Dudes, I have problems again. I'm listening to Whitesnake, y'all. Okay, in my defense, I was stressing about shizz, and then I clicked up Here I Go Again, and immediately, nothing but laughter, b*tches. I was talking to AL about it and we sussed out yet another key difference between men and women. When I hear this song, I get a visual of Will Ferrell hazing frat boys. When guys hear this song, they get a visual of Tawny Kitaen demonstrating remarkable flexibility on the hoods of cars.
So, actually, I don't really have problems. Except a few mental problems that resulted in me forgetting to bring my camera adapter thingamajob to work today, meaning that I cannot show you the pictures I took yesterday. After a long, ridiculous hiatus, I returned home yesterday to my kitchen, my beloved, ancient kitchen. It looked sad and mopey, and that made no sense. AL changed the light bulb in the kitchen when he visited, so it is actually bright and cheerful in there now. But the oven and the baking rack still looked forlorn. Not anymore, though. I made a batch of cheesecakes for JI who works on my team.
I was a little concerned, because I was having a bit of a tiff with SP on the phone while I was preparing the cheesecakes. My concerns existed on two levels. First, multi-tasking can often end in disaster when baking. I don't know how many times I have thrown in eggs before they were called for because of a distraction of some kind. Secondly, I guess I believe, completely irrationally, that baking is a little like growing plants. Maybe it's just that I got a little carried away the first time I saw Como agua para chocolate, but I am of the conviction that your feelings can alter the flavor of your food. Add in a dash of rust because I haven't really done anything in the kitchen, and you have the makings for a world-class fiasco. I'm just glad that the conversation got really tense after the cheesecakes were already baking in the oven.
The one thing I had going for me is what I always seem to have going for me: I didn't really care. If it turned out okay, cool. If not, I would have still had time to buy cupcakes in the morning. As it turned out, they turned out just okay. Not phenomenal enough to proudly give JI for her birthday (though I did anyway, for I have no shame), not horribly enough to throw away altogether.
But that was a little besides the point. The real point was breaking the barrier. When you fall out of a habit, there reaches a point where it becomes much harder to return to it than to continue to avoid it. And oh, am I ever the avoid-er to end all avoid-ers (part of the reason for the cross exchange with SP). So, when I actually do get my act together and return to an old friend in this way, I am surprised to find so much pleasure in the reunion.
All of this to say, the baking, it is back. Expect boring pictures to follow, and secret packages to be sent. I only wish I had got it together in time for Chai's birthday- except that she has disclosed that she is not much for sweet baked goods. Man, I wish I could borrow some of her genes that produced that disinclination.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Monday, August 21, 2006
don't waste your time or time will waste you
Sweet sassafras. The craziness has reached a crescendo, and now it may be descending. Or perhaps I am descending- into madness. Really, this space is starting to reach Gogol-esque levels of illogical rambling. Thanks for sticking with me, for those of you who have. I would berate those of you who have abandoned me, except, well, you're gone (and maybe I don't really blame you either).
But anyway, there appears to be some cause for hope. I got some news on Friday that means I will be in NYC in a few weeks. NYC in September? Yes, please! Unfortunately, it will be a hop, skip, and a jump, because I have to get back in time to go to Seattle for work. This should be great fun, given all the current travel restrictions.
Friday, I am taking the day off to plan out a trip in October. AL popped up out of the blue and invaded my vacation plans, but I do not really mind- even though I am enthusiastic about traveling on my own, I like the idea of AL dropping in for a few days to turn everything up to eleven and remark on how everything is wicked awesome. I have to work out whether I will be able to go visit my friend W as part of this vacation.
It is admittedly ridiculous to take a day off of work just to plan a vacation, but really, that is necessary at the moment. This morning, there were at least three incidents in an hour when I was on the phone with one person while another one was calling on the other line. Sweet sassy molassy, b*tches, back off!?! Before you all give me a lecture about quitting my job, let me say that it's all good. I haven't acknowledged it a whole lot, but I can now that it's almost Wednesday. For the past 6 weeks, I have actually, literally had to do two jobs. This is all while trying to keep things going on The Goal. So, even though there were days when I wanted to tear my hair out, or inflict harm on others, I can now look back on it and actually be a bit impressed that I am still sentient (sort of).
Here's the thing- the other job I was covering is actually more demanding than mine. So, this morning, I had to give a presentation to a room filled with Sr. VPs and the CEO. Some people get a rise out of such things, but I am here to tell you that I am not one of them. Oh, and this morning, when the phone was ringing off the hook? That was right before the presentation, so you can guess how much time I had to prepare ahead of time. For the most part, it was not actually a big deal. It's amazing how much easier things are when you really just don't care. As I said to my work GBF, shrugging, "What are they going to do? Fire me? This is a win-win situation for me."
And then my work GBF responded, "Honey, you know what Janis Joplin said- 'Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.'" And that made me laugh, which is always good before you present to a bunch of suits.
The only thing that required firm prevention of eye-rolling was this question from one of the Senior Veeps: "I know this is a difficult question to ask. But, what would you learn later that would make you regret what you are asking us to do today?" WTFFFFFF?!? First of all- that's actually a pretty easy question to ask, mofo. It's answering it that requires using the force and maybe a bottle of whiskey.
Lucky for me, I have learned some things from this corporate indentured servitude. You know the way Neo gets wired such that he says, "I know Kung Fu"? Well, after getting assimilated by the Borg, I can honestly say, "I know BS." Dudes, resistance is futile. And let me tell you, it came in handy, because I came up with some Grade A, choice BS for the occasion. And it worked. Which is good- because tomorrow I move forward with applying for the new job that was offered to me. And guess whose department I'll join if I get the job? Senior Future-Perfect Veep.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy tickets to get to NYC!
But anyway, there appears to be some cause for hope. I got some news on Friday that means I will be in NYC in a few weeks. NYC in September? Yes, please! Unfortunately, it will be a hop, skip, and a jump, because I have to get back in time to go to Seattle for work. This should be great fun, given all the current travel restrictions.
Friday, I am taking the day off to plan out a trip in October. AL popped up out of the blue and invaded my vacation plans, but I do not really mind- even though I am enthusiastic about traveling on my own, I like the idea of AL dropping in for a few days to turn everything up to eleven and remark on how everything is wicked awesome. I have to work out whether I will be able to go visit my friend W as part of this vacation.
It is admittedly ridiculous to take a day off of work just to plan a vacation, but really, that is necessary at the moment. This morning, there were at least three incidents in an hour when I was on the phone with one person while another one was calling on the other line. Sweet sassy molassy, b*tches, back off!?! Before you all give me a lecture about quitting my job, let me say that it's all good. I haven't acknowledged it a whole lot, but I can now that it's almost Wednesday. For the past 6 weeks, I have actually, literally had to do two jobs. This is all while trying to keep things going on The Goal. So, even though there were days when I wanted to tear my hair out, or inflict harm on others, I can now look back on it and actually be a bit impressed that I am still sentient (sort of).
Here's the thing- the other job I was covering is actually more demanding than mine. So, this morning, I had to give a presentation to a room filled with Sr. VPs and the CEO. Some people get a rise out of such things, but I am here to tell you that I am not one of them. Oh, and this morning, when the phone was ringing off the hook? That was right before the presentation, so you can guess how much time I had to prepare ahead of time. For the most part, it was not actually a big deal. It's amazing how much easier things are when you really just don't care. As I said to my work GBF, shrugging, "What are they going to do? Fire me? This is a win-win situation for me."
And then my work GBF responded, "Honey, you know what Janis Joplin said- 'Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.'" And that made me laugh, which is always good before you present to a bunch of suits.
The only thing that required firm prevention of eye-rolling was this question from one of the Senior Veeps: "I know this is a difficult question to ask. But, what would you learn later that would make you regret what you are asking us to do today?" WTFFFFFF?!? First of all- that's actually a pretty easy question to ask, mofo. It's answering it that requires using the force and maybe a bottle of whiskey.
Lucky for me, I have learned some things from this corporate indentured servitude. You know the way Neo gets wired such that he says, "I know Kung Fu"? Well, after getting assimilated by the Borg, I can honestly say, "I know BS." Dudes, resistance is futile. And let me tell you, it came in handy, because I came up with some Grade A, choice BS for the occasion. And it worked. Which is good- because tomorrow I move forward with applying for the new job that was offered to me. And guess whose department I'll join if I get the job? Senior Future-Perfect Veep.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go buy tickets to get to NYC!
Friday, August 18, 2006
majestic imperial bridge of sighs
Dude, DeVotchKa, a thousand times, DeVotchKa. I am such a dweeb. But when I go to see a band play live, and when they play a beautiful song, and when the club is lit just so, when everything is just teetering on perfection, I stand with a dumb grin on my face. There, in that moment of listening, of being part of an audience, everything else melts away, like colored chalk markings washing away in the rain. Something, there is no articulating, no explaining it, but something stirs in me.
Music, at times, is so compelling that it makes me want my life to live up to such meaning. Does that make any sense? When the lyrics are heavy with their significance, but the music makes them appealing to bear, oh, at that moment, I feel very small, and very large at once. The song is so beautiful and moving, and that makes me both wilt in my own nothingness and swell with hope and promise. And I know. I know this makes no sense. Dancing about architecture, Snakes on a Plane. It's unintelligible, I know.
But lord help me should I ever meet a real musician, because I will fall madly. I will turn to my Jake Barnes, and remark, "I'm a goner".
This insanity may have been inherited from my father. Growing up, I was always half-amused, half-infuriated with my father's disconnection from the world. Don't get me wrong- he's no zen master. But his baseline was always that of the absent professor. Except that his head was not on numbers or scientific theories. He was always drunk on music. It was hard to get his attention at times, and during those times, you could see the distant gaze in his eyes. You could tell the music had absconded him to some place you could never invade. If he snapped out of it, if he got angry, if he smiled, it was because he chose to depart from the realm of those songs.
Even though I always, on some level, knew my father had a few screws loose because of this tendency of his, I also knew there was a certain power to it. That power was beyond the obvious ability to tune out the rest of the world, with all its nagging reality. I saw the real power of it later, when my friend Laura started slipping me mix tapes in junior high school, tapes with such contraband as Siouxsie & The Banshees, The Replacements, and The Sugarcubes. Half the songs have drifted away from my memory now, but I remember what it felt like then, to hear those songs, to feel that sense of listening to real music. Even if I didn't understand all of it, I felt a recognition- the music made sense, in a way that American Top 40 never could. And even though those mix tapes were always laden with music that made you want to dress in black and wear heavy eyeliner, they somehow seemed so hopeful to me.
Some people cling to family, some people cling to religion, some people cling to random acts of kindness, some people cling to political progress. But for me, it's standing at a concert, at that moment when a song transcends its composition. When a song becomes more than the lead singer, the lyrics, the instruments, the notes, the melody, the beat, I cling to that moment. It may sound trite, but that's where I get my faith in this world. That's how I know that life is worth living, that there is good out there. And if I got this from my father, I will gladly take all the other inherited flaws.
Music, at times, is so compelling that it makes me want my life to live up to such meaning. Does that make any sense? When the lyrics are heavy with their significance, but the music makes them appealing to bear, oh, at that moment, I feel very small, and very large at once. The song is so beautiful and moving, and that makes me both wilt in my own nothingness and swell with hope and promise. And I know. I know this makes no sense. Dancing about architecture, Snakes on a Plane. It's unintelligible, I know.
But lord help me should I ever meet a real musician, because I will fall madly. I will turn to my Jake Barnes, and remark, "I'm a goner".
This insanity may have been inherited from my father. Growing up, I was always half-amused, half-infuriated with my father's disconnection from the world. Don't get me wrong- he's no zen master. But his baseline was always that of the absent professor. Except that his head was not on numbers or scientific theories. He was always drunk on music. It was hard to get his attention at times, and during those times, you could see the distant gaze in his eyes. You could tell the music had absconded him to some place you could never invade. If he snapped out of it, if he got angry, if he smiled, it was because he chose to depart from the realm of those songs.
Even though I always, on some level, knew my father had a few screws loose because of this tendency of his, I also knew there was a certain power to it. That power was beyond the obvious ability to tune out the rest of the world, with all its nagging reality. I saw the real power of it later, when my friend Laura started slipping me mix tapes in junior high school, tapes with such contraband as Siouxsie & The Banshees, The Replacements, and The Sugarcubes. Half the songs have drifted away from my memory now, but I remember what it felt like then, to hear those songs, to feel that sense of listening to real music. Even if I didn't understand all of it, I felt a recognition- the music made sense, in a way that American Top 40 never could. And even though those mix tapes were always laden with music that made you want to dress in black and wear heavy eyeliner, they somehow seemed so hopeful to me.
Some people cling to family, some people cling to religion, some people cling to random acts of kindness, some people cling to political progress. But for me, it's standing at a concert, at that moment when a song transcends its composition. When a song becomes more than the lead singer, the lyrics, the instruments, the notes, the melody, the beat, I cling to that moment. It may sound trite, but that's where I get my faith in this world. That's how I know that life is worth living, that there is good out there. And if I got this from my father, I will gladly take all the other inherited flaws.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
you know what you've got to do
Since I have started to eat healthier lunches, I have noticed two things. By healthier lunches, I mean that I tend to eat healthier food, and even though I probably eat the same amount as always, I end up having a little something every few hours. The first thing that I have noticed is that I have more energy. The second thing I have noticed is that I am grumpier. So, basically, eating healthier has made me an energetic b*tch. Which is just what this world needed.
Tonight, if I can get out of this rat trap of a job in the next two hours, I will be rummaging through my apartment for a pair of tickets I purchased last month. If my scavenger hunt is successful, it will result in me dragging SP to go see DeVotchKa. DeVotchKa, DeVotchKa, DeVotchKa, I could say it a million times with too much flare. And if the show is half as good as their music, there will be no living with me. I'll be saying DeVotchKa until someone slaps some sense into me.
I received a really lovely email from Maitri today that completely brightened my day. After that, I got a phone call from W in Germany, announcing the birth of his daughter. Neither of them can really know how much I needed it today. Out here on the blogosphere, I always seem like I am teetering on the verge of insanity. But I have been really feeling a bit down in the dumps about all kinds of stuff. The kind of stuff that creeps up on you, and burrows itself into a nest of insecurities, weighing you down with, well, bullsh*t. I was thinking this week that I need to get it together. I say that a lot, to myself, in my head- get it together! Sometimes, half of what I write here is an attempt to snap myself out of such a slump.
