On the last night before Miriam left town, we filed into her apartment, stood around in her room. We rummaged through boxes of freebies: books of Malcolm X's speeches, warm scarves, miniature pins shaped like flutes and bass clarinets. We moved into the living room and sat in an easy circle, some on chairs, some on footstools, some on the floor, one of so many circles we have been in. Tom found takers for a batch of peppermint tea. Miriam hauled six different cartons of ice cream from the freezer--vanilla, cookie dough, coconut lime, Rice Dream chocolate, peanut butter cookie, fudge swirl, all sugary scraps and dregs scraping the bottom of each container--"go to town, finish them off." We armed our fists with spoons and passed them round. We kept the conversation light--about eating meals with a 'dash of vegan,' about the annoyances of wearing glasses, about books and how we learned to read. We talked as if we had never ended our earlier conversations, from mere days and mere hours ago, where we reviewed our history of bee stings, the injuries and stitches we wrought on our siblings, the bizarre wonders of naked mole rats, the regionalism of phrases like "Right on" and "Tubular." We kept the conversation light. A few of us yawned, one of us closed her eyes for many long minutes, others stared blank and clearly bored, but we talked and laughed and lapsed into silence and almost came to believe that if we kept this up then there would be no end to the night. And then I checked my phone, made mental calculations, and announced that I had to head back home across the river, had to get up early for work. And almost as if on cue, the circle broke, the dishes headed for the sink, the arms heavy with rugs and backpacks and suitcases and vacuum cleaners and overfilled boxes trudged down the stairs and deposited their wares in the open maw of the van. We stood in the cool night, a smaller circle of us this time, and gave ourselves a pause. And then hugs--one, two, three of them. We moved our bodies as if out of some knowledge, as though this had been previously rehearsed. We knew what the final scene looks like, we knew what to say. And on the second hug--the second of three--caught close, still--unassailable--a sharp gasp and burst of water fresh on two faces. And I looked down and concentrated on the ground beneath me, waiting for the clarity to dissipate, and none forthcoming, looked up, and still in the heaviness, understood change as an often painful progress: dreaming ahead, longing for what's left behind, losing nothing.*
I once used to say that the effect of being around friends and community is like feeling twenty times lighter. But it's during the times of change and transition when you get to know otherwise.
Safe passage Miriam, we love you and wish you the best.
*Language tip to Kushner.
Monday, August 31, 2009
patience, occasional absurdities of
There are times when I feel like I am getting paid every hour for 30 hours a week to sit at a desk in front of a computer and wait for the goddamn phone to ring.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
uncanny twin moment (1)
Those who follow the blog, or at least keep close track of my life, know that these last 2-3 weeks have been a bit miserable. And just last night, as I was in the middle of a very important phone conversation with my Dad, my cell up and died. And I mean dead dead. As in, the battery refuses to be charged. No matter how much I plugged and unplugged the charger, and tried all the outlets in my apartment.
Well, I got word about twin sis (via my private investigator, Mom), and it turns out her last 2-3 weeks have also been miserable. By which I mean hellish. "I feel like crap right now..." And she's in the middle of moving to a new place. And there's a grad school app to send in. "I'm going to die!!! But don't worry. All will be fine." I'm gonna hold her to the latter assurance, not the former.
What she failed to tell me (but what I also learned from my P.I.) is that her phone also died while she was up at Breadloaf in Vermont. That is, dead dead.
These occasional shared twin trajectories are just one of the reasons why we started this blog. To illustrate to all of you that, yes, twin life can imitate other twin life.
Except I'm not moving, and I have at least three grad school apps awaiting me.
Well, I got word about twin sis (via my private investigator, Mom), and it turns out her last 2-3 weeks have also been miserable. By which I mean hellish. "I feel like crap right now..." And she's in the middle of moving to a new place. And there's a grad school app to send in. "I'm going to die!!! But don't worry. All will be fine." I'm gonna hold her to the latter assurance, not the former.
What she failed to tell me (but what I also learned from my P.I.) is that her phone also died while she was up at Breadloaf in Vermont. That is, dead dead.
These occasional shared twin trajectories are just one of the reasons why we started this blog. To illustrate to all of you that, yes, twin life can imitate other twin life.
