Today I walked from Central to Harvard, a short twenty minutes, but it made me feel so much better. It was my favorite kind of day, sunny and cold. I love the cold, because I’m sensitive to it. I like that it has tangible effects on me, how it makes my face flushed even though I’m so dark-skinned and my lips parched so that every bit of moisture can be felt in contrast, like when I run my tongue over them in the dry air. I’m glad snow has finally come, and that it always remains a presence long after having fallen. The paths have already gotten slushy and brown, but I don’t mind that; that’s the way it goes. The piles of snow in areas where people don’t venture are still bright white, and I’m grateful for being able to see it in its original form, while it makes its way from up there to down here. Nothing else is so visibly untouched, and the after-process of our boots and tires muddying it makes me appreciate it more, and is itself a phenomenon that's valuable, and something I enjoy being a part of.
It was a much-needed opportunity to wander. From Central to Harvard you just walk straight along Mass Ave, which is good for me because I don’t have to pay attention to where I’m going. Listening to songs also made me go from sense to sense, thought to thought. The acoustic version of Matchbox 20’s “Push” must be the most-played song on my iPod over the last two years; I can’t even begin to describe the nuances of why it’s the perfect song for the settings in which I use my iPod (walking, driving, passengering, flying). The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” always makes me happy, remembering how very early on it fashioned the standardly romanticized image of what love was like, and feeling that it’s okay to indulge in that. Lisa Loeb’s “Stay” made me remember the scene in Reality Bites where Ethan Hawke stands in his doorway and Winona Ryder stands on the street (or was it the other way around?) and they just look at each other. Having grown up a bit since seeing the movie, I know how long that short distance feels. Sarah McLachlan’s “Fallen” made me think of Aud, Victo and Kristen and our drive to Topanga Canyon in LA when we quietly listened to her Surfacing album, and made me miss my friends back home a lot. Aud once described the friends she made in high school as “quality” people. You meet quality people at all stages in your life, but in high school it’s not about the people who are going to change the world or who have accomplished a million and one things you’ll never be able to do; it’s just those people who quietly move you, with ordinary and natural qualities that you don’t realize are rare until much later. RHCP’s “Scar Tissue” started playing around the same time I suddenly thought of my dad, which seemed fitting because I’ve always thought of that song as lonely and tough. I thought about how much I really love my dad, and how my anxieties about whether things I do are worthwhile dissipate a little when I think about the ways he found to make his life important.
Thinking about my dad made me think about my family and Christmas and going home. Everyone gets cynical at some point about the materialism of the holidays, and I see the danger of that. But giving gifts has always been the one tradition my entire family adheres to, and maybe it seems hollow that it’s the one thing we do for one another even when some of us are going through periods where we’re not speaking to each other. I can’t exactly explain it, but it’s always been a deep thing for us, and I don’t think giving things has to be superficial and commercial. I really love to think about and to give gifts, and to surprise people with something you remember about them, or something you remember them saying or seeing or feeling. It’s about connection, and it just so developed that this connection arose from possessions because when all else is a mess you can at least turn to the concrete. I was thinking about that during the Kuumba Christmas concert too, where the beautiful beautiful sounds and people and energy remind you that the spirituality that underlies the holidays is just connection in any form. That memory made me think of how pretty the snow looked that night, after that amazing snow thunderstorm. I feel lucky to have the kind of winter that I do.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Sunday, December 4, 2005
thanksgiving
My family has never really been into Thanksgiving. In elementary school they make you write down what you’re thankful for, there’s a four-day vacation set aside for the event, Christmas songs start playing in the dining hall, and endless commercials on television depict family gatherings. So even without the actual celebration, it’s impossible for me not to be thankful for the family and friends, and the little and big things, that comprise my life around this time of year. But this year may be the first where I was consciously thankful for not just the things I have but for the things I value that could be for anyone, for everyone, now or in the near future or in the distant future. The moment I saw Seattle from the airplane, scattered lights against mostly black, I felt so grateful for cities, for groups of people in one place. I don’t live in a city. When we drove through his neighborhood in the dark, I could see the vague shapes of the many many trees and piles of shadowy leaves lining the sidewalks, and I was thankful for childhood. I never played outside in the streets