Friends, I've not written in some time. And really, despite my recent travels, there is but one thing babbling through my consciousness:
Meet Raniya. She's perfect. She's my niece.
I'm going to teach her all the wrong things.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
July 1, 2009
This won't be a good post, but at least I'm writing.
I took great care getting dressed this morning because I'm going in to get my lip pierced later today and I didn't want to seem like a complete blue collar scrub - as if the piercer would look at me, see the machine lube and grime under my nails and packed into the lines of my hands, and think: this lady cannot sustain or maintain such a trendy face hole.
Yeah. I'm in my arrogant, ignorant twenties. I'm allowed to be so shallow and insecure.
What else?
My latest addiction involves eating generic fruity pebbles while watching episodes of "The L Word" on my computer. I read Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov when I wait for them to load.
Buying the fruity pebbles is no tiny feat. Yesterday at Walmart, as I hefted the econo-size two pound bag and a handle of skim milk onto the conveyor belt checkout, the kid behind the counter raised his eyebrows at me. He wasn't initiating conversation, but I took it as an invitation and said breathlessly, "I couldn't help myself." And then I did that annoying thing that I sometimes do when I'm trying to be cute or endearing. I cocked my head to the side and half-smiled. As if I was about to burst out laughing and could barely contain myself.
He said, "Yeah. I eat those by the bowl full."
And I wondered if there was another way to eat cereal. I appreciated his effort to contribute to my floundering conversation. So much that I spared him the story of how I'd just spent twenty minutes in front of the face wash shelf, trying to remember which brand I usually buy, and on the verge of tears. It's been one of those weeks. Oh, and I didn't get any face wash.
I took great care getting dressed this morning because I'm going in to get my lip pierced later today and I didn't want to seem like a complete blue collar scrub - as if the piercer would look at me, see the machine lube and grime under my nails and packed into the lines of my hands, and think: this lady cannot sustain or maintain such a trendy face hole.
Yeah. I'm in my arrogant, ignorant twenties. I'm allowed to be so shallow and insecure.
What else?
My latest addiction involves eating generic fruity pebbles while watching episodes of "The L Word" on my computer. I read Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov when I wait for them to load.
Buying the fruity pebbles is no tiny feat. Yesterday at Walmart, as I hefted the econo-size two pound bag and a handle of skim milk onto the conveyor belt checkout, the kid behind the counter raised his eyebrows at me. He wasn't initiating conversation, but I took it as an invitation and said breathlessly, "I couldn't help myself." And then I did that annoying thing that I sometimes do when I'm trying to be cute or endearing. I cocked my head to the side and half-smiled. As if I was about to burst out laughing and could barely contain myself.
He said, "Yeah. I eat those by the bowl full."
And I wondered if there was another way to eat cereal. I appreciated his effort to contribute to my floundering conversation. So much that I spared him the story of how I'd just spent twenty minutes in front of the face wash shelf, trying to remember which brand I usually buy, and on the verge of tears. It's been one of those weeks. Oh, and I didn't get any face wash.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
In response to the lists paving my route east
I woke up this morning because I could hardly breathe. My heart raced; my lungs ached for air. I couldn’t catch my breath.
Outside, the raccoons ripped into the garbage bag I forgot. They were gone before I could think of something abusive to scream. Instead I picked up the trash – bits of tin foil, popcorn seeds. I left the coffee grounds, but they stained my bare feet, so I guess I brought those in too.
My heart refused to be calmed.
In a few days the items on my lists will be things tucked and stuffed and folded into bags. Clothes, too many books, a few packs of Trident. I guess it isn’t as much as it seems. The lists are long. But I still wonder, will I need to throw a tarp over the back of the truck, or will I be able to fit it all in the passenger seat? And I wonder, will my spare tire suffice if I get a flat (will I even be able to change it on the side of the road)? And I wonder, was Grandma right? Should I really dress like a man so as not to be preyed upon? And mostly I wonder, is anyone waiting for me there?
Outside, the raccoons ripped into the garbage bag I forgot. They were gone before I could think of something abusive to scream. Instead I picked up the trash – bits of tin foil, popcorn seeds. I left the coffee grounds, but they stained my bare feet, so I guess I brought those in too.
My heart refused to be calmed.
In a few days the items on my lists will be things tucked and stuffed and folded into bags. Clothes, too many books, a few packs of Trident. I guess it isn’t as much as it seems. The lists are long. But I still wonder, will I need to throw a tarp over the back of the truck, or will I be able to fit it all in the passenger seat? And I wonder, will my spare tire suffice if I get a flat (will I even be able to change it on the side of the road)? And I wonder, was Grandma right? Should I really dress like a man so as not to be preyed upon? And mostly I wonder, is anyone waiting for me there?
