Tempus Fugit, Part IV

And then, sometimes, you walk — not run — around the city.

You leave your iPod at home and tune in to the sound of the wind beating across the water and banging American flags against metal poles; the whirl of cars sweeping by, one after the other all along Lake Shore Drive. The blare of horns from angry taxi cabs and the anxiety of small children hungry for dinner.

But the sun is low by this point, and by the time it's gone the people are, too. So it's just you, and the sounds, the waves and the no swimming sign. There's the pier, and small dunes, and electric light reflected from tall buildings.

And it hits you, standing there, absorbing and perceiving, that you haven't been fair —

Haven't been fair at all.

That it is not — despite your protests — the city that you so despise.

But rather your life in it.

***

Yesterday a co-worker and I went to REI, one of few stores at which I actually enjoy shopping. She and her husband have decided to take up snowshoeing and hiking and maybe even camping, and though I am by no means "seasoned" in any of these things, they are most certainly among my favorite past-times.

As we wandered around the store I realized I'm not quite the novice I once was. I gave her advice on supplies for all of the above. Looked at packs and explained which ones were for day hikes, which ones were for back country, etc. I explained hydration packs, and showed her which poles she'd need with her snowshoes. Told her the secret to zipping two sleeping bags together, and said (forgive me, REI) that for their purposes they could find cheaper tents elsewhere.

Don't get me wrong: I'm no expert on camping or hiking or snowshoeing or anything for that matter. But it felt strange, later, when I realized just how natural it was for me to talk about these things, how easy it was for me to offer tips to someone with less experience.

Like driving six miles from home in a busy part of the city last night, a feat that would've terrified me even just a year ago. But I did it all the same, arriving at my destination without a compass or a road map or even breaking a sweat.

Me: the same girl who once drove for hours trying to go to a friend's party just ten miles away. Me: the same girl who nearly won a Darwin Award for her hiking travails in the Blue Hills. Me: the same girl who nearly drove over a frozen Walden Pond in an attempt to find it.

That's not to say I don't still get lost — I do.

But in very different ways.

***

Today is Halloween. People are in costume, offices are decorated, and at 10 a.m. a group of kids will start circling around, opening their bags with silent pleas for candy (most kids these days can't be bothered to forge those three magic words).

TANGENT: Whenever I type the word "forge," I instinctively add a "t" to the end. Thank goodness for backspace.

I didn't decorate, though I thought about it. I didn't come in costume, though I have one at home. Everyone's excited, and the whole office is abuzz with chatter. There will be a party at lunch time, and contests, and photos and at one point the day will be over. Tomorrow will arrive, and with it the task of undoing the day before.

The ritual tearing down of the celebration. My least favorite part of every holiday, of every gathering.

The long wheeze of a balloon slowly deprived of its helium.

***

And then, yes, there will be lunch.

But you will sneak away minutes before with your shopping list of shaving cream, lotion and No Doz.

You will fill your tank with gasoline for the possibility of road trips, and empty your wallet for an uncertain gift.

And you will sneak back, quieting away to your desk in hopes that you can avoid the questions:

"Aren't you hungry?" they'll ask.

"Yes," you imagine your response. "Very much so."

And they will point you in the direction of food line, never understanding that that is not what you meant.

Not what you meant.

At all.

Jimmy Carter Man from Plains (Movie Review)

Say what you will about Jimmy Carter's stint as president — he's done some amazing things since leaving office, and his work with Habitat for Humanity is really just a fraction of his good deeds.

At 83, he's still nailing away with his hammer, working as a diplomat, writing controversial books, and exercising daily. And, wouldn't you know it, but he still holds hands with his wife and you can sense a genuine tingle of excitement in his voice whenever he speaks to her?

OK, OK. So I admit it: I may be a bit bias. I had a fair amount of respect for Carter even before I watched the 2007 documentary Jimmy Carter: Man from Plains, but I mean how could you not like a man who started life as a peanut and cotton farmer, and then rose to the ranks of nuclear physicist, only to later become president?

But what I like most about him — and much of what this film showcases — is what he's done since then: for the U.S. and the world at large.

