My grandmother turns 70 next month and while I'm in Wisconsin/Minnesota we're throwing her a party. I asked her for some pictures so I can put together a sort of "retrospective" montage presentation of her life and she sent some doosies!
Let me first say my mother had some charming ensembles in the 80s.
Let me say next that hair was out of control in the 60s, as were games people played in their homes.
Continuing, I was perusing through old albums I keep online and found one from Spring 2005, the first semester of my junior year at Lang, when I lived in Chelsea next to some truly amazing male graduate students. Aside from the very bad decisions I made about pen tattoos while Aurelia and I were roommates, memories of 300 W. 20th St., Suite 4F had me giggling aloud. They kept me sane, fostered my preference for Stella Artois, and occasionally indulged my more naive insecurities.
Bitzy and I watched the 2004 election unravel over a couple of Heinies and lots of quiet simmering (from him. I've always been loud when angry). Simon was just... everything I've always wanted, and yet nothing I ever wanted? Yes. He was me, but male and more intelligent. And Canadian. Steve put chairs on his head and talked me through a shuddering suspicion that a close friend was using hard drugs again. JBrews and I sat in his room and talked American history and his love for de Tocqueville. Brian introduced me to Kaleena, and I got to help out with their wedding. They also took me out for Pommes Frites and laughs when I found out an old high school crush and the brother of a friend of mine was killed in a ridiculous car accident back in Moreno Valley. Scott, my dear Scott. He carried me down 8th Ave. when he stepped on both of my flip flops and broke them on the way to have lunch for Steve's birthday (and note, I am not now, nor was I then, light-weight, by any definition)...
Sometimes I look at photos I take and think "God, I completely ruined that shot." I don't claim to have any kind of talent, but I have to think I managed to capture the essence of that year, of how much those guys meant to me. I can't say that they're some of my best friends, but for those I still talk to, I'm happy I do. Each, in his own way, contributed to this experience that's been New York, and they'll be the ones I hold special places for. Each, in his own way, is a resplendent font of talent and intellect and humor that to this day I can't adequately articulate. If for whatever reason we lose contact in the future, I can only wish them the very best successes and contentment.
Also: "Two Gentlemen of Verona: the Musical" was the best show I've ever seen. I'm sad that they never recorded the '05 version, but Oscar did such a wonderful rendition of "Calla Lily Lady" that when I listen to Raul Julia's original, I can hear (and see) Oscar. Good enough.
"Two Gents" might even trump "The Last Days of Judas Iscariot", just because of its fun value. Those pictures reinforce the idea that 2005 was indeed the best year I've spent on this earth so far. They'll be on Facebook, directly.
Plans are in place (as I keep detailing here) to make 2010 just as good.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Happiness Is So Overrated
Well, no. I suppose it's not.
But really, being happy most of the time should be enough; happiness all the time would not only be very boring, but is unattainable, as far as I'm concerned.
However, unhappiness, while being unhealthy on a long-term level, tends to spur me to action!
I'm not in a position I want to be in right now- that's common knowledge. But what am I doing about it? Baking. I am baking a cake today. I'm also planning for this trip next summer. Like most people, I have ideas constantly about fun things to do, and like many people I often put them off or don't see them come to fruition because I have an overwhelming sense of responsibility. But what came to me in Idaho is this:
I AM ONLY TWENTY-FOUR.
The last nine months have been rough. Some times we've felt it harder than others, but we've tried to stay optimistic and not keep ourselves from having too much fun. We're just being creative about the fun now. Going to Idaho meant that I was free from a lot of what's been going on in NYC- not just at home, but in the city as a whole. Just knowing that our state government acts like a roomful of petulant toddlers is enough to add another level of tension to my everyday, simply because I'm anticipating the next big budget cut or service inconvenience. Then there are the actual budget cuts and service inconveniences. The rising of metrocard fares. The rising of sales taxes. The paycuts at work. Doing the job of more than one person at work, after said paycuts. Coming home to an alpha male temporarily displaced from his role as the alpha. All of these add up to tight shoulder muscles, daily headaches, and me feeling like I've hit thirty already.
So perhaps this road trip is my pre-quarter-life crisis. I've always been precocious- do I need to wait to hit twenty-five before I have the accompanying breakdown many experience? I'll just go ahead and get it out of the way now, thanks.
