presence other than your own that really gets me. Anyway, I think being in a general state of negativity made me have unnecessarily mean thoughts and made me forget that I like to believe in mean moments rather than mean people.
But like I mentioned, I had a lot of fun too. Dinner with the blockmates happened awhile ago, which was so much fun. Melkis, Courtney, Yonina and I met up with Jackie at Star Market to buy ingredients, and I was amazed by the wide array of bellpeppers. I love bellpeppers, the way they smell and look and taste and feel. They had orange, yellow, red and green…so bright and immediately appealing. They’re also so odd-looking, and have these various quirks and nooks and crannies about them, so that I can’t quite pinpoint exactly why they amuse me so much. They’re so shiny and smooth, and make such a crispy sound when you cut into them, and I really enjoy how the little seeds that had been neatly arranged spill out and stick to your fingers. I like how they look sliced, or diced, or in chunks. Whatever it is, I just like them, a lot. Back at Jackie’s we prepared everything, salad and chicken and tofu stir fry and rice (I mostly cut things, a process that I like in the same way that I like bellpeppers, and put things into pans when Jackie told me it was okay to). It’s very satisfying to eat a meal that you’ve prepared, and even more so to have it supplemented by wonderful people and funny conversation. It was very homey, and comfortable.
We also went to Shakespeare in the Park…specifically, Hamlet in Boston Common. Lara and I staked out spots really early so we had the best possible seats. Then she brought Vietnamese sandwiches and bubble tea from Chinatown, and by the time Rajan and Tim and Maciej and friends arrived there were about twenty of us piled and squished on two sheets and a blanket. The show was good. I’d forgotten how much I love Hamlet, how much I think I’m like Hamlet sometimes—indecisive, contradictory, moody, disconnected, overanalytical and overly emotional at once. The set was more elaborate than I’d expected, and the actors used the space really well—using the high stage, having people up and down the stairs, in the little pool of water in the front. For some reason Lara and I found the line “I find thee apt” really amusing and every few moments she would turn around and tell me that she found me apt. I discovered that that girl gets crazier as the night goes on, without any assistance from external agents…she burns some kind of inner fuel and makes you laugh harder and harder with every minute.
During the dramatic final scenes lightning occurred every few moments, and you could hear the distant rumble of thunder grumbling louder and louder, until it started pouring after Hamlet kills Polonius. A little at first, then a flood all of the sudden. It was cooling, and refreshing after soaking in the humidity. We walked-ran to the T station, and it was so fun to be out in the summer rain. I don’t care what anyone says about East Coast weather, I love it. Maybe it’s just because I haven’t experienced it long enough to become jaded, but I’ll take the illusion. The weather personifies the world, reveals its moods, and makes me feel connected to it and makes me feel a little less silly for being emotionally capricious. The thunder that’s so loud it sounds hungry and the sharp lightning that’s so quick it’s elusive at the same time that it’s so commanding, make it seem like something out there is demanding something from me and from us, and all of that is so crucial to not becoming stale and indifferent, which I suppose I fear sometimes.
Melkis and I went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I really loved the first half hour, which probably sounds strange because it’s all removed from the factory itself, but I think that’s what I really liked about it. I liked how they took the actual legends of Willy Wonka from the book and set up this fantastical image of him before they actually showed the factory, and how they contrasted it with Charlie’s bleak but cozy life. I liked how content Charlie was with concepts, dreams and ideas, with his models of the real thing. I found the rest of the movie—the real thing, I suppose—entertaining but in that during-the-moment kind of way, rather than an enduring kind of way. I always envision the book coming to life as such an exciting prospect, but maybe it takes away a bit from the self-guided imagination that’s such a part of Dahl books.
Afterwards we went to the Cambridge city dance party. They basically cut off a couple blocks in Central, in front of City Hall, so that people could dance outside. It was the first dance I’d been to with fellow college students as well as little kids, high schoolers, famillies and senior couples. We found Rachel and Connie, and other Harvard people, and had a good time. It was a warm night, but not stifling and I’d never danced in the streets like that before.