And while this film does borrow from old footage and news reels, it does so in the context of the 2006. In other words, the director essentially followed Carter around all of last year, and then flashes back to previous Carter exploits only when it's pertinent to do so. By this design, the film doesn't so much aspire to biograph a former president, as it does to capture his psychology.

Director Jonathan Demme also has a clear fondness for Carter, but that's not to say the film doesn't offer fair representation of Carter's critics. In fact, when Carter's last book, Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid was published — and Carter was deemed an "anti-semite" in some circles purely on the basis of him laying some of the blame on the Israeli government for conflicts over the West Bank — you get to hear from folks who took issue with Carter's controversial stance.

And that gives way to another facet of the film: it's not just a movie about Carter. Rather, it seems to touch rather poignantly on two other topics: ongoing conflicts in the Mid-East, and how the American media (not to mention, political circles) react to people who take unpopular — albeit educated — stances on controversial topics.

Whatever you think of Carter, there's no denying the way he's looked at by people who know him: whether he's at a church function mingling with fellow parishioners; riding his bike with his wife; or sitting in a car with his publicist in the backseat... the people he knows all seem to look at him with this undeniable hint of affection in their eyes.

Not the sort of "look" that comes from being in the presence of the rich and famous, so much as the awe that comes with realizing genuinely good people can and do exist.

That's not to say he's perfect; just that he should serve as an inspiration to the rest of us to stop sitting on our butts and bemoaning the shape of the world.

See the film, and you'll know what I mean.

FINAL GRADE: B+

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Contrary to popular blogosphere belief — and contrary to my previous post — not only am I am a female, but I'm a heterosexual one to boot.

Which makes it particularly odd when I say that as a kid, I kept my hair long not for aesthetics and certainly not to fulfill any "Princess" stereotype. Quite the contrary.

In fact, my hair was invariably all the way down my back primarily because of my four-year-old response to the story of Samson and Delilah.

Silly, huh?

Even as I grew a bit older and my mind was able to rationalize the difference between legend and reality, I nevertheless continued to associate long hair with strength, which made it especially difficult to part with when I donated my mane to charity the first time.

But, what do you know but people responded rather positively to me with hair just above my shoulders. Enough so, in fact, that I resolved to keep it that way for quite some time. The shorter hair grew to symbolize all variety of drastic life changes, and in this manner a new facet of my personality was born.

I've grown my hair long again since then. It was mid-way down my back this time last year, and when I cut it off before the holidays I was quite glad to be rid of it. Every now and then in life, we need a drastic change.

Which is ironic when you consider that I decided this morning that I want to grow my hair long again, if only to offer myself the option to cut it off.

But, you know, next time I'm not so sure I will.

An Awkward Moment between Two Female Friends

Friend A

I'm fed up with men. I soooo wish I were a lesbian.


Friend B [A little too excited]

Meeeee too!



[Awkward silence]



Friend B

Uh, sorry... that was kind of creepy, huh?



Friend A [Nodding]

Let's never speak of it again.

Dinner with Madre

My parents seldom — nay, never — travel. In fact, it's a wonder I've made good on my wanderlust, when you consider how averse my family is to wandering too far from home (our longest trip was five hours from home by car... once, when I was four).

But I digress.

In honor of their 40th wedding anniversary, my sister and I scraped together what we could to help my parents take another road trip (they refused to fly) — this time three states and nine hours away "in the mountains."

We paid for their hotel, their gas, and I believe we even gave them more than enough money to eat decent meals two times a day (breakfast was provided at their hotel). We bought an atlas; road maps; printed directions (thanks, Mapquest); and also presented them with a Visitor's Guide, underscoring cool places to dine.

So imagine my chagrin when my mother revealed to me not only that she and my father had cooked "Healthy Choice" dinners in the microwave one night, but also other related disagreements they had in regards to food choices.

And, I swear to God, here's what she said next:

Your dad wanted to go to Arby's, but I told him I wanted something with more substance than that. I mean, we're on vacation. So we drove around town a little more and ate at Kentucky Fried Chicken.

When I asked if KFC was also at my father's discretion, she made it quite clear that she loved KFC and that it does, indeed, have more "substance" than Arby's.

But, anyway, if there's one lesson my sister and I learned, it's this:

If we ever do this again, we're making sure their hotel room does NOT have a microwave. And rather than cash or a prepaid Visa, we'll just give them gift cards to specific restaurants.