I'm loathe to talk too much about my plans, lest they fall through. But in the coming months I'll be applying to grad school at the University of the West Indies; hopefully I'll be working a second job as a hostess, just to supplement and stabilize the household income; I'll be taking driving lessons toward FINALLY getting my license.
Thanks to my amazing and supportive mother, I'm also looking at safe, dependable, affordable used cars for this trip. Her eyes in Oklahoma and prime location on a military base are bonuses for the "affordable" part and with a bit of luck I'll be able to get a vehicle sometime soon. Keep your fingers crossed.
Also, if you're not in New York, rest assured you're on my "visit" list for said road trip. Too many of you left too long ago and I miss your beautiful shiny faces. Feel free, in the comments section, to leave suggestions for stops along the way. I'll be arond the 48 contiguous and have a substantial list of things to see floating around my head, but more are always welcome.
For the moment, though, there's a cake to be baked and Mo is on her way to help this along.
Kisses and biscuits and a lovely weekend for all!
But really, being happy most of the time should be enough; happiness all the time would not only be very boring, but is unattainable, as far as I'm concerned.
However, unhappiness, while being unhealthy on a long-term level, tends to spur me to action!
I'm not in a position I want to be in right now- that's common knowledge. But what am I doing about it? Baking. I am baking a cake today. I'm also planning for this trip next summer. Like most people, I have ideas constantly about fun things to do, and like many people I often put them off or don't see them come to fruition because I have an overwhelming sense of responsibility. But what came to me in Idaho is this:
I AM ONLY TWENTY-FOUR.
The last nine months have been rough. Some times we've felt it harder than others, but we've tried to stay optimistic and not keep ourselves from having too much fun. We're just being creative about the fun now. Going to Idaho meant that I was free from a lot of what's been going on in NYC- not just at home, but in the city as a whole. Just knowing that our state government acts like a roomful of petulant toddlers is enough to add another level of tension to my everyday, simply because I'm anticipating the next big budget cut or service inconvenience. Then there are the actual budget cuts and service inconveniences. The rising of metrocard fares. The rising of sales taxes. The paycuts at work. Doing the job of more than one person at work, after said paycuts. Coming home to an alpha male temporarily displaced from his role as the alpha. All of these add up to tight shoulder muscles, daily headaches, and me feeling like I've hit thirty already.
So perhaps this road trip is my pre-quarter-life crisis. I've always been precocious- do I need to wait to hit twenty-five before I have the accompanying breakdown many experience? I'll just go ahead and get it out of the way now, thanks.
I'm loathe to talk too much about my plans, lest they fall through. But in the coming months I'll be applying to grad school at the University of the West Indies; hopefully I'll be working a second job as a hostess, just to supplement and stabilize the household income; I'll be taking driving lessons toward FINALLY getting my license.
Thanks to my amazing and supportive mother, I'm also looking at safe, dependable, affordable used cars for this trip. Her eyes in Oklahoma and prime location on a military base are bonuses for the "affordable" part and with a bit of luck I'll be able to get a vehicle sometime soon. Keep your fingers crossed.
Also, if you're not in New York, rest assured you're on my "visit" list for said road trip. Too many of you left too long ago and I miss your beautiful shiny faces. Feel free, in the comments section, to leave suggestions for stops along the way. I'll be arond the 48 contiguous and have a substantial list of things to see floating around my head, but more are always welcome.
For the moment, though, there's a cake to be baked and Mo is on her way to help this along.
Kisses and biscuits and a lovely weekend for all!
Friday, August 21, 2009
I Just Wanna Write A Song About A Boy and a Girl**
I haven't been very inspired in the past couple of years, and thus have not been writing as creatively (or prolifically) as I once did. Below are some of my fvorites from 2007- present, representing a place I'm trying to get back to. Perhaps a dash of Faulkner, a pinch of Jane Lazarre, a healthy helping of Tori Amos, and a drop of country music, mixed well and allowed to rise, will help.
musings on a voracious wildfire
10.23.2007
you're consuming all of me. charring my soil and throwing sand as though it's yours to throw. anger at profound betrayal of your people, the bitterness of stolen land being inhabited for so long with plastic people fuels your furor and forges you on.
in your wake you leave skeletons of imprints formerly laid as you taunt the people to resist. what began as a novelty, as something we took time out of our day to watch with leisure, has turned into a nightmare. my memories are on that land you're foraging. my memories are of that land and in that land and are that land. and you, in all your glorious reds and oranges and golds, are rendering those memories rubble.