But all the self-motivational speeches and trash-talkings to myself do not compare to hearing from someone else. It doesn't even have to be praise. It just has to be a kind of contact, the kind that gives you assurance that even if you fall smack on your face, even with bloody hands and a forehead covered in mud, you will not be regarded as a complete and utter failure.
Tonight, if I can get out of this rat trap of a job in the next two hours, I will be rummaging through my apartment for a pair of tickets I purchased last month. If my scavenger hunt is successful, it will result in me dragging SP to go see DeVotchKa. DeVotchKa, DeVotchKa, DeVotchKa, I could say it a million times with too much flare. And if the show is half as good as their music, there will be no living with me. I'll be saying DeVotchKa until someone slaps some sense into me.
I received a really lovely email from Maitri today that completely brightened my day. After that, I got a phone call from W in Germany, announcing the birth of his daughter. Neither of them can really know how much I needed it today. Out here on the blogosphere, I always seem like I am teetering on the verge of insanity. But I have been really feeling a bit down in the dumps about all kinds of stuff. The kind of stuff that creeps up on you, and burrows itself into a nest of insecurities, weighing you down with, well, bullsh*t. I was thinking this week that I need to get it together. I say that a lot, to myself, in my head- get it together! Sometimes, half of what I write here is an attempt to snap myself out of such a slump.
But all the self-motivational speeches and trash-talkings to myself do not compare to hearing from someone else. It doesn't even have to be praise. It just has to be a kind of contact, the kind that gives you assurance that even if you fall smack on your face, even with bloody hands and a forehead covered in mud, you will not be regarded as a complete and utter failure.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
trouble acting normal when she's nervous
Should there be any doubt that I am una persona muy ridiculosa, let me clear it up once again- great Caesar's ghost, I am insane for Muse's Knights of Cydonia. Derivative of Queen? Yes. Way too long to be a modern rock song? Yes. Almost Spinal Tap-like song title? Yes. Kept me from tearing my hair out at least three times in the past two days? Yes, b*tches, yes.
This is why I can never really turn my nose up at anyone else's musical tastes. It's hard to claim you are a music snob when you are positively gleeful listening to a Bohemian Rhapsody rip-off. Of course, I will still be hypocritical from time to time, and get on some sort of musical high horse, because I am also a person who specializes in contradicting herself, constantly.
My poor attempt to cheer up SP about her double-header heartbreak/mugging (a.k.a. I am not the friend you turn to in a time of need):
Whatever, I still contend this would have been a healthy fantasy to keep her occupied for a while. Really. Been mugged? Jack Bristow will hunt down the perpetrators, make the thugs pay, and will simply give you a knowing, meaningful look the next time you talk to him. Break your heart? Jack Bristow will make The DB regret that with thinly-veiled contempt, and the fear that, at any time, The DB could provoke Jack into shooting him in the face. I don't know, it seems like a pretty pleasant fantasy to me.
Of course, this is coming from someone who threatened to "go all Breaking The Waves" if The Goal amounts to nothing. Yeah, I really have it together, don't I?
Also, everything said here goes double for me. George W. reading Camus makes the baby Jesus cry!
This is why I can never really turn my nose up at anyone else's musical tastes. It's hard to claim you are a music snob when you are positively gleeful listening to a Bohemian Rhapsody rip-off. Of course, I will still be hypocritical from time to time, and get on some sort of musical high horse, because I am also a person who specializes in contradicting herself, constantly.
My poor attempt to cheer up SP about her double-header heartbreak/mugging (a.k.a. I am not the friend you turn to in a time of need):
- "You know what would be really useful right about now? Having your very own Spy Daddy."
Whatever, I still contend this would have been a healthy fantasy to keep her occupied for a while. Really. Been mugged? Jack Bristow will hunt down the perpetrators, make the thugs pay, and will simply give you a knowing, meaningful look the next time you talk to him. Break your heart? Jack Bristow will make The DB regret that with thinly-veiled contempt, and the fear that, at any time, The DB could provoke Jack into shooting him in the face. I don't know, it seems like a pretty pleasant fantasy to me.
Of course, this is coming from someone who threatened to "go all Breaking The Waves" if The Goal amounts to nothing. Yeah, I really have it together, don't I?
Also, everything said here goes double for me. George W. reading Camus makes the baby Jesus cry!
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
it's a sin that I can't tell the truth
It's occurred to me now that I am ready for something, but I don't know what. And I am waiting for something, but I don't know what. And that is strange indeed.
It is not the feeling of floating too high. I have felt that before, that giddy, suspended state, and the awareness that I have just another moment before I fall, hard. It is not that feeling.
And it is not the feeling of wallowing in the depths either. I have felt that before, that irrationally low weariness, and the struggle to get it together, because, come on, it's just not that bad. It is not that feeling either.
So what is this? It makes no sense. If I am so ready, why am I acting so passive? Why not make something happen instead of waiting for it, after all? Indeed, it is odd to feel simultaneously driven and aimless. It seems as though I have become one of those wind-up toys: all it would take is for someone to set me facing in a certain direction, and off I might go. I would not think to ask until much later if this was the course I wanted.
But all of this, I suppose, ultimately, is just a way to pass the time. I know what I want, but that is very much out of my hands just now. So, instead, I entertain myself with notions of other desires that might be buried under the all-consuming, dominating push towards one thing. And that gets right to the point- I am ready to be distracted.
So distract me, motherf***ers! With something other than Project Runway or Entourage. With something other than the banality of deadlines and discord at work. With something that is shiny and new, that holds the promise of buds about to bloom.
No? Then I will have to get my lazy a$$ back to baking.
It is not the feeling of floating too high. I have felt that before, that giddy, suspended state, and the awareness that I have just another moment before I fall, hard. It is not that feeling.
And it is not the feeling of wallowing in the depths either. I have felt that before, that irrationally low weariness, and the struggle to get it together, because, come on, it's just not that bad. It is not that feeling either.
So what is this? It makes no sense. If I am so ready, why am I acting so passive? Why not make something happen instead of waiting for it, after all? Indeed, it is odd to feel simultaneously driven and aimless. It seems as though I have become one of those wind-up toys: all it would take is for someone to set me facing in a certain direction, and off I might go. I would not think to ask until much later if this was the course I wanted.
But all of this, I suppose, ultimately, is just a way to pass the time. I know what I want, but that is very much out of my hands just now. So, instead, I entertain myself with notions of other desires that might be buried under the all-consuming, dominating push towards one thing. And that gets right to the point- I am ready to be distracted.
So distract me, motherf***ers! With something other than Project Runway or Entourage. With something other than the banality of deadlines and discord at work. With something that is shiny and new, that holds the promise of buds about to bloom.
No? Then I will have to get my lazy a$$ back to baking.
Monday, August 14, 2006
thursday night far from sleep
SP called me on Friday evening. She had also dropped me an email on Friday afternoon asking what my plans were that night. That was a bit of a surprise, because she knew this weekend was supposed to be spent in devotion towards The Goal. When she called on Friday, I was still at work. Then we had this exchange:
At this point, I must interject to log a few notes. SP never interferes with my work towards The Goal. She usually encourages my hermit-like tendencies during this time. What is more, she is rarely, if ever, needy, in that wah, please spend time with me way. So her request was actually enough in and of itself. Okay, back to the conversation:
At this point, I was already pressing shut down on my laptop. SP and I started talking in half-sentences, interrupting each other, and we quickly realized we needed to stop talking on the telephone. She came to my place straight from work, and I was already there, straightening up the crack shack just enough so that she could come up to the apartment without being further traumatized.
Thankfully, SP was not hurt. She had some money and a credit card taken, and was clearly shaken up by the incident, but was otherwise unharmed. The gun was held at the back of her date. When she described his reaction, I realized that, in some ways, something like this is even more difficult for men to process than women. I hope that does not sound foolish, but I do contend that women are allowed to be upset, to be a little fragile. For a man, I can just imagine it is a bit harder- you're supposed to be the tougher one, you've been set up to think you're the protector. So, to be on a date, and be mugged, well, it must make a man feel a bit like a eunuch. This is not to suggest that this man was in any way a wimp. He did all the right things, making sure SP was okay, accompanying SP all the way back to her place in a cab.
When SP was finally sitting on my couch, though, she revealed that her bad week had started before the mugging. This dude, who I refer to as The DB, invited her to meet up earlier this week. The DB has a dog, and SP is partial to dogs, and also pretty partial to The DB, so she agreed. First, he backed out of dinner with a feeble excuse of having to prepare for an impending visit from his parents. Then he showed up with two dogs, instead of one. The second dog was his ex-girlfriend's. Guess what? The DB, after meeting up with SP, tried to casually incorporate into conversation that the ex part of the ex-girlfriend's title had been recalled. Why SP did not channel The Wedding Singer at that moment, and yell, "Information that would have been useful to me yesterday!", I will never fully understand.
I cannot tell if it was a blessing or a curse to have these two things happen to SP at once. In a sense, this heartbreak at the hands of The DB distracted her from the very real danger associated with the mugging. But then again, I would not have wished either of these incidents on her. When we met again on Saturday, it became clear to me that The DB's sucker punch had actually wounded her much more deeply than the mugging, was going to stay with her for much longer.
Why is that? And is it only true with women? When she told me everything, I was hard pressed to chide her about taking the sucker punch harder than the robbery. The impact is different, but no less piercing. And in some ways, it is easier to forgive a stranger than it is someone you thought meant something to you. Maybe Saul Bellow's title says it all: More Die of Heartbreak.
If nothing else, I suppose all of this definitely put my meaningless whining in perspective. When I was on the phone with SP on Friday evening, a moment of sharpening occurred, just as it had in the past. All the bullsh*t becomes a blur, the picture focuses into plain view, and an exclamation mark punctuates the thought in your head: This! This is real and this is life! It makes me realize how much of my life is spent lolling, gently down the stream.
- me: Sorry, my cell phone gets no reception at work.
SP: Ah, I didn't have your work number... so you are still at work?
me: (long pause, controlling the urge to b*tch) Yeah.
SP: Well, I was wondering... okay, I've had a really bad week and I was hoping you would have some time...
At this point, I must interject to log a few notes. SP never interferes with my work towards The Goal. She usually encourages my hermit-like tendencies during this time. What is more, she is rarely, if ever, needy, in that wah, please spend time with me way. So her request was actually enough in and of itself. Okay, back to the conversation:
- me: Yeah, okay, I can-
SP: Because (blurts this part out) I got mugged, held up at gunpoint last night, and I really-
me: Wait, what?!? Are you okay?
SP: Yeah. Oh, and I was on a date, and-
me: When did this happen?
SP: Last night-
At this point, I was already pressing shut down on my laptop. SP and I started talking in half-sentences, interrupting each other, and we quickly realized we needed to stop talking on the telephone. She came to my place straight from work, and I was already there, straightening up the crack shack just enough so that she could come up to the apartment without being further traumatized.
Thankfully, SP was not hurt. She had some money and a credit card taken, and was clearly shaken up by the incident, but was otherwise unharmed. The gun was held at the back of her date. When she described his reaction, I realized that, in some ways, something like this is even more difficult for men to process than women. I hope that does not sound foolish, but I do contend that women are allowed to be upset, to be a little fragile. For a man, I can just imagine it is a bit harder- you're supposed to be the tougher one, you've been set up to think you're the protector. So, to be on a date, and be mugged, well, it must make a man feel a bit like a eunuch. This is not to suggest that this man was in any way a wimp. He did all the right things, making sure SP was okay, accompanying SP all the way back to her place in a cab.
When SP was finally sitting on my couch, though, she revealed that her bad week had started before the mugging. This dude, who I refer to as The DB, invited her to meet up earlier this week. The DB has a dog, and SP is partial to dogs, and also pretty partial to The DB, so she agreed. First, he backed out of dinner with a feeble excuse of having to prepare for an impending visit from his parents. Then he showed up with two dogs, instead of one. The second dog was his ex-girlfriend's. Guess what? The DB, after meeting up with SP, tried to casually incorporate into conversation that the ex part of the ex-girlfriend's title had been recalled. Why SP did not channel The Wedding Singer at that moment, and yell, "Information that would have been useful to me yesterday!", I will never fully understand.
I cannot tell if it was a blessing or a curse to have these two things happen to SP at once. In a sense, this heartbreak at the hands of The DB distracted her from the very real danger associated with the mugging. But then again, I would not have wished either of these incidents on her. When we met again on Saturday, it became clear to me that The DB's sucker punch had actually wounded her much more deeply than the mugging, was going to stay with her for much longer.
Why is that? And is it only true with women? When she told me everything, I was hard pressed to chide her about taking the sucker punch harder than the robbery. The impact is different, but no less piercing. And in some ways, it is easier to forgive a stranger than it is someone you thought meant something to you. Maybe Saul Bellow's title says it all: More Die of Heartbreak.
If nothing else, I suppose all of this definitely put my meaningless whining in perspective. When I was on the phone with SP on Friday evening, a moment of sharpening occurred, just as it had in the past. All the bullsh*t becomes a blur, the picture focuses into plain view, and an exclamation mark punctuates the thought in your head: This! This is real and this is life! It makes me realize how much of my life is spent lolling, gently down the stream.
Friday, August 11, 2006
I go along to be with you
All week long, people have tried to convince me that my current predicament of covering for the head honcho is "great exposure". Hey, guess what, people? When you're working for The Man, ain't no such thing as great exposure, yo! In general, I'm much happier when I go unnoticed.
But it will all be okay. I really do believe that. I have no reason to believe that, really, but I do. I have every reason to believe otherwise, actually. But here I am, helplessly hoping anyway. So there.
After returning home late last night, I engaged in the mundane- do the dishes, take out the trash, that sort of thing. It is strange how sometimes these mundane activities are the only things that really give me the sense that I am alive, that I am another person inhabiting this world, that I am not fading into the fog. But they do.
All I really need is a sense of purpose. It sounds lofty to state it that way, but it is not really all that aspirational. I have no aim to save the world. I have no aim to save anyone else. I do not even aim to save myself. It is so much simpler than all of that. Articulating it never works, but let's just say I'll know it when I see it.