of my neighborhood as a kid. We drove up to his house and I could barely take in everything because I was amazed by his front door for a good twenty minutes, after my two-second introduction to it. I can’t even describe or envision it anymore but I remember thinking that it instantly felt right for a home, for a place with stories, with a past, with people with collective experiences. Then seeing the photos on the walls and the old-fashioned bathrooms and the random oddities and the creaky attic, I felt such gratitude for what people put into their lives, and how they turn it into a tangible thing to remember and share. My house is ordinary and a place that I love for its association with good things but not a place that embodies those things, and I’d never seen a house quite like this one, where I could feel so much of what means something to people in each step of the wooden staircase. And that was the feeling of thankfulness I felt most intensely—I was so thankful for home—and I wasn’t even in my own home. It didn’t matter that these things were things I hadn’t experienced in quite the same way as I saw them; I still felt like I had them or could have them someday, and that other people could have it too. That these are just free floating entities that surround us.
With that as both the backdrop and forefront of my experience, the actual things we did were a lot of fun too. I got in late on Wednesday night so that was mostly meeting his family and seeing a bit of the house, and easing into contentment. On Thursday there was driving, viewpoints and outdoors. First we made a stop at the end of 35th (?) Avenue to see one of the floating bridges across Lake Washington. From afar it effortlessly slides into the water. In Viretta Park we saw the houses of Kurt Cobain and Howard Schultz (the founder of Starbucks). Then we went to the Japanese Garden, a small place that we needlessly navigated with a map, and drove through the aboretum. Washington is absolutely gorgeous, and despite hearing much about it from him, I was surprised. I don’t think I ever had any picture of what the state might look like. The trees change color, and I like the presence of water flanked by mountains. We visited the University of Washington campus and from there I saw a faint view of Mount Rainier, and I’d never seen a mountain like that before, nestled atop clouds so that it seems to rise out of nowhere, and glazed with such an ethereal white. From Queen Anne we got a nice view of the skyline, and in West Seattle saw the skyline across the water. I distinctly remember thinking how I like that water is such a part of all of our cities—Boston, San Francisco, New York, Seattle. I think our final stop was a Japanese/Asian market whose name I can’t remember, where we stood before rows and rows of colored packages of candy with hilarious descriptions and images. This amused us for a good bit. I remember thinking that it was good to laugh like that.
Then Thanksgiving at his house—the food was indescribably amazing and without a doubt the best Thanksgiving dinner I’ve ever had. I’ve never sat down at a table like that with all the traditional foods. It was an interesting group of family, and I was relieved that I wasn’t the focus of any conversation. Afterwards we just loafed, and it made me feel what it would be like if we had each other all the time and could revel in nothing-time.
On Friday we did the touristy, mostly indoors stuff. We went to the Experience Music Project which looks strange from the outside (it’s supposed to be a melted guitar) and houses some really cool music relics and paraphernalia on the inside. I liked how their exhibits on particular people displayed things that inspired them—other artists, books, people, anything. You see them interacting with the world just like anyone else would, taking from things they hear and see and incorporating that into their own art. The Northwest Passage focused on all the different movements the area contributed to the history of music, and I like thinking of music as germinating in seeds, pockets of the country. I also liked seeing all the handwritten notes, lyrics, personal writings—the physical and beginning steps of creative acts. After that we had lunch at the Space Needle; it was cloudy at first but cleared a bit later on, and was a nice way to be immersed in the drizzle and grayness that he so appreciates. Then we took the monorail to downtown, and that was one of my favorite parts of the day. It was cold, and there were lots of people on the streets, and you could see the outburst of the holiday atmosphere. An outdoors Starbucks stand handed us free samples of mint hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate syrup on top. We breezed through a couple of the malls, everything decorated and festive. Stepping outside of one we encountered a street performing group who sang amazing renditions of Under the Boardwalk and My Girl. We watched amidst a gathering crowd, before having a fun ride on the carousel. Then we went to Pike Place Market, where the fresh fish and seafood reminded me of San Francisco. He’d had a lot of memories there, and it was nice walking through the aisles and imagining him there at other times in the past. Then we saw the Seattle Public Library; with its clear ceilings and walls it must be wonderful to read there on sun-drenched days. We had dinner at his favorite Ethiopian restaurant, and left tired from full stomachs and busy moments.