Except I'm not moving, and I have at least three grad school apps awaiting me.
Friday, August 28, 2009
and on into autumn
I must say, things are turning.
The night is approaching earlier, my discipline on the book is much better, a going-away party for my dear friend Mimi went splendidly and I got into some intense conversations about burnout, origami, and Leon Trotsky (I believe in that order).
And the monochromatic meals of the month are a hoot. We could barely squeeze everyone in this last time. (Granted, this was the first time we were inside.)
Our next one will be BIV (blue-indigo-violet) and then there may not be many other colors after that before we start repeating. We're trying to add in more interesting elements, like an art crawl, which involves...actual crawling.
In the meantime, one of the best things about these potlucks are the memories. Who can ever forget the candied bacon.
The night is approaching earlier, my discipline on the book is much better, a going-away party for my dear friend Mimi went splendidly and I got into some intense conversations about burnout, origami, and Leon Trotsky (I believe in that order).
And the monochromatic meals of the month are a hoot. We could barely squeeze everyone in this last time. (Granted, this was the first time we were inside.)
Our next one will be BIV (blue-indigo-violet) and then there may not be many other colors after that before we start repeating. We're trying to add in more interesting elements, like an art crawl, which involves...actual crawling.
In the meantime, one of the best things about these potlucks are the memories. Who can ever forget the candied bacon.
today's acronym: OPOCITR
OPOCITR (oh-PAH-ki-ter): Only Person Of Color In The Room
Okay, this isn't in use yet, Reggie and I just invented this shit. But it has such a range of possibilities.
The OPOCITR's life is a troubled lot, even if only temporarily. I was thinking about how troubling it can be because this ex of mine invited me to a birthday bash in Northeast Minneapolis, at Gasthof Zur Gemutlichkeit. Apparently they have polka dancing, and that's why it's happening there.
So originally I said yes, and then today I finally tried to research a little into what the hell this place is, and now I know: it's a hypercondensation of everything you did and didn't know about German food, German culture, and German carousing. "It's like Oktoberfest all year round!" gushed one of the reviewers, and they aren't kidding. All the dishes are pork-glazed veal-stuffed beef with a side of other beef. I think the only vegetables allowed inside the place are asparagus and potatoes (much more of the potatoes than the asparagus). They make a meter-long bratwurst and you get a certificate if you successfully finish it--which, by the way, does not seem like it could ever be an appropriate reward. There are accordionists. And dirndls. And boots of beer. And "waitresses to drool over" (this is another reviewer, not my embellishment) carrying wooden slats filled with a dozen shots of liquor. After a full half-hour of reviewing the menus and the many, many photos of gastronomic bliss and alcohol-derived revelry, I thought, okay, I think I get the picture. Although really, I don't.
My general attitude to the truly vibrant, weird, and/or ridiculous that I find here in the Twin Cities is to GET UP IN THE STUFF, if only cuz it makes for good memories, aids your creativity, and if nothing else, always makes you appreciate how interesting humanity can get. And so I am piqued by this German restaurant, where good times supposedly never die.
But I am also filled with this terrible, terrible dread: OPOCITR.
Let's be clear. There is nothing wrong with being an OPOCITR, theoretically at least. I get it, it happens. In fact these days it happens quite a bit, and often with me in the position of OPOCITR, so I'm getting used to it, tiring and uncomfortable as it may be.
There is also nothing wrong with a restaurant that seemingly has no people of color among its managers, chefs, bartenders, hosts, waitresses, musicians, entertainers, and for the most part, customers. Okay, so actually there is a lot wrong with this scenario, especially when it evolves into a White enclave thinly disguised as a celebration of one particular European heritage. Oh sure, there's exoticisation going on, as they do with all the mosques and pho shops; there's also the nagging question of what aspects of German culture are normalized and why the German owners are keen on showcasing a limited range of German culture for the purpose of entertaining folks and making big profits, which of course is the same nagging question for many of us entrepreneurial brown folk (tip: read The Fortune Cookie Chronicles about the bizarre history of Chinese food in the United States, thanks cousin Andrew for the rec). But there's one important distinction between the ventures of the German restaurant and the Thai place just a few blocks away: the former is guaranteed a ladder to the annals of acclaim, comfort, welcoming, defining what is American even if unfamiliar; the latter will be mired in suspicion, foreign, still always un-American even as it grows more familiar each day. For every problem or mistake the German restaurant commits, it is considered an errant throw that does not detract from a perfect and clean record. For ever problem or mistake at the Thai place, it is but further proof of goods already tarnished by their maker.