Maybe even something fancy, like Long John Silvers.

Tempus Fugit, Part III

...And then sometimes you drive 200 miles and stay awake all night to watch the Orionides, only to experience the fortunate side effect of witnessing the sun rise over cornfields.

There's something to be said for wishing every day were as good as the last.

Memoirs for the Living

If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles. ~Walt Whitman

---

No amount of sidestepping will keep you from walking on the dead.

Whether by the crunch of autumn under your feet — or the dearth of space between tombstones — the result is a mere inevitability.

And so it goes between the Lights and the Hurts, the Fausts and the Fickles: any attempt at getting closer to the memorial itself means you're rattling old bones beneath you.

This worry has a funny way of rousing old fears concerning death: not so much the end of my life, per se, as the end of every life. Or more particularly: the end of generations and families and centuries such that one day maybe all the cemeteries as we know them will be full (Sorry! No vacancy!) in which case: what will we do with all of those bodies?

(Or so my eight-year-old-brain once pondered, visiting a cemetery for the first time.)

But there are some of us who go all the same, not just for funerals but for funerals in passing: marveling at old markers and quirky names. Photographing the changing leaves, and the art that sometimes rivals the most noted museums.

[I might argue that some of man's finest work is in the grave.]



But it is impossible, at any such instance, to not become invariably reverent and yet: so sad for our ilk (the living).

Everywhere under my feet, those bones. Those people. People who breathed, laughed, cried and loved. People who were hurt and scorned and, in most cases, died a bit sooner than they'd planned.

[Not that we ever really prepare for these things, but bear with me.]

It is impossible to think of these dead and not immediately think of the converse: the living who will — despite the best efforts of 16th century explorers and modern science alike — invariably join them.***There was a president, so noted by a tiny plaque behind his headstone (and still further back, the American flag tangled in tree limbs).


There were the president's men.


There was the criminal.


And a hint of the woman — that infamous Lady in Red — who loved him.


There was the poet: remembered only by those educated in his state, and forgotten by anyone who wasn't.


There were mothers...


And children...

And tokens to remind us of just how terribly difficult it is for the living to part with the dead.


But time, that implacable vixen, has a funny way of changing everything (specifically) in that it doesn't change a thing (generally). That is to say: the leaves change, snow rolls in and the flowers bloom. And there's not a damn thing we can do to stop any of it.

[Global warming notwithstanding.]


In fact, you might even say that our universal fear of death all boils down to this:

The fear of the unknown (the afterlife). And the fear of being forgotten (life).

Between these two worlds — between these two fears — it's a wonder we ever make it through the day without losing our lunch.

But, listen, there is beauty in this bittersweet.

I dare you to look at this



And tell me otherwise.

Numb Benign: Reprise

Just a gentle reminder that there exists a companion website to this one, whereby a handful of writers (it's an open forum) post the occasional poem. Some of them quite good, I might add.

Well, OK, all of them but mine.

Movies I've Seen

So, yeah, I've been lousy about posting. Lousy about reading/commenting. And just all around lousy.

But I swear there's something in the air, as many of my the blogs I tend to read are likewise suffering from neglect.

But I digress. Here are some quick thoughts regarding a handful of movies:

Into the Wild (2007)
A bit on the long side and anything but flawless, this film is based on Jon Krakauer's nonfiction work of the same title. Catalogs the 2-year adventures of a recent college grad trying to escape his past all the while tapping into his true self by escaping society and making way for the mountains of Alaska. At times overdone, I was otherwise touched by the film's overall message regarding society, human relationships, and a lust for adventure... not to mention, the soundtrack which includes several acoustic ditties performed by Eddie Vedder.

Resident Evil 3 (2007)
Yeah, I know. Zombie films aren't my cup of tea, but I saw it anyway. Must admit to the occasional adrenaline rush, but otherwise the main pro for this film was that it made me to stop to think more about man's obsession with the undead insofar as it connotes a living, breathing fear of death.