We prepared for the two-hour drive to their little home in the country. Along the way we passed through a series of small towns, and I liked hearing about them. I like how that kind of thing matters to him, to know about the people and places around him. When we got to the place, I felt the way I did when I entered his house the first time. I stood there and fell in love with the house’s past. It was completely run down when they first got it, and they’ve built and painted and reshaped and fixed over the years. Such devotion, and such desire and potential; to believe in something like that and to stay committed to your changing visions of it, is so representative of what I would like to emulate. The sky was dense with stars, and it was quiet, and our own space. He built a fire, and we played board games and ate soup and crackers. I remember thinking before I fell asleep that I’d lost the sense of where I was situated, in terms of the year and geographical place—not just on a break in between months of school and not in Cambridge, but really, away and apart from all of that.
The next morning serious sunshine flooded the rooms and it was a gorgeous day. We put on boots (initially slightly ridiculous but almost immediately fun) to traverse the trails, and I liked hearing about the stories of the place when he was younger. I like to think of him in that open space. The drive back to Seattle was great, seeing all of the outdoors in the daytime. Snow on mountains, and sun shedding light on them. Later we drove along Lake Washington Blvd., which was absolutely beautiful, and I couldn’t imagine just living there without being constantly amazed. That was one of the nice things about it, the ease with which people lived there, taking the beauty naturally without losing appreciation for it. At night we went to Pioneer Square, a quaint shopping area pretty lighted in the early evening, and briefly visited the waterfront. Then his mother made us a delicious last-night dinner, and we spent much of after-dinner time taking the annual Christmas photo of he and his younger brother. His dad showed me the ones taken over the years (going backwards), and each one was more adorable than the last. It’s difficult to explicate how touching it was, to see how they valued little traditions at the same time that they strayed from the norm with their quirks and humor.
As evident by the driving force behind my last entry, I’ve been, generally, a little down. Thanksgiving was three days of pure happiness. The kind that hits you as you’re experiencing it, the kind that needs no retrospect memory to magnify it. It was impossible to say goodbye.
With that as both the backdrop and forefront of my experience, the actual things we did were a lot of fun too. I got in late on Wednesday night so that was mostly meeting his family and seeing a bit of the house, and easing into contentment. On Thursday there was driving, viewpoints and outdoors. First we made a stop at the end of 35th (?) Avenue to see one of the floating bridges across Lake Washington. From afar it effortlessly slides into the water. In Viretta Park we saw the houses of Kurt Cobain and Howard Schultz (the founder of Starbucks). Then we went to the Japanese Garden, a small place that we needlessly navigated with a map, and drove through the aboretum. Washington is absolutely gorgeous, and despite hearing much about it from him, I was surprised. I don’t think I ever had any picture of what the state might look like. The trees change color, and I like the presence of water flanked by mountains. We visited the University of Washington campus and from there I saw a faint view of Mount Rainier, and I’d never seen a mountain like that before, nestled atop clouds so that it seems to rise out of nowhere, and glazed with such an ethereal white. From Queen Anne we got a nice view of the skyline, and in West Seattle saw the skyline across the water. I distinctly remember thinking how I like that water is such a part of all of our cities—Boston, San Francisco, New York, Seattle. I think our final stop was a Japanese/Asian market whose name I can’t remember, where we stood before rows and rows of colored packages of candy with hilarious descriptions and images. This amused us for a good bit. I remember thinking that it was good to laugh like that.
