I have nothing due tomorrow, and I've been feeling very burnt out lately, so I didn't do homework today. Instead, I started reading The Origin of Humankind.
Yes, it's sort of a strange choice for pleasure reading, but my soc class this year has gotten me very interested in early people. I mean early, early people. People who'd just barely got out of the trees, and sat around and ate and shat and shagged. And walked.
Walking was the distinctive feature of the first humans, and even though the hunting and gathering and increase in brain size and invention of tools all came later, Mr. Richard Leakey has chosen the act of walking as the major distinctive milestone capable of earning our ancestors the (coveted) title "human". It was just that crazy, requiring drastic anatomical changes--of an unmitigated variety. But these apey people were still very apey. For a long, long time.
Anyway, not that this information is particularly revolutionary. My interest is more engulfed in the people that stopped being so apey and started being more human. Making crap, setting things on fire. I'd like to go back and see an early, Mesopotamian sort of society. Not to see what they're doing, but to watch them interact. I want to watch early interacting people. I want to see people start becoming confused about love, without generations of previous love stories to tell them what's happening. I want to watch them begin to develop poetry... when instinct and society began to give way to intense emotional terrain.
I sometimes have daydreams, as all people must, about interacting with ancient people. My most frequent scenario involves taking an ancient person, or maybe an ancestor from a time not so far back, like Roman times, and playing music. Beautiful music. Strange music. Modern music.
Of course, my intended outcome would surely not happen.. rather than this person's eyes widening in awe, and proclamations of love spilling forth, I think it is more likely that their eyebrows would furrow, and this person would ask what all the noise is about. Modern music is a bit more complex, and noisy. It might sound more like a chaotic scene in the market than a beautiful arrangement of instrumentation.
Not that I'm killing off that daydream. I find it far too pleasant. Sort of like the one where I take my great-great-great-grandfather, William Henry Wheeler, the civil war soldier who died in battle five days before the war ended, somewhere in Virginia...and drive him around in a car, much to his terror.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
oh, for the love of cheese.
For the past week or so, I have been craving fresh mozzarella.
It started mildly, but over the past few days I've been indulging in all-out fantasies: I see myself going to the Co-Op, walking through the chilled aisles, and stopping in front of the cheese. I pick up the ball of fresh mozzarella from its countryesque picnic basket, among the other cheeses. On the way back to my apartment, I stop at the Bonjour bakery and select a loaf of French bread. Now I see myself at the kitchen table, which I, of course, imagine into place (as we don't have one yet)... slicing the bread, dousing each slice with olive oil, adding a basil leaf, and topping with a slice of tomato, and an equally thick slice of fresh mozzarella. It is beautiful, undeniable food.
My fixation may have started with the capriccio I had at Artopolis something like a month ago, when some friends and I decided to just eat, and not think about money. This was after spending all day in Belmont, and having eaten dinner already at the Chicago Diner (very good vegetarian restaurant, with surprisingly good seitan gyros). Now, two or three hours later, we were eating again. I began with a bowl of lentil soup--one of the most comforting things in the world. This was served with an continuous supply of (freshly-baked) bread. Then came the capriccio. Finally I ordered an absolutely beautiful chocolate mousse, held in cake-like shape by a chocolate coating. I could only get half-way through it, having reached my breaking point, and I brought the rest back for Upekha. But I'm here this summer, and I will finish that chocolate mousse.
Whatever happens with men in my life, the love of food lives on.
It started mildly, but over the past few days I've been indulging in all-out fantasies: I see myself going to the Co-Op, walking through the chilled aisles, and stopping in front of the cheese. I pick up the ball of fresh mozzarella from its countryesque picnic basket, among the other cheeses. On the way back to my apartment, I stop at the Bonjour bakery and select a loaf of French bread. Now I see myself at the kitchen table, which I, of course, imagine into place (as we don't have one yet)... slicing the bread, dousing each slice with olive oil, adding a basil leaf, and topping with a slice of tomato, and an equally thick slice of fresh mozzarella. It is beautiful, undeniable food.