And I will know it when I see it. It is weird to be certain of that. How can you be certain you will know it when you see it, when you haven't seen it so far? Is it because you just haven't seen it yet, or because you didn't know it when you saw it after all? How can you be so sure that you haven't missed it altogether?
It gives me a headache, but not really. W's last email questioned my commitment to Sparkle Motion. It is hard to hold that against him, but it is equally difficult to make my resolve clear. How to put into words why I am willing to pull the rug out from underneath myself, to make life difficult when it could be easy, to sequester myself in my apartment all weekend? To what end? Why? Why would I want to do this?
I have no answers to these questions. The answer will be waiting there; at the end, the beginning will become clear. Maybe. Or maybe this will all turn out to be one, huge mistake. But nothing could convince me that I do not need to do this. To let doubt put an end to this saga would be letting myself off the hook, would be letting life off the hook. It does not work that way for dreamers.
But it will all be okay. I really do believe that. I have no reason to believe that, really, but I do. I have every reason to believe otherwise, actually. But here I am, helplessly hoping anyway. So there.
After returning home late last night, I engaged in the mundane- do the dishes, take out the trash, that sort of thing. It is strange how sometimes these mundane activities are the only things that really give me the sense that I am alive, that I am another person inhabiting this world, that I am not fading into the fog. But they do.
All I really need is a sense of purpose. It sounds lofty to state it that way, but it is not really all that aspirational. I have no aim to save the world. I have no aim to save anyone else. I do not even aim to save myself. It is so much simpler than all of that. Articulating it never works, but let's just say I'll know it when I see it.
And I will know it when I see it. It is weird to be certain of that. How can you be certain you will know it when you see it, when you haven't seen it so far? Is it because you just haven't seen it yet, or because you didn't know it when you saw it after all? How can you be so sure that you haven't missed it altogether?
It gives me a headache, but not really. W's last email questioned my commitment to Sparkle Motion. It is hard to hold that against him, but it is equally difficult to make my resolve clear. How to put into words why I am willing to pull the rug out from underneath myself, to make life difficult when it could be easy, to sequester myself in my apartment all weekend? To what end? Why? Why would I want to do this?
I have no answers to these questions. The answer will be waiting there; at the end, the beginning will become clear. Maybe. Or maybe this will all turn out to be one, huge mistake. But nothing could convince me that I do not need to do this. To let doubt put an end to this saga would be letting myself off the hook, would be letting life off the hook. It does not work that way for dreamers.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
to the outside, the dead leaves, they are alone
It's official, I am buried. I have not made it out of work before sundown once this week, and I just cancelled a dinner with my pseudo-bro PG on Friday night, because I wasn't sure I would be able to make it to the 9 pm reservation. Last night, I had insomnia for the first time in years because I could not calm the anxiety about everything that needs to get done this week. And some time tomorrow evening, I have to flip the switch that will channel all of this current energy towards more important work this weekend.
But, this too shall pass. When I am buried, I do not die. I bury myself in a blanket of soothing sounds, I throw myself a wake, I write myself an elegy. Is this too morbid? Sorry. Sometimes I can't help it.
See, I was all prepared to rant, to rail against the system, to verbally flail at the notion of feeling stuck. But I do not feel stuck. Truth takes time. Besides which, I have iTunes. I opened it up like a kid might open a music box, the kind with the rotating ballerina.
But with better music. DeVotchKa. Come on, it's fun to spell and say. Listening to this music is kind of a sign of the progression of the week. I started out guzzling hard rock, the kind of rock with a bombastic guitar intro. And here I am politely sipping theremins, violins and accordions for comfort. Fuel to start a fire, and a cool breeze to prevent the flames from burning the whole place down.
And dreams. Small, but buoyant. Buoyant, but defying inherent gravity. Little bubbles so heavy with hope that when they burst, your heart might break.
But, this too shall pass. When I am buried, I do not die. I bury myself in a blanket of soothing sounds, I throw myself a wake, I write myself an elegy. Is this too morbid? Sorry. Sometimes I can't help it.
See, I was all prepared to rant, to rail against the system, to verbally flail at the notion of feeling stuck. But I do not feel stuck. Truth takes time. Besides which, I have iTunes. I opened it up like a kid might open a music box, the kind with the rotating ballerina.
But with better music. DeVotchKa. Come on, it's fun to spell and say. Listening to this music is kind of a sign of the progression of the week. I started out guzzling hard rock, the kind of rock with a bombastic guitar intro. And here I am politely sipping theremins, violins and accordions for comfort. Fuel to start a fire, and a cool breeze to prevent the flames from burning the whole place down.
And dreams. Small, but buoyant. Buoyant, but defying inherent gravity. Little bubbles so heavy with hope that when they burst, your heart might break.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
watch how they just disappear when we're far away from here
I recognized your silhouette as you walked out
This one will drone on. Consider yourself cautioned in advance.
A lot was made some time back about a certain Super Sweet Sixteen episode on The Root of All Eye Bleeding MTV, featuring two twin Indian-American girls. Many seemed genuinely horrified and somehow personally offended by the twins’ behavior. I have to tell you that I finally subjected myself to a re-run of this nonsense last week. I didn’t find myself enraged because:
- The entire basis of the show is to witness overindulged youth throwing an obscenely expensive party to celebrate that they managed to make it to the ripe old age of 16 without flunking out of school, getting themselves knocked up, or choking on the plastic toy in the cereal box. I’m not sure why it is somehow more offensive because they are Indian.
- Granted, these are extreme depictions, but anyone who knows a teeniac or two knows that some of them dream of reaching this level of obnoxious self-involvement. If some of my cousins had just a wee bit more cash at their disposal, they’d be giving these twins a run for their money.
- A group of raucous punks crashed the twins’ party.
It’s that last part that triggered something, reminded me of why I have both questionable taste in men and why I never quite fit in with any of my Indian friends growing up. The girls on the show were dramatically appalled that the punks crashed the party, and even resorted to calling upon security. In that way, even those two jacka$$es are better Indian daughters than I am.
When I was in high school, my parents were always suspicious of any guy who called the house. There were two equally pathetic things about this. First, most of the guys that were calling were doing so to ask a question about some homework assignment. And secondly, these 6' tall EBF guys were afraid of my 5’3” mom and dad. Anyway, when I was nearing the midpoint of my high school years, I had just about had enough of this paranoia, and decided upon a new approach. One boy arose suspicion; five boys together posed a dilemma. I know this logic sounds a little insane, but it actually worked.
So started the beginning of an era of what I like to call TMI with the guys. Such are the perils of befriending a pack of teenage boys though. While my parents tolerated this, it was still abundantly clear that I was under a tighter watch than other teenagers in EBF. The Apaches, as they called themselves, were well aware of this, and in an uncharacteristically protective manner, would usually look out for me in this regard. If they knew things were going to kick up a notch at a party, they’d send me packing. And sure enough, on such evenings, as I left cursing them out for expelling the girl from the crew, the police would show up. It was EBF, dudes. Kids could be sitting around drinking white wine spritzers over a chess game and the cops would still appear to break it up.
But every once in a while, the Apaches would forget that I had strict parents. Or maybe they didn’t forget, but savored the idea of having a little fun with that fact. I had the Apaches, and my friends Pam & Jackie over for an early dinner once. Of course, since I was a kid, this was no more complex than spaghetti. One of the Apaches, Craig, asked me what he could bring. I suggested bread. He brought a loaf of white bread. That night, my parents were throwing a typical dinner party, uncles and aunties trading verbal one-ups, comparing their supposedly perfect children to each other. Pam & Jackie were still over; we were watching some chick flick in the basement. Around 10 pm, my mom suddenly appeared downstairs.
“Come up here please,” she demanded in a whisper laced with rage. I complied, climbing the stairs. When I got to the top of the stairs, she whispered, “There are boys at the door. For you.”
To get to the door at my parent’s house, you have to pass the sitting room where all the uncles and aunties hang out. There was no getting around this. I opened the door and immediately, the Apaches, all five of them, filed into the foyer. As if this were not scandalous enough, they were inexplicably soaked from the knee down. Oh, and definitely drunk. My mom stood glowering at me. Craig murmured, pleased with himself, “Hey… what’s going on?”
Now was not the time to be amused. Not with the uncles and aunties all watching. So, I did my best impression of my mom and crossed my arms in front of myself. “My parents have people over. You guys can’t come in.” This was kind of a stupid thing to say given that they were already inside.
Craig lingered in the foyer, scratching his head. He finally raised his head, looked at me, and asked, “Well okay, can I at least get my bread back?” All of a sudden, I really was angry, but not for the appropriate reasons. I marched back to the kitchen, and my mother actually followed after me- she was ill equipped for this situation of five drunken teenage boys standing in her house while she had guests over. After handing the loaf of bread over, I showed the Apaches the door, and off they went, I later discovered, to continue their evening of pool jumping around my neighborhood. When I told Pam & Jackie what had transpired upstairs, they were completely infuriated on my behalf, that these dudes were so insensitive.
But the thing is, even at the time, I knew it was hilarious. Even at the time, I knew the Apaches were far more interesting than anyone else I was going to speak to that night. When the punks crashed the party on the MTV show, I saw their floppy hair, their t-shirts, and immediately recognized them as the Apaches. These were my people, the people you pursed your lips at, but secretly were charmed by. I had other friends in high school that were supposedly closer and sweeter to me, but there’s only one entry I still remember in my high school yearbook.
When this silly show triggered the memory, I dug up my yearbook to re-read the entry. And this is what Craig wrote in its entirety:
- The problem with you is that you don’t realize the value of a loaf of bread or an Apache visit. Other than that, you’re sort of okay in a weird way. We have been close over the years, you have to admit. Maybe I should have asked you to the prom instead. I mean, we did whoop it up on the dance floor, and your parents did like me for a little while (5 seconds). Be forewarned- the Apaches will come again over the summer. Arghhh!
And if you convert currency from high school, this is just about the most awesome gem you can ever get from a guy. The Apaches never did make a return visit though. We all got as far away from EBF as possible and lost touch. But I still have a soft spot for bad boys, because I can never think of them as really all that bad.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
off the hook
It all started when I figured out how to get my iPod to repeat songs (I know, I'm slow). I was already running late. For a moment, the scales swayed, weighed whether it was better to just drive rather than taking public transportation. Shame tipped the scales. What's more, it was a gathering of desis- what were the chances that I was really that tardy?
Damian Marley's All Night was winding in a loop before I had even left the apartment. It has been a long time since I have needed a song to propel me into motion, but this one certainly is effective. But the lovely part was this- by the time I left my place, I was in a rhythm. And there is something about finding your pace. People, believe me, I'm nothing to take note of, but that afternoon, my gait was attracting more attention than I have ever deserved. Maybe I was dancing and I did not even realize it.
Of course, this is all in the realm of the self-contained. And of course, because I am incredibly self-absorbed, this is the realm which I muse about most. I am constantly in wonder at how this city envelopes me in such a way that loneliness is impossible, however solitary my travels may be.
By the time I arrived at Chaat Cafe, I was nearly giddy. This may very well explain how I managed to knock all sorts of things off a table within minutes of meeting the Mutineers. What it doesn't explain is how, even though I have been to these meetups before, I still cannot seem to overcome shyness and make normal conversation with people. Anyway, lucky for me, everyone else compensated for my shortcomings. And now, because I must soon return to burrowing my way out of a mountain of work, come the bullets:
We had a classic desi parting. First, we said goodbye at the table. Then, we said goodbye at the doorway. Finally, we really said farewell outside at a crossroads. It reminded me of the parties my parents used to throw. The parents would summon all the children to stop playing and gather their coats. Then we would sit on the stairwell, our eyes rolling to the back of our heads, waiting for all the uncles and aunties to say goodbye one more frickin' time. But in retrospect, it's something I have always missed, that affection my parents have for all their friends that kept everyone lingering in a crowded hallway.
Saheli and ads walked with me to BART. Once we got there, we found ourselves on opposite ends of the platform. They boarded their train. The iPod kicked up again. I no longer had my self-sustaining bubble of sound. It took me a while to find a song that was right. In the end, it was The Shins' Gone For Good. Considerably more somber, but it fit my new pace. Slightly slower, but still upbeat.
In other news, I can't seem to get songs by Cansei de Ser Sexy and Wolfmother out of my head of late. Does the magnetism of aggressive sound say something about my current state of mind or is this just some good sh*t?
Damian Marley's All Night was winding in a loop before I had even left the apartment. It has been a long time since I have needed a song to propel me into motion, but this one certainly is effective. But the lovely part was this- by the time I left my place, I was in a rhythm. And there is something about finding your pace. People, believe me, I'm nothing to take note of, but that afternoon, my gait was attracting more attention than I have ever deserved. Maybe I was dancing and I did not even realize it.
Of course, this is all in the realm of the self-contained. And of course, because I am incredibly self-absorbed, this is the realm which I muse about most. I am constantly in wonder at how this city envelopes me in such a way that loneliness is impossible, however solitary my travels may be.
By the time I arrived at Chaat Cafe, I was nearly giddy. This may very well explain how I managed to knock all sorts of things off a table within minutes of meeting the Mutineers. What it doesn't explain is how, even though I have been to these meetups before, I still cannot seem to overcome shyness and make normal conversation with people. Anyway, lucky for me, everyone else compensated for my shortcomings. And now, because I must soon return to burrowing my way out of a mountain of work, come the bullets:
- Apparently, people are not as I.S.T as I thought- when I arrived, a group of women left shortly after. This was sad, since I never got to really speak to them. Maybe next time?
- On the other hand, dudes, I met Ennis! There are two reasons I was all about Ennis. First, he scrawled on a napkin to Vinod the question: Is that Brimful? And then later, when I told him about my twisted and tortured plans for life, he concluded that I am "muy loco" and went so far as to clarify "not un poco loco, muy, MUY loco." Oh Ennis, believe me, that's only the tip of the iceberg of my insanity.
- Speaking of Vinod, reunions galore! It says something that I never think of Vinod as living in SF, because he is so very International Man of Mystery. Vinod regaled us with tales of no shame in his game in Budapest, and eyebrow-raising stories regarding Manish, who was referenced so frequently that he was something of a honorary guest in absentia. Then, there was ads, who got an equal measure of people saying "Why haven't you been updating your blog?" and "Oh my god, I've read your stuff- you are really funny!" And then came maisnon from house-hunting expeditions, god bless her patience for that. And then, in walks Saheli in a sari, b*tches! You want to try to out-mutiny that? I don't think so, yo!
