Yokohama, AAA, and the usual catastrophe

Basic Tuesday fare: shrilled into consciousness by a couple of alarm clocks (who invented those? Sadists, no doubt), classes, libraries, things to read, skim, "learn," etc. Excellent debate re: Harlem Renaissance early in the evening. Drive home (thankfully a ridiculously short trip) and realize things are not as they should be, vehicle-wise.

Rear passenger tire has apparently given up on life and committed some sort of hara-kiri. Beyond flat. Such a joy on a snowy winter's night with the raging temperatures sinking somewhere below 10-15 degrees fahrenheit (sp?).

Oh, and I (quite) obviously don't know how to change a tire myself. Thus AAA is summoned.

Here I play the part of Damsel in Distress.

Decide that despite late evening hour and hostile weather, should not put off calling until morning when undoubtedly every poor soul in Indy is begging to have their frost-ridden batteries jumped before the morning commute. Thus, Aaron pleasantly dispatches a rescue. Pretty routine for me, considering the horrific karma (which I half-jokingly have taken to spelling with a "c") that surrounds my poor automobile.

Tire eventually fixed, though some "genius" German engineering makes said spare replacement as tedious as possible. Sent my Knight In Shining Armour (read: man in full firefighter suit driving white AAA truck) off with a handful of cash tip and the instructions to get himself some hot cocoa at the Starbucks down the block. Do not wish bad carma to begin affecting me personally.

Next dilemna? Finding local retailer that sells my particular style of Yokohama tire. A thrilling enterprise to be undertaken tomorrow morning, of course. Just another day in the life...

Quote of the Hour

Translating Christianity to Judaism
re: Virgin Mary

"I don't get it. I'm sorry, but when Jews get pregnant, there's usually some dick involved. Basically. That's how it works."

Thirsty Thursdays

What a day. I mean it, WHAT A DAY.

Funeral. Cemetery. Reception. Family. Best friends. Hangin' with the priest. Mahi Mahi (hell yes).

Awkward confessions from Diana. Dr. Shitty MIA for the first time in at least a year. Hilarity via cell phone to my brother, who swears to "get me back... GOOD." Also told me I was "such an asshole." LOVE IT.

Indy downtown. Elbow Room. More best friends. Lip gloss... don't worry, thanks to the Allison Mitchell Xmas Endowment, all of my folks are sporting what a certain foxy Brooklyn blogger refers to as "lip crack," indicating its addictive quality. Ummm... hot. we totally took a photo of me, wes, elise all glossing up at the bar simultaneously. Don't worry about it, it's fine: we all sport our own individual hues (tint #'s 1136, 1137, 1138... SICK!)

New friend. Who is foxy (love it). Who (damn him) also noted that my gas cap was not attached to my car. Embarrassing? Mmmhmm. Doesn't even begin to cover it. Don't fret: I drove for an entire hour with my hinged gas door in place and the cap itself hanging over the side, dangling in the 12 degree Indiana breeze. That is completely mortifying, I'll have you know, especially when said new friend has Wes phone me to inform me of my sadly/pathetically waving/misplaced fuel thing. Oh God. It never stops.

I am "an asshole," what can I tell you?

p.s. that last sentence is totally a Kevin Kline movie line. Thus: a) he is my favorite actor of all time. I mean it. b) he went to IU (woot woot) c) is he gay? (Not to impose stereotype/judgment. To be honest, that would get him at least another 25 points in my book... but how is it that I have no idea, only vague heated speculation?) d) ran out of ideas. fuck that. KEVIN KLINE FOR PRESIDENT.

... and don't worry, aforementioned film quote is from none other than French Kiss. love it. know it by heart, damn right I do.

Oh my God. I need to go to sleep.

Damn Damn Damn

Irony: fighting with my computer/printer in order to print article (for tomorrow's class) about people who hate machines/industrialization. [No wonder those bastards founded nudist colonies.]

Am not amused.

"C'est drole, la vie..."