My fixation may have started with the capriccio I had at Artopolis something like a month ago, when some friends and I decided to just eat, and not think about money. This was after spending all day in Belmont, and having eaten dinner already at the Chicago Diner (very good vegetarian restaurant, with surprisingly good seitan gyros). Now, two or three hours later, we were eating again. I began with a bowl of lentil soup--one of the most comforting things in the world. This was served with an continuous supply of (freshly-baked) bread. Then came the capriccio. Finally I ordered an absolutely beautiful chocolate mousse, held in cake-like shape by a chocolate coating. I could only get half-way through it, having reached my breaking point, and I brought the rest back for Upekha. But I'm here this summer, and I will finish that chocolate mousse.
Whatever happens with men in my life, the love of food lives on.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
On Being That Dreaded V-Word
No, not virgin.
"Emmy has become a vegetarian," my mother explains from across the dinner table, as she points to the broccoli quiche. She says this like I have become a butterfly.
"Oh," my grandmother says and nods. She acknowledges this like I have become a butterfly.
Somewhere around 3 months in, it became comfortable to refer to myself as a vegetarian. Less time than that just seemed pretentious, especially since it started from a New Years Eve resolutionesque whim with my sister. We decided on a year, and left some things unspecified.
(DIGRESSION:
Seafood, for instance. I used it as a tentative crutch, making the transfer to tofu and seitan easier. Of course, now that the rest of the meat is gone, the few times I do end up eating seafood leave me feeling weird. Now, having read about the environmental problems with gathering seafood, I can start phasing it out completely. Did you know it's been predicted that we'll run out of certain types of seafood within our lifetime, due to such extensive farming? So I read.)
Having such a label on you is interesting. Because, of course, the connotation goes far beyond a simple dietary abstinence. As one journeys into this world of new eating rules, one also unwittingly picks up an assemblage of assumptions that tack on to one's meat-free plate.
Hippie! Tree-Hugger! Extremist Terrorist-Coddling Pot-Smoking Most-Likely-Gay God-Hating Liberal!*
Of course, people don't really say these things--not usually, anyway. But it doesn't mean you don't see it in their eyes when they pull it out of you, as many people will. Ordering the fettuccine alfredo and trying as inconspicuously as possible to ask for no chicken, you smile tepidly and look out the window, but then it happens, as you knew it would:
"Are you a vegetarian?"
"Oh," you say. "Uh, yeah."
"Oh," they say. Because you're the kid the city changed. You've metamorphosed. Into a butterfly. Or maybe a moth.
I don't blame these reactions, really. I used to do the same thing, have the same flash of thoughts. But on the other side of the equation, it looks different. I'm not going home at night to burn American flags. I'm just not eating turkey anymore.
Of course, there's also the pugnacious fringe population of non-vegetarians, the militants who look both enthusiastic and wild when they see your plate is free of chicken. "So," they begin, "I see you're a vegetarian. Why?" This question is electrically charged, and it makes me groan inwardly. Not because I find the debate useless, but because someone has just tagged me as the enemy, and the goal is now to win the ensuing argument. This person doesn't honestly want to understand my position - this person wants to skewer me with counterarguments.
There is usually such a feeling of active hostility mixed with enjoyment in that question - "Why?" - that I can't help but feel offensive by not making them more comfortable. I am so careful that I'm likely to pad my explanation with "Well-You-Know"s and "I-Mean.."s.
What if I'm a vegetarian because I'm looking out for my heart? Or I don't eat enough vegetables to begin with? It seems so illogical to be feisty with someone who's abstaining from something. Imagine saying, "So, you're a virgin. Why's that?" or "That last piece of chocolate cake - I see you're not eating it. Are you trying to call me fat? Don't you think it's a bit hypocritical to drink hot chocolate and not eat chocolate cake?"
Of course, my persuasion does lean a bit toward a source of ethics. I like the idea of ending as few lives as possible in order to sustain my own. If I can eat tofu instead of beef, all the better. I can also point you toward the health benefits and the environmental costs. I can do all of these things. But more than likely I'll just be eating my broccoli quiche in silence. So how did you, my friend, get to be so offended?
...
Oh, hell. Maybe I just ought to go all out. Next dinner I go to, I'm bringing charts and graphs.