Broadway Danny Rose (1984)
Woody Allen stars as a low profile talent agent who helps a few C and D stars climb their way to the B rung, only to dump him once they obtain a modicum of success. Parallel to this, one of his up and comings has a mistress and wants Rose to serve as the beard; said mistress has ties to the mob, however, and chaos ensues when Rose is hunted by the hitman brothers of a scorned lover. A decent comedy from Allen's early repertoire that's no Annie Hall but certainly more flavorful than some of the films to follow.

Paradise Now (2005)
The story of two young Palestinian men chosen for a suicide mission in Tel Aviv. When these best friends are separated, they've got to decide whether or not to continue their mission alone — an interesting film that certainly creates tension and explores both sides of a very complex age old conflict. Still, this one smacked a bit too much of Hollywood for a foreign production.

The Next Gasp

Now for a limited time, you can see the Louvre (or a reasonable facsimile) without updating your passport.

And so people came in by the bus loads Saturday, filling the parking lot and cramming into the entryway to purchase their tickets for this special exhibit.

But it was too nice a day to spend indoors, if you ask me. Never mind that I hadn't been to this particular museum in nearly a decade — and never mind it's not often I make it back "that way" — try as I might, I just couldn't bring myself to walk through those big glass doors for anything other than the occasional restroom break (in which case: thank goodness for free public art).

You see, the Indianapolis Museum of Art has a rather impressive general collection — particularly relative to the size of the city — but it also has one sizable advantage over most other art museums: it isn't landlocked by concrete.

So not only is general admission free, but the surrounding gardens are free for the traipsing. And so: rather than find myself alone among a sea of faces inspecting ancient Roman art... I kept to the trails, where I was (quite literally) alone with my thoughts.

***For 90 minutes, there was no one but me. No one but me and, for a brief 30 second encounter, an old man who shuffled his feet to walk. We smiled at each other: he as he exited the greenhouse, and me as I stooped down to photograph random wildflowers (forgive me, I don't know the names of most things).

We walked onward to our respective destinations: that proverbial nowhere and everywhere, just... wandering... hoping (or so I imagined) our random paths might lead to whatever it was we were looking for.

And I did find something out there that day: things I'd forgotten about. The sound of my footsteps crunching over leaves and through pebbles. The smell of an autumn breeze jaunting around the bend. The chattering squirrels and the occasional shout of a child somewhere far off in the distance: ("Look, Mom! A waterfall!").

It is funny how these sounds sometimes echo, rousing us out of that proverbial lethargy as quickly as they return us to it. Waking and sleeping, waking and sleeping...

You keep walking; thinking. You shake your head so as to work loose the toxins, but find yourself stumbling upon the same thoughts and images time and again.

You bend down to pick up a red leaf, its chlorophyll restricted to the ravine along its veins. You spin it stem-first between your thumb and your index, drinking in the smell of it before you return it to the ground (but this time: a little off the path, so no one steps on it) and move onward, as before.

Just walking. And thinking. And kicking dust up with your shoes, filling the air with fog and your lungs with the painful anticipation of your next breath, which you fear — somehow — may never come.

Not Much Else to Say

Behind the Curtain

On Missing

Off and on for several months, and then non-stop for the past two, Maude has been entertaining a guest cat.

Now you may recall she started off chasing him out of his own litter box, growling whenever he'd dare to sit in her favorite chair, or hiss when he'd sniff her, uh, "region."

But after awhile there was a sort of playfulness about their interaction. They didn't cuddle or clean each other, but they'd take off after one other down the hallway, sometimes often well into the night. At first I thought they were fighting -- thought Maude was being cruel again.

But then I realized sometimes he was chasing Maude. And sometimes he'd take off running while she was sitting and licking her own paws, causing her to pounce up and make way for him.

And sometimes when he'd be up in that aforementioned chair, tail wagging just inches from her face, she'd paw at it as though it were a toy mouse scotting along the hardwood floor.

But as of yesterday, he's gone.

And since they never cuddled, or preened, I never would've thought she'd miss him.

But she spent much of yesterday walking around my apartment, peeking into corners, and meowing this pathetic little cry.

At various intervals she'd return to me in my chair, meow, and then resume her search.

Is she sad? Lonely? Confused?

I'm starting to think it was cruel, honestly, to have made them part.