- Cool new people! A helped to represent the South Bay, and told us a story about a blue moth that requires a hefty level of self-confidence to recount to a group of strangers. So, she automatically rocks. Then, there were the DJs. DJ Sweeney was pretty much thrust into this meetup, but was a great sport about it, and didn't even mind it when we gave him an honorary desi name. DJ Drrrty Poonjabi (that's three r's for you b*tches!) brought good conversation and CDs for everyone. I hope some of you that were there have listened to the CD- it's giving me hope for the youth! I was listening to the CD the next day in my car on the way to work, and actually let out a giggle on the 101 as I listened to a completely inexplicable mashup of NIN's Closer, Papa Kehte Hain, and (oh, as if that wasn't enough) Muppet Babies. MUPPET BABIES, people. I'll have to check if he's opposed to me posting it here some time.
We had a classic desi parting. First, we said goodbye at the table. Then, we said goodbye at the doorway. Finally, we really said farewell outside at a crossroads. It reminded me of the parties my parents used to throw. The parents would summon all the children to stop playing and gather their coats. Then we would sit on the stairwell, our eyes rolling to the back of our heads, waiting for all the uncles and aunties to say goodbye one more frickin' time. But in retrospect, it's something I have always missed, that affection my parents have for all their friends that kept everyone lingering in a crowded hallway.
Saheli and ads walked with me to BART. Once we got there, we found ourselves on opposite ends of the platform. They boarded their train. The iPod kicked up again. I no longer had my self-sustaining bubble of sound. It took me a while to find a song that was right. In the end, it was The Shins' Gone For Good. Considerably more somber, but it fit my new pace. Slightly slower, but still upbeat.
In other news, I can't seem to get songs by Cansei de Ser Sexy and Wolfmother out of my head of late. Does the magnetism of aggressive sound say something about my current state of mind or is this just some good sh*t?
Monday, August 07, 2006
I got to see that lie
For a while now, this space has really suffered. You may not have noticed it (because it may seem like it is always suffering from some malady or another), but ever since I have been meeting bloggers in real life, this space has taken on more constraints than it once had. Maybe that is a good thing, because I might have needed a little discipline, and perhaps it serves to curb the venting. Except that I think that the venting is still spilling out, only it is now unintelligible. There is this weird dichotomy that occurs then- writing used to be a way for me to be understood, and yet in some ways I spend a lot of time obscuring the truth. It has already been established that imposed structure and restrictions are not my thing. In fairness, I don't really know what I'm going on about. Or I do know, but I cannot figure out a way to articulate it. A part of me is reconsidering this constraint business, and just going no-holds barred into truthiness.
Do not ask me what brought all that on just now. In all truthiness, I had a completely drama-free weekend. And I did not even do any work. I have come to peace with the fact that I am an extremist. I would like to be more balanced, and I strive for that in certain aspects. But not when it comes to work ethic. That is a difficult thing to harness. So, I alternated between a weekend of self-imposed isolation and one that was so event-filled that I spent no longer than two hours in my apartment a day. I told myself last night that I would have to wake up this morning and convince myself into not being exhausted. But actually, I have not had to trick myself into it- I really do feel well-rested. I needed the extreme, because next weekend, it's back to agoraphobia central.
Anyway, I would love to recount the tales of this weekend, but right now they are a bit jumbled, and I am a bit jumbled, and it will take time for both to be properly unentwined. In the meanwhile, I will mention that at the SM meetup yesterday, the details of which I will have to outline in a separate post, I felt, as usual, inevitably uncool as I confessed that I was planning to go see BTE last night. This morning, I would like to retract my sheepishness. Really, however unhip or untrendy it is to go see a band that supposedly peaked in the 90s, I dare anyone to find a better band that performs live. Not only is their sound and playing impeccable, but they also have a genuinely good time on stage. These guys love music. Any band that covers James' Laid, Rolling Stones' Miss You, plays a riff of Sunday Bloody Sunday while impersonating Bono, works a stanza of The Cure's Fascination Street into the end of their song, and makes references to Snakes on a Plane and Entourage in one night is alright by me. Oh, and seeing them at The Independent? Very nearly my idea of perfection.
Do not ask me what brought all that on just now. In all truthiness, I had a completely drama-free weekend. And I did not even do any work. I have come to peace with the fact that I am an extremist. I would like to be more balanced, and I strive for that in certain aspects. But not when it comes to work ethic. That is a difficult thing to harness. So, I alternated between a weekend of self-imposed isolation and one that was so event-filled that I spent no longer than two hours in my apartment a day. I told myself last night that I would have to wake up this morning and convince myself into not being exhausted. But actually, I have not had to trick myself into it- I really do feel well-rested. I needed the extreme, because next weekend, it's back to agoraphobia central.
Anyway, I would love to recount the tales of this weekend, but right now they are a bit jumbled, and I am a bit jumbled, and it will take time for both to be properly unentwined. In the meanwhile, I will mention that at the SM meetup yesterday, the details of which I will have to outline in a separate post, I felt, as usual, inevitably uncool as I confessed that I was planning to go see BTE last night. This morning, I would like to retract my sheepishness. Really, however unhip or untrendy it is to go see a band that supposedly peaked in the 90s, I dare anyone to find a better band that performs live. Not only is their sound and playing impeccable, but they also have a genuinely good time on stage. These guys love music. Any band that covers James' Laid, Rolling Stones' Miss You, plays a riff of Sunday Bloody Sunday while impersonating Bono, works a stanza of The Cure's Fascination Street into the end of their song, and makes references to Snakes on a Plane and Entourage in one night is alright by me. Oh, and seeing them at The Independent? Very nearly my idea of perfection.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
you say you want
Let's get the grumpiness out of here for a moment. Okay, dudes, it's time for another poll. Remember what P. Diddy says- vote or die!
Brought to you by virtue of my utter laziness and strides to gauge where I can be even lazier.
p.s. Is it just me or does anyone else think Allison from Project Runway is channeling Drew Barrymore?
Brought to you by virtue of my utter laziness and strides to gauge where I can be even lazier.
p.s. Is it just me or does anyone else think Allison from Project Runway is channeling Drew Barrymore?
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
don't even make sense that I wrote this song
The Giants won, and the grind did their thing by getting me and my other work schmucks tickets to the game. Towards the end of the game, I remarked that the Giants had the game locked. I proceeded to get the Manson lamps from my co-workers when the Giants proceeded to allow two runs. No offense to the DCists, but I don't think we should do cartwheels over beating the Nationals.
I came home with an allergic reaction, a stomach ache, and then, just as I was settling down for an evening of Project Runway, the apartment shook such that I instinctively ran to the window to see if a truck had rammed into the building. No. We had a mild earthquake. San Francisco. Always reminding you that life is not static or steady.
After getting a few much-needed things done, I started thinking about flowery prose, and how I have always been fond of this expression in period pieces about recommending. For the past year, I have really done some serious thinking, underneath all the surface insanity, about what qualities recommend me. And in the past year, I have come to the definite conclusion that, in fact, I have none.
When I was less self-aware, I would cling to one particular quality, and claim I was good at it. I might not have been the smartest person in the world, but I was driven. I might not have been the most driven person in the world, but I had a knack for figuring out how to squeak by. I may have been unable to keep a relationship going, but I was spectacular at maintaining a feeling. I could be a good friend.
It was like constantly coming up with an excuse, constantly coming up with a retort. It was so very I know you are, but what am I? But as I woke up, as I squared with reality, I had to throw it all out. This is not fishing for compliments, because there is really nothing that can be said to dispute it. Say that I am a passable writer, and I'll pull up an old blog post that will prove you wrong. Tell me I am a good friend, and I'll give you 20,000 examples that will make you wonder if I even have any friends left. I can't even say that I am really good at telling the truth- even there, I fall short.
And that is an oppressive feeling, this feeling of always falling short. Maybe most people have gotten over such foolish expectations by this point in their lives. Or maybe I just really have nothing to offer. Because the only thing, at this point, to recommend me is that I have grown impressively adept at looking out for myself, wrapping myself into chainmail, impenetrable cocoons. And that is not really something that should recommend me to anyone else.
I came home with an allergic reaction, a stomach ache, and then, just as I was settling down for an evening of Project Runway, the apartment shook such that I instinctively ran to the window to see if a truck had rammed into the building. No. We had a mild earthquake. San Francisco. Always reminding you that life is not static or steady.
After getting a few much-needed things done, I started thinking about flowery prose, and how I have always been fond of this expression in period pieces about recommending. For the past year, I have really done some serious thinking, underneath all the surface insanity, about what qualities recommend me. And in the past year, I have come to the definite conclusion that, in fact, I have none.
When I was less self-aware, I would cling to one particular quality, and claim I was good at it. I might not have been the smartest person in the world, but I was driven. I might not have been the most driven person in the world, but I had a knack for figuring out how to squeak by. I may have been unable to keep a relationship going, but I was spectacular at maintaining a feeling. I could be a good friend.
It was like constantly coming up with an excuse, constantly coming up with a retort. It was so very I know you are, but what am I? But as I woke up, as I squared with reality, I had to throw it all out. This is not fishing for compliments, because there is really nothing that can be said to dispute it. Say that I am a passable writer, and I'll pull up an old blog post that will prove you wrong. Tell me I am a good friend, and I'll give you 20,000 examples that will make you wonder if I even have any friends left. I can't even say that I am really good at telling the truth- even there, I fall short.
And that is an oppressive feeling, this feeling of always falling short. Maybe most people have gotten over such foolish expectations by this point in their lives. Or maybe I just really have nothing to offer. Because the only thing, at this point, to recommend me is that I have grown impressively adept at looking out for myself, wrapping myself into chainmail, impenetrable cocoons. And that is not really something that should recommend me to anyone else.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
everybody's got their dues in life to pay
I admit I always get a kick out of Assffleck schadenfreude, so I found the gossip today particularly amusing. At the same time, it reminded me of my love-hate relationship with the Red Sox. Actually, scratch that- it reminded me of my love-hate relationship with Red Sox fans.
Really, is there any more hated fan in sport? On the one hand, these are diehard fools that have hoped against hope, and those hopes have actually prevailed. That would be a pretty story. And the Red Sox were my home team growing up, so technically, I should be one of those fans. Except...
When the Patriots won one of their Superbowl titles, at the ticker tape parade in Boston, a spontaneous chant of Yankees Suck! broke out. Also, when I lived in that city, holy mother of g-d did it get annoying to hear these people start in with the this is going to be their year chatter. Also, these guys will turn on your a$$ like nobody's business. Whenever anything goes wrong with the Red Sox, the fans verbally lynch someone into the realm of cruel and unusual punishment.
Since I quickly grow weary of drama, I tired of the Red Sox long ago. That is why I grew up as a loyal Patriots fan. These guys did not disappoint. Or rather, they consistently disappointed. When Steve Grogan was QB, you were never fooled into thinking these guys had a shot at much of anything besides a post-season vacation. Okay, there was that one year against the Bears, but even then, they pretty much knew we were going to get clobbered.
And when they're on, they're all the way on. These guys are the anti-Red Sox: when it's clutch time, there is no Bill Buckner-esque bumbles. Sure, their star has fallen since losing Romeo Crenell. Still, the Pats are a reliable team. They might not make magic, but they are that good buddy you can count on for a beer on a Friday night.
My cousin got me the hat in the picture below. It's beaten and bruised at this point, but it's still the only cap I ever wear, on those rare occasions that I tame the mess that is my hair. I have worn it through some tough journeys:
Now, I know that it is weird because a baseball cap should feature, well, a baseball team. But I am still always surprised at how often this cap starts conversations in the Bay Area. When I have been on hikes, people have stopped me and asked me if I am from Boston. This is pleasant enough, but a few weeks ago, I got heckled. AL was off doing his thing at this beer festival, and two dudes saw my hat. The familiar grins appeared, and I prepared myself- here comes the remark.
"BOO!" they yelled at me. I know I am not on the right turf to be defending my home team, so I always try to take these things in stride. I smiled good-naturedly and this seemed to goad them on further. But here's where I cracked up. They yelled: "You're not in Red Sox country anymore! Go Giants!!"
My friends, non-New Englanders, all laughed along with the two dudes. But I rolled my eyes. I dropped my head and pointed to the hat. "Dudes, shouldn't you be talking about the Raider Nation?" I asked. They were thoroughly unphased. It was not a combative exchange. But it demonstrated to me that either the world lives to take a Red Sox fan down, or baseball fans are perhaps a wee self-involved.
Really, is there any more hated fan in sport? On the one hand, these are diehard fools that have hoped against hope, and those hopes have actually prevailed. That would be a pretty story. And the Red Sox were my home team growing up, so technically, I should be one of those fans. Except...
When the Patriots won one of their Superbowl titles, at the ticker tape parade in Boston, a spontaneous chant of Yankees Suck! broke out. Also, when I lived in that city, holy mother of g-d did it get annoying to hear these people start in with the this is going to be their year chatter. Also, these guys will turn on your a$$ like nobody's business. Whenever anything goes wrong with the Red Sox, the fans verbally lynch someone into the realm of cruel and unusual punishment.
Since I quickly grow weary of drama, I tired of the Red Sox long ago. That is why I grew up as a loyal Patriots fan. These guys did not disappoint. Or rather, they consistently disappointed. When Steve Grogan was QB, you were never fooled into thinking these guys had a shot at much of anything besides a post-season vacation. Okay, there was that one year against the Bears, but even then, they pretty much knew we were going to get clobbered.
And when they're on, they're all the way on. These guys are the anti-Red Sox: when it's clutch time, there is no Bill Buckner-esque bumbles. Sure, their star has fallen since losing Romeo Crenell. Still, the Pats are a reliable team. They might not make magic, but they are that good buddy you can count on for a beer on a Friday night.
My cousin got me the hat in the picture below. It's beaten and bruised at this point, but it's still the only cap I ever wear, on those rare occasions that I tame the mess that is my hair. I have worn it through some tough journeys:
Now, I know that it is weird because a baseball cap should feature, well, a baseball team. But I am still always surprised at how often this cap starts conversations in the Bay Area. When I have been on hikes, people have stopped me and asked me if I am from Boston. This is pleasant enough, but a few weeks ago, I got heckled. AL was off doing his thing at this beer festival, and two dudes saw my hat. The familiar grins appeared, and I prepared myself- here comes the remark.