*I'm sure Bill O'Reilly has said this at some point.
"Emmy has become a vegetarian," my mother explains from across the dinner table, as she points to the broccoli quiche. She says this like I have become a butterfly.
"Oh," my grandmother says and nods. She acknowledges this like I have become a butterfly.
Somewhere around 3 months in, it became comfortable to refer to myself as a vegetarian. Less time than that just seemed pretentious, especially since it started from a New Years Eve resolutionesque whim with my sister. We decided on a year, and left some things unspecified.
(DIGRESSION:
Seafood, for instance. I used it as a tentative crutch, making the transfer to tofu and seitan easier. Of course, now that the rest of the meat is gone, the few times I do end up eating seafood leave me feeling weird. Now, having read about the environmental problems with gathering seafood, I can start phasing it out completely. Did you know it's been predicted that we'll run out of certain types of seafood within our lifetime, due to such extensive farming? So I read.)
Having such a label on you is interesting. Because, of course, the connotation goes far beyond a simple dietary abstinence. As one journeys into this world of new eating rules, one also unwittingly picks up an assemblage of assumptions that tack on to one's meat-free plate.
Hippie! Tree-Hugger! Extremist Terrorist-Coddling Pot-Smoking Most-Likely-Gay God-Hating Liberal!*
Of course, people don't really say these things--not usually, anyway. But it doesn't mean you don't see it in their eyes when they pull it out of you, as many people will. Ordering the fettuccine alfredo and trying as inconspicuously as possible to ask for no chicken, you smile tepidly and look out the window, but then it happens, as you knew it would:
"Are you a vegetarian?"
"Oh," you say. "Uh, yeah."
"Oh," they say. Because you're the kid the city changed. You've metamorphosed. Into a butterfly. Or maybe a moth.
I don't blame these reactions, really. I used to do the same thing, have the same flash of thoughts. But on the other side of the equation, it looks different. I'm not going home at night to burn American flags. I'm just not eating turkey anymore.
Of course, there's also the pugnacious fringe population of non-vegetarians, the militants who look both enthusiastic and wild when they see your plate is free of chicken. "So," they begin, "I see you're a vegetarian. Why?" This question is electrically charged, and it makes me groan inwardly. Not because I find the debate useless, but because someone has just tagged me as the enemy, and the goal is now to win the ensuing argument. This person doesn't honestly want to understand my position - this person wants to skewer me with counterarguments.
There is usually such a feeling of active hostility mixed with enjoyment in that question - "Why?" - that I can't help but feel offensive by not making them more comfortable. I am so careful that I'm likely to pad my explanation with "Well-You-Know"s and "I-Mean.."s.
What if I'm a vegetarian because I'm looking out for my heart? Or I don't eat enough vegetables to begin with? It seems so illogical to be feisty with someone who's abstaining from something. Imagine saying, "So, you're a virgin. Why's that?" or "That last piece of chocolate cake - I see you're not eating it. Are you trying to call me fat? Don't you think it's a bit hypocritical to drink hot chocolate and not eat chocolate cake?"
Of course, my persuasion does lean a bit toward a source of ethics. I like the idea of ending as few lives as possible in order to sustain my own. If I can eat tofu instead of beef, all the better. I can also point you toward the health benefits and the environmental costs. I can do all of these things. But more than likely I'll just be eating my broccoli quiche in silence. So how did you, my friend, get to be so offended?
...
Oh, hell. Maybe I just ought to go all out. Next dinner I go to, I'm bringing charts and graphs.
*I'm sure Bill O'Reilly has said this at some point.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
the country mouse and the city mouse
When we're young, we all hear some variant of that familiar tale of the country person and the city person. For me, it was the country mouse and the city mouse. Longing for excitement, the country mouse decides to spend a day in the big city. The city mouse, likewise, heads into the country for a peaceful day of relaxation outside of the daily bustle.
I don't really remember what happens. I think a hawk tries to eat the city mouse. A carriage probably almost runs over the country mouse. At the end, both return to their respective dwellings and heave little mouse-sighs of relief.
In short, the lesson the reader learns is this: Stay where you are.