The Beauty of Anorexia

So, listen, I don't consider myself to be poor by any means. On paper my salary looks fine, but when you add in living expenses it's just enough to make ends meet in this city (and take the occasional plane ride to wherever) — provided I stick to a reasonable budget.

But in the past three months, things have been a bit unreasonable. I'm lost without my camera, but my Sony decided it was time to leave me. So I got a new one.

I was under a time constraint to make a VERY expensive fix to my old, beaten up car that literally wasn't worth the cost to fix it. So I stressed about it for weeks, weighed the pros and cons of all my options... and finally got a new one just in time to avoid a pink slip (and a huge fine).

And then almost immediately thereafter, my computer showed gross signs of distress. I tried to make it last as long as I could, waiting for my savings to recover from the amount lost for the down payment of my car. I spent the interim researching laptops (mine was five years old), in search of the best proverbial bang for my buck.

But I realized early on that I couldn't wait for long — my computer was getting worse and worse, so I ordered a new one, finally.... only to have the old one officially give up (taking all of my files with it) two days before my new one arrived.

I still haven't figured out if my files are retrievable — been working too late to even try, except to note that the new cord does indeed work, and my old machine will stay on for however long I care to look at the blue screen of death. Believe it or not, that's a good sign as it means my hard drive isn't necessarily fried (though maybe it is) — it probably was a matter of the recurring electrical shorts making it very, very unhappy until it eventually gave in altogether.

Last night I purchased an enclosure for my laptop hard drive, and will try accessing my files that way... I'm told (thanks AJP and Washington) that even though an operating system is installed on my hard drive, when you convert an internal drive to an external drive, a new computer will treat the old drive like a storage disk, from which you can pull data.

My hope is that I can pull data. Cause if not, there's no other option but dropping my drive off with an expert.

And I hear that's not cheap.

So, anyway, in honor of all these expenses — coupled with the fact that I've only worked out twice in the last three weeks — I've decided to stop eating.

Or, rather, to eat significantly less.

Not only will I save BIG, but I'll look smaller.

Everybody wins.

In Tangles

In addition to the significant increase in traffic, the computer woes*, and sundry other life events, the pace at work has picked up considerably.

That is to say: I've worked through lunch, and then stayed anywhere from 30 minutes to 3 hours late almost every night in the past three weeks (excepting a couple nights last week, which appears to have been the lull between two very hectic storms). And, yeah, staying 30 minutes late isn't a big deal — the average is closer to 70 or 80 minutes late a night, honestly.

I knew early on that yesterday wouldn't be much better; I had to cancel lunch and post-work plans by 9:30 a.m., when I realized there was no chance I'd have the time to get away for either. Jump ahead to 40 minutes after I'm scheduled to leave work. I drop something off with my boss (who's also been pulling a lot of late nights) and he says something to the effect of: "I know it's been a rough day — go out and have a beer."

One of his peers is sitting across from him, and nods approvingly.

Me: Oh, yeah. That's right up my alley. I'll go have a few beers and then drive home.

Boss: Hey, whatever it takes to relax.

His Friend (Laughing): Just go and do whatever it is... you do.

Me (Turning to Walk Away): Go home and cry myself to sleep it is!

They both laughed.

(They thought I was joking.)


COMPUTER UPDATE: I didn't go to the Geek Squad just yet — waiting for my new cord to arrive in the mail to see if that is indeed where the short is (the wire is exposed in one spot near where it connects to my laptop, and other folks who've owned the same machine generally complain about how easily the cord wears out, leading to shorts), and whether or not I can power up. If I can, I have a few options of things I can do on my own before I enlist the aid of professional help. Best case scenario, this is a power short that ticked off my hard drive and caused it to start in safe mode, making all of my files to appear to be missing though they're there if I can force it to start "normally." Worst case scenario, my hard drive is completely fried and data cannot be retrieved (or it can be retrieved at the $1,600 "worst case" expense quoted to Washington). There are some in-between options, too.

Nightmare on My Street

Almost a year ago to this very day, I abandoned the (not so) ExpressWay that marred my daily commute — taking anywhere from 40 minutes (rare) to 2 hours to travel one way (I've had it take 3-4 hours when the weather is bad) — in favor of a single side street that was a reliable 45-50 minute commute each way.