if only you generated rebirth. my tall eucalyptus, weighted down with images of warm afternoons spent romping behind the blanket-curtain of mike's room, pictures of nate and me swimming in oceanside, and dozens of other candids that surface in salt-watery recollections, is reduced to embers that shine long and luscious from the oil in every thread of my being. if you encouraged reincarnation i'd come back as a skyward palm, untouchable but for those with enough skill to conquer my steep exterior, my fronds blessed and holy. or an orange grove, the scrumptious fruits fertilized by your mourning ash and made more delicious through your pain.
alas, you are only destruction. until the cold waters of the pacific tame your passion and rage, you will exert your wrath on everything and anything in sight. your smoke signals have been seen and duly noted by the gods. end your fight; there is no honor in devastation.
not easy.being green.
11.6.2007
the sounds of sleep coming from that mouth include but are not limited to a faint whistle, the grinding of teeth, and the slightest "pop!" like the sound of the bubbles bursting in the room of the fizzy lifting drink. fiz zy lif ting drink. little pops, the snap and crackle of good dreaming, of a leftover desire after spending it all on raspberry cookies and a little bit of sweat.
egos aside, this was pretty decent.
egos aside, i can't get you out of my head.
egos aside.
ears feel like the bendy rottweiler ears you used to fold back, but are soft and plump to the lips and nibbly to the teeth. nibbly is what you'd do if you had the day to spend doing nothing else. you'd nibbly. i'd eat sugar straight from the packets just to keep going just to connect just to have that time, whenever that time can be gotten. fleeting fleeces of pieces of self and service that come with the sweetness no one else gets. it's easy to trip down that canyon path, with just a little goat to lead me.
you can rely on me honey (or can you?)
11.18.2007
WHAT kind of fuckry is this?, you ask. wedged between rocks and walls and no one to hear you scream your repentance. the sun is still rising behind those glitter-lined clouds and you don't know who to call first.
While waiting in the purgatory of planned parenthood you pick through a contender's piece for the biannual literary magazine:
*Keys to a lesson learned/ the (your) boys of summer
What you don't expect will almost always happen- when you know something- or you know better- you'll be surprised almost every time. So how are we supposed to learn from mistakes, from com-plex situations and those experiences that burned us before?
In the name of self-preservation you forget-forcefully- what it is when you kiss. You forget the feeling of fingers falling through the softness of your hair, of his eyes all over you when you walk through the room.
...
And then sister raises a great calamity in your thoughts: You Can Do That ALL YOU WANT! but You Know When You Close Your Eyes At Night And Burrow In The Dark Cavern Of Blankets On Your Bed That When It Comes Down To It You Can Still Smell Him On Your Skin And Pillows, Feel His Fingertips On The Nape Of Your Neck, The Shivers They Send Down Your Spine And Really, All Over Your Body, Quivering You To The Very Core Of Your Nervous System Until You're VIRTUALLY SEIZING WITH TEMPTATION.
...
In that faulty, fault-less, name of self-preservation.
Pretty soon you miss him when he leaves. This will never do. You need water, someone to nourish and replenish you when you're gasping for it. Otherwise, all it takes is one case of arson and your whole being is enflamed, charred and nearly useless thanks to the scorching heat. Save your fires for the depths of hell, for desert incinerators, for that passionate instigator, wind. Leave me, let me become mud.
**Lyrics from "Say Hey (I Love You)", as performed by Michael Franti (featuring Cherine Anderson); from the album All Rebel Rockers; written by Michael Franti.
musings on a voracious wildfire
10.23.2007
you're consuming all of me. charring my soil and throwing sand as though it's yours to throw. anger at profound betrayal of your people, the bitterness of stolen land being inhabited for so long with plastic people fuels your furor and forges you on.
in your wake you leave skeletons of imprints formerly laid as you taunt the people to resist. what began as a novelty, as something we took time out of our day to watch with leisure, has turned into a nightmare. my memories are on that land you're foraging. my memories are of that land and in that land and are that land. and you, in all your glorious reds and oranges and golds, are rendering those memories rubble.
if only you generated rebirth. my tall eucalyptus, weighted down with images of warm afternoons spent romping behind the blanket-curtain of mike's room, pictures of nate and me swimming in oceanside, and dozens of other candids that surface in salt-watery recollections, is reduced to embers that shine long and luscious from the oil in every thread of my being. if you encouraged reincarnation i'd come back as a skyward palm, untouchable but for those with enough skill to conquer my steep exterior, my fronds blessed and holy. or an orange grove, the scrumptious fruits fertilized by your mourning ash and made more delicious through your pain.
alas, you are only destruction. until the cold waters of the pacific tame your passion and rage, you will exert your wrath on everything and anything in sight. your smoke signals have been seen and duly noted by the gods. end your fight; there is no honor in devastation.
not easy.being green.