Also, there is something very wrong when one of the reviewers for Gasthof's says "the crowd is diverse...every age and race every night." White folks have gotten very clingy of that word, 'diversity.' It's the million dollar punch in an honest bout of discussion about how white the institution/neighborhood/community is. "I say it's diverse, so it must be diverse! And when I say every age and race, I mean every age and race--even when some ages and some races are much more abundant than others!" And I know this line of reasoning all too well because I work in Eastside Minneapolis, I've been educated on Northeast for a better part of the last year. I know the community that gave birth to the people who gave birth to Gasthof's. I know that history of early immigration to Minnesota, the huddles of Germans, Russians, Poles, Irish in a small patch along the river. I also know that these ethnic communities fortified into a White community, intent on keeping out black folks, establishing racial covenants, organizing neighborhood 'crime' patrols which continue today and aren't far removed from organized lynch mobs. And I know that they're good at it: Northeast is the whitest part of the city, it has the fewest renters and public housing, these facts are not accidental, they were the products of action. And because of this, Northeast is a nerve-wracking place to be if you're a person of color--or at least disquieting if nothing else--and even worse when you find yourself in Northeast, in a neighborhood, in a beloved German restaurant, at a table, eating and drinking and trying your damnedest to have a good time while everyone else steals a few glances and stares at YOU, the OPOCITR, the one that doesn't make sense. That. Is not. What I call diversity.
All this to say: an OPOCITR is troubled because of how annoyingly self-conscious and alone one is made to be. You can be having a kick-ass time until you become, or you realize you are, the OPOCITR, and then all of a sudden you're in your head and not fully present and your visage is now cloudy and distant. And the thing is, the White folks in the room--especially good friends you can chat up about race and racism no prob--will see that visage, and they'll know it's because you're the OPOCITR, and then they'll get uneasy and distracted and in their heads, which of course makes you, the OPOCITR, feel terrible and guilty for being the problem here, and why did you have to ruin everyone's night so early on?
Other uses:
Generational--"He shook off the WASP tradition, uncomfortable as it was, in exchange for the more uncomfortable prospect of raising three OPOCITR children."
Pride--"You better damn well listen to what I gotta say at this town hall, cuz I'm the OPOCITR and I am one fierce human being to boot!"
Suggestive--"OPOCITR ISO OPOCITR for a little less loneliness and a little more play. Will be discreet."
Potential spin-offs: OGGITR (Only Gay Guy In The Room), OTPITR (Only Transgendered Person In The Room), OPWITR (Only Probationary White*In The Room)
*Probationary White is a lovely term Steven Flusty did not invent but stole from a friend. It refers to biracial/multiracial people who are part White and are accepted into White crowds until they break their probationary requirements (i.e. calling out racist bullshit when it comes up).
Okay, this isn't in use yet, Reggie and I just invented this shit. But it has such a range of possibilities.
The OPOCITR's life is a troubled lot, even if only temporarily. I was thinking about how troubling it can be because this ex of mine invited me to a birthday bash in Northeast Minneapolis, at Gasthof Zur Gemutlichkeit. Apparently they have polka dancing, and that's why it's happening there.
So originally I said yes, and then today I finally tried to research a little into what the hell this place is, and now I know: it's a hypercondensation of everything you did and didn't know about German food, German culture, and German carousing. "It's like Oktoberfest all year round!" gushed one of the reviewers, and they aren't kidding. All the dishes are pork-glazed veal-stuffed beef with a side of other beef. I think the only vegetables allowed inside the place are asparagus and potatoes (much more of the potatoes than the asparagus). They make a meter-long bratwurst and you get a certificate if you successfully finish it--which, by the way, does not seem like it could ever be an appropriate reward. There are accordionists. And dirndls. And boots of beer. And "waitresses to drool over" (this is another reviewer, not my embellishment) carrying wooden slats filled with a dozen shots of liquor. After a full half-hour of reviewing the menus and the many, many photos of gastronomic bliss and alcohol-derived revelry, I thought, okay, I think I get the picture. Although really, I don't.