Current Fantasy, aka What I Wish I Was Doing Right Now:

1. Beach, preferably Riviera. Yacht, even better.
2. Topless
3. Gelato
4. Very Large Hat and Sunglasses
5. Cocktail
6. Poetry

Instead I Am:

1. Indiana
2. Winter
3. Homework
4. Bills
5. Sweatpants/T/White Socks (gross... white athletic socks unacceptable unless one is actually participating in athletic event)

**Not complaining. Well... not exactly. But imagine, just imagine that Mediterranean seascape, sun-warmed and salt-crusted... and so... so... perfect.

Good Things

1. therapy
2. teaching Drew how to drive in icy conditions
3. Drew admitting that I am "way more fun to drive with than Mom"
4. best friends who love to sing
5. singing
6. finding our favorite Broadway songbook... and Simon/Garfunkle* sheet music that I didn't even know we had
7. life discussions fueled by Jane Austen
8. my electric blanket
9. Lee Radziwill
10. this month's W cover (hot)
11. finally (finally) refilling my washer fluid... and again experiencing a clean windshield
12. breaking out of my "pasta is for peasants" rule and eating spaghetti... which was awesome

*Favorite Musicians Of All Time

Post-It Collection

It is hard to imagine a civilization without onions. (Julia Childs)

For the taste of the fruit
is the tongue's dream,
& the apple's red
is the passion of the eye. (Erica Jong)

The shadow is bluest when the body that cast it has vanished. (Rafael Alberti)

The notion of emptiness generates passion. (Theodore Roethke)

Evidence of life:
that we could meet for the first time,
open our scars & stitches to each other,
weave our legs around
each other's patchwork dreams
& try to salve each other's wounds
with love -
if it was love. (Erica Jong)

(She died of internal weeping.) (Eleanor Ross Taylor)

Two habits have taught me how to keep back my tears: the habit of concealing my thoughts, and that of darkening my lashes with mascara. (Colette)

I sing of autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.
The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves. (D.H. Lawrence)

... melancholia is about as happy a state as any other, I suppose. (Zelda Fitzgerald)

TRUTH HAS VERY FEW FRIENDS AND THOSE FEW ARE SUICIDES. (Antonio Porchia)

I am writing this from the end of the world. (Henri Michaux)

She had forgotten how the August night
Was level as a lake beneath the moon,
In which she swam a little, losing sight
Of shore; and how the boy, who was at noon
Simple enough, not different from the rest,
Wore now a pleasant mystery as he went,
Which seemed to her an honest enough test
Whether she loved him, and she was content.
So loud, so loud the million crickets' choir...
So sweet the night, so long-drawn-out and late...
And if the man were not her spirit's mate,
Why was her body sluggish with desire?
Stark on the open field the moonlight fell,
But the oak tree's shadow was deep and black and secret as a well. (Edna St. Vincent Millay)

I shall create! If not a note, a hole. If not an overture, a desecration. (Gwendolyn Brooks)

And the wind lifting the song, and interrupting it,
Tossing it up under the clouds. (Ezra Pound)

I tug at life by its leaf hem:
will it stop for me, just once,
momentarily forgetting
to what end it runs and runs? (Wislawa Szymborska)

I swayed like a wave between the life I dreamed and the changing dream I lived. (Adonis)

O grasses of sleep, bitterly sweet grasses of oblivion... (Nijole Milauskaite)

Who knows what true loneliness is - not the conventional word but the naked terror? To the lonely themselves it wears a mask. The most miserable outcast hugs some memory or some illusion. (Joseph Conrad)

Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing. (Edmund Burke)

Strangers' faces hold no secrets because the imagination does not invest them with any. But the face of a lover is an unknown precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment. (James Baldwin)

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight in the friendship of fools? (Lord Byron)

Oh my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, ina dawn of cornflowers. (Sylvia Plath)

I shall call myself Alice and play croquet with the flamigoes. In Wonderland everyone cheats and love is Wonderland isn't it? (Jeanette Winterson)

I will not talk to my own darkness, I promised myself, closing the door to the Other. A fall from the third floor hurts as much as a fall from the hundredth. If I have to fall, may it be from a high place. (Paulo Coehlo)

then I shall need wings. only wings. (Joan Kaplinski)

What's writing really about? It's about trying to take fuller possession of the reality of your life. (Ted Hughes)

Since he did not know the bar he felt an unaccustomed uneasiness and wondered what the faces around him hid. (James Baldwin)

Am now spending all of 10 minutes a day at home. Room is a wreck, or (more specifically) what I am dubbing a "shit-sty." Laundry heaping in gargantuan mound. Bed unmade, which is horrific and were I still in elementary school, I would be forced to pay my mother a quarter. Per day. (Diana, as ever, a scheming businesswoman).