I got to see Andrew relatively often this summer, which was nice. We tried catching the Swan Boats, but apparently it was too humid and the man-powered boats weren’t running. So we walked around the public gardens a bit; I wanted to show him the duckling statues from Make Way for Ducklings. While we were doing that we saw the cutest fuzziest littlest yellow duckling in the water, surrounded by other brownish ducks. Maybe it was because the day was becoming gray, and rain was nearing, but the image of that bright duck in the murky water is so distinct in my mind. It’s so easy to conjure, it doesn’t even seem like a memory. Before we could find the statues it started raining, and we were without umbrellas or any extra layers of clothing. For some reason we thought it would be all right to find cover under a tree and wait for the storm to pass, and this worked for all of two minutes before it began insanely pouring. After the initial shock it was pretty liberating to just get bombarded by the elements. We have so many little associations with the rain that it seemed fitting to get drenched like that together. We eventually made a run for the subway station, where much smarter people had already found cover. But they probably didn’t have as much fun in there.
I suppose that’s the most significant thing I did get from this summer—that sometimes it’s better for me to brave the outside instead of seeking shelter. It makes me feel good that I got through whatever it was that made this experience tough, that though I had to work harder, mentally and physically and emotionally, to achieve what I wanted to, it is probably meant to be that way. Keeping sight of my original goals in the midst of expected and unexpected worries and down moments became a new thing to work for, and to prove to myself that I could do. When I spoke to Stephen during anxious times, he’d say things like, “Of course you’ll get through it but it comes down to the fact that if you had to do it all over again, you wouldn’t stay there. You would’ve gone home.” And without even thinking about it, I said, “No, I wouldn’t have.” Seeing a lot of people close to me go through difficult things this summer again made me think again about how I’ve always romanticized struggles and pains because I see them as part of the full experience I want to have and think that I’ve either downplayed in my own life or really haven’t had. I know that I won’t feel that way when I actually go through them, but I have faith that I’ll see their value in retrospect as people always do. Completeness is just that, and I wouldn’t want to settle for the partial.
A lot of the superficial unsettledness stemmed from the fact that I was immersed in physics. I’m sorry to those of you who appreciate physics, but oh my God, I hate it. I know that it’s not arbitrary, I know that it explains many things, and I’ve always valued that about science, but honestly I can’t remember the last time I cared so little about a subject. Chemistry and biology have always offered so many analogies to concepts that mattered to me, but I couldn’t find anything in physics. I’m sure they’re there; I’m just not built to see them. It was a good course, well-taught and well-organized, but I’m glad it’s over. Also because I think being in a class I hated put me in a mode of thinking about other things that I didn’t like. Annoyances heightened, anxieties increased. I told Sarah recently that I write so much about things that I like; I should really mention that there are many things that I don’t like. Like when people are selectively nice, or don’t clean up after themselves, and especially when they’re inconsiderate. I know no one likes these things, but I think I get abnormally irritated by them. My biggest pet peeve has always been people kicking the back of my chair, on airplanes and in movie theaters for example. It’s that complete lack of awareness of another person’s presence other than your own that really gets me. Anyway, I think being in a general state of negativity made me have unnecessarily mean thoughts and made me forget that I like to believe in mean moments rather than mean people.
But like I mentioned, I had a lot of fun too. Dinner with the blockmates happened awhile ago, which was so much fun. Melkis, Courtney, Yonina and I met up with Jackie at Star Market to buy ingredients, and I was amazed by the wide array of bellpeppers. I love bellpeppers, the way they smell and look and taste and feel. They had orange, yellow, red and green…so bright and immediately appealing. They’re also so odd-looking, and have these various quirks and nooks and crannies about them, so that I can’t quite pinpoint exactly why they amuse me so much. They’re so shiny and smooth, and make such a crispy sound when you cut into them, and I really enjoy how the little seeds that had been neatly arranged spill out and stick to your fingers. I like how they look sliced, or diced, or in chunks. Whatever it is, I just like them, a lot. Back at Jackie’s we prepared everything, salad and chicken and tofu stir fry and rice (I mostly cut things, a process that I like in the same way that I like bellpeppers, and put things into pans when Jackie told me it was okay to). It’s very satisfying to eat a meal that you’ve prepared, and even more so to have it supplemented by wonderful people and funny conversation. It was very homey, and comfortable.