After a period of about 9 short months, I think I may now be a bona fide City Mouse.
I almost lost my mind on the train yesterday.
I thought getting a Good Seat just meant window seat. I like to look out the window, that's it. I don't need to be anywhere in particular - the front of the train or the back, the left side or right. Just give me a window, and I will have a good seat. Or so I thought... before I met the guy behind me.
Strictly speaking, we didn't actually meet. I don't know his name. So let's call him Big Fat iPod Guy.
The trip started out fine--I didn't even notice Big Fat iPod Guy. I did notice Happy Redhead Guy, who immediately shoved a Diet Coke in front of my face. "Want a pop?" he asked. "Oh," I said, "No thanks."
"Are you sure?" He held it ever closer.
But Happy Redhead Guy was fine with me, because after he downed two bags of Peanut M&Ms and his "pop" (Is my rural-Midwestern sensibility really so destroyed that the word "pop" makes me squirm?), he and his trusty copy of "Awakening the Buddha Within" hit the snack car.
And at least he offered some of his nutritive stash, which falls into the category of Socially Acceptable. Big Fat iPod Guy, well... he didn't offer anything, nor did he disappear quite so conveniently. His presence became known to me just a few pages into the book I was reading. It became known because he sang. If that's what you want to call it. I prefer "caterwauled".
This sort of thing is amusing. For 5 minutes. After an hour, it's Really Annoying. Two hours in, you're really starting to feel unhinged. After three hours, you're ready to gauge out your eyes. You're envisioning all kinds of ways to hurt BFiPG. You see yourself with a lead pipe, Clue-style, and you hear the satisfying noise it elicits as it makes contact with his head. But that's not enough. You want to make him sorry. Really sorry.
As the four-hour mark came and went, I found myself curled in the fetal position, taking over where HRG would have been sitting, clenching my teeth.
A more seasoned City Mouse might have leaned over and politely--no, impolitely--asked BFiPG to discontinue his musical interpretations of Nas and P. Diddy. I, however, am fiercely non-confrontational. BFiPG will drive me crazy, but he will do so in my own mind. I will die resisting the need to make him stop. So I almost do. I curl fetally, sweating and clutching the opposite sides of my shirt, needing to hurt him and not letting myself.
Every so often, BFiPG would raise my hopes cruelly by stopping. He would let seconds, sometimes even minutes slip by untainted. Then he would start again. "I have to tell yooo-oo-oou, when you wear that, it turns me oonnn, it turns me oonnnnn."
It was the worst R&B ever. Or maybe it was just typical R&B.
When the train finally made it to Battle Creek, an hour and a half late, after several stops on the tracks for every conceivable reason, I felt like I'd never undergone such torture.
As a City Mouse, you forget that sometimes you have to be stuck in situations you cannot flee from. The city makes fleeing an endlessly available opportunity. The El runs quickly, and stops somewhere new every few minutes. People are coming, going, leaving, getting on. The longest bus ride is half an hour long.
Home sweet home.
I don't really remember what happens. I think a hawk tries to eat the city mouse. A carriage probably almost runs over the country mouse. At the end, both return to their respective dwellings and heave little mouse-sighs of relief.
In short, the lesson the reader learns is this: Stay where you are.
After a period of about 9 short months, I think I may now be a bona fide City Mouse.
I almost lost my mind on the train yesterday.
I thought getting a Good Seat just meant window seat. I like to look out the window, that's it. I don't need to be anywhere in particular - the front of the train or the back, the left side or right. Just give me a window, and I will have a good seat. Or so I thought... before I met the guy behind me.
Strictly speaking, we didn't actually meet. I don't know his name. So let's call him Big Fat iPod Guy.
The trip started out fine--I didn't even notice Big Fat iPod Guy. I did notice Happy Redhead Guy, who immediately shoved a Diet Coke in front of my face. "Want a pop?" he asked. "Oh," I said, "No thanks."
"Are you sure?" He held it ever closer.
But Happy Redhead Guy was fine with me, because after he downed two bags of Peanut M&Ms and his "pop" (Is my rural-Midwestern sensibility really so destroyed that the word "pop" makes me squirm?), he and his trusty copy of "Awakening the Buddha Within" hit the snack car.