Then Thanksgiving at his house—the food was indescribably amazing and without a doubt the best Thanksgiving dinner I’ve ever had. I’ve never sat down at a table like that with all the traditional foods. It was an interesting group of family, and I was relieved that I wasn’t the focus of any conversation. Afterwards we just loafed, and it made me feel what it would be like if we had each other all the time and could revel in nothing-time.
On Friday we did the touristy, mostly indoors stuff. We went to the Experience Music Project which looks strange from the outside (it’s supposed to be a melted guitar) and houses some really cool music relics and paraphernalia on the inside. I liked how their exhibits on particular people displayed things that inspired them—other artists, books, people, anything. You see them interacting with the world just like anyone else would, taking from things they hear and see and incorporating that into their own art. The Northwest Passage focused on all the different movements the area contributed to the history of music, and I like thinking of music as germinating in seeds, pockets of the country. I also liked seeing all the handwritten notes, lyrics, personal writings—the physical and beginning steps of creative acts. After that we had lunch at the Space Needle; it was cloudy at first but cleared a bit later on, and was a nice way to be immersed in the drizzle and grayness that he so appreciates. Then we took the monorail to downtown, and that was one of my favorite parts of the day. It was cold, and there were lots of people on the streets, and you could see the outburst of the holiday atmosphere. An outdoors Starbucks stand handed us free samples of mint hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate syrup on top. We breezed through a couple of the malls, everything decorated and festive. Stepping outside of one we encountered a street performing group who sang amazing renditions of Under the Boardwalk and My Girl. We watched amidst a gathering crowd, before having a fun ride on the carousel. Then we went to Pike Place Market, where the fresh fish and seafood reminded me of San Francisco. He’d had a lot of memories there, and it was nice walking through the aisles and imagining him there at other times in the past. Then we saw the Seattle Public Library; with its clear ceilings and walls it must be wonderful to read there on sun-drenched days. We had dinner at his favorite Ethiopian restaurant, and left tired from full stomachs and busy moments.
We prepared for the two-hour drive to their little home in the country. Along the way we passed through a series of small towns, and I liked hearing about them. I like how that kind of thing matters to him, to know about the people and places around him. When we got to the place, I felt the way I did when I entered his house the first time. I stood there and fell in love with the house’s past. It was completely run down when they first got it, and they’ve built and painted and reshaped and fixed over the years. Such devotion, and such desire and potential; to believe in something like that and to stay committed to your changing visions of it, is so representative of what I would like to emulate. The sky was dense with stars, and it was quiet, and our own space. He built a fire, and we played board games and ate soup and crackers. I remember thinking before I fell asleep that I’d lost the sense of where I was situated, in terms of the year and geographical place—not just on a break in between months of school and not in Cambridge, but really, away and apart from all of that.
The next morning serious sunshine flooded the rooms and it was a gorgeous day. We put on boots (initially slightly ridiculous but almost immediately fun) to traverse the trails, and I liked hearing about the stories of the place when he was younger. I like to think of him in that open space. The drive back to Seattle was great, seeing all of the outdoors in the daytime. Snow on mountains, and sun shedding light on them. Later we drove along Lake Washington Blvd., which was absolutely beautiful, and I couldn’t imagine just living there without being constantly amazed. That was one of the nice things about it, the ease with which people lived there, taking the beauty naturally without losing appreciation for it. At night we went to Pioneer Square, a quaint shopping area pretty lighted in the early evening, and briefly visited the waterfront. Then his mother made us a delicious last-night dinner, and we spent much of after-dinner time taking the annual Christmas photo of he and his younger brother. His dad showed me the ones taken over the years (going backwards), and each one was more adorable than the last. It’s difficult to explicate how touching it was, to see how they valued little traditions at the same time that they strayed from the norm with their quirks and humor.