I mean, on this alternative route there's only one lane 80% of the time, and the speed limit is always 30 mph (though in some stretches it's easy to get away with 40)... yet you're moving almost constantly, and are considerably less agitated by the time you arrive to wherever it is you're going. And, sure, occasionally there are problems and interludes of road rage, but those moments are few and far between in comparison to the "Express"Way.

The added bonus: if traffic sucks and you want a diversion, you have the opportunity to turn off every 1/4 mile or so, which compares to the "Express"Way where there are only 5 or 6 exits on a 20 mile stretch (in other words: if things tank... you're stuck).

After months of taking the "Express"Way, my alternative route bordered on a godsend. I didn't look back and haven't bothered to take the "Express"Way since — excepting rare times when I was was traveling between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. (a wide-open pocket of opportunity for comparably "fast" travel).

But, alas, my solace is no more.

You see, the "Express"Way is undergoing construction... a minimum of one lane down in both directions at all times — and two out of three lanes down late in the evening.

They're telling people to not even bother taking the "Express"Way, and this morning as early as 5:50 a.m., traffic was already in the red.

How does this impact me, you ask, since I don't take the "Express"Way?

I'll give you one guess as to the officially sanctioned alternative route for people traveling from my section of the city, and heading anywhere in the same general direction.

Yes. That's right.

I left 15 minutes early today and was still 15 minutes late.

Now, before you tell me I should take the train or ride my bike, you should know I would *love* to do either... or any combination thereof. But I live nowhere near a train stop that goes in the same direction of where I work, and between the transfers and buses and shuttles I'd take, that commute is estimated at just over 2 hours one way.

As for cycling.... I live 20 miles from work, and we have no shower facilities. Couple that with the fact that there aren't any nearby bike paths linking my home to work (in fact, I'd be on busy city streets about 1/2 of the time, and then dark forest preserves the second half), and that alternative isn't safe, either.

But that's not all!

The news just keeps getting better....

Three weeks ago I ordered a new computer, as my home machine has been giving me serious problems. I was even worried enough about it that I tried backing up some of my files multiple times, but there's a short somewhere on my machine, and it randomly shuts off, making it impossible to do anything.

But I got an e-mail yesterday telling me my new computer was finally on its way and I was ordering a new electrical cord for the old one (where I believe the short to be) so, never fear, I'll be able to transfer everything to my new machine in 3-5 days. Right?

Right?!

Nope.

Because, last night, all of my files disappeared.

All of them.

My master's thesis. All my old papers. All my stories, my poems, my e-mails, my pictures and my music.

It's all gone.

So much for getting a big hard drive on my new machine. Looks like I don't have anything to put on there.

And, now, before you tell me I'm over-reacting and it's no big deal....

I'm a writer. A photographer and, above all other things,

A sentimentalist.

I'm just hoping the Geek Squad can help without causing too much financial damage (though, honestly, I'll "charge" whatever it takes). Cause between the new car, computer and camera (why does everything have to break at once?!!)... I may just have to cut food, health care and Christmas out of my budget.

Rural Depravity

No, boys, I will not give you directions.

My Life as Rocker Chick

I have never been what you might call "musically gifted."

I can't sing.

I can't dance.

And, for the life of me, I cannot play a musical instrument.

But that's never stopped me from trying, on all counts. My sister, for example, plays the piano beautifully — my parents forced her to take lessons for several years, but when it came to imposing extracurriculars on yours truly, they instead turned to sports (softball, volleyball and basketball).

So I'm a wicked first base(wo-)man, but when it comes to music I struggle with a few pieces I've taught myself.

I first began tickling the ivories (one-handed) when I was eight or so. An uncle had gifted me this toy instrument — a piece of plastic about two feet long that had about 20 buttons you could push to create different keys and chords (each of them numbered). It came with a book of songs, but instead of telling you what "keys" you were playing, it told you only to push a sequence of numbers.

One day I hopped on my sister's piano and figured out which keys on the piano corresponded with each of the numbers in the booklet. And by the end of the week, I could play about 15 songs on the piano.

Nothing too difficult, mind you — every song was one-handed, and the only "touching" piece of the bunch was "Brahm's Lullaby" or maybe "Greensleeves." But, man, did I play them over and over...