My general attitude to the truly vibrant, weird, and/or ridiculous that I find here in the Twin Cities is to GET UP IN THE STUFF, if only cuz it makes for good memories, aids your creativity, and if nothing else, always makes you appreciate how interesting humanity can get. And so I am piqued by this German restaurant, where good times supposedly never die.
But I am also filled with this terrible, terrible dread: OPOCITR.
Let's be clear. There is nothing wrong with being an OPOCITR, theoretically at least. I get it, it happens. In fact these days it happens quite a bit, and often with me in the position of OPOCITR, so I'm getting used to it, tiring and uncomfortable as it may be.
There is also nothing wrong with a restaurant that seemingly has no people of color among its managers, chefs, bartenders, hosts, waitresses, musicians, entertainers, and for the most part, customers. Okay, so actually there is a lot wrong with this scenario, especially when it evolves into a White enclave thinly disguised as a celebration of one particular European heritage. Oh sure, there's exoticisation going on, as they do with all the mosques and pho shops; there's also the nagging question of what aspects of German culture are normalized and why the German owners are keen on showcasing a limited range of German culture for the purpose of entertaining folks and making big profits, which of course is the same nagging question for many of us entrepreneurial brown folk (tip: read The Fortune Cookie Chronicles about the bizarre history of Chinese food in the United States, thanks cousin Andrew for the rec). But there's one important distinction between the ventures of the German restaurant and the Thai place just a few blocks away: the former is guaranteed a ladder to the annals of acclaim, comfort, welcoming, defining what is American even if unfamiliar; the latter will be mired in suspicion, foreign, still always un-American even as it grows more familiar each day. For every problem or mistake the German restaurant commits, it is considered an errant throw that does not detract from a perfect and clean record. For ever problem or mistake at the Thai place, it is but further proof of goods already tarnished by their maker.
Also, there is something very wrong when one of the reviewers for Gasthof's says "the crowd is diverse...every age and race every night." White folks have gotten very clingy of that word, 'diversity.' It's the million dollar punch in an honest bout of discussion about how white the institution/neighborhood/community is. "I say it's diverse, so it must be diverse! And when I say every age and race, I mean every age and race--even when some ages and some races are much more abundant than others!" And I know this line of reasoning all too well because I work in Eastside Minneapolis, I've been educated on Northeast for a better part of the last year. I know the community that gave birth to the people who gave birth to Gasthof's. I know that history of early immigration to Minnesota, the huddles of Germans, Russians, Poles, Irish in a small patch along the river. I also know that these ethnic communities fortified into a White community, intent on keeping out black folks, establishing racial covenants, organizing neighborhood 'crime' patrols which continue today and aren't far removed from organized lynch mobs. And I know that they're good at it: Northeast is the whitest part of the city, it has the fewest renters and public housing, these facts are not accidental, they were the products of action. And because of this, Northeast is a nerve-wracking place to be if you're a person of color--or at least disquieting if nothing else--and even worse when you find yourself in Northeast, in a neighborhood, in a beloved German restaurant, at a table, eating and drinking and trying your damnedest to have a good time while everyone else steals a few glances and stares at YOU, the OPOCITR, the one that doesn't make sense. That. Is not. What I call diversity.
All this to say: an OPOCITR is troubled because of how annoyingly self-conscious and alone one is made to be. You can be having a kick-ass time until you become, or you realize you are, the OPOCITR, and then all of a sudden you're in your head and not fully present and your visage is now cloudy and distant. And the thing is, the White folks in the room--especially good friends you can chat up about race and racism no prob--will see that visage, and they'll know it's because you're the OPOCITR, and then they'll get uneasy and distracted and in their heads, which of course makes you, the OPOCITR, feel terrible and guilty for being the problem here, and why did you have to ruin everyone's night so early on?
Other uses:
Generational--"He shook off the WASP tradition, uncomfortable as it was, in exchange for the more uncomfortable prospect of raising three OPOCITR children."