As evident by the driving force behind my last entry, I’ve been, generally, a little down. Thanksgiving was three days of pure happiness. The kind that hits you as you’re experiencing it, the kind that needs no retrospect memory to magnify it. It was impossible to say goodbye.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
senior year
Felt the urge to write many times over the last month. After specific events, during walks to and from class, on shuttle rides to Children's (more so than on the way back to the Square. It's too dark on the way back, and a bit gloomier than when heading there). I've stopped writing after every event/outing, a long time ago. People's journals always evolve; even when what drives them to write stays the same, the actual content changes. I think my journal's evolved in a way that forces me to find a balance between finding release and becoming more drained. I haven't written mostly because nothing seems very significant. I always knew that livejournals aren’t the space for significance, and neither are the confines of my daily life. But I thought if something occupied my mind--that fickle place subject to image at hand and whim at fingertip--long enough, it was worth writing down. I defined "long enough" pretty loosely. Even so, not much in the recent past has made it to that unconscious requirement for being write-worthy.
I don't know why. Things have been really, really good. Maybe it's because nothing is related. I have these fleeting thoughts and they stop before I get anywhere. Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because I can’t decide how I feel and for some reason this time writing isn’t helping me figure it out; it’s only making the confusion more obvious. Anyhow--there have been many small interactions, small thoughts, small moments. Many highlights, almost becoming routine in their frequency but not in their content. Senior dinner, the Navin Narrayan lecture. Halloween, of course. Drag Night was as entertaining as always. I forget sometimes what a strange, lovable community we are until I see the performers going crazy onstage with passerbys on the street glued to the windows, wondering what in the world is going on. I enjoy how many people in one room are laughing at once, and I like recognizing people, even people I've never spoken to. Then the long-awaited Heaven & Hell party, and Steph's arrival. The party was almost perfect (is that possible?) and I love my roommates’ dedication to quality. My angel blockmates were gorgeous, and it was so incredibly nice to have Steph with us again, chatting and dancing and drinking and laughing. It made me miss her more, and made me think of Chris. I remember saying goodbye to him, and saying to him that we'd probably never see each other again. He said that that's what we thought five years ago. I said that it's different now, and it is. He also said that he's known me since I was sixteen and that I'm exactly the same now as I was then. That made me a little pessimistic about my development as a person. Though I also think that there's no accurate way to evaluate another person's change as you're changing too.
We went to Jackie's Collegium concert awhile ago (fittingly--Contemplations). It's been awhile since I've been in Sanders Theater. The dome shape is conducive to becoming happily encased in sound, and it made me realize that I really just needed a break from thought. Sometimes I wish I didn't feel the need to write so strongly. Writing can be lonely. After going to Elaine Scarry's reading on Wuthering Heights I thought about the Brontes; I don't know much about them but I always imagined that only loneliness could have produced their books. Some people think that writing combats that solitude, but I think it must be more complicated and less one-sided than that. Then today we went to Houghton Library, which houses Harvard’s rare and old book collection. We saw contemporary editions of all the books we’ve read for the 18th Century Novel, including Austen’s Northanger Abbey. The paper actually wasn’t as fragile as you’d imagine because back then they used linen, which is durable and feels lovely. You can sense the textured lines of the paper and the work that went into it. Some pages and covers were marbled, most books had ruffled edges from where people cut them loose. The tangibility of the books made visible how much of people goes into the sharing of written words. I wonder if I’ve lost that a little.