Eventually my sister took pity on me and taught me a "real" song — we started easy with "Heart and Soul," and after watching her play Beethoven's 5th a few times, I was able to imitate the first portion of that.

But we were moving around a lot at this time in our lives, and the piano was often in storage. By the time it was back in our "home," my sister was away at college and I was back to playing those same silly little songs on a pathetic loop.

***A couple years later, I signed up to participate in my elementary school band. Problem being I had no real training on any instrument, and when you're with a teacher trying to teach 20 kids 10 different instruments simultaneously, you don't exactly learn much.

And because I struggled rather severely to understand how notes translated to the beats I'd kick out on my drum set (yes, I was a drummer for six weeks), I quickly gave up on the endeavor.***Next up was music appreciation class in junior high: we were all required to participate for a semester, and because it was overseen by the choir instructor, most of the time was spent singing and learning how to read notes and the like.

I found the class to be entirely stressful, and was more anxious about making good marks in that course than I was advanced lit or algebra.

And the teacher used this course as a means of recruiting future choir members — secretly I very much so wanted to be recruited, and he did talk to me about it once or twice. But I always got the feeling it was more so because it was a "more the merrier" sort of mentality. Fact remains some people in my class could really sing.

I just wasn't one of them.

I even somehow managed to ace all of our exams (which included music history, being able to tap out rhythms, being able to "draw" a note when you're told its name/count, etc.) and I could sorta imitate people OK when they'd sing.

But I couldn't reconcile the two.

That is to say: when given the time to think, I could comprehend what a note entailed. And for the most part I could repeat a note/pitch when someone else sang it first. But I couldn't read music and play/sing it at the same time.

I could study; memorize; do well on exams; but when it came time for any practical application of what I learned, I was useless.

And not to mention: crestfallen.

[This also holds true for art class, where I was never able to translate my thoughts onto canvas, though I filled pages of my notebooks with silly little sketches.]***But I'd still sing whenever no one was listening. And I'd still step up to the piano whenever I was the only one home. I'd make up songs, forgotten just as quickly as I'd create them: never sure of which notes I was using, what time I was keeping, etc.

Jump ahead a few years later, after academia had run its course. I was inhaling new music by the handful, marveling by how sometimes the sweetest melody was a lone voice accompanied by a single string instrument.

So one day I asked my brother if I could snag his guitar: that was the instrument my parents had forced him to learn so many years ago, and by this point he hadn't touched it in a decade. It seemed somehow accessible to me: acquiring a piano was unrealistic, particularly given my nomadic way of life. And, besides, one of my cousins and several of my friends had taught themselves to play.

So why couldn't I?

Said cousin helped me tune the guitar; gave me a print-out of "easy tabs" that'd he'd found online. And I was off.

Only... I wasn't.

C-Major was the first chord on the list, and I struggled for weeks to "master" it. I couldn't for the life of me get my fingers on all three strings without snuffing out the ones between them. The chord was muffled, and hollow, whenever I'd try to play it.

So I did what any other struggling musician would do: I cursed my short fingers as the cause of all my troubles, wondering if there wasn't some way I could make them a centimeter or two longer...

But then one day my cousin and I both took our guitars to our grandparents' home. And though I'd heard my grandfather play the guitar my whole life — but always from a distance, with him on stage at church — I'd never seem him play up close. And suddenly these massive fingers — each as thick as two or three of mine — were strumming out gospel and bluegrass in the most hypnotic fashion.

Translation: I no longer had my short, fairly stubby fingers to blame.

It was just... me. I couldn't do it. I had this immense desire not just to play music, but to create it. And I was useless on both counts.***But this was all happening shortly after I moved home, after a few years of being away for school. And those friends who were self-taught started creeping out of the woodwork, and before I knew it we were regularly getting together on the weekends, playing Scattergories well into the midnight hour, and sitting around strumming our guitars (yeah, I know... we're a wild bunch).

There were sometimes more than a dozen of us, at least 6 with a musical instrument in tow. And a couple of them convinced me that my problem with C-Major was simply a matter of learning songs that didn't require it.

So they taught me a few other chords. And through the fine power of imitation, I also learned to play a handful of songs.