"BOO!" they yelled at me. I know I am not on the right turf to be defending my home team, so I always try to take these things in stride. I smiled good-naturedly and this seemed to goad them on further. But here's where I cracked up. They yelled: "You're not in Red Sox country anymore! Go Giants!!"
My friends, non-New Englanders, all laughed along with the two dudes. But I rolled my eyes. I dropped my head and pointed to the hat. "Dudes, shouldn't you be talking about the Raider Nation?" I asked. They were thoroughly unphased. It was not a combative exchange. But it demonstrated to me that either the world lives to take a Red Sox fan down, or baseball fans are perhaps a wee self-involved.
Monday, July 31, 2006
you're so extreme, you're feast or famine
Would someone please kindly explain to me how it got to be the end of the month already? I did not authorize this acceleration of time.
Instead of regaling you with tales of my Howard Hughes-esque shut-in behavior for the past two days and maybe the foreseeable future, let me tell you about overreaction. Me, I have always been one to proclaim my aversion for drama. But let’s face it- we can all be drama queens under the right circumstances. Something about the struggle to balance my work, my health, my family, my friends, and The Goal has caused me to have a bit of a mental bellyflop, resulting in one irrational hyperbole after the other.
Mast cells do the same thing. Of all the cells involved in immunity, our mast cells are the consummate drama queens. People with severe nut or bee allergies know what I am talking about. The immune response is exponential to the original insult: a bee sting smarts for a moment, the allergic anaphylaxis that follows is prolonged and nearly fatal. Mast cells have always struck me as stupid. What are you getting so bent out of shape about? It’s just a particle of peanut, it means you no harm, you dimwitted mast cell.
I try to calm myself down with similar internal monologues- calm down, it is not worth getting upset over such a trivial matter. But sometimes it is instinctual. We overreact because we have been here before, and we know what is coming next. Or maybe, underneath the surface, we are fighting something off. The overreaction is serving some other purpose, subconsciously, that we do not understand. I like to tell myself that could be happening now- my self-imposed seclusion may be absurdly extreme, but it may also be necessary.
Mast cells, as it turns out, are not quite as dumb as people thought they were. In the latest issue of Science (registration required), there is a report on the role of mast cells in snake bites. Mast cells, when they are mounting a response, unleash enzyme chompers called proteases. Now proteases, I like. They are the Pac-Man of proteins. These mast cell proteases, it turns out, maybe, just maybe degrade sarafatoxins, the most toxic component of snake venom. In fact, mice with normal mast cell levels require 10 times as much snake venom to be killed compared to mast cell deficient mice. It remains to be seen whether this is true in people, but I certainly hope so. It would be nice to think we were highly evolved enough such that even our seemingly stupid parts had figured out something useful to do with themselves.
Instead of regaling you with tales of my Howard Hughes-esque shut-in behavior for the past two days and maybe the foreseeable future, let me tell you about overreaction. Me, I have always been one to proclaim my aversion for drama. But let’s face it- we can all be drama queens under the right circumstances. Something about the struggle to balance my work, my health, my family, my friends, and The Goal has caused me to have a bit of a mental bellyflop, resulting in one irrational hyperbole after the other.
Mast cells do the same thing. Of all the cells involved in immunity, our mast cells are the consummate drama queens. People with severe nut or bee allergies know what I am talking about. The immune response is exponential to the original insult: a bee sting smarts for a moment, the allergic anaphylaxis that follows is prolonged and nearly fatal. Mast cells have always struck me as stupid. What are you getting so bent out of shape about? It’s just a particle of peanut, it means you no harm, you dimwitted mast cell.
I try to calm myself down with similar internal monologues- calm down, it is not worth getting upset over such a trivial matter. But sometimes it is instinctual. We overreact because we have been here before, and we know what is coming next. Or maybe, underneath the surface, we are fighting something off. The overreaction is serving some other purpose, subconsciously, that we do not understand. I like to tell myself that could be happening now- my self-imposed seclusion may be absurdly extreme, but it may also be necessary.
Mast cells, as it turns out, are not quite as dumb as people thought they were. In the latest issue of Science (registration required), there is a report on the role of mast cells in snake bites. Mast cells, when they are mounting a response, unleash enzyme chompers called proteases. Now proteases, I like. They are the Pac-Man of proteins. These mast cell proteases, it turns out, maybe, just maybe degrade sarafatoxins, the most toxic component of snake venom. In fact, mice with normal mast cell levels require 10 times as much snake venom to be killed compared to mast cell deficient mice. It remains to be seen whether this is true in people, but I certainly hope so. It would be nice to think we were highly evolved enough such that even our seemingly stupid parts had figured out something useful to do with themselves.
Friday, July 28, 2006
tempted by the fruit of another
Ways to make my friend/coworker RR's head explode:
Yesterday, I was supposed to have a chat with the boss-lady, dropping hints that I might fly the coop. After confirming with SJM that I only possess an on-off switch and lack a dimmer, I walked into the meeting with no intention of showing her any of my cards. And then, she offered me a promotion.
Ay... my head!?!
- RR: Do you know who said "These are the times that try men's souls-"?
me: (before I've allowed him to finish the that try men's souls part, because I am a jackass) Billy Joel?
RR: What?
me: Oh, wait, wait, I meant- Billy Joe Armstrong.
RR: You know, you could be recruited to topple governments.
me: Well, I do get a kick out of causing people to froth at the mouth.
Yesterday, I was supposed to have a chat with the boss-lady, dropping hints that I might fly the coop. After confirming with SJM that I only possess an on-off switch and lack a dimmer, I walked into the meeting with no intention of showing her any of my cards. And then, she offered me a promotion.
Ay... my head!?!
Thursday, July 27, 2006
until our shells simply cannot hold all our insides in
Anyway, what are you going to do? Sometimes you come home and your bicycle has been stolen. It was a bit demoralizing considering that I had just come back from volunteering (karma police, arrest this man), and it was a bit concerning because it was an unforced entry, but, hey, I do live in the Mission, so- when you're rolling to the carnival, anything can happen. Oh yeah, you know it's bad when I am quoting solo Wyclef Jean projects.
Let's talk about Lance instead. Oh no. I am not going to get into the doping controversy surrounding Armstrong, or the potential Landis doping scandal that has just emerged. That is for the biking enthusiasts to sort out. But it seems the reason Lance Armstrong's Tour De France wins have always had a larger-than-life quality to them has been his fight with testicular cancer.
Usually, you hear the big C, and your stomach drops, and words like one-year survival take on a whole new meaning. Lance Armstrong had advanced, metastatic testicular cancer, but survived. And he won all his yellow jerseys after recovering from cancer.
Usually when you hear the word metastatic associated with cancer, this is another wave of stomach turns. Cancer, after all, is an insidious bastard. It takes its time and hurries up. Cancer cells can take years to form a tumor. But it those cells manage to form a tumor, they can then become invasive, and yes, that’s as bad as it sounds. When cancer becomes metastatic, it means that the tumor is not only actively dividing, but now has broken through its original site and traveled to other parts of the body. So, in short, bad news.
And yet, for patients with metastatic testicular cancer, not so bad. People, stay with me here. I know I had a long wind-up, but this is actually the part I find interesting. Patients with advanced testicular cancer tend to do a lot better than other patients with other advanced cancers. Why would this be? A review in JAMA (registration required) suggests it is about heat.
Normal testicular germ cells live at a different, lower temperature than the rest of the body. In fact, testicular germ cells have been found to be prone to dying when placed at normal body temperature. So, even though a testicular cancer cell may have gone rogue and made it out of the testes, multiplying furiously, it may still retain that Achilles’ heal of thermal sensitivity. And so, these types of cancer cells might be easier to kill by conventional cancer treatments. Nuts, huh? Whoops… puns might be inappropriate here.
Scientists are trying to figure out how to manipulate cell temperature to mimic this sensitivity in other cancer cells. Way back in the day, they tried this, but could not go about it in a useful way, because they wound up heating good cells and bad alike. Now, they are doing experiments to use nanotechnology to deliver particles to cancerous cells selectively such that, zap, you can heat them from the inside. Implosions. I lurve it!
Furthermore, scientists have also uncovered a set of proteins that cells use to defend against excessive heat. These heat shock proteins (Hsp’s) have all kinds of functions. And it may well be that inhibition of these proteins (one in particular, Hsp90, is already showing promise) could help kill cancer cells.
This kind of thing sets my brain on fire. Because how neat is it, to jump along the stones in the water- testes are at a lower temperature than the rest of the body, jump, heat plays a role in certain types of cells’ viability, jump, making them more susceptible to chemotherapy/radiation, jump, how can we take this heat-sensitivity and manipulate it such that we can use it to kill other types of cancer cells?
All of this makes me very hopeful for my job switch. If I make the jump, I may have to go to NYC at the end of August, all surreptitious-like. But it will be to nerd out on such geeky shizz as what I just babbled about interminably.
In other news, somewhere in SF, j-money is wandering around with her family. If by some chance or circumstance, we wind up connecting, I will be ecstatic, and will undoubtedly spend the entire time begging her to resurrect her blog. Also, where the heck is Michael Kors when you need him?!?
Let's talk about Lance instead. Oh no. I am not going to get into the doping controversy surrounding Armstrong, or the potential Landis doping scandal that has just emerged. That is for the biking enthusiasts to sort out. But it seems the reason Lance Armstrong's Tour De France wins have always had a larger-than-life quality to them has been his fight with testicular cancer.
Usually, you hear the big C, and your stomach drops, and words like one-year survival take on a whole new meaning. Lance Armstrong had advanced, metastatic testicular cancer, but survived. And he won all his yellow jerseys after recovering from cancer.
Usually when you hear the word metastatic associated with cancer, this is another wave of stomach turns. Cancer, after all, is an insidious bastard. It takes its time and hurries up. Cancer cells can take years to form a tumor. But it those cells manage to form a tumor, they can then become invasive, and yes, that’s as bad as it sounds. When cancer becomes metastatic, it means that the tumor is not only actively dividing, but now has broken through its original site and traveled to other parts of the body. So, in short, bad news.
And yet, for patients with metastatic testicular cancer, not so bad. People, stay with me here. I know I had a long wind-up, but this is actually the part I find interesting. Patients with advanced testicular cancer tend to do a lot better than other patients with other advanced cancers. Why would this be? A review in JAMA (registration required) suggests it is about heat.
Normal testicular germ cells live at a different, lower temperature than the rest of the body. In fact, testicular germ cells have been found to be prone to dying when placed at normal body temperature. So, even though a testicular cancer cell may have gone rogue and made it out of the testes, multiplying furiously, it may still retain that Achilles’ heal of thermal sensitivity. And so, these types of cancer cells might be easier to kill by conventional cancer treatments. Nuts, huh? Whoops… puns might be inappropriate here.
Scientists are trying to figure out how to manipulate cell temperature to mimic this sensitivity in other cancer cells. Way back in the day, they tried this, but could not go about it in a useful way, because they wound up heating good cells and bad alike. Now, they are doing experiments to use nanotechnology to deliver particles to cancerous cells selectively such that, zap, you can heat them from the inside. Implosions. I lurve it!
Furthermore, scientists have also uncovered a set of proteins that cells use to defend against excessive heat. These heat shock proteins (Hsp’s) have all kinds of functions. And it may well be that inhibition of these proteins (one in particular, Hsp90, is already showing promise) could help kill cancer cells.
This kind of thing sets my brain on fire. Because how neat is it, to jump along the stones in the water- testes are at a lower temperature than the rest of the body, jump, heat plays a role in certain types of cells’ viability, jump, making them more susceptible to chemotherapy/radiation, jump, how can we take this heat-sensitivity and manipulate it such that we can use it to kill other types of cancer cells?
All of this makes me very hopeful for my job switch. If I make the jump, I may have to go to NYC at the end of August, all surreptitious-like. But it will be to nerd out on such geeky shizz as what I just babbled about interminably.
In other news, somewhere in SF, j-money is wandering around with her family. If by some chance or circumstance, we wind up connecting, I will be ecstatic, and will undoubtedly spend the entire time begging her to resurrect her blog. Also, where the heck is Michael Kors when you need him?!?
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
twelve long months on the lam
I came home thoroughly prepared to write all about The Lance Armstrong Effect and how hot, hot heat can be the difference between life and death, and then, as I pulled into my garage, I stared in front of the headlights.
Something was not right, but it took me a few minutes to figure out what was not right. And just like that, it hit me: my mountain bike, bike of two flat tires and no rear suspension, bike which I have flown off of on more than one occasion, was gone. Nothing else was taken, not that there is much else you would want to take from my garage. But also, there was no sign that the garage had been broken into. That was the creepy part. So, now, I suppose my car could be stolen if whoever took my bike decides to strike again.
I called my relic of a landlord to tell him about it. After initially feeling a little badly about it, he started in with the well, you know, I am renting you that garage for a song. I was close to replying well, I am only living in this crack shack because you are renting it to me for a song, but decided not to say anything with all these bizarre feelings welling up in me.
Every once in a while, I want to move out of this place into a grown-up apartment, and certainly, incidents like this add to that. On the other hand, I love my neighborhood, I love the lack of work associated with not moving. And I keep telling myself this is temporary anyway. But then again, temporary is a state of mind- I've been saying this place was temporary for a long time now.
Something was not right, but it took me a few minutes to figure out what was not right. And just like that, it hit me: my mountain bike, bike of two flat tires and no rear suspension, bike which I have flown off of on more than one occasion, was gone. Nothing else was taken, not that there is much else you would want to take from my garage. But also, there was no sign that the garage had been broken into. That was the creepy part. So, now, I suppose my car could be stolen if whoever took my bike decides to strike again.
I called my relic of a landlord to tell him about it. After initially feeling a little badly about it, he started in with the well, you know, I am renting you that garage for a song. I was close to replying well, I am only living in this crack shack because you are renting it to me for a song, but decided not to say anything with all these bizarre feelings welling up in me.
Every once in a while, I want to move out of this place into a grown-up apartment, and certainly, incidents like this add to that. On the other hand, I love my neighborhood, I love the lack of work associated with not moving. And I keep telling myself this is temporary anyway. But then again, temporary is a state of mind- I've been saying this place was temporary for a long time now.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
strange days indeed
All afternoon, I have had a pit in my stomach. At first, I thought it was excitement, since the potential job switch is starting to show signs of really manifesting. Nothing happens swiftly in the corporate world though, so even if it comes to fruition, it will not be until September. But, perhaps the excitement and anxiety (hello, un-updated CV!) was having its way with me.