Long night at Starbucks, where (as ever) I was the fortunate eavesdropper to a slew of strange conversations... including a lengthy chat with two 7-yr-old girls who just saw High School the Musical (the concert, which apparently only includes the songs, not the actual play). I was informed not only of the girls' progress in gymastics class but also of the "cuteness" of the lead singer/actor while his signature dance moves were demonstrated. Mom #1 informed me that he is the "John Travolta" of her daughter's generation. Wow.

Oh, and here's a fun little bit of ebay entertainment, courtesy of my brother and roommate:
http://cgi.ebay.com/ebaymotors/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=250073931155&ssPageName=ADME:B:EF:US:11

Hope to God that Todd (see above link) is single. I like 'em intellectual, built Ford Tough... or whatever Toyota says.

Be Here to Love Me

A cold evening, a warm bed. Dr. MLK Jr. Day. Wool socks. A sweatshirt bearing the name of the summer camp I credit for giving me a relentless love of group song-and-dance revelry. Norah Jones faintly murmuring in the background. The first snow of the year.

Torn between the idea of a warm shower (admittedly lazy despite sporting the hairstyle equivalent of a certain zoo species, cockatoo perhaps) and further lounging. Vague plans for Board Game Night, somewhat doubtful as person with whom BGN is planned was under the influence of a significant inhalation of nameless narcotic substance when plans were discussed... a couple hours ago. Not exactly waiting by the phone.

Spent the morning flying high on nitrous oxide during a lengthy dentistry experience. Lots of needles, which I didn't really notice after slipping into absolute bliss with my bright pink gas mask perched cheerily on my nose. Best way to start the day, especially a Monday.

Free as a Bird

It's raining, it's pouring, I spent the afternoon snoring. Well, not really. But I did enjoy and luxurious 5 hour nap. A little slice of paradise between 1000 thread ct sheets. Love it.

Revisited the age old Bloomington tradition of sake bombing last evening. A sea of brash/arrogant colts fans collided with hordes of out-of-place, out-of-luck chiefs supporters following the game, and downtown was bathed by the tide of drunken spectators. An excellent time to herd into Mikado and order shots. Round after round of them, in fact. Note: this is the beauty of these early games - afternoon dedicated to beer and the mesmerizing passing ability of a certain Mr. Manning to be followed by an early sushi attack. Top it off with a visit to our most notorious (and often frequented) watering hole, and you've got the recipe for one entertaining Saturday night.

A brigade of Chicagoans heralding from Kansas City made said game the reason for a brief, alcohol saturated road trip... their spunky poutiness somehow charming once their team was completely desolated by those in the blue and white. A makeshift slumber party went underway chez moi, with a certain female Chiefs superfan passed out betwixt my sheets and two stowaways dozing in my basement. My early morning efforts went completely unnoticed by all as I slipped away to my 8 am shift at the ATL. What can I say, God favors the hungover.

Oh my god, and I made cucumber sandwiches today. Mmmmm. Amazing.

Oh, and had classic run-in with anonymous (never caught his name. thank god.) douchebag at the bar who insisted we were some sort of destined/star-crossed lovers. (my words, not his) Grabs my hand as I search for my coat and drags me 3 yds away to insist, "You have to dance with me. I came here for you, baby" or some such blithering nonsense. Asshole. For once in my life, I did not simply smile/give the demure brush-off. I told him a) he was rude; b) a stranger - the audacity of physically yanking someone's arm before any sort of even remote introduction has taken place!; c) does that kind of thing normally get him any results? A sexy, healthy confidence is one thing, aggression is another. Or, to quote French Kiss, "Rude and interesting are not the same thing."