11.6.2007
the sounds of sleep coming from that mouth include but are not limited to a faint whistle, the grinding of teeth, and the slightest "pop!" like the sound of the bubbles bursting in the room of the fizzy lifting drink. fiz zy lif ting drink. little pops, the snap and crackle of good dreaming, of a leftover desire after spending it all on raspberry cookies and a little bit of sweat.
egos aside, this was pretty decent.
egos aside, i can't get you out of my head.
egos aside.
ears feel like the bendy rottweiler ears you used to fold back, but are soft and plump to the lips and nibbly to the teeth. nibbly is what you'd do if you had the day to spend doing nothing else. you'd nibbly. i'd eat sugar straight from the packets just to keep going just to connect just to have that time, whenever that time can be gotten. fleeting fleeces of pieces of self and service that come with the sweetness no one else gets. it's easy to trip down that canyon path, with just a little goat to lead me.
you can rely on me honey (or can you?)
11.18.2007
WHAT kind of fuckry is this?, you ask. wedged between rocks and walls and no one to hear you scream your repentance. the sun is still rising behind those glitter-lined clouds and you don't know who to call first.
While waiting in the purgatory of planned parenthood you pick through a contender's piece for the biannual literary magazine:
*Keys to a lesson learned/ the (your) boys of summer
What you don't expect will almost always happen- when you know something- or you know better- you'll be surprised almost every time. So how are we supposed to learn from mistakes, from com-plex situations and those experiences that burned us before?
In the name of self-preservation you forget-forcefully- what it is when you kiss. You forget the feeling of fingers falling through the softness of your hair, of his eyes all over you when you walk through the room.
...
And then sister raises a great calamity in your thoughts: You Can Do That ALL YOU WANT! but You Know When You Close Your Eyes At Night And Burrow In The Dark Cavern Of Blankets On Your Bed That When It Comes Down To It You Can Still Smell Him On Your Skin And Pillows, Feel His Fingertips On The Nape Of Your Neck, The Shivers They Send Down Your Spine And Really, All Over Your Body, Quivering You To The Very Core Of Your Nervous System Until You're VIRTUALLY SEIZING WITH TEMPTATION.
...
In that faulty, fault-less, name of self-preservation.
Pretty soon you miss him when he leaves. This will never do. You need water, someone to nourish and replenish you when you're gasping for it. Otherwise, all it takes is one case of arson and your whole being is enflamed, charred and nearly useless thanks to the scorching heat. Save your fires for the depths of hell, for desert incinerators, for that passionate instigator, wind. Leave me, let me become mud.
**Lyrics from "Say Hey (I Love You)", as performed by Michael Franti (featuring Cherine Anderson); from the album All Rebel Rockers; written by Michael Franti.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Not Your Average Biopic
"Little Miss Sunshine" is one of my favorite movies because of the comedic subtext beneath all of the stressed-out lower middle class misery on its surface. I simultaneously love and shrink from the fact that I relate to it so well. I'm pretty sure whomever wrote the movie encountered my family and I at some point between the years 1995 and 2001 because the resemblance is uncanny; I was Olive, down to those horrendous cowboy boots and the protruding tummy (except my boots were a grayish green) and that infernal awkwardness of pre-adolescence. I suppose the movie was written specifically to remind people (in the lower middle class, at least) of their own families, but it's just so eerie to watch; even down to the way Toni Collette walks, she is my mother, circa 1997-2000.
Greg Kinnear's character embodies everything I detest about Type-A personalities stuck in the lower middle class: the awful khaki shorts, the polo shirt (tucked in, of course), the phone holster on the belt, and the sneakers. Everything but the phone holster brings to mind what my ex-stepfather thought was "dressing up" and consequently makes me cringe. Grandpa, Steve Carrell's character, and the brother Duane- the one with the mural of Neitszche on the wall, who takes a vow of silence and writes things on his notepad (the sole manner he uses to communicate with his family) like: I hate everyone- are my favorites, probably because their quirk doesn't remind me of a significantly dark time of my childhood.