Then I thought the stomach churning had to do with an angry email I got from a cousin. He was infuriated that I had mentioned, at the family reunion, that he danced at my brother's graduation party (oh, and of note, this was over fifteen years ago, when my cousin was four) "all graceful like an ice skater." It was true, y'all. I could have gone further, and retold tales of how he also had a fondness for dressing up in saris and whatnot, but I really was not trying to embarass him. Of all the ways I could have put it, I did not think the ice skater remark was going to cause the San Andreas fault to rip open, but apparently it did. Out came the news that, guess what, I was not alone in being scarred by the family cruise. From this, I can only gather that my entire family is messed up, not just me.
Still with the stomach ache. Maybe it was the momentum getting ahead of me. It is like the adrenaline rush that arrives too early, before your legs are actually ready to run. There has been momentum towards The Goal, but I am one impatient pain in the a$$. So the progress has not felt fast enough. The uncertainty still plagues me, as I wonder if I have what it takes, if it is too late, or whether this will all work out.
All afternoon, though, the impending ulcer continued. It might appear that I'm manic, but actually, sometimes it just seems that life does switch gears on me frequently, one moment recklessly pleasant, the next careening downward. And this thing with my cousin and some other bad feelings combined to force me to ponder how many people are angry at me for reasons I could never have guessed. Am I really such a heartless b*tch? Oh, people, the answer is yes, because my final analysis led to this conclusion: suck it up and deal. All the same, my body was not cooperating with my mental state: this unsettled stomach thing was really starting to bother me.
And then I remembered: I haven't eaten anything since breakfast at 7.
Then I thought the stomach churning had to do with an angry email I got from a cousin. He was infuriated that I had mentioned, at the family reunion, that he danced at my brother's graduation party (oh, and of note, this was over fifteen years ago, when my cousin was four) "all graceful like an ice skater." It was true, y'all. I could have gone further, and retold tales of how he also had a fondness for dressing up in saris and whatnot, but I really was not trying to embarass him. Of all the ways I could have put it, I did not think the ice skater remark was going to cause the San Andreas fault to rip open, but apparently it did. Out came the news that, guess what, I was not alone in being scarred by the family cruise. From this, I can only gather that my entire family is messed up, not just me.
Still with the stomach ache. Maybe it was the momentum getting ahead of me. It is like the adrenaline rush that arrives too early, before your legs are actually ready to run. There has been momentum towards The Goal, but I am one impatient pain in the a$$. So the progress has not felt fast enough. The uncertainty still plagues me, as I wonder if I have what it takes, if it is too late, or whether this will all work out.
All afternoon, though, the impending ulcer continued. It might appear that I'm manic, but actually, sometimes it just seems that life does switch gears on me frequently, one moment recklessly pleasant, the next careening downward. And this thing with my cousin and some other bad feelings combined to force me to ponder how many people are angry at me for reasons I could never have guessed. Am I really such a heartless b*tch? Oh, people, the answer is yes, because my final analysis led to this conclusion: suck it up and deal. All the same, my body was not cooperating with my mental state: this unsettled stomach thing was really starting to bother me.
And then I remembered: I haven't eaten anything since breakfast at 7.
Monday, July 24, 2006
and we've come such a long, long way
Well. I get the distinct impression that the angst and general b*tchery is getting tired. Or maybe I have grown tired of it myself. Either way, as I struggled to fight the brain melt that comes from my apartment topping 90 degrees this weekend, I sense that writing about sitting around working all weekend is a bit banal.
Instead, let me go back to when AL was visiting. It may have seemed like his visit was ill-timed, and in some ways, it may have been. Still, it was great fun. On Saturday night, walking all the way home from Bill Graham, we could hardly speak, equal parts hoarse and dehydrated. We had also been standing for over four hours at this point, so the walk, while somewhat refreshing, also felt doubly lengthy. We stumbled into a convenience store around Market and Dolores, where the quirky cashier insisted on pointing out several times to AL: "You tall!" AL got a disturbingly large bottle of Gatorade, downing half of it before he had even paid for it. I got a bottle of Vitamin Water, and after taking a large gulp of it outside, felt 400% better: every once in a while, something as simple as the right beverage at the right moment can cause euphoria.
AL had to be fed, then, so we crawled into Kelly's Burgers. He sang the mighty burger's praises, but I remain uncertain of whether the burger was actually pure deliciousity on a bun, as he put it, or whether his dire hunger had biased him. As we were walking back to my apartment, AL took in the scene, and remarked, "Dude, your neighborhood is awesome!" He has visited four times now, but I think this is the first time he has really seen San Francisco through my eyes, appreciated it for the reasons I appreciate it. Some of this could be my fault: it takes a while to settle into a city such that you can show it to your friends in a way that adequately sums it up.
The next day, before he took his red-eye home, we drove to Marin along with two other friends. One of these friends had heard about something in the North Bay that she described as a hike/beer festival. This seemed suspect, but I figured if she delivered on the beer part, AL would be happy. When we got there, it was exactly what she'd described it to be. We hiked through a seemingly quiet trail with scenic views of Mt. Tam and then, WTFF, we came upon a raucous beer fest. I have been told that we are not allowed to divulge any further details about it, but I will share one of the pictures of the festival:
Even though I do not really drink beer these days, and am not particularly sporty enough to be hanging out with the crew that was assembled, I appreciated the randomness involved. I also appreciated that AL was in his element. In less than an hour, he had managed to polish off a small pitcher of Hefeweizen and then disappeared from sight. When we finally tracked him down three hours later, he was sitting at a table with new friends, playing a drinking game. When I informed him that we were leaving, he said, "Oh" and paused thoughtfully. He was actually trying to do the long division to devise some way that we could leave while he could remain behind. Coming out of his beer haze, realizing that he actually had no other means of returning home and that he was flying home that night, he said, much like a 7-year old would upon his mother calling him for dinner, to the table: "Uh... guys, I have to go!" It was equal parts pathetic and hilarious.
I have compared AL to a Golden Retriever before, and I stand by that. By the end of his visit, I was not weary of him. I was, however, run ragged. I remember reading that there are certain types of batteries that don't recharge well until you've drained them of all their power. Let's see if such is the case with my reserves.
Instead, let me go back to when AL was visiting. It may have seemed like his visit was ill-timed, and in some ways, it may have been. Still, it was great fun. On Saturday night, walking all the way home from Bill Graham, we could hardly speak, equal parts hoarse and dehydrated. We had also been standing for over four hours at this point, so the walk, while somewhat refreshing, also felt doubly lengthy. We stumbled into a convenience store around Market and Dolores, where the quirky cashier insisted on pointing out several times to AL: "You tall!" AL got a disturbingly large bottle of Gatorade, downing half of it before he had even paid for it. I got a bottle of Vitamin Water, and after taking a large gulp of it outside, felt 400% better: every once in a while, something as simple as the right beverage at the right moment can cause euphoria.
AL had to be fed, then, so we crawled into Kelly's Burgers. He sang the mighty burger's praises, but I remain uncertain of whether the burger was actually pure deliciousity on a bun, as he put it, or whether his dire hunger had biased him. As we were walking back to my apartment, AL took in the scene, and remarked, "Dude, your neighborhood is awesome!" He has visited four times now, but I think this is the first time he has really seen San Francisco through my eyes, appreciated it for the reasons I appreciate it. Some of this could be my fault: it takes a while to settle into a city such that you can show it to your friends in a way that adequately sums it up.
The next day, before he took his red-eye home, we drove to Marin along with two other friends. One of these friends had heard about something in the North Bay that she described as a hike/beer festival. This seemed suspect, but I figured if she delivered on the beer part, AL would be happy. When we got there, it was exactly what she'd described it to be. We hiked through a seemingly quiet trail with scenic views of Mt. Tam and then, WTFF, we came upon a raucous beer fest. I have been told that we are not allowed to divulge any further details about it, but I will share one of the pictures of the festival:
Even though I do not really drink beer these days, and am not particularly sporty enough to be hanging out with the crew that was assembled, I appreciated the randomness involved. I also appreciated that AL was in his element. In less than an hour, he had managed to polish off a small pitcher of Hefeweizen and then disappeared from sight. When we finally tracked him down three hours later, he was sitting at a table with new friends, playing a drinking game. When I informed him that we were leaving, he said, "Oh" and paused thoughtfully. He was actually trying to do the long division to devise some way that we could leave while he could remain behind. Coming out of his beer haze, realizing that he actually had no other means of returning home and that he was flying home that night, he said, much like a 7-year old would upon his mother calling him for dinner, to the table: "Uh... guys, I have to go!" It was equal parts pathetic and hilarious.
I have compared AL to a Golden Retriever before, and I stand by that. By the end of his visit, I was not weary of him. I was, however, run ragged. I remember reading that there are certain types of batteries that don't recharge well until you've drained them of all their power. Let's see if such is the case with my reserves.
Friday, July 21, 2006
I always feel like somebody's watching me
This post should probably be called Irrational Freakout Friday. Unfortunately, I can't think of any songs that have those lyrics in them (note to self: make it the single when you finally release that album that no one will ever buy). Oh, and this reminds me of something that I find utterly endearing about SJM- to this day, whenever we are hanging out and he makes any reference to any song ever known to man, he gives me a little nudge, nudge, wink, wink and is genuinely a little disappointed if I don't get it. How charming is that? Also, I like how he still hasn't figured out what a fraud I am, in every way.
Which brings us to the topic of freaking out. My coworkers always remark about how calm I am at work, and I always give them a look that asks, b*tches, have you ever even talked to me? Because I am not calm, not really. Maybe I give that impression, but believe me, I have an ulcer brewing underneath the surface. Actually, I do not really need to convince all of you of this- sadly for you, there is a front and center seat to my various meltdowns on this blog on aweekly daily frequent basis.
All week, I have been freaking out about working on The Goal. I've also been freaking out about not going to the gym (thanks, gramps, this meltdown, courtesy of you), which I have thankfully not kvelled about here much. And then today, I got an email that freaked me out. A friend of mine emailed me a link to a site that I frequent. I wanted to reply immediately with a b*tch please, I've been reading that site since he first launched it, I've been reading him before he even helped launch that other site. Did I reply with any of this b*tchiness? Hell to the no. Was it because I am not a b*tch? Hell to the no, again. I didn't write back because she does not know I have a blog. And now I am freaking out that she is going to somehow trace me back and then...
And then what? See, this puts the Irrational in Irrational Freakout Friday. Really, it's just a stupid, f*cking blog. And yes, there might be a few remarks that I'd rather not have tied back to me, but whatever. This is the part where I am not only irrational, but hypocritical to boot. I am not a fan of drama. In fact, I rather loathe it. It makes my stomach turn, and I run screaming away from any hint of it. Yet, here I am, creating it out of thin air.
Oh, and even though I quipped about it, I did not really work from home in my pajamas- I am actually fairly worthless if I am not washed and dressed. So, the only real difference between working from home and working from the office is that I can run out to drop off dry cleaning and the other occasional, quick errand. Oh, and I can eat a quarter of a box of Cheez-Its for lunch. But I did Spare the Air today, and did it without even raising my blood pressure on BART.
So it is time for a deep breath. Kneel at the marked line. Arch the back, and wait for the starting gun. On your mark, get set, go. The game is back on this weekend.
Which brings us to the topic of freaking out. My coworkers always remark about how calm I am at work, and I always give them a look that asks, b*tches, have you ever even talked to me? Because I am not calm, not really. Maybe I give that impression, but believe me, I have an ulcer brewing underneath the surface. Actually, I do not really need to convince all of you of this- sadly for you, there is a front and center seat to my various meltdowns on this blog on a
All week, I have been freaking out about working on The Goal. I've also been freaking out about not going to the gym (thanks, gramps, this meltdown, courtesy of you), which I have thankfully not kvelled about here much. And then today, I got an email that freaked me out. A friend of mine emailed me a link to a site that I frequent. I wanted to reply immediately with a b*tch please, I've been reading that site since he first launched it, I've been reading him before he even helped launch that other site. Did I reply with any of this b*tchiness? Hell to the no. Was it because I am not a b*tch? Hell to the no, again. I didn't write back because she does not know I have a blog. And now I am freaking out that she is going to somehow trace me back and then...
And then what? See, this puts the Irrational in Irrational Freakout Friday. Really, it's just a stupid, f*cking blog. And yes, there might be a few remarks that I'd rather not have tied back to me, but whatever. This is the part where I am not only irrational, but hypocritical to boot. I am not a fan of drama. In fact, I rather loathe it. It makes my stomach turn, and I run screaming away from any hint of it. Yet, here I am, creating it out of thin air.
Oh, and even though I quipped about it, I did not really work from home in my pajamas- I am actually fairly worthless if I am not washed and dressed. So, the only real difference between working from home and working from the office is that I can run out to drop off dry cleaning and the other occasional, quick errand. Oh, and I can eat a quarter of a box of Cheez-Its for lunch. But I did Spare the Air today, and did it without even raising my blood pressure on BART.
So it is time for a deep breath. Kneel at the marked line. Arch the back, and wait for the starting gun. On your mark, get set, go. The game is back on this weekend.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
learn to buck up
My friend T brought his baby into work today, and I had to pretend he was cute. That sucked. And also, for writing that just now, I have certainly obtained that one-way ticket to purgatory I've been pursuing for so long.
My head exploded and then, well, not to go all soft on y'all (by the by, since when did my east-coast a$$ develop this Texan habit), but I got saved. Here's the course of events:
See, I think it is important in life to have that balance. You need a few friends who goad you along with an amen to that or an oh, yeah, you were totally right. And you need other friends to put on the brakes with a whoa, calm the f@!# down, dude, it's not that bad and a stop talking, start working. The best thing is that B actually pulled off striking a balance between the two, which, I suppose, makes her something of a zen master.
Tomorrow- baking scones, which I have promised to my GBF. The promise was made to create an intentional obligation, because it is the only way I'll snap out of my baking funk. Oh, also tomorrow?Hardly Working from home. You know what that means- pajamas until noon!
My head exploded and then, well, not to go all soft on y'all (by the by, since when did my east-coast a$$ develop this Texan habit), but I got saved. Here's the course of events:
- Last night, read the headline that George W. vetoed the stem cell bill. Remember all that rage I was talking about yesterday? Doubled.