Interesting day-after roll-call to assess the damage of the night before. Lots of moaning and swearing off of alcohol... "at least for a while." Everyone else's misery only fueled my glorious superiority complex, as I realized that I was the only one out of 15 or so people who didn't have the need to guzzle a glacier and suck down a bottle of Advil. Bless these hangover-free Sundays - they are so rare.

finished the book. excellent.

Lucy wanted to have the life of a fictional character and her constant whiplash between champagne and tap water amde her seem straight out of a Fitzgerald novel.

We went to the Krispy Kreme doughtnut factory where the Hot Doughnuts Now sign was burning its pink neon light. From the other side of a glass window we watched the doughnuts rolldown the conveyer belt and then drop into the boiling channel of oil where they bobbed, little doughy life preservers, and then were scooped up and rolled through the wall of liquid sugar. They came steadily, in a slow and orderly fashion, sailing off ona higher belt, rounding the corner out of sight. The life cycle of doughnuts was enormously comforting. We watched them for about half an hour.
"God," Lucy said with a sort of reverence, "imagine how great this would be if you were stoned."

It takes a certain amount of effort to be miserable and another kind of effort to be happy, and I was willing to do the work of happiness.

I wanted to keep her as much for myself as for her. We had a wonderful time that visit. Even when Lucy was devastated or difficult, she was the person I knew best in the world, the person I was the most comfortable with. Whenever I saw her, I felt like I had been living in another country, doing moderately well in another language, and then she showed up speaking English and suddenly I could speak with all the complexity and nuance that I hadn't even realized was gone. With Lucy I was a native speaker.

Ice Cream

It was a spring day, the sort that gives people hope: all soft winds and delicate smells of warm earth. Suicide weather. Daisy had killed herself the week before. They probably thought we needed distraction. Without Daisy, the staff-to-patient ration was higher than usual: five patients, three nurses.

Down the hill, past the magnolia already losing its fleshy blossoms, the pink turning brown and rotten along the edge, past the paper-dry daffodils, past the sticky laurel that could crown you or poison you. The nurses were less nervous on the street that day, spring fever making them careless - or perhaps the staff-to-patient ratio was a more comfortable one for them.

The floor of the ice cream parlor bothered me. It was black-and-white checkerboard tile, bigger than supermarket checkerboard. If I looked only at a white square, I would be all right, but it was hard to ignore the black squares that surrounded the white ones. The contrast got under my skin. I always felt itchy in the ice cream parlor. The floor meant Yes, No, This, That, Up, Down, Day, Night - all the indecisions and opposites that were bad enough in life without having them spelled out for you on the floor.

A new boy was dishing out cones. We approached him in a phalanx.

"We want eight ice cream cones," said one of the nurses.

"Okay," he said. He had a friendly, pimply face.

It took a long time to decide what flavors we wanted. It always did.

"Peppermint stick," said the Martian's girlfriend.

"It's just called 'peppermint,'" said Georgina.

"Peppermint dick."

"Honestly." Georgina was revving up for a compliment.

"Peppermint clit."

The Martian's girlfriend got a nurse nip for that.

There were no other takers for peppermint, chocolate was a big favorite. For spring they had a new flavor, peach melba. I ordered that.

"You gonna want nuts on these?" the new boy asked.

We looked at one another. Should we say it? The nurses held their breath. Outside, the birds were singing.

"I don't think we need them," said Georgina.

Susanna Kaysen

Cheers

Like any good sitcom, we have a group of "regulars," a cluster of immediately identifiable (sp? fuck. used to be good at this.) characters with signature hairstyles and, admittedly, lots of black turtlenecks (ginsberg lives!)... everyone knows our names. Any day now, I'm convinced, either Woody Allen or perhaps Rhea Perlman will come prancing in and make a predictable, albeit comical comment. You'll have that.

It's been home to discussions of life goals, sketchpads and wrinkled cocktail napkins littered with scrawled dreams, and the best and juiciest gossip sessions. Meaningless flirtations, drinks bought and accepted across the room from strangers, uncomfortable encounters with a drunk or twelve (and, inevitably, all of his lackluster friends. who should know better.)