Pride--"You better damn well listen to what I gotta say at this town hall, cuz I'm the OPOCITR and I am one fierce human being to boot!"
Suggestive--"OPOCITR ISO OPOCITR for a little less loneliness and a little more play. Will be discreet."
Potential spin-offs: OGGITR (Only Gay Guy In The Room), OTPITR (Only Transgendered Person In The Room), OPWITR (Only Probationary White*In The Room)
*Probationary White is a lovely term Steven Flusty did not invent but stole from a friend. It refers to biracial/multiracial people who are part White and are accepted into White crowds until they break their probationary requirements (i.e. calling out racist bullshit when it comes up).
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
realities of the battered
It is, perhaps, too lazy to attribute most of one’s current experiences to a single event.
But that’s sometimes what it feels like to be an assault survivor. It may not be that the assault spawned things in my life that would never have happened otherwise; that definitely gives my attacker more credit than he deserves (or wants). I’m starting to think that what violence does well is that it catalyzes what you were already going to know or experience or grow towards. It sharpens and brings clarity. You adopt habits and mannerisms that to others might be motivated my fear, but you know to be deeply rooted in your health, protection, and safety. You read your environment exceptionally well and you don’t mind as much when your gut instinct is wrong. You don’t stop taking chances; you weigh them. You don’t stop your fierceness; you strategize on the means and ways of employing it.
I am thinking about this because I have had a few recent bad experiences with my family that stem almost entirely from my life as a survivor and their uncertainty as to what this translates to. I find myself silently demanding their understanding and support and yet I haven't explained anything to them about how I'm living, so what can they work from?
So I'm drawing up a list of some things that I know have come about because of my assault. They're specific to me but I know much on this list is shared by others who've experienced violence, sexual assault, and other instances of intense violation and trauma. If others would like to add based off their own experience, please feel free to do so--or, come up with lists of your own, that are specific to who you are.
--When I am in public spaces, I am always looking around me, measuring my surroundings. I do this no matter how many or how few people there are. I do this when I'm with friends or other company. And I always do this when alone.
--When I go to parties or events at night in a place unfamiliar to me, I check several times for nearby bus routes and how late they run. I think of names of people who could give a ride home. Even if it's a dressy sort of event, I will deliberately dress down so as not to attract attention. Sometimes I won't go at all if I don't know anyone that can offer a ride and if bus routes are more than a few blocks' walk to get to.
--I offer to accompany friends of mine--specifically women, people of color, and queer people--to wherever they're walking to, even if it's just a block. I feel incredibly grateful and supported when others do this for me, and very alone when others don't.
--When I am in a house, bar, club, or some other establishment, I check for all exits. I avoid putting myself in situations where people or things are preventing me from reaching those exits.
--When I walk alone somewhere, I make a point of bringing an umbrella, a heavy book, or some other object that can be used as a weapon. When I don't have an object, I look around constantly for things I can use as weapons.
--When I'm in a space where I hear many disrespectful remarks, insults and slurs, I usually leave. If I can't, I find myself focusing my attention on women, people of color, and queer people in the space, hyper-aware of little things happening to them and silently imploring the crowd to leave them alone.
--When I'm with a group of people and I hear insults and slurs directed at me (or us), I usually respond. When I'm alone and I'm targeted, I say nothing and move away.
--When people stare at me for a long time--even if it's just checking me out, or trying to figure out my race or what have you--I avoid looking at them, because I interpret their staring as a threat.
--At night, I will ride a bus for two blocks rather than walk the same distance.
--Even on very cold winter days, I avoid wearing so many clothes that I can't run fast.
--When I go to meet up with friends, I tell them exactly what time I expect to show based off of bus schedules and walking distance. If I show up even just five minutes later than that time, I get upset with myself, and I get more upset when none of my friends are worried that I showed late.
--When ANYONE physically prevents me from moving or going to where I want to, I panic. Even if it's just being playful.
--When ANYONE talks with me at a very close distance--even if it's really important and I should be listening--I panic, because I feel like I can't move and because I'm not able to look around me.
--When someone I've just met frequently violates my boundaries--interrupting, nonconsensual touch, speaking too close, insulting or being disrespectful--I work very hard to avoid them from that point on. If a friend is with me when this happens and they do nothing or pretend nothing happened, I get very angry with them.