And the bus, that dreadful bus. Though it was never the family car, we had a "bus" of our own, known to my mother and I as "The Gold Ghost." A 1972 Plymouth Valiant, the car was roughly the size of a boat and, true to its nickname, a delightfully awful shade of brownish-gold. Not long after my mom bought it, the brakes went out. Not temporarily, either. We'd careen down the freeway, or local roads, and she'd have to take her foot off the gas about a mile before the exit we needed, or as soon as the next stop sign was in view, in order to stop the car. One night, while generously chauffering my best friend and I to the movies, she pulled The Gold Ghost right next to the two guys driving the Ford Taurus station wagon alongside us and facilitated communication between the four of us youths. You wanna talk teenage vehicular humiliation? Your dad's Geo has nothing on The Ghost (or my mom, for that matter).
The ending rings disingenuous, possibly because the laughing "we're in this together" attitude never seemed to accompany the embarrassing situations we got ourselves into, but I suppose for the purposes of Hollywood it was necessary.
Unreal ending or not, the film's genius is multi-layered. The dialogue holds, the characters work for themselves and with each other, and most importantly, the subtext is coveyed through subtle details. Toni Collete's limp and lifeless hair. Her button-down, slightly rumpled, sleeveless blouses. Kinnear's phone holster and "power casual" outfit. The bucket of chicken for dinner. Olive seems to think her family is par for the course, that she will be the next Little Miss Sunshine, until she gets to the Redondo Suites and sees the mini-abominations and atrocities all around her. It isn't until she's thrown into that pool that she realizes she's thrashing about in the deep end with nary a shadow of a floatie. What keeps her from drowning, though, is that she owns her family's mediocrity and lets it explode with gleeful abandon. She's got her dance routine, she's been practicing for weeks, and though her hair isn't sprayed to infinite poof, and she doesn't parade a two-piece bathing suit in a room full of adults, her confidence is unshaken. She owns their shortcomings. She owns Grandpa's heroin addiction. She owns her family, who dances to the beat of it own drum and each individual to their own drummers, cast aside because they don't fit into the molds of what society says they should. She owns what they're too afraid to own themselves and in the end, you're a little hopeful that they'll stop stressing about having to keep up with their neighbors and quit running from the stigma of being what society labels "losers" and just embrace who they are and what they're about and all of the delightful stories they'll get from this time of their lives.
Eventually, like the fact that my mother got rid of The Gold Ghost and moved on to a recent-model Saturn, their situation, outlooks, and lives will get better.
Greg Kinnear's character embodies everything I detest about Type-A personalities stuck in the lower middle class: the awful khaki shorts, the polo shirt (tucked in, of course), the phone holster on the belt, and the sneakers. Everything but the phone holster brings to mind what my ex-stepfather thought was "dressing up" and consequently makes me cringe. Grandpa, Steve Carrell's character, and the brother Duane- the one with the mural of Neitszche on the wall, who takes a vow of silence and writes things on his notepad (the sole manner he uses to communicate with his family) like: I hate everyone- are my favorites, probably because their quirk doesn't remind me of a significantly dark time of my childhood.
And the bus, that dreadful bus. Though it was never the family car, we had a "bus" of our own, known to my mother and I as "The Gold Ghost." A 1972 Plymouth Valiant, the car was roughly the size of a boat and, true to its nickname, a delightfully awful shade of brownish-gold. Not long after my mom bought it, the brakes went out. Not temporarily, either. We'd careen down the freeway, or local roads, and she'd have to take her foot off the gas about a mile before the exit we needed, or as soon as the next stop sign was in view, in order to stop the car. One night, while generously chauffering my best friend and I to the movies, she pulled The Gold Ghost right next to the two guys driving the Ford Taurus station wagon alongside us and facilitated communication between the four of us youths. You wanna talk teenage vehicular humiliation? Your dad's Geo has nothing on The Ghost (or my mom, for that matter).
The ending rings disingenuous, possibly because the laughing "we're in this together" attitude never seemed to accompany the embarrassing situations we got ourselves into, but I suppose for the purposes of Hollywood it was necessary.