We never get carded, which is still somewhat of an honor at this phase in our lives. It's the after-work watering hole, the ESPN dream zone, and the beer flows like ambrosia from Mt. Olympus itself. Have never been someone who enjoys repetition or predictability, but something about this place, "our place," has its comforts.

Was writing my holiday thank you cards today in Starbucks, in a much different part of town, enjoying a warm cafe with others who share a similar appreciation for muted music and a good read. [Side note: Despite popular belief, some people in Indianapolis are, in fact, quite literate.] Was a relaxing break, a respite from laundry, work, humdrum details that so often clutter my life and clog my mind with their endless frustrations, those "small things," as some put it.

Am reading Truth and Beauty, the most recent (I believe) work of writer Ann Patchett of Bel Canto fame. Not a fiction work, surprisingly, but a memoir in memory of her beloved friend and fellow writer (poet) Lucy Grealy. Am often reminded, as I plunge through the chapters, of my relationships with my nearest and dearest... Patchett describes a life so familiar (in a distant, somewhat surreal way) of my college days, that moveable feast of my past life... every day I watch it receding from my immediate existence, friends succumbing to "normalcy" and men and engagement rings and professional ladders to god-knows-where. Lives I do not myself lead, nor wish to at this point... the cheese stands alone, I say.

Fatigued. And weary of the time tomorrow when I again say goodbye to a dear companion and bid her farewell halfway across the world.

The Tree, the Lamp

The tree grows old in the tree, it is summer.
The bird leaps beyond birdsong and is gone.
The red of the dress illuminates and scatters
Away, in the sky, the lading of old sorrow.

O fragile country,
Like the flame of a lamp carried out-of-doors,
Sleep being close in the world’s sap,
Simple the beating of the shared soul.

You too love the moment when the light of lamps
Fades and dreams into daylight.
You know it’s the darkness of your own heart healing,
The boat that reaches the shore and falls.

– Yves Bonnefoy

Bienvenue

Began my day with intent of penning something witty, something fitting of the black-out drunk front that ushered in the new year, a glitzy tale of self-deprecating anecdotes and mischeviously unkind observations... something to give voice to the garden variety New Year's Eve soiree: champagne, hors d'oevres, "sink the biz," someone pouring champagne out the second story window... tu sais.

Walk home this morning amidst some sort of run/walk/5K/who knows with friendly police officers waving runners through intersections and me in my slutty leftovers parading home in the drizzle. You'll have that. The streets were empty, bereft of the revelrous merrimakers of the night before and not without their own sense of dreary loneliness. I passed one girl walking, wearing (unlike me) an outfit she had specially selected for her morning tasks. I smiled at her and she bashfully glanced the other direction. I must have been a sight.

Perhaps in a subconcious effort to atone for my evening engagements, I spent most of today catching up on recent cinema releases, all of which, I'll have you know, were absolutely wrenching. Zooey, Tsotsi, and An Inconvenient Truth rounded out the afternoon, and the possibility for V for Vendetta approaches while I turn my attention to my heaping laundry basket. Mmmmhmmm. Lighthearted, delightful fare.

Which brings me to my next thought: those responsible for writing the synopsis/teasers found on the back of dvd cases should be brought to swift and immediate justice for crimes against language. If I read anything along the lines of "triumph of the human heart/courage/compassion" or "a touching tale of redemption/love/sacrifice" again I may lose control and run screaming into the nearest supermarket. I dare someone to write actual truth and leave out any mention of the words "dreams" and "heartwarming." Is completely ridiculous. And insulting.

Left feeling drained, both physically and emotionally. Lack of sleep (awoke this morning at 5 am in my coat, passed out on a couch. Any memories previous to said awakening a complete blur if at all present) certainly a factor. Interesting how I've longed for an opportunity like today for so many months, the liberty of enjoying a hangover and "vegging out," as they say. Slight spin of a headache prevented much reading - oh how that stack is growing! - but fear not, I shall prevail upon it tomorrow. Must enjoy these last few days of freedom before I shackle myself once again to more scholarly commitments and sell my soul to the devil for a research paper or two.

I think this is going to be a good year. There are stars on the rise.