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Answers to the question: if you could bottle moments, shelve them, and take them down later to drink and re-experience, which would you choose?
God! How can one possibly choose? Here are a few of mine:
1989 – On the back of his bike, Dad had me strapped into the child’s seat, basically a bucket with a seatbelt. I never wore a helmet; kids didn’t have to back then. I remember gripping the edges of the seat, white knuckled and trembling, terrified. He took a sharp turn around that corner by the gas station (where mom would sometimes buy me an ice cream cone, but only if I overcame my timidity to ask the man behind the counter for my favorite flavor – blue moon), and the bike bent so close to the concrete that I could’ve reached down to touch it.
1991-1997 – The excitement I felt, poolside, when our family stayed a night in a hotel. The sting of rubbery-dry water wings, sticky slid onto my childish biceps. My brothers and I raced down the hallway to the pool, our bare feet constructing a dull beat on the carpet. From the room, Mom supplemented lyrics to the song: “No swimming until we get down there too!” She needed time to complete her borrowed room checklist: pull back the comforters, check the sheets for semen and pubic hair, check the toilet for remains, check the towel situation – nobody touch anything!
The boys lounged in plastic chairs, already slicked from pool room humidity, patiently waiting for the parents to come down. Usually, they traded insults. David is a poost. But at least he isn’t a stoof like Danny. And me? I skittered along the pool’s edge with heels never touching the ground. My arms flapped as if I was already in the water, the water wings rubbing and expressing discontent in the form of rubbered grunts. I giggled, I shrieked, I danced. I didn’t know how to swim.
It occurs to me now that this memory-gathering is an undertaking for which I haven’t time. One more for now. More later, no doubt.
July 2008 – Sleeplessness in Ireland: Sitting on balconies, passing the pipe, drinking wine, drinking Baileys, drinking coffee until our concept of time was so blurred, the days became a conglomeration of drunken conversation and shared affections. The meta-metaphor. The view from your balcony window. The mythical Dundrum foothills. Alighting to Balally. Foxes playing fox games in the courtyard behind my apartment. Such desperation in the final four days, longing for more time, and substituting dark hallways, street sides, stairwells, and closed-eyed kisses for sleep. If nothing else, we were dreaming.
1989 – On the back of his bike, Dad had me strapped into the child’s seat, basically a bucket with a seatbelt. I never wore a helmet; kids didn’t have to back then. I remember gripping the edges of the seat, white knuckled and trembling, terrified. He took a sharp turn around that corner by the gas station (where mom would sometimes buy me an ice cream cone, but only if I overcame my timidity to ask the man behind the counter for my favorite flavor – blue moon), and the bike bent so close to the concrete that I could’ve reached down to touch it.
1991-1997 – The excitement I felt, poolside, when our family stayed a night in a hotel. The sting of rubbery-dry water wings, sticky slid onto my childish biceps. My brothers and I raced down the hallway to the pool, our bare feet constructing a dull beat on the carpet. From the room, Mom supplemented lyrics to the song: “No swimming until we get down there too!” She needed time to complete her borrowed room checklist: pull back the comforters, check the sheets for semen and pubic hair, check the toilet for remains, check the towel situation – nobody touch anything!
The boys lounged in plastic chairs, already slicked from pool room humidity, patiently waiting for the parents to come down. Usually, they traded insults. David is a poost. But at least he isn’t a stoof like Danny. And me? I skittered along the pool’s edge with heels never touching the ground. My arms flapped as if I was already in the water, the water wings rubbing and expressing discontent in the form of rubbered grunts. I giggled, I shrieked, I danced. I didn’t know how to swim.
It occurs to me now that this memory-gathering is an undertaking for which I haven’t time. One more for now. More later, no doubt.
July 2008 – Sleeplessness in Ireland: Sitting on balconies, passing the pipe, drinking wine, drinking Baileys, drinking coffee until our concept of time was so blurred, the days became a conglomeration of drunken conversation and shared affections. The meta-metaphor. The view from your balcony window. The mythical Dundrum foothills. Alighting to Balally. Foxes playing fox games in the courtyard behind my apartment. Such desperation in the final four days, longing for more time, and substituting dark hallways, street sides, stairwells, and closed-eyed kisses for sleep. If nothing else, we were dreaming.
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