Unreal ending or not, the film's genius is multi-layered. The dialogue holds, the characters work for themselves and with each other, and most importantly, the subtext is coveyed through subtle details. Toni Collete's limp and lifeless hair. Her button-down, slightly rumpled, sleeveless blouses. Kinnear's phone holster and "power casual" outfit. The bucket of chicken for dinner. Olive seems to think her family is par for the course, that she will be the next Little Miss Sunshine, until she gets to the Redondo Suites and sees the mini-abominations and atrocities all around her. It isn't until she's thrown into that pool that she realizes she's thrashing about in the deep end with nary a shadow of a floatie. What keeps her from drowning, though, is that she owns her family's mediocrity and lets it explode with gleeful abandon. She's got her dance routine, she's been practicing for weeks, and though her hair isn't sprayed to infinite poof, and she doesn't parade a two-piece bathing suit in a room full of adults, her confidence is unshaken. She owns their shortcomings. She owns Grandpa's heroin addiction. She owns her family, who dances to the beat of it own drum and each individual to their own drummers, cast aside because they don't fit into the molds of what society says they should. She owns what they're too afraid to own themselves and in the end, you're a little hopeful that they'll stop stressing about having to keep up with their neighbors and quit running from the stigma of being what society labels "losers" and just embrace who they are and what they're about and all of the delightful stories they'll get from this time of their lives.
Eventually, like the fact that my mother got rid of The Gold Ghost and moved on to a recent-model Saturn, their situation, outlooks, and lives will get better.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Burnt Fingers and Big Ideas
My mother raised me as a gypsy of sorts. I don't think this was intentional; she had itchy feet, and so we changed more than just houses in the same town- we ended up halfway across the country in places and towns I'd never have conceived. Granted, Tucson isn't exactly exotic; but when I'd spent the better part of childhood in the Midwest and reading about the Victorian houses peppered across New England, Tucson was the equivalent of Mars.
Anyway, I've been in New York for 6 years as of roughly a week from now, and it's time for new surroundings. A shortcoming of mine (there are many more) is never planting very deep roots, because I know I'll be tired of the scenery before too long, and I am thus always looking for the next place. My recent trip to Coeur D'Alene has exponentially sensitized my feet to the tickly feeling on their soles and I'm convinced I must be gittin' along here soon.
So, my idea:
My best friend graduates from law school in St. Louis next May (at least, I'm hoping it's May). My cousin Derek will be graduating high school in Spirit Lake, Idaho, in June. I have family and friends all around and everywhere in between. I'm going to ROAD TRIP across this great country of ours!
Now, after Katrina, I seriously considered going to New Orleans to help with the recovery work. Unfortunately, the structured and controlling way in which my mind sometimes works prevented me from believing I could take a leave of absence from my studies and make this happen. The other part of that idea was that I would stay in Thibodaux with my friend Mary and her husband and help them with their infant twins. Well. Let's just say I never made it to Louisiana and I instead graduated a semester early. Do I regret not just picking up and going to N.O.? At least once a month, surely.
I'm sure at this point you're noting a small logistical problem with my plan. No, I do not yet have my driver's license. However, I will be working on that within the next few months. The only major obstacle after that is procuring a vehicle in which it is safe enough to travel yet which is inexpensive to the point where I will not have to make payments on it. I hope those types of vehicles still exist.
I've always wanted to drive across the country! I have tons of music that will form a splendid soundtrack, which is handy as (for better or worse) I see most of my daily life as one continuous cable show with assorted musical accompaniment (Think Weeds season 3 finale, where Nancy is riding the segue away from her soon-to-be-burning home in Agrestic, sipping from her large iced coffee and smiling blandly). I'm absolutely dying to listen to Skynard as I drive through the deep south, to blast Zepplin while I take the county roads through what is left of rural Wisconsin, to watch the sunset over the desert while I listen to any of the Eagles songs that sound like every Eagles song. And, most importantly, to do all of this with the windows rolled down, because that is the only real way to take a road trip (unless, of course, it's raining).
The remainder of 2009 will be a killer in terms of having a lack of funds and the bustle of excitement but I am completely determined to do this. I need change in my life and I need something jump-started. (This is about as jump-started as I get: I don't make large financial decisions without a plan and a budget). Maybe I'll learn something about myself besides that I have an intense love for small town bars and old men in overalls.
I want to see the crossroads where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil, to take the path Sherman took from Atlanta to the coast, to quench the impish cravings that have been gnawing at my soul with a steady and strengthening ferocity for more than a year now.
It is time.