And at least he offered some of his nutritive stash, which falls into the category of Socially Acceptable. Big Fat iPod Guy, well... he didn't offer anything, nor did he disappear quite so conveniently. His presence became known to me just a few pages into the book I was reading. It became known because he sang. If that's what you want to call it. I prefer "caterwauled".
This sort of thing is amusing. For 5 minutes. After an hour, it's Really Annoying. Two hours in, you're really starting to feel unhinged. After three hours, you're ready to gauge out your eyes. You're envisioning all kinds of ways to hurt BFiPG. You see yourself with a lead pipe, Clue-style, and you hear the satisfying noise it elicits as it makes contact with his head. But that's not enough. You want to make him sorry. Really sorry.
As the four-hour mark came and went, I found myself curled in the fetal position, taking over where HRG would have been sitting, clenching my teeth.
A more seasoned City Mouse might have leaned over and politely--no, impolitely--asked BFiPG to discontinue his musical interpretations of Nas and P. Diddy. I, however, am fiercely non-confrontational. BFiPG will drive me crazy, but he will do so in my own mind. I will die resisting the need to make him stop. So I almost do. I curl fetally, sweating and clutching the opposite sides of my shirt, needing to hurt him and not letting myself.
Every so often, BFiPG would raise my hopes cruelly by stopping. He would let seconds, sometimes even minutes slip by untainted. Then he would start again. "I have to tell yooo-oo-oou, when you wear that, it turns me oonnn, it turns me oonnnnn."
It was the worst R&B ever. Or maybe it was just typical R&B.
When the train finally made it to Battle Creek, an hour and a half late, after several stops on the tracks for every conceivable reason, I felt like I'd never undergone such torture.
As a City Mouse, you forget that sometimes you have to be stuck in situations you cannot flee from. The city makes fleeing an endlessly available opportunity. The El runs quickly, and stops somewhere new every few minutes. People are coming, going, leaving, getting on. The longest bus ride is half an hour long.
Home sweet home.
Friday, May 11, 2007
uh
So, I just had a dream that I worked at the White House. And I was with my friend walking through the corridor, when we saw an unlikely character: Osama bin Laden. Just.. sitting there. Hanging out.
We felt like we needed to approach the situation with considerable caution. I attacked him (it made sense?).. I basically beat the crap out of him. With my fists. And he didn't fight back.
I was confused, so I stopped and watched as he gathered himself to stand back up. He looked tired.
Prepared for an ideological battle, I finally said, "So, why'd you do it?" Meaning not turn himself in, because apparently no one had discovered he was there yet (which might be my dream self speaking toward the competency of our current administration). I meant September 11.
But he answered it the first way.
"I realized," he explained, "that killing thousands of innocent people was wrong. I now believe in a god of peace."
If only.
We felt like we needed to approach the situation with considerable caution. I attacked him (it made sense?).. I basically beat the crap out of him. With my fists. And he didn't fight back.
I was confused, so I stopped and watched as he gathered himself to stand back up. He looked tired.
Prepared for an ideological battle, I finally said, "So, why'd you do it?" Meaning not turn himself in, because apparently no one had discovered he was there yet (which might be my dream self speaking toward the competency of our current administration). I meant September 11.
But he answered it the first way.
"I realized," he explained, "that killing thousands of innocent people was wrong. I now believe in a god of peace."
If only.
fears
Of the things that I fear, self-delusion, or, more pertinently, the realization of years of self-delusion, tops my list.
I figure maybe writing that down might be relief enough. And maybe a cup of tea.
I figure maybe writing that down might be relief enough. And maybe a cup of tea.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
social appropriateness
Every day is not a good day for me to speak Mandarin.
Today, in class, my teacher chose me to translate what he was saying. I didn't notice at first, because I was deep in thought, considering the nightmare I had last night. (When I get too hopeful in my life, I like to check myself with nightmares... about 50-year-old men replacing people who are not 50-year-old men, and about sinister elevators that independently decide to drop me from dizzying heights.)