- Woke up this morning to hear that
an exercise in posturinga congressional hearing was held to argue about Global Warming. Can someone please explain to me why the same people that argue that Global Warming and evolution are theories can state with absolute certainty that an embryonic stem cell is the beginning of a sentient life? - Co-worker started talking to me about Israel bombing Lebanon.
- Head exploded. Had to walk outside the building for twenty minutes to calm down.
- Read e-mail from B. Have you ever seen a toddler walking around with a father? The toddler is still, well, toddling, and as a result, every once in a while, he wobbles a bit. Cue father, who by this time, has become expert in predicting such imminent falls, and gently, but decisively, pulls the back of his overalls or shirt to pull him upright again. B's email? A lot like that. I am walking without a slump now. Let's do this!
See, I think it is important in life to have that balance. You need a few friends who goad you along with an amen to that or an oh, yeah, you were totally right. And you need other friends to put on the brakes with a whoa, calm the f@!# down, dude, it's not that bad and a stop talking, start working. The best thing is that B actually pulled off striking a balance between the two, which, I suppose, makes her something of a zen master.
Tomorrow- baking scones, which I have promised to my GBF. The promise was made to create an intentional obligation, because it is the only way I'll snap out of my baking funk. Oh, also tomorrow?
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
I am a patriot
Okay, dudes, let's talk about some real shizz for a change.
First off, I have been thinking about something since going to a Pearl Jam concert with AL last weekend. Some time between getting crushed by the mosh pit and catching glimpses of Mike McCready throwing guitar picks to audience members, I realized that this music was making me downright angry. Enraged angry. The kind of anger that makes your ears feel hot, and you feel like you need to do something. Right now. What set off this anger? These lyrics:
Followed by these:
I am not going to lie- I do not talk a whole lot about this war, about politics in general, especially since George W. got another four years. Most of the time, I have this jaded cynicism that stabilizes me into a numb state, allowing me to focus on other things that might prove more productive. I have no mind for politics- or should I say I have no mind for political action? Or should I say I have no mind?
At any rate, as Pearl Jam was playing, and as countless frat boys were more interested in downing a Budweiser, I started pondering whether a song can really be a protest song if half of your audience does not even listen to the lyrics? But when I got home, I started thinking about something else entirely, that in some ways contradicts the first question: does war seep into your body? Does war permeate your existence such that it is there, in your subconscious?
To some extent, I think it does. Though I do not read all of the news stories, or watch the countless bombs or reports of the wounded or buried, I am aware that it is happening. And every once in a while, I feel a large wave of revulsion well up inside of me at the thought that this is my country. This is my country; I proudly claim it as mine when someone would prefer to term me according to my ethnicity. It's my country, and it represents me, and yet its actions at present could not be more opposed to my beliefs. That thought made me angry on Saturday night, but usually it causes me to feel like vomiting.
And usually, this is followed by an inconsolable sense of futility. And it is that sense that war seems to have on my day-to-day life. Sometimes, wars, or tragedies for that matter, can have a sense of urgency to them: you feel an increased drive to go out and grab your life by the reins, because you have an acute awareness of how precious and fleeting life is. But other times, times like now, when it's a war you never supported, that never seems to stop, and that never seems to have any hope of ending well, it causes complete and utter hopelessness.
I make everything about me. Maybe we all do, to some extent. And I am losing hope. I still have a lot to do, but I am losing the strength to strive, because it feels like Sisyphus rolling that rock up that hill. To what end? For how long? And is there any point to any of it? I think of all the protests, all the people who have raised their voice against war, and it's all for nothing. I kept thinking that, at some point, a fever pitch would be reached, and at such a point, change would occur. But it feels like we are well past that point now, and nothing has happened.
A part of me knows that the answer here is to let it go. Accept that the world has gone mad, but do not become inured. Accept that the big problems are beyond my control, but realize that I, too, have a small sphere, and in it, I have control and influence. I know this. I am trying very hard to live this. But I'm just thinking today about how current events do play a part in our daily lives. When I think back on the last fifteen years of my life, I can definitely point to how certain historical events tie into how I perceived reality. Is it the same for everyone, subconsciously?
The really pathetic part about this whole post is that I truly was planning to post about real shizz. I was reminded of genomes and the intersection of technology of science after reading an NYT article today. Maybe tomorrow.
First off, I have been thinking about something since going to a Pearl Jam concert with AL last weekend. Some time between getting crushed by the mosh pit and catching glimpses of Mike McCready throwing guitar picks to audience members, I realized that this music was making me downright angry. Enraged angry. The kind of anger that makes your ears feel hot, and you feel like you need to do something. Right now. What set off this anger? These lyrics:
- Medals on a wooden mantle, next to a handsome face
that the president took for granted, writing checks that others pay
Followed by these:
- It's the same every day and the wave won't break
Tell you to pray while the devil's on their shoulder
Laying claim to the take our soldiers save
Does not equate, and the truth's already out there
I am not going to lie- I do not talk a whole lot about this war, about politics in general, especially since George W. got another four years. Most of the time, I have this jaded cynicism that stabilizes me into a numb state, allowing me to focus on other things that might prove more productive. I have no mind for politics- or should I say I have no mind for political action? Or should I say I have no mind?
At any rate, as Pearl Jam was playing, and as countless frat boys were more interested in downing a Budweiser, I started pondering whether a song can really be a protest song if half of your audience does not even listen to the lyrics? But when I got home, I started thinking about something else entirely, that in some ways contradicts the first question: does war seep into your body? Does war permeate your existence such that it is there, in your subconscious?
To some extent, I think it does. Though I do not read all of the news stories, or watch the countless bombs or reports of the wounded or buried, I am aware that it is happening. And every once in a while, I feel a large wave of revulsion well up inside of me at the thought that this is my country. This is my country; I proudly claim it as mine when someone would prefer to term me according to my ethnicity. It's my country, and it represents me, and yet its actions at present could not be more opposed to my beliefs. That thought made me angry on Saturday night, but usually it causes me to feel like vomiting.
And usually, this is followed by an inconsolable sense of futility. And it is that sense that war seems to have on my day-to-day life. Sometimes, wars, or tragedies for that matter, can have a sense of urgency to them: you feel an increased drive to go out and grab your life by the reins, because you have an acute awareness of how precious and fleeting life is. But other times, times like now, when it's a war you never supported, that never seems to stop, and that never seems to have any hope of ending well, it causes complete and utter hopelessness.
I make everything about me. Maybe we all do, to some extent. And I am losing hope. I still have a lot to do, but I am losing the strength to strive, because it feels like Sisyphus rolling that rock up that hill. To what end? For how long? And is there any point to any of it? I think of all the protests, all the people who have raised their voice against war, and it's all for nothing. I kept thinking that, at some point, a fever pitch would be reached, and at such a point, change would occur. But it feels like we are well past that point now, and nothing has happened.
A part of me knows that the answer here is to let it go. Accept that the world has gone mad, but do not become inured. Accept that the big problems are beyond my control, but realize that I, too, have a small sphere, and in it, I have control and influence. I know this. I am trying very hard to live this. But I'm just thinking today about how current events do play a part in our daily lives. When I think back on the last fifteen years of my life, I can definitely point to how certain historical events tie into how I perceived reality. Is it the same for everyone, subconsciously?
The really pathetic part about this whole post is that I truly was planning to post about real shizz. I was reminded of genomes and the intersection of technology of science after reading an NYT article today. Maybe tomorrow.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
I just don't know what to do with myself
You know what is lovely?
Y'all, I do not know what is wrong with me. I really ought to calm down, go home and bake something, but it feels like everything I do is accompanied with guilt and a pit in my stomach. Work on The Goal, feel guilty about shirking urgent work issues. Work on urgent work issues, feel like a jacka$$ for not focusing on The Goal. Work on getting my mental health back in some capacity, feel guilty about indulging myself in such extravagance.
The most foolish part about wracking myself with such guilt is that it causes a state of complete paralysis. Indecision causes inertia. I am blogging right now because I am trying not to throw my monitor across the room. I know this does not make for very fun reading, and for this, I apologize most humbly. Believe me, I know I've been selfish in many capacities of late- selfish friend, selfish blogger, selfish reader (or non-reader in many cases, sorry), selfish hoarder of the happy things that have happened that I haven't bothered to write about at all. Self-absorbed, selfish, self, self, self. And now I am sick of myself, and stalled out.
- When you left work at 7 pm the night before with only two hours of meetings on your calendar for the following day, and come in at 8:30 in the morning to find your entire day gone, lost to the abyss of back-to-back meetings.
- When you are asked a question, answer it, and then get the sour puss face that suggests, ick, I can't believe I had to ask her this question- she's so beneath me, because you don't have a few fancy initials at the end of your name.
- When you recommend someone doesn't get hired, your manager decides to hire her anyway, and just to make life more twisted, makes her your direct report.
- When you get a rumbling in your stomach at 6:15 pm and suddenly realize it's because you only had time to eat a cup of yogurt between meetings all day.
- When you work from 8:30 to 6:15, and then feel like a total slacker because you are considering going home and sleeping, instead of finishing two hours more work or, heaven forbid, instead of working on The Goal.
Y'all, I do not know what is wrong with me. I really ought to calm down, go home and bake something, but it feels like everything I do is accompanied with guilt and a pit in my stomach. Work on The Goal, feel guilty about shirking urgent work issues. Work on urgent work issues, feel like a jacka$$ for not focusing on The Goal. Work on getting my mental health back in some capacity, feel guilty about indulging myself in such extravagance.
The most foolish part about wracking myself with such guilt is that it causes a state of complete paralysis. Indecision causes inertia. I am blogging right now because I am trying not to throw my monitor across the room. I know this does not make for very fun reading, and for this, I apologize most humbly. Believe me, I know I've been selfish in many capacities of late- selfish friend, selfish blogger, selfish reader (or non-reader in many cases, sorry), selfish hoarder of the happy things that have happened that I haven't bothered to write about at all. Self-absorbed, selfish, self, self, self. And now I am sick of myself, and stalled out.
Monday, July 17, 2006
I'm still alive
And that is really all I feel like writing. I’m still alive. Do I deserve to be? Is that the question? And if so, if so, who answers?
I can’t figure it out. Life just feels like a matter of survival right now. Why does it feel like I have just been trying to survive for the past year (and possibly quite longer than that)? Logically, I have absolutely no right to be just surviving. I make rent every month, I can pay my bills, I can go out to eat, I can drink Grey Goose & tonics, and still manage to save for The Goal. For that matter, I have the freedom, in so many senses of that word, to pursue The Goal. There are people in my life who love me. There are people in my life that even, inexplicably, like me. Most all of my family and friends are in good health. I wish I was as fortunate, as fortunate as me.
And yet, it feels like I’m barely getting by. How can that be? Today, I realized I could pay a sum of money, a sum I could easily part with, to meet a musician I’ve wanted to meet for over ten years. But I also realized that I need to get to work on The Goal, which was thoroughly shirked while AL was visiting.
I never thought I would be one of those people who have means, but no time. When I was young, it felt like there was all the time in the world, and it was destined to pass me by, minute by minute, marking all the opportunities I never had. And now, the opportunities are all within reach, and I watch them pass by, missed. Maybe it’s just a matter of age. Maybe it’s not that we get any wiser, but instead get an increased sense of urgency. Some things take precedent over others. We have to prioritize, make those difficult choices that feel a bit like sacrifice.
Once, explaining the process of living in San Francisco to W, I wrote to him:
But what I failed to tell him is that my conclusion, that conclusive feeling of potential energy, is elusive. It appears for a moment, a candle illuminating a thought for a brief second. Just when I think I see it, the flame goes out. And far more disturbing is the fact that I wrote that to him at least two years ago. Two years ago, and I’m still living like someone who is just trying to get by.
This is a problem, of course, with no solution. I could give up and be content; after all, it makes much more sense to live in the present tense. But having tasted a life wasted, I’m never going back again. My main fear is that this hopeless situation is what I'm trying to achieve. But I have to squelch that fear for now, because I can spare no more time on introspection.
I can’t figure it out. Life just feels like a matter of survival right now. Why does it feel like I have just been trying to survive for the past year (and possibly quite longer than that)? Logically, I have absolutely no right to be just surviving. I make rent every month, I can pay my bills, I can go out to eat, I can drink Grey Goose & tonics, and still manage to save for The Goal. For that matter, I have the freedom, in so many senses of that word, to pursue The Goal. There are people in my life who love me. There are people in my life that even, inexplicably, like me. Most all of my family and friends are in good health. I wish I was as fortunate, as fortunate as me.
And yet, it feels like I’m barely getting by. How can that be? Today, I realized I could pay a sum of money, a sum I could easily part with, to meet a musician I’ve wanted to meet for over ten years. But I also realized that I need to get to work on The Goal, which was thoroughly shirked while AL was visiting.
I never thought I would be one of those people who have means, but no time. When I was young, it felt like there was all the time in the world, and it was destined to pass me by, minute by minute, marking all the opportunities I never had. And now, the opportunities are all within reach, and I watch them pass by, missed. Maybe it’s just a matter of age. Maybe it’s not that we get any wiser, but instead get an increased sense of urgency. Some things take precedent over others. We have to prioritize, make those difficult choices that feel a bit like sacrifice.
Once, explaining the process of living in San Francisco to W, I wrote to him:
I came here for many reasons, but one of the overriding factors was escape. Relying upon that reflex, the flight response, is not a bad thing. It’s necessary. But in the end, wherever you go, there you are. I moved to San Francisco and pretended that I had never met Q; I lived in a state of survival. In my protective cocoon, I was happy, but it was the happiness that is associated with the relief of finding out that you have survived a nearly fatal experience. Again, I’m being overly dramatic. What happened between Q and I was so minor, should have been so insignificant, it is absurd how much of an effect it had on me, and how long it took me to be okay about it. One train hides another: you think you are okay, but then you are hit with the next train of inexplicable, illogical feelings.
And in my case, the thing with Q only turned out to be good. In the end, I wound with a kind of peace about my nature, how not everyone can fit into convention, and how that is not in fact tragic, but beautiful. And now, the possibilities feel infinite and everything seems to hold more promise.