We also went to Shakespeare in the Park…specifically, Hamlet in Boston Common. Lara and I staked out spots really early so we had the best possible seats. Then she brought Vietnamese sandwiches and bubble tea from Chinatown, and by the time Rajan and Tim and Maciej and friends arrived there were about twenty of us piled and squished on two sheets and a blanket. The show was good. I’d forgotten how much I love Hamlet, how much I think I’m like Hamlet sometimes—indecisive, contradictory, moody, disconnected, overanalytical and overly emotional at once. The set was more elaborate than I’d expected, and the actors used the space really well—using the high stage, having people up and down the stairs, in the little pool of water in the front. For some reason Lara and I found the line “I find thee apt” really amusing and every few moments she would turn around and tell me that she found me apt. I discovered that that girl gets crazier as the night goes on, without any assistance from external agents…she burns some kind of inner fuel and makes you laugh harder and harder with every minute.
During the dramatic final scenes lightning occurred every few moments, and you could hear the distant rumble of thunder grumbling louder and louder, until it started pouring after Hamlet kills Polonius. A little at first, then a flood all of the sudden. It was cooling, and refreshing after soaking in the humidity. We walked-ran to the T station, and it was so fun to be out in the summer rain. I don’t care what anyone says about East Coast weather, I love it. Maybe it’s just because I haven’t experienced it long enough to become jaded, but I’ll take the illusion. The weather personifies the world, reveals its moods, and makes me feel connected to it and makes me feel a little less silly for being emotionally capricious. The thunder that’s so loud it sounds hungry and the sharp lightning that’s so quick it’s elusive at the same time that it’s so commanding, make it seem like something out there is demanding something from me and from us, and all of that is so crucial to not becoming stale and indifferent, which I suppose I fear sometimes.
Melkis and I went to see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I really loved the first half hour, which probably sounds strange because it’s all removed from the factory itself, but I think that’s what I really liked about it. I liked how they took the actual legends of Willy Wonka from the book and set up this fantastical image of him before they actually showed the factory, and how they contrasted it with Charlie’s bleak but cozy life. I liked how content Charlie was with concepts, dreams and ideas, with his models of the real thing. I found the rest of the movie—the real thing, I suppose—entertaining but in that during-the-moment kind of way, rather than an enduring kind of way. I always envision the book coming to life as such an exciting prospect, but maybe it takes away a bit from the self-guided imagination that’s such a part of Dahl books.
Afterwards we went to the Cambridge city dance party. They basically cut off a couple blocks in Central, in front of City Hall, so that people could dance outside. It was the first dance I’d been to with fellow college students as well as little kids, high schoolers, famillies and senior couples. We found Rachel and Connie, and other Harvard people, and had a good time. It was a warm night, but not stifling and I’d never danced in the streets like that before.
I got to see Andrew relatively often this summer, which was nice. We tried catching the Swan Boats, but apparently it was too humid and the man-powered boats weren’t running. So we walked around the public gardens a bit; I wanted to show him the duckling statues from Make Way for Ducklings. While we were doing that we saw the cutest fuzziest littlest yellow duckling in the water, surrounded by other brownish ducks. Maybe it was because the day was becoming gray, and rain was nearing, but the image of that bright duck in the murky water is so distinct in my mind. It’s so easy to conjure, it doesn’t even seem like a memory. Before we could find the statues it started raining, and we were without umbrellas or any extra layers of clothing. For some reason we thought it would be all right to find cover under a tree and wait for the storm to pass, and this worked for all of two minutes before it began insanely pouring. After the initial shock it was pretty liberating to just get bombarded by the elements. We have so many little associations with the rain that it seemed fitting to get drenched like that together. We eventually made a run for the subway station, where much smarter people had already found cover. But they probably didn’t have as much fun in there.