--I offer to accompany friends of mine--specifically women, people of color, and queer people--to wherever they're walking to, even if it's just a block. I feel incredibly grateful and supported when others do this for me, and very alone when others don't.
--When I am in a house, bar, club, or some other establishment, I check for all exits. I avoid putting myself in situations where people or things are preventing me from reaching those exits.
--When I walk alone somewhere, I make a point of bringing an umbrella, a heavy book, or some other object that can be used as a weapon. When I don't have an object, I look around constantly for things I can use as weapons.
--When I'm in a space where I hear many disrespectful remarks, insults and slurs, I usually leave. If I can't, I find myself focusing my attention on women, people of color, and queer people in the space, hyper-aware of little things happening to them and silently imploring the crowd to leave them alone.
--When I'm with a group of people and I hear insults and slurs directed at me (or us), I usually respond. When I'm alone and I'm targeted, I say nothing and move away.
--When people stare at me for a long time--even if it's just checking me out, or trying to figure out my race or what have you--I avoid looking at them, because I interpret their staring as a threat.
--At night, I will ride a bus for two blocks rather than walk the same distance.
--Even on very cold winter days, I avoid wearing so many clothes that I can't run fast.
--When I go to meet up with friends, I tell them exactly what time I expect to show based off of bus schedules and walking distance. If I show up even just five minutes later than that time, I get upset with myself, and I get more upset when none of my friends are worried that I showed late.
--When ANYONE physically prevents me from moving or going to where I want to, I panic. Even if it's just being playful.
--When ANYONE talks with me at a very close distance--even if it's really important and I should be listening--I panic, because I feel like I can't move and because I'm not able to look around me.
--When someone I've just met frequently violates my boundaries--interrupting, nonconsensual touch, speaking too close, insulting or being disrespectful--I work very hard to avoid them from that point on. If a friend is with me when this happens and they do nothing or pretend nothing happened, I get very angry with them.
how the night panned out
I don't mean to discourage you in doing this volunteer work...
No, no, it's not discouraging me from volunteering...more like discouraging in general.
After that exchange I boarded the long bus home and stewed. There isn't much else you can do when pinned with a truism.
I thought long and hard. I thought about how to foster a critical personality in such a way that you don't turn into a discouraging asshole intent on raining on everyone's parade. I thought about leaps of faith and why I don't make them anymore. I thought about good will and good intentions and what can you possibly draw from when those don't cut it the way they used to.
I removed my cell phone and stared at it, wanting it to ring just then, wanting to ring someone up. I removed my planner and stared at the week's events, wondering if there was a romantic date scheduled in somewhere in there: there wasn't. I rubbed my thumb and forefinger in a V from nose to forehead, trying to stem a headache. I considered how I never say the word 'peace' anymore except as part of my nickname. I remembered when that was the word most likely to drop from my mouth if someone asked me the time of day.
At home I removed my work clothes, one article at a time. I donned a light house dress, then took it off in favor of a fresh-smelling T-shirt and faded jeans; the neighbors across from my window have been arriving at some conclusions after spying me in a dress several times previously. I got the ceiling fan going to ease the mugginess. I hauled out CD's from the library--KT Tunstall, P.O.S, Suzanne Vega, Brandi Carlisle, Kaki King--and went through them, one by one, methodically. I hauled out Brussels sprouts for washing and chopping. I boiled water for pasta. I blended and sauteed, blended and sauteed some more. I hauled out a meal that genuinely satisfied--something I haven't experienced for some time. I washed dishes and watered all the plants--jade tree, spider, basil, aloe. I hauled out my guitar, strummed some quick songs, figured out a new one, and put the guitar back in its case, back in the closet. I worked two hours on a long and difficult sudoku. I rested on my bed, CD on shuffle, ceiling fan going overhead, teeth unbrushed, face unshaven. I dreamed about dancing.