When I realized he was waiting on me, and growing slightly impatient, I asked him to repeat the phrase. Something along the lines of "San si bei.." something. In Chinese, the word for "glass" (as in, drinking glass) sounds similar to the word for "hundred". Cup is "bei" (pronounced "bay") with first tone, hundred is "bai" (pronounced "bye") with third tone.
Struggling to translate, I got confused and said something along the lines of "340? No.. 3..4..hundred?" I was obviously not confident in my answer. I had the furrowed eyebrows, the questioning tone.
The rest of the class sat and waited, as you do when someone doesn't understand, waiting for the professor to say it more slowly, explain it, or turn to someone else.
"No," someone said. I turned to look at him. His tone was a mixture of things. Disgusted, as though I should know better. Irritable, as though I was wasting valuable time. Mildly shocked, as though the phrase was so easy that mistranslation would have been impossible for anyone else.
"Okay?" I said. He correctly translated the phrase. "Three or four cups."
Later, walking back from class, I tried to figure out if I felt regret over not studying for class yesterday. Whether maybe it was better not to look like an idiot.
Every day is not a good day for me to speak Mandarin. Yesterday I burst into Tyler's room, midday, and said, "I don't want to go to China." He looked up. "Okay," he said, "Sit down. Talk." So I talked. And I don't, I don't want to go to Beijing. Beijing is gray, and steel, and industrial, and gray. It is more than that, but not where I want to be. He looked at me. "You don't have to go to China," he said. "You don't have to take Chinese. You only have to do what you want to do."
I don't regret not studying Chinese then.
Last night, I rolled up my pant legs and took my bike and rode east to the Point, then north to the wharf, alongside the downtown, as I had done the day before. I watched as the city, first distant, small, and cloaked in fog got closer and then stood tall beside me, watched as the sun went down and the buildings lit up in billions of lights. No stars, but still a kind of urban night sky.
I watched joggers and bikers buzzing past me, with things like "Motorola" scrawled across their backsides. Young couples sitting at the rocks alongside the lake, the woman standing between the man's legs, her hands on his shoulders, saying something, pointing somewhere. Amateur photographers, some girls practicing a dance, a group of well-groomed businessmen strolling near the giant yacht stationed in the marina. I breathed in the smell of dead fish, eclipsing any city smell. I watched unruffled geese and ducks walk alongside the people.
And I rode back in the darkness, thinking of how the lake makes me feel calm like nothing else can. And getting back into my room, changing my clothes, and stretching, I felt the strength in my legs.
I don't regret not studying Chinese then.
Now I write.. and I don't regret not studying Chinese now.
Today, in class, my teacher chose me to translate what he was saying. I didn't notice at first, because I was deep in thought, considering the nightmare I had last night. (When I get too hopeful in my life, I like to check myself with nightmares... about 50-year-old men replacing people who are not 50-year-old men, and about sinister elevators that independently decide to drop me from dizzying heights.)
When I realized he was waiting on me, and growing slightly impatient, I asked him to repeat the phrase. Something along the lines of "San si bei.." something. In Chinese, the word for "glass" (as in, drinking glass) sounds similar to the word for "hundred". Cup is "bei" (pronounced "bay") with first tone, hundred is "bai" (pronounced "bye") with third tone.
Struggling to translate, I got confused and said something along the lines of "340? No.. 3..4..hundred?" I was obviously not confident in my answer. I had the furrowed eyebrows, the questioning tone.
The rest of the class sat and waited, as you do when someone doesn't understand, waiting for the professor to say it more slowly, explain it, or turn to someone else.
"No," someone said. I turned to look at him. His tone was a mixture of things. Disgusted, as though I should know better. Irritable, as though I was wasting valuable time. Mildly shocked, as though the phrase was so easy that mistranslation would have been impossible for anyone else.
"Okay?" I said. He correctly translated the phrase. "Three or four cups."
Later, walking back from class, I tried to figure out if I felt regret over not studying for class yesterday. Whether maybe it was better not to look like an idiot.