I suppose that’s the most significant thing I did get from this summer—that sometimes it’s better for me to brave the outside instead of seeking shelter. It makes me feel good that I got through whatever it was that made this experience tough, that though I had to work harder, mentally and physically and emotionally, to achieve what I wanted to, it is probably meant to be that way. Keeping sight of my original goals in the midst of expected and unexpected worries and down moments became a new thing to work for, and to prove to myself that I could do. When I spoke to Stephen during anxious times, he’d say things like, “Of course you’ll get through it but it comes down to the fact that if you had to do it all over again, you wouldn’t stay there. You would’ve gone home.” And without even thinking about it, I said, “No, I wouldn’t have.” Seeing a lot of people close to me go through difficult things this summer again made me think again about how I’ve always romanticized struggles and pains because I see them as part of the full experience I want to have and think that I’ve either downplayed in my own life or really haven’t had. I know that I won’t feel that way when I actually go through them, but I have faith that I’ll see their value in retrospect as people always do. Completeness is just that, and I wouldn’t want to settle for the partial.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
self-portrait
I’ve been writing long-delayed emails to people back home, and I got to thinking about people whose lives I think I’ve somehow impacted, however slightly, and wondering whether this happened only because they’re unaware of the full extent of my numerous flaws. This isn’t a get-down-on-myself rant, only I think I’ve been afraid of admitting these things to other people, even as much as I’ve wholly and personally accepted them. I’m not reluctant to downplay these flaws anymore, partly because I hope people who know me well already have a sense of them and partly because I’ve realized how much I value the imperfections in the people I love. It’s not a matter of liking a certain quality, it’s a matter of being thankful for the texture of character. I wonder whether those close to me feel a similar gratitude, not as a means to justify flaws but as a determination of whether I can mean something to them, as I really am.
I can be really petty. Most of that comes from being really sensitive, and attributing more significance to actions and words than people intend. I’ve gotten better at evaluating and deciding which things are really worth getting upset over. I definitely keep more of it to myself and take it out less on other people than I used to. But it doesn’t always change the initial hurt/annoyance/anger. It frustrates me how easily I’m hurt, and maybe even more detrimental than that, I hate that I hate admitting it, I hate thinking of my sensitivity as a weakness. I suppose it’s not an uncommon thing, the desire to be stronger than you are. I have a hard time defining strength. Sometimes I think that if I don’t stick up for that something someone else passes off as insignificant, I’m betraying the part of myself that says it means something. Is it just principle, or is it really the thing, and is it valid if it’s only one or the other?
I’m completely neurotic. I think about things long, long after they’ve passed and shouldn’t matter anymore. I think about things that don’t even matter during the moment they happen. I dislike the fact that I try to prepare myself for everything and absolutely cannot stand the notion of innate failings counteracting deliberate plans. I can’t for the life of me let things take their course without my intervention. In principle I place hope in chance, but sometimes my faith wavers. I’m in love with the idea of things falling on their own, but I can’t sacrifice control for the possible benefits of spontaneity. I don’t like facing the truth of the world moving as it is without my hands in it.
I expect too much from people and I don’t live up to my own standards. I don’t like to think that I demand things from others, but I often do...except I rarely outrightly demand anything. I perpetuate a deceptive mindset that is adamant about self-sufficiency. I hate admitting that I need certain things, so I never express them aloud. Then I’m disappointed when people don’t figure it out on their own, and blame them for it. Along the same lines, I want people to be considerate and compassionate and kind and intelligent and strong and essentially good, when I have no idea really how to go about emulating all those things at once.
My desire to give is often inspired by a deep-seated fear of being ultimately selfish. Is it really that I want to be a good person, or just that I don’t want to be a bad one? Maybe there is a difference, and I worry sometimes that I fall into the lesser category. I too often think about the way I feel, this entry being a perfect example. I suppose it’s human nature to do that, because how can you really think this way about how someone else feels? Still, I think the narcissism can drive people crazy, and it’s not exactly the best thing for me either.
I mask the reality of these things by considering the other side of them. I tell myself there are beneficial aspects to these faults, and I can’t decide if this a healthy practice or just denial. To consider viewing the positive as a negative—this is what I do to myself.