This past weekend was Harvard-Yale. The Thursday before was senior bar, and it set the tone for both my past and current perspective on senior year. Sitting, not carefree but happy with cares, and slightly, vaguely aware. It seems to me that I’m very conscious of where these events are situated—that is, the punctuation ending a certain block of time and experience. I realize I should only think of the actual final point as the punctuation but somehow the whole year has filled that space. That point has widened and widened so that there’s very little I can do without thinking that it’s the last of something—my last Cambridge autumn, my last Halloween in Adams, my last Harvard-Yale game. During the game, when we were down 21-3, Randy mentioned that unlike high school this being the last year doesn’t make winning more important. But when we repeatedly came back and tied the game with three minutes left, and then won in triple overtime after false wins and anxious uncertainties, people said—what a way to end. Yes, it would have been exciting any other year, but it happened this year, and for once we were there at the right time and until the time to rush the field. The timing does matter. In this case it made it sweeter, but sometimes it’s harder. Tailgating before (and during) the game was distinctly different from last year—less crazy, more mellow and with that, a certain kind of comfort. Last year we moved around a lot. This year we spent a lot of time sitting in the Adams truck watching people stream by and connecting with those we knew, people we see all the time and some we hadn’t seen in forever. Amy waited impatiently for the warm fried turkey (which fell in the mud but was eaten anyway), it was a gorgeously sunny day and just cold enough to make the drinks’ warming effects appreciated, and it was a spectacle of passing antics. Last year when we were spastically going from place to place and everyone around us was doing the same, the flow seemed natural and it didn’t seem to have a defined beginning and end. This year staying in one place made every part of me feel the movement. It made me a little sad, and a little remote in spite of the nearness of people. And I can’t get rid of this unsettling notion of “last,” in order to enjoy things purely.
Except maybe this bittersweet melancholy is pure, maybe getting rid of it would make the experience less true. I suppose that I’ve always known that, and what really bothers me is that anticipating it doesn’t make it easier to face things and to value them independent of time. The other day I listened to Ben Harper’s “Forever” on repeat for over an hour, and I did something I always want to do but haven’t in a long, long time, just crawled into bed and listened to him. I wanted to listen to him believe in always. I thought then that maybe my realistic optimism had only been simple idealism, only plausible in theory and unappreciative of the elements of poignancy. But I think about how unsatisfied I am with this entry, how things don’t unravel quite right anymore, and how I’m becoming okay with that.
I think of the line I love most in the new Pride and Prejudice—when Elizabeth Bennet explains herself with “I’ve been so blind.” There’s a sudden commotion and she never has the chance to resume the thought but she doesn’t have to. Having done everything as guided by her incredibly admirable character, she still leads herself astray. It is possible to be at once, right and wrong. Things like this entry don’t follow a logical path of connections and transitions and relations, contradictions can be felt and not just known; forever can reside within a year and still lie ahead.
I don't know why. Things have been really, really good. Maybe it's because nothing is related. I have these fleeting thoughts and they stop before I get anywhere. Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because I can’t decide how I feel and for some reason this time writing isn’t helping me figure it out; it’s only making the confusion more obvious. Anyhow--there have been many small interactions, small thoughts, small moments. Many highlights, almost becoming routine in their frequency but not in their content. Senior dinner, the Navin Narrayan lecture. Halloween, of course. Drag Night was as entertaining as always. I forget sometimes what a strange, lovable community we are until I see the performers going crazy onstage with passerbys on the street glued to the windows, wondering what in the world is going on. I enjoy how many people in one room are laughing at once, and I like recognizing people, even people I've never spoken to. Then the long-awaited Heaven & Hell party, and Steph's arrival. The party was almost perfect (is that possible?) and I love my roommates’ dedication to quality. My angel blockmates were gorgeous, and it was so incredibly nice to have Steph with us again, chatting and dancing and drinking and laughing. It made me miss her more, and made me think of Chris. I remember saying goodbye to him, and saying to him that we'd probably never see each other again. He said that that's what we thought five years ago. I said that it's different now, and it is. He also said that he's known me since I was sixteen and that I'm exactly the same now as I was then. That made me a little pessimistic about my development as a person. Though I also think that there's no accurate way to evaluate another person's change as you're changing too.