Anyway, I've been in New York for 6 years as of roughly a week from now, and it's time for new surroundings. A shortcoming of mine (there are many more) is never planting very deep roots, because I know I'll be tired of the scenery before too long, and I am thus always looking for the next place. My recent trip to Coeur D'Alene has exponentially sensitized my feet to the tickly feeling on their soles and I'm convinced I must be gittin' along here soon.
So, my idea:
My best friend graduates from law school in St. Louis next May (at least, I'm hoping it's May). My cousin Derek will be graduating high school in Spirit Lake, Idaho, in June. I have family and friends all around and everywhere in between. I'm going to ROAD TRIP across this great country of ours!
Now, after Katrina, I seriously considered going to New Orleans to help with the recovery work. Unfortunately, the structured and controlling way in which my mind sometimes works prevented me from believing I could take a leave of absence from my studies and make this happen. The other part of that idea was that I would stay in Thibodaux with my friend Mary and her husband and help them with their infant twins. Well. Let's just say I never made it to Louisiana and I instead graduated a semester early. Do I regret not just picking up and going to N.O.? At least once a month, surely.
I'm sure at this point you're noting a small logistical problem with my plan. No, I do not yet have my driver's license. However, I will be working on that within the next few months. The only major obstacle after that is procuring a vehicle in which it is safe enough to travel yet which is inexpensive to the point where I will not have to make payments on it. I hope those types of vehicles still exist.
I've always wanted to drive across the country! I have tons of music that will form a splendid soundtrack, which is handy as (for better or worse) I see most of my daily life as one continuous cable show with assorted musical accompaniment (Think Weeds season 3 finale, where Nancy is riding the segue away from her soon-to-be-burning home in Agrestic, sipping from her large iced coffee and smiling blandly). I'm absolutely dying to listen to Skynard as I drive through the deep south, to blast Zepplin while I take the county roads through what is left of rural Wisconsin, to watch the sunset over the desert while I listen to any of the Eagles songs that sound like every Eagles song. And, most importantly, to do all of this with the windows rolled down, because that is the only real way to take a road trip (unless, of course, it's raining).
The remainder of 2009 will be a killer in terms of having a lack of funds and the bustle of excitement but I am completely determined to do this. I need change in my life and I need something jump-started. (This is about as jump-started as I get: I don't make large financial decisions without a plan and a budget). Maybe I'll learn something about myself besides that I have an intense love for small town bars and old men in overalls.
I want to see the crossroads where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil, to take the path Sherman took from Atlanta to the coast, to quench the impish cravings that have been gnawing at my soul with a steady and strengthening ferocity for more than a year now.
It is time.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
a soundtrack to almost everything i think
my love affair with different types of music began when i was very young and has blossomed fruitfully and branched off from its root in so many ways. i've got a decent mix of faithful albums i'll turn to and singles by bands whose other music i either don't really like or just haven't tried yet.
clothes never mattered to me all that much. i love food, but i can't spend all of my money on it. i love music. maybe not in the way that rob, dick, and harry in "high fidelity" do, but i have a love affair with it. i don't stalk it and learn everything about it ever; music and i banter back and forth at the bar, maybe swill some wine over dinner and cuddle during the movie. we go home and roll around in the sheets all night, barely stopping for breath, and then wake up and go for a nice jog. and when we're sad, we cry.
music, like my best friend, is there whenever i need it and loves me for who i am, and sometimes for who i am not.
my current obsession with "weeds" has introduced me to some songs i probably never would have found otherwise. some of my current favorites:
"Keepsake" by State Radio
"Messages" by Xavier Rudd
"Your Rocky Spine" by Great Lake Swimmers
"Ballerina" by Leona Naess
Check 'em out. Beautiful.
clothes never mattered to me all that much. i love food, but i can't spend all of my money on it. i love music. maybe not in the way that rob, dick, and harry in "high fidelity" do, but i have a love affair with it. i don't stalk it and learn everything about it ever; music and i banter back and forth at the bar, maybe swill some wine over dinner and cuddle during the movie. we go home and roll around in the sheets all night, barely stopping for breath, and then wake up and go for a nice jog. and when we're sad, we cry.
music, like my best friend, is there whenever i need it and loves me for who i am, and sometimes for who i am not.
my current obsession with "weeds" has introduced me to some songs i probably never would have found otherwise. some of my current favorites:
"Keepsake" by State Radio
"Messages" by Xavier Rudd
"Your Rocky Spine" by Great Lake Swimmers
"Ballerina" by Leona Naess
Check 'em out. Beautiful.
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