Then of course there are all the superficial things I’d like to change just because everyone wants to be everything. I wish I were smarter, funnier, more outgoing. I wish I could articulate myself aloud. I wish I had real talents rather than things I just like to do and study. It’d be nice to be taller, and to have a different nose, and to look older than thirteen, and to look a little less ordinary. Being happy with yourself doesn’t mean you’re immune to such desires.
Having written all this, it’s more difficult than I anticipated to post it. Not so much because I don’t want to share these negativities, more because I didn’t admit half of everything, so I feel a bit like an imposter. I started thinking and writing about this because everyone constructs a portrait of themselves to present to other people. I know what qualities I’d like to have, and it’s easier than one might think to portray the longing to have as actual possession. You think that it would be satisfying to have people think of you as better or less flawed than you genuinely are, but really, it only makes you feel slightly empty and enormously guilty. In recent interactions, I find myself just wanting to be honest. Having found people who inspire this desire to be fair to them has conversely made me acknowledge my own need for people who prefer this honesty, people who, as I chip away at myself, somehow make me feel more full.
I can be really petty. Most of that comes from being really sensitive, and attributing more significance to actions and words than people intend. I’ve gotten better at evaluating and deciding which things are really worth getting upset over. I definitely keep more of it to myself and take it out less on other people than I used to. But it doesn’t always change the initial hurt/annoyance/anger. It frustrates me how easily I’m hurt, and maybe even more detrimental than that, I hate that I hate admitting it, I hate thinking of my sensitivity as a weakness. I suppose it’s not an uncommon thing, the desire to be stronger than you are. I have a hard time defining strength. Sometimes I think that if I don’t stick up for that something someone else passes off as insignificant, I’m betraying the part of myself that says it means something. Is it just principle, or is it really the thing, and is it valid if it’s only one or the other?
I’m completely neurotic. I think about things long, long after they’ve passed and shouldn’t matter anymore. I think about things that don’t even matter during the moment they happen. I dislike the fact that I try to prepare myself for everything and absolutely cannot stand the notion of innate failings counteracting deliberate plans. I can’t for the life of me let things take their course without my intervention. In principle I place hope in chance, but sometimes my faith wavers. I’m in love with the idea of things falling on their own, but I can’t sacrifice control for the possible benefits of spontaneity. I don’t like facing the truth of the world moving as it is without my hands in it.
I expect too much from people and I don’t live up to my own standards. I don’t like to think that I demand things from others, but I often do...except I rarely outrightly demand anything. I perpetuate a deceptive mindset that is adamant about self-sufficiency. I hate admitting that I need certain things, so I never express them aloud. Then I’m disappointed when people don’t figure it out on their own, and blame them for it. Along the same lines, I want people to be considerate and compassionate and kind and intelligent and strong and essentially good, when I have no idea really how to go about emulating all those things at once.
My desire to give is often inspired by a deep-seated fear of being ultimately selfish. Is it really that I want to be a good person, or just that I don’t want to be a bad one? Maybe there is a difference, and I worry sometimes that I fall into the lesser category. I too often think about the way I feel, this entry being a perfect example. I suppose it’s human nature to do that, because how can you really think this way about how someone else feels? Still, I think the narcissism can drive people crazy, and it’s not exactly the best thing for me either.
I mask the reality of these things by considering the other side of them. I tell myself there are beneficial aspects to these faults, and I can’t decide if this a healthy practice or just denial. To consider viewing the positive as a negative—this is what I do to myself.
Then of course there are all the superficial things I’d like to change just because everyone wants to be everything. I wish I were smarter, funnier, more outgoing. I wish I could articulate myself aloud. I wish I had real talents rather than things I just like to do and study. It’d be nice to be taller, and to have a different nose, and to look older than thirteen, and to look a little less ordinary. Being happy with yourself doesn’t mean you’re immune to such desires.
Having written all this, it’s more difficult than I anticipated to post it. Not so much because I don’t want to share these negativities, more because I didn’t admit half of everything, so I feel a bit like an imposter. I started thinking and writing about this because everyone constructs a portrait of themselves to present to other people. I know what qualities I’d like to have, and it’s easier than one might think to portray the longing to have as actual possession. You think that it would be satisfying to have people think of you as better or less flawed than you genuinely are, but really, it only makes you feel slightly empty and enormously guilty. In recent interactions, I find myself just wanting to be honest. Having found people who inspire this desire to be fair to them has conversely made me acknowledge my own need for people who prefer this honesty, people who, as I chip away at myself, somehow make me feel more full.