Another night of getting a lot done, and yet, getting nothing done. No work on the book, no headway on art for a friend's silent auction, no writing letters to a friend headed for New Orleans. A night of being generally discouraging. And--
Something else; a detail I'm hesitant to share, that I'd rather pretend didn't happen. For somewhere during that night I left my apartment, with the fan running. I lumbered down the stairs and stepped outside. It was a pitch-perfect evening. A hint of a breeze, quiet composure. On the corner on the other side of the street two young men had set up a camera and tripod. And there was a young woman, black blouse and dark blue short skirt, hand on hip, gazing at them, glamorous. I watched her stand still for a few minutes, then breaking the pose, laughing and spinning to look at her backdrop--the magic of an intersection I have witnessed every day for the last year and a half.
I went back inside, up the stairs, and rested for a moment on one of the oversized chairs in the hallway. I took out my chain of keys and weighed the longest, skinniest one in my palm. It is my apartment key. I will soon go back in and fall asleep for the night.
But not before holding it near my face, and then quietly, methodically, grasping the bow with both hands, and slowly jabbing the blade into my midsection. It hurts. I lift up my left arm, and then quietly, methodically, graze the blade of the key along the skin of the wrist in imaginary slashes. It hurts there, too. No blood, but pain. That's good. I can feel it. That's good.
No, no, it's not discouraging me from volunteering...more like discouraging in general.
After that exchange I boarded the long bus home and stewed. There isn't much else you can do when pinned with a truism.
I thought long and hard. I thought about how to foster a critical personality in such a way that you don't turn into a discouraging asshole intent on raining on everyone's parade. I thought about leaps of faith and why I don't make them anymore. I thought about good will and good intentions and what can you possibly draw from when those don't cut it the way they used to.
I removed my cell phone and stared at it, wanting it to ring just then, wanting to ring someone up. I removed my planner and stared at the week's events, wondering if there was a romantic date scheduled in somewhere in there: there wasn't. I rubbed my thumb and forefinger in a V from nose to forehead, trying to stem a headache. I considered how I never say the word 'peace' anymore except as part of my nickname. I remembered when that was the word most likely to drop from my mouth if someone asked me the time of day.
At home I removed my work clothes, one article at a time. I donned a light house dress, then took it off in favor of a fresh-smelling T-shirt and faded jeans; the neighbors across from my window have been arriving at some conclusions after spying me in a dress several times previously. I got the ceiling fan going to ease the mugginess. I hauled out CD's from the library--KT Tunstall, P.O.S, Suzanne Vega, Brandi Carlisle, Kaki King--and went through them, one by one, methodically. I hauled out Brussels sprouts for washing and chopping. I boiled water for pasta. I blended and sauteed, blended and sauteed some more. I hauled out a meal that genuinely satisfied--something I haven't experienced for some time. I washed dishes and watered all the plants--jade tree, spider, basil, aloe. I hauled out my guitar, strummed some quick songs, figured out a new one, and put the guitar back in its case, back in the closet. I worked two hours on a long and difficult sudoku. I rested on my bed, CD on shuffle, ceiling fan going overhead, teeth unbrushed, face unshaven. I dreamed about dancing.
Another night of getting a lot done, and yet, getting nothing done. No work on the book, no headway on art for a friend's silent auction, no writing letters to a friend headed for New Orleans. A night of being generally discouraging. And--
Something else; a detail I'm hesitant to share, that I'd rather pretend didn't happen. For somewhere during that night I left my apartment, with the fan running. I lumbered down the stairs and stepped outside. It was a pitch-perfect evening. A hint of a breeze, quiet composure. On the corner on the other side of the street two young men had set up a camera and tripod. And there was a young woman, black blouse and dark blue short skirt, hand on hip, gazing at them, glamorous. I watched her stand still for a few minutes, then breaking the pose, laughing and spinning to look at her backdrop--the magic of an intersection I have witnessed every day for the last year and a half.
I went back inside, up the stairs, and rested for a moment on one of the oversized chairs in the hallway. I took out my chain of keys and weighed the longest, skinniest one in my palm. It is my apartment key. I will soon go back in and fall asleep for the night.
But not before holding it near my face, and then quietly, methodically, grasping the bow with both hands, and slowly jabbing the blade into my midsection. It hurts. I lift up my left arm, and then quietly, methodically, graze the blade of the key along the skin of the wrist in imaginary slashes. It hurts there, too. No blood, but pain. That's good. I can feel it. That's good.
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