And knowing these few chords enabled me to go home, look up "new" songs, and learn a couple more tunes.

Until one day I showed up and played the first half of "We Are Going to Be Friends" — my favorite White Stripes song. And for once, I was actually showing other people how to play something.

[Granted, the first half of that song is easy — but it gets difficult, and I've never mastered the whole thing.]

And so it goes for about a year of my life. One of the best years, really, now that I look back on it. But I'm a restless sort, and I was frustrated with how little there was to do when friends weren't handy (which was increasingly the case as they got involved in long-term relationships, started having kids, etc.). Not to mention, job opportunities were few... and though I liked the "gig" I had, the pay was awful.

So I moved.***And I still played the guitar from time to time in my new city, but my two hour daily commute was really cutting into my free time. Besides, since moving here I've had a difficult time finding like-minded individuals who were up for hanging out without getting wasted — or the ones I did find were boys who weren't content with just being friends, though I wasn't interested in anything else. But that's another story.

Suffice it to say that when it comes to music, I need the sort of guidance I don't have here. And so: before I knew it, the instrument was held captive in its case for. Well.

Far too long.

But something happened last week. I don't know if it's because I was sick and not going to the gym (coupled with my home computer being next to useless) — so I had ample amounts of free time — or if it was watching The Devil and Daniel Johnston (Daniel Johnston doesn't have the best voice, and really isn't even all the good on the guitar... but the end result is still raw... and touching). Or maybe it was when I went to clean my apartment before a visit from a friend, and I felt a little sick to my stomach to realize how much dust was on my guitar case.

Whatever it was, I've been thinking a lot of those months where I played the guitar rather consistently — and how rewarding it felt to hear a real tune produced by my hands — and it seemed somehow wrong to continue to allow my guitar to languish in its case.

So I took it out of retirement this past Monday. Cut off my fingernails (which I'd grown to a respectable length).

And then cursed myself to realize how much I'd forgotten. None of those songs came to me. I struggled again with C-Major (the only chord I remembered "how" to do, though I still couldn't do it). And even the one song I'd (mostly) taught myself was somehow this distant creature that existed only in memory.

I couldn't play a single thing.

I suspect this has something to do with the fact that I never really learned to read music or associate sounds with the placement of my fingers of the strings. All I ever did was memorize songs — which is entirely different from truly understanding the mechanics of an instrument.

But all is not lost. I took my "Teach Yourself Guitar" book out of retirement as well; looked up some familiar tabs; and by Wednesday I was playing the White Stripes again.

And now I'm finally learning what the strings mean. I pluck them one by one and play single chords over and over again, repeating the name of each, trying to build up an association between the sound and the thing.***Will I stick with it this time? I'm thinking of signing up for lessons, just to force myself to give it a go for a few months.

But however I look at it, one thing is missing:

Scattergories.

Funny how sometimes you catch yourself in the middle of Everything, sick for a time and place that you once didn't hesitate to term Nowhere.

Not a Good Day

Ever have one of those days when you know you're screwed before you even get out of bed?

Like, say, you wake up in the middle of the night to an aftermath of cat vomit, and then later you wake up in a jolt, coughing so hard you honest-to-god worry that your lungs are about to make their grand debut outside of your body cavity?

And what if said coughing fit was immediately preceded by a dream whereby you began choking to death?

And what if, say, you normally set two alarms at night — the "hey, you should get up soon" alarm, and then another that chimes in at the last minute telling you you have to get up, or else — and then you realize at 6:40 a.m. (starring groggy-eyed at the alarm) that you forgot to set Alarm #2 and so only have 10 minutes to get out of bed and get ready for work?

And what if, in your haste, you left your apartment without the Nalgene bottle full of water you pack daily, or even your lunch?

And then, midway to work you pass a gas station and realize gas has finally come down a few cents and — thank God! — you're almost on empty and so will need to fill up when you go out for lunch (you'll have to go out for lunch, after all, since you didn't have time to pack one).

So you make a mental note to yourself, work up a thirst by sprinting from the parking lot to your desk, and then reach for your wallet so you can buy some water only to realize...

That...

Yes...

Your wallet isn't there.

So you go through the permutations of where it might be and are