Saturday, July 9, 2005
seeing the city
It's funny how in a compact, accessible city like Boston how often you stumble across small pockets of loveliness. After three years here, I'm still seeing things for the first time, from conspicuous tourist sites to obscure patches of grass. I feel so lucky to have been able to overload my senses with this city over the fourth of July weekend, to see the people and buildings and taste the food and hear the water and crowds and feel the slight not-uncomfortable summer humidity and cool night breeze and so on, and with someone who loves it as much as I do.
On Friday, we went to the North End and ate at La Dolce Vita. The feel of warm crowds and rambunctious, good-natured noise always comforts me, sometimes before I even realize I need comfort. Being in an Italian neighborhood evokes such nice elements of the culture, as stereotypical as they are—family, wine, free spiritedness. Passion. Before dinner we walked down Hanover St. and discovered a teeny alleyway filled with photos and mementos of Catholic saints. The man who had made the space came out to speak to us, and basically knew everything about every saint who ever lived. It made me think, wow, I really do not know that much about anything. I go through phases where I would like to acquire encyclopedic knowledge about a particular subject or person, and then I try, and find that (personally) there’s a threshold of specialized knowledge where wonder is lost and pointlessness seeps in. Still, I admire those who can sustain that level of wonder, and it’s affirming to see that people can find value from unexpected sources. During dinner we sat at a cozy tight table that somehow still made me feel too small for the surroundings, and watched old Italian men serenade unsuspecting customers.
On Saturday, we went to Haymarket to browse the enormous farmer’s market. Government center was so alive, with visitors and locals and just all kinds of people out for the July 4th weekend. People dressed up in colonial wear, people handing out pamphlets, people making balloon hats, people dancing. Haymarket was so much fun—aisles and aisles of fruit and vegetables. After a couple of weeks of ramen and tomato-sauce-based canned foods, the smell of freshness and outdoors was so good. Lots of pushy people, which added to the character of the place, and as Andrew remarked, so many different sorts of people selling and buying and bartering. We bought ten plums, six kiwis, half a pound of cherries and one box each of strawberries, raspberries, blackberries and grape tomatos for roughly eight dollars. Afterwards we had lunch at Quincy Market, which was spilling forth with hungry people.
Later we went to the top of the Prudential Center. Whenever I see cities from an aerial perspective, I’m always surprised by how organized things are. From the top of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, the miles of tree-lined streets that spread radially from the center, the Arc itself. From the top of Lombard St. in San Franciso, the rows and rows of white houses stretching to the ocean. From the top of El Duomo in Florence, the uniform redness of the rooftops. From the top of Empire State in NYC, the chaotic lights coordinated in a square-based city structure. I get lost so often when I’m on the ground, that it’s always funny to see how it all makes sense when you’re looking from above. The Charles was dotted with sailboats, I could see the brownstones that comprise Copley and the Back Bay, the little forest near Longwood. We returned later for sunset, and while waiting for it we lolled around the courtyard area. We spent most of that time watching kids run around, throw rocks in the water fountain, and generally cause harmless trouble. When we came back to Prudential, the lights were on at Fenway and you could see the seats filled with people. The sun was insanely bright, but we kept looking at it anyway. We could see it in its entirety, as a dense burning sphere, rather than the usual wide expanse of rays. I stared at the space it had occupied for a while after it set, straining to see whether I could still see its waning light. Doing that was less painful than staring at it while it was still up, but it felt a little melancholy. Not in a sad way, just in a moody way.
On Sunday, we walked a bit through downtown and then met a couple of his friends to go to Castle Island near the Boston Harbor. The waves made me miss home for a little bit, but it was nice to see an eastern coastal area. It was quiet, a little windy, and salty. The ocean smell blew at us and around us, and I could feel it stick to my skin and hair, and remain there, or at least in my memory, for the rest of the day. On our walk back to the car, we saw a little playground, where he proved to me that it is indeed possible not to be able to swing. I like how the simple motion of going higher on a creaky swing makes you feel so detached from the physical earth, but so connected to all that makes it worth it to eventually come back down.