We went to Jackie's Collegium concert awhile ago (fittingly--Contemplations). It's been awhile since I've been in Sanders Theater. The dome shape is conducive to becoming happily encased in sound, and it made me realize that I really just needed a break from thought. Sometimes I wish I didn't feel the need to write so strongly. Writing can be lonely. After going to Elaine Scarry's reading on Wuthering Heights I thought about the Brontes; I don't know much about them but I always imagined that only loneliness could have produced their books. Some people think that writing combats that solitude, but I think it must be more complicated and less one-sided than that. Then today we went to Houghton Library, which houses Harvard’s rare and old book collection. We saw contemporary editions of all the books we’ve read for the 18th Century Novel, including Austen’s Northanger Abbey. The paper actually wasn’t as fragile as you’d imagine because back then they used linen, which is durable and feels lovely. You can sense the textured lines of the paper and the work that went into it. Some pages and covers were marbled, most books had ruffled edges from where people cut them loose. The tangibility of the books made visible how much of people goes into the sharing of written words. I wonder if I’ve lost that a little.
This past weekend was Harvard-Yale. The Thursday before was senior bar, and it set the tone for both my past and current perspective on senior year. Sitting, not carefree but happy with cares, and slightly, vaguely aware. It seems to me that I’m very conscious of where these events are situated—that is, the punctuation ending a certain block of time and experience. I realize I should only think of the actual final point as the punctuation but somehow the whole year has filled that space. That point has widened and widened so that there’s very little I can do without thinking that it’s the last of something—my last Cambridge autumn, my last Halloween in Adams, my last Harvard-Yale game. During the game, when we were down 21-3, Randy mentioned that unlike high school this being the last year doesn’t make winning more important. But when we repeatedly came back and tied the game with three minutes left, and then won in triple overtime after false wins and anxious uncertainties, people said—what a way to end. Yes, it would have been exciting any other year, but it happened this year, and for once we were there at the right time and until the time to rush the field. The timing does matter. In this case it made it sweeter, but sometimes it’s harder. Tailgating before (and during) the game was distinctly different from last year—less crazy, more mellow and with that, a certain kind of comfort. Last year we moved around a lot. This year we spent a lot of time sitting in the Adams truck watching people stream by and connecting with those we knew, people we see all the time and some we hadn’t seen in forever. Amy waited impatiently for the warm fried turkey (which fell in the mud but was eaten anyway), it was a gorgeously sunny day and just cold enough to make the drinks’ warming effects appreciated, and it was a spectacle of passing antics. Last year when we were spastically going from place to place and everyone around us was doing the same, the flow seemed natural and it didn’t seem to have a defined beginning and end. This year staying in one place made every part of me feel the movement. It made me a little sad, and a little remote in spite of the nearness of people. And I can’t get rid of this unsettling notion of “last,” in order to enjoy things purely.
Except maybe this bittersweet melancholy is pure, maybe getting rid of it would make the experience less true. I suppose that I’ve always known that, and what really bothers me is that anticipating it doesn’t make it easier to face things and to value them independent of time. The other day I listened to Ben Harper’s “Forever” on repeat for over an hour, and I did something I always want to do but haven’t in a long, long time, just crawled into bed and listened to him. I wanted to listen to him believe in always. I thought then that maybe my realistic optimism had only been simple idealism, only plausible in theory and unappreciative of the elements of poignancy. But I think about how unsatisfied I am with this entry, how things don’t unravel quite right anymore, and how I’m becoming okay with that.
I think of the line I love most in the new Pride and Prejudice—when Elizabeth Bennet explains herself with “I’ve been so blind.” There’s a sudden commotion and she never has the chance to resume the thought but she doesn’t have to. Having done everything as guided by her incredibly admirable character, she still leads herself astray. It is possible to be at once, right and wrong. Things like this entry don’t follow a logical path of connections and transitions and relations, contradictions can be felt and not just known; forever can reside within a year and still lie ahead.
Friday, October 21, 2005
vermont (crossing bridges)
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.
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.
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.
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