Every day is not a good day for me to speak Mandarin. Yesterday I burst into Tyler's room, midday, and said, "I don't want to go to China." He looked up. "Okay," he said, "Sit down. Talk." So I talked. And I don't, I don't want to go to Beijing. Beijing is gray, and steel, and industrial, and gray. It is more than that, but not where I want to be. He looked at me. "You don't have to go to China," he said. "You don't have to take Chinese. You only have to do what you want to do."
I don't regret not studying Chinese then.
Last night, I rolled up my pant legs and took my bike and rode east to the Point, then north to the wharf, alongside the downtown, as I had done the day before. I watched as the city, first distant, small, and cloaked in fog got closer and then stood tall beside me, watched as the sun went down and the buildings lit up in billions of lights. No stars, but still a kind of urban night sky.
I watched joggers and bikers buzzing past me, with things like "Motorola" scrawled across their backsides. Young couples sitting at the rocks alongside the lake, the woman standing between the man's legs, her hands on his shoulders, saying something, pointing somewhere. Amateur photographers, some girls practicing a dance, a group of well-groomed businessmen strolling near the giant yacht stationed in the marina. I breathed in the smell of dead fish, eclipsing any city smell. I watched unruffled geese and ducks walk alongside the people.
And I rode back in the darkness, thinking of how the lake makes me feel calm like nothing else can. And getting back into my room, changing my clothes, and stretching, I felt the strength in my legs.
I don't regret not studying Chinese then.
Now I write.. and I don't regret not studying Chinese now.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Sunday, May 06, 2007
sharing different heartbeats
much ado about the heartbeat.
epicenter that it is,
carrying Me to myself through
roads beaten down often but still
illuminated some nights
with wine. and friends
so close that, on nights spent together,
we end up crawling upon
each other and collapsing. emotionally,
then physically, like a
pile of cats.
and other nights, by myself
on a bus with noise all around but i
see myself outside walking, free from
the stains of my circumstance, and
i see another figure
taller, close behind
and that's Me too.
the light extends to mornings
walking on the midway, lilacs and
fertilizer making the atmosphere
smell like air. real air. blue air.
those mornings my legs are
different; they are curious.
the middle of me, at times
clogged with the art around me
and the art elsewhere, seeks
dormancy rather than an honest
exploration of what's true:
the road is dirt, and unused.
my potential is potentially slight.
i make it to my fingertips and not
beyond. i can touch only what
touches me back, but i buy a
plane ticket and
hope that with the
power of hours spent sorting books and
shelving them, i will be able to
stand on the edge of an ocean and
have another figure,
taller, close behind,
and that will be Me too.
i am not sure of all things, or
even many, except that i'm an animal
of considerable caution in love with
complications that reflect me as
simple.
and that i hate to be painted by
another who assigns me two dimensions
and traps me in an image. i may be
closer to a void.
and that it's 2:50 and i
will now end, not a poem,
clearly.
just a
thing.
epicenter that it is,
carrying Me to myself through
roads beaten down often but still
illuminated some nights
with wine. and friends
so close that, on nights spent together,
we end up crawling upon
each other and collapsing. emotionally,
then physically, like a
pile of cats.
and other nights, by myself
on a bus with noise all around but i
see myself outside walking, free from
the stains of my circumstance, and
i see another figure
taller, close behind
and that's Me too.
the light extends to mornings
walking on the midway, lilacs and
fertilizer making the atmosphere
smell like air. real air. blue air.
those mornings my legs are
different; they are curious.
the middle of me, at times
clogged with the art around me
and the art elsewhere, seeks
dormancy rather than an honest
exploration of what's true:
the road is dirt, and unused.
my potential is potentially slight.
i make it to my fingertips and not
beyond. i can touch only what
touches me back, but i buy a
plane ticket and
hope that with the
power of hours spent sorting books and
shelving them, i will be able to
stand on the edge of an ocean and
have another figure,
taller, close behind,
and that will be Me too.
i am not sure of all things, or
even many, except that i'm an animal
of considerable caution in love with
complications that reflect me as
simple.
and that i hate to be painted by
another who assigns me two dimensions
and traps me in an image. i may be
closer to a void.
and that it's 2:50 and i
will now end, not a poem,
clearly.
just a
thing.
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