But what I failed to tell him is that my conclusion, that conclusive feeling of potential energy, is elusive. It appears for a moment, a candle illuminating a thought for a brief second. Just when I think I see it, the flame goes out. And far more disturbing is the fact that I wrote that to him at least two years ago. Two years ago, and I’m still living like someone who is just trying to get by.
This is a problem, of course, with no solution. I could give up and be content; after all, it makes much more sense to live in the present tense. But having tasted a life wasted, I’m never going back again. My main fear is that this hopeless situation is what I'm trying to achieve. But I have to squelch that fear for now, because I can spare no more time on introspection.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
up here in my tree
My homey AL has been in town since yesterday, so I have been non-blogging due to that. He does not know I have a blog, and even if he did, he would demand that I stop all blogging activities while he is visiting. He has, after all, put a stop to most The Goal activities, because, as he put it, "Dude, hello? I'm here!" in this tone that suggests that should be more than sufficient rationale.
For the most part, though, these types of demands are unspoken. He is just the sort of person who compels everyone to give him their undivided attention. And unlike the terrors of the Cruise of last week, AL exudes nothing but positivity. Call yourself old? "You're not even old, dude!" Call yourself out of shape? "Dude, whatever, you just got to get back into the swing of things, you can do it." Unsure if you've taken him to a good restaurant? You get an unsolicited: "Dude, this food is awesome!" It's like a cross between having a five-year old, a motivational speaker, and a golden retriever all mixed up and embodying a 6-foot tall dude who just passed 30.
Even though I got tired of that kind of endless optimism when we were roommates, I will certainly not grow weary of it in the next three days, after such a stretch of doubts and uncertainties. A good homey bounding around the city with me could be just the right prescription.
For the most part, though, these types of demands are unspoken. He is just the sort of person who compels everyone to give him their undivided attention. And unlike the terrors of the Cruise of last week, AL exudes nothing but positivity. Call yourself old? "You're not even old, dude!" Call yourself out of shape? "Dude, whatever, you just got to get back into the swing of things, you can do it." Unsure if you've taken him to a good restaurant? You get an unsolicited: "Dude, this food is awesome!" It's like a cross between having a five-year old, a motivational speaker, and a golden retriever all mixed up and embodying a 6-foot tall dude who just passed 30.
Even though I got tired of that kind of endless optimism when we were roommates, I will certainly not grow weary of it in the next three days, after such a stretch of doubts and uncertainties. A good homey bounding around the city with me could be just the right prescription.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
I wonder if you can pick up my accent on the phone
Braving the ever unavoidable tension that develops between us on the phone, I called my parents this morning. My mother's uncle and his family live in Khar in Mumbai. Though I knew that most of my family in Mumbai are elderly these days, and rarely take the trains, I still wanted to make sure. I wanted to make sure more for my mother's sake than my own. I've only met my mother's uncle three or four times. But he means a lot to my mother, because of her complicated history.
When my mother, the oldest of five children, was five years old, her young and stylish foi was leaving Ahmedabad to visit Mumbai. My mother eagerly tagged along, equally excited to be accompanying her favorite foi and to be visiting the big city. When they arrived, they stayed with my mother's kaka, the eldest living member of the family. Kaka had only one child, a son, but was the most affluent member of my mother's family. While my grandfather was working at the bank and making just enough money to make ends meet for his family, Kaka was running a small business and living more comfortably.
There she was, just a child of five, taken by her foi's youthful exuberance and by the pretty bungalow in which Kaka lived. She could not have known that her affection for the place was leading to an irreversible decision. Kaka called my grandfather during her visit and suggested that she stay in Mumbai. My grandfather, never one to disrespect codes of conduct, could not take issue with his older brother's edict. And so it was that my mother wound up raised in Mumbai by her uncle and aunt.
My mother only talked about her childhood to insist that things had not been easy for her living in Mumbai. Kaka was well off, but also disciplined. He did not believe in spending money to display one's opulence. So my mother would insist that she had lived austerely as a child. She seemed to think that, if she could only convince everyone she had not been spoiled in Mumbai, all the distance that had developed between her and the rest of her family would be bridged.
But it never was. All my masis and mamas emigrated to the US because my mother sponsored them. But still, my mother was one unit, and they, all four of them together, were a separate unit apart. It was not anyone's fault. I would not even say they loved each other any less. But the easy interactions, the intimacy that comes from having played and fought together as children, those could never be retrieved.
India, for me, has largely become a place of the past. Most of my close family no longer lives in India, and those who remain are elderly. During the cruise, my grandfather and I quarreled at midnight about his inclination to move back to his country after over 25 years of living here. He wants to be close to his remaining brothers and sisters, to spend his last days in the place of his youth. But there are so few people that would actually be able to look after him there that my logical side rails against the idea. My grandmother, who is now 80 herself, is in no shape to be keeping house in India in the style that my grandfather has in mind (i.e. without any paid help). When my grandfather and I reached a critical impasse, when my clunky Gujarati frustrated me such that all I could do was shake my head, he looked at me steadily and said in English, "You need to become less attached."
But of course, the young do not grow less attached, they become more attached. And my foolish grandfather, in his ever-presence in every major moment in every one of my cousin's lives, in his attempts to reverse the coldness that he showed his children with warmth for all of his grandchildren, has only succeeded in making us believe that we will all go on like this indefinitely- fighting and complaining, but always together.
Then something like the news today occurs and everything snaps into sharp focus: life never stands still and does not wait for you to realize it is precious before snatching it away. And even if we should become less attached, we do not. Instead, we reach out, hoping to embrace those far away and maybe even gone, drawing them close to our heart for an all-too-brief moment. So, I knew my mom's arms would be outstretched towards Mumbai this morning. Luckily, this time, she heard the crackle and the fuzz of Kaka's 90-year old voice on the line, assuring her he was okay. But I know others were not as lucky.
When my mother, the oldest of five children, was five years old, her young and stylish foi was leaving Ahmedabad to visit Mumbai. My mother eagerly tagged along, equally excited to be accompanying her favorite foi and to be visiting the big city. When they arrived, they stayed with my mother's kaka, the eldest living member of the family. Kaka had only one child, a son, but was the most affluent member of my mother's family. While my grandfather was working at the bank and making just enough money to make ends meet for his family, Kaka was running a small business and living more comfortably.
There she was, just a child of five, taken by her foi's youthful exuberance and by the pretty bungalow in which Kaka lived. She could not have known that her affection for the place was leading to an irreversible decision. Kaka called my grandfather during her visit and suggested that she stay in Mumbai. My grandfather, never one to disrespect codes of conduct, could not take issue with his older brother's edict. And so it was that my mother wound up raised in Mumbai by her uncle and aunt.
My mother only talked about her childhood to insist that things had not been easy for her living in Mumbai. Kaka was well off, but also disciplined. He did not believe in spending money to display one's opulence. So my mother would insist that she had lived austerely as a child. She seemed to think that, if she could only convince everyone she had not been spoiled in Mumbai, all the distance that had developed between her and the rest of her family would be bridged.
But it never was. All my masis and mamas emigrated to the US because my mother sponsored them. But still, my mother was one unit, and they, all four of them together, were a separate unit apart. It was not anyone's fault. I would not even say they loved each other any less. But the easy interactions, the intimacy that comes from having played and fought together as children, those could never be retrieved.
India, for me, has largely become a place of the past. Most of my close family no longer lives in India, and those who remain are elderly. During the cruise, my grandfather and I quarreled at midnight about his inclination to move back to his country after over 25 years of living here. He wants to be close to his remaining brothers and sisters, to spend his last days in the place of his youth. But there are so few people that would actually be able to look after him there that my logical side rails against the idea. My grandmother, who is now 80 herself, is in no shape to be keeping house in India in the style that my grandfather has in mind (i.e. without any paid help). When my grandfather and I reached a critical impasse, when my clunky Gujarati frustrated me such that all I could do was shake my head, he looked at me steadily and said in English, "You need to become less attached."
But of course, the young do not grow less attached, they become more attached. And my foolish grandfather, in his ever-presence in every major moment in every one of my cousin's lives, in his attempts to reverse the coldness that he showed his children with warmth for all of his grandchildren, has only succeeded in making us believe that we will all go on like this indefinitely- fighting and complaining, but always together.
Then something like the news today occurs and everything snaps into sharp focus: life never stands still and does not wait for you to realize it is precious before snatching it away. And even if we should become less attached, we do not. Instead, we reach out, hoping to embrace those far away and maybe even gone, drawing them close to our heart for an all-too-brief moment. So, I knew my mom's arms would be outstretched towards Mumbai this morning. Luckily, this time, she heard the crackle and the fuzz of Kaka's 90-year old voice on the line, assuring her he was okay. But I know others were not as lucky.
Monday, July 10, 2006
I'm coming up only to hold you under
"Perhaps you can write to me."
My self-possession flares up for a second;
This is as I had reckoned.
"I have been wondering frequently of late
(But our beginnings never know our ends!)
Why we have not developed into friends."
I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark,
Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
My self-possession gutters: we are really in the dark.- T.S. Eliot
It seems as though I've been on both sides of this passage. Once, to Q, I cynically remarked that it seemed life is destined to be a cycle of getting disappointed by someone and disappointing someone myself. It is true on some level. I hold people to standards I cannot meet myself. And so it is hypocritical to be annoyed with others' lack of self-awareness.
I've been thinking about self-possession because it exists, for me, on two levels. The first is the flare that happens when a friend observes something about me, and it becomes absurdly apparent that they have failed to see the full picture. A remark like "oh, but you never wanted those things in your life" irks me, but then my self-possession is something of a salve, that comforts me with the notion that the statement is flawed from the start. So few of my friends, at this point, know my history in any real sense. I can count on one hand the number of people who have known me for a decade or more.
The other level is not as comfortable. It's more of this sense that everyone wants something of me, that there are all these reaching hands out grabbing things. It sounds so ungrateful, and I suppose it is to some extent. Maybe it's my upbringing in the cold Northeast, where it takes years to cultivate the seed of a friendship. It contrasts starkly with my family upbringing, which could be roughly summed up into down with brown. Any South Asian couple in our sparsely populated Northeast region was appended to our family. But something about the cold, unfriendly place where I was raised seeped into my blood. I was skeptical of all of my parents' friends. I saw how they banded together some times, but also how they quietly stabbed each other in the back at others. Watching my mother navigate amongst the other aunties, I would weigh in my mind whether this could technically even be classified as a friendship. These women seemed to be seeking out a community, but friendship was another matter entirely.
Something about that has always stayed with me. Maybe I would like to be a little less suspicious, a little more welcoming. But maybe not. A part of me feels that flare of self-possession is also a form of self-protection. Sometimes, people really are latching onto you. They have their own, completely benign reasons: maybe they have no one else, maybe they feel they know me better than they really do, definitely they feel closer to me than I feel to them.
But I am treading water at the moment, and I am getting tired. When you feel that way, and someone is reaching for you, you have two choices. Let them, and you both drown. Or, and live with the guilt: it's every soul for yourself out at sea.
Friday, July 07, 2006
over my shoulder a piano falls
Sorry, I still have nothing of substance to say. In some ways, I am still digesting a lot of what transpired during the family cruise- why I felt so suddenly isolated, why I was fraught with all sorts of insecurities that usually do not plague me. But actually, I need to do what I've become increasingly adept at doing- sweeping such questions out of my mind in order to siphon that thought into work I need to do, and do well. For now, it's an unexamined life that I need to maintain. I take comfort in the fact that I've lived under the microscope for such a long time that a year or two on auto-pilot is unlikely to steer me down a dangerous path. Also, there is the whole analysis/paralysis idiom.
Anyway, I dug out this silly little music-related meme thingamajob. The deal is that you have to answer each question with either an album title or a song title (or an artist name, if you really must). Mine are not particularly witty, but I bet you all could come up with better (that sound is the gauntlet hitting the ground):
1) Say hello:
2) Are you male or female?
3) Describe yourself:
4) How do some people feel about you?
5) How do you feel about yourself?
6) Exes:
7) Current crush/SO:
8) Describe what you want to be:
9) Describe where you live:
10) What would you ask for if you had just one wish?
11) Share a few words of wisdom:
12) Any general advice:
13) Share a favorite pickup line:
14) And if that doesn't work?
15) Now say goodbye:
None of you are tagged necessarily, but it would certainly be fun from a purely selfish perspective to see how others would respond. I would like to do this same exercise but answer with songs that really answer these questions, i.e the entire song from start to finish captures an answer to the question. But that requires a more thoughtful undertaking than I am capable of on a Friday afternoon.
p.s. In case yesterday's post had left any doubt regarding what an utter geek I am, this will seal the deal. I have been swooning over a Joss Whedon video that's going around the net. I dare you not to swoon!
Anyway, I dug out this silly little music-related meme thingamajob. The deal is that you have to answer each question with either an album title or a song title (or an artist name, if you really must). Mine are not particularly witty, but I bet you all could come up with better (that sound is the gauntlet hitting the ground):
1) Say hello:
- Let's Dance by David Bowie
2) Are you male or female?
- Just a girl by No Doubt
3) Describe yourself:
- Dissident by Pearl Jam
4) How do some people feel about you?
- All Wrong by Morphine
5) How do you feel about yourself?
- I just don't know what to do with myself by The White Stripes
6) Exes:
- Gone for Good by The Shins
7) Current crush/SO:
- I looked all over town by The Magnetic Fields
8) Describe what you want to be:
- Anything I want by Eve
9) Describe where you live:
- Valencia by The Decembrists
10) What would you ask for if you had just one wish?
- Please please please let me get what I want this time by The Smiths
11) Share a few words of wisdom:
- Live and let die by Paul McCartney
12) Any general advice:
- Someday you will be loved by Death Cab for Cutie
13) Share a favorite pickup line:
- I bet you look good on the dancefloor by Arctic Monkeys
14) And if that doesn't work?
- Why can't I be you? by The Cure
15) Now say goodbye:
- Let Me Go by Cake
None of you are tagged necessarily, but it would certainly be fun from a purely selfish perspective to see how others would respond. I would like to do this same exercise but answer with songs that really answer these questions, i.e the entire song from start to finish captures an answer to the question. But that requires a more thoughtful undertaking than I am capable of on a Friday afternoon.
p.s. In case yesterday's post had left any doubt regarding what an utter geek I am, this will seal the deal. I have been swooning over a Joss Whedon video that's going around the net. I dare you not to swoon!
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