We had dinner at Texas Roadhouse in Brockton, quite possibly the essence of so-corny-it’s-great. They had peanuts in barrels in the entrance and throughout the restaurant, and peanuts at the table and on the floors. They also had a jukebox, and we chose one of the only songs we recognized, “I am a Man of Constant Sorrow” from O Brother Where Art Thou. After being stuffed with ribs and cinnamon-buttered bread, we drove back to Cambridge. We packed up our fruit, my quillow and blanket, and my handmade cross-staff, and borrowed a movie from Connie, and staked out next to the river around midnight. I had to measure the moon’s width for physics (hence the cross-staff), and we decided to wait for the moonrise, scheduled to occur at 2:30 in the morning. As we waited, we watched The Red Violin on the tiny screen of his portable DVD player. It grew colder, and the sounds of the violin from the movie mingled with the sounds of cars driving past behind us, and of the slight stream of water in front of us. The sky grew hazy, lone stars across the grayish-black fuzz seemed very distant from one another. The moon never became visible.
We spent Monday in each other’s close, lazy company, and in the evening headed to the terrace of Quincy House to watch the fireworks. Boston’s fireworks are so creative, and you can so easily feel how much this city values Independence Day. There were shapes: cubes, smiley faces, hearts and stars. There were ones that lingered long after exploding, ones that stretched in crystal-like structures, others that fell lazily like slow waterfalls, some that resembled weeping willows.
It took me a long time to write this, considering it was just a summary of events. Each time I wrote something, I read it and thought, that’s not how it really was, that’s just the surface. Each time I mentioned something I could think of ten other related and unrelated thoughts. I can’t find the right way to express what this place gives me and what he gives me, maybe because I still find it difficult to take freely. But sometimes the only way I can think of to give back is to write about it, even when my words are all wrong. The sun is intoxicating, the night relieves me. His presence makes me feel subtle senses so intensely, at the same time that it makes me content to lie without deliberate thought, without conscious feeling. I think it’s time to stop revelling in what’s been so generously given to me and finally learn how to fill the outlines of other lives with the deep blues and pure whites and rich yellows that have shaded my life. Not to say that I don’t still feel like I’m missing something, some core of experience and emotion, but maybe that something comes from releasing and giving rather than acquiring more.
On Friday, we went to the North End and ate at La Dolce Vita. The feel of warm crowds and rambunctious, good-natured noise always comforts me, sometimes before I even realize I need comfort. Being in an Italian neighborhood evokes such nice elements of the culture, as stereotypical as they are—family, wine, free spiritedness. Passion. Before dinner we walked down Hanover St. and discovered a teeny alleyway filled with photos and mementos of Catholic saints. The man who had made the space came out to speak to us, and basically knew everything about every saint who ever lived. It made me think, wow, I really do not know that much about anything. I go through phases where I would like to acquire encyclopedic knowledge about a particular subject or person, and then I try, and find that (personally) there’s a threshold of specialized knowledge where wonder is lost and pointlessness seeps in. Still, I admire those who can sustain that level of wonder, and it’s affirming to see that people can find value from unexpected sources. During dinner we sat at a cozy tight table that somehow still made me feel too small for the surroundings, and watched old Italian men serenade unsuspecting customers.
On Saturday, we went to Haymarket to browse the enormous farmer’s market. Government center was so alive, with visitors and locals and just all kinds of people out for the July 4th weekend. People dressed up in colonial wear, people handing out pamphlets, people making balloon hats, people dancing. Haymarket was so much fun—aisles and aisles of fruit and vegetables. After a couple of weeks of ramen and tomato-sauce-based canned foods, the smell of freshness and outdoors was so good. Lots of pushy people, which added to the character of the place, and as Andrew remarked, so many different sorts of people selling and buying and bartering. We bought ten plums, six kiwis, half a pound of cherries and one box each of strawberries, raspberries, blackberries and grape tomatos for roughly eight dollars. Afterwards we had lunch at Quincy Market, which was spilling forth with hungry people.
Later we went to the top of the Prudential Center. Whenever I see cities from an aerial perspective, I’m always surprised by how organized things are. From the top of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, the miles of tree-lined streets that spread radially from the center, the Arc itself. From the top of Lombard St. in San Franciso, the rows and rows of white houses stretching to the ocean. From the top of El Duomo in Florence, the uniform redness of the rooftops. From the top of Empire State in NYC, the chaotic lights coordinated in a square-based city structure. I get lost so often when I’m on the ground, that it’s always funny to see how it all makes sense when you’re looking from above. The Charles was dotted with sailboats, I could see the brownstones that comprise Copley and the Back Bay, the little forest near Longwood. We returned later for sunset, and while waiting for it we lolled around the courtyard area. We spent most of that time watching kids run around, throw rocks in the water fountain, and generally cause harmless trouble. When we came back to Prudential, the lights were on at Fenway and you could see the seats filled with people. The sun was insanely bright, but we kept looking at it anyway. We could see it in its entirety, as a dense burning sphere, rather than the usual wide expanse of rays. I stared at the space it had occupied for a while after it set, straining to see whether I could still see its waning light. Doing that was less painful than staring at it while it was still up, but it felt a little melancholy. Not in a sad way, just in a moody way.
On Sunday, we walked a bit through downtown and then met a couple of his friends to go to Castle Island near the Boston Harbor. The waves made me miss home for a little bit, but it was nice to see an eastern coastal area. It was quiet, a little windy, and salty. The ocean smell blew at us and around us, and I could feel it stick to my skin and hair, and remain there, or at least in my memory, for the rest of the day. On our walk back to the car, we saw a little playground, where he proved to me that it is indeed possible not to be able to swing. I like how the simple motion of going higher on a creaky swing makes you feel so detached from the physical earth, but so connected to all that makes it worth it to eventually come back down.
We had dinner at Texas Roadhouse in Brockton, quite possibly the essence of so-corny-it’s-great. They had peanuts in barrels in the entrance and throughout the restaurant, and peanuts at the table and on the floors. They also had a jukebox, and we chose one of the only songs we recognized, “I am a Man of Constant Sorrow” from O Brother Where Art Thou. After being stuffed with ribs and cinnamon-buttered bread, we drove back to Cambridge. We packed up our fruit, my quillow and blanket, and my handmade cross-staff, and borrowed a movie from Connie, and staked out next to the river around midnight. I had to measure the moon’s width for physics (hence the cross-staff), and we decided to wait for the moonrise, scheduled to occur at 2:30 in the morning. As we waited, we watched The Red Violin on the tiny screen of his portable DVD player. It grew colder, and the sounds of the violin from the movie mingled with the sounds of cars driving past behind us, and of the slight stream of water in front of us. The sky grew hazy, lone stars across the grayish-black fuzz seemed very distant from one another. The moon never became visible.
We spent Monday in each other’s close, lazy company, and in the evening headed to the terrace of Quincy House to watch the fireworks. Boston’s fireworks are so creative, and you can so easily feel how much this city values Independence Day. There were shapes: cubes, smiley faces, hearts and stars. There were ones that lingered long after exploding, ones that stretched in crystal-like structures, others that fell lazily like slow waterfalls, some that resembled weeping willows.
It took me a long time to write this, considering it was just a summary of events. Each time I wrote something, I read it and thought, that’s not how it really was, that’s just the surface. Each time I mentioned something I could think of ten other related and unrelated thoughts. I can’t find the right way to express what this place gives me and what he gives me, maybe because I still find it difficult to take freely. But sometimes the only way I can think of to give back is to write about it, even when my words are all wrong. The sun is intoxicating, the night relieves me. His presence makes me feel subtle senses so intensely, at the same time that it makes me content to lie without deliberate thought, without conscious feeling. I think it’s time to stop revelling in what’s been so generously given to me and finally learn how to fill the outlines of other lives with the deep blues and pure whites and rich yellows that have shaded my life. Not to say that I don’t still feel like I’m missing something, some core of experience and emotion, but maybe that something comes from releasing and giving rather than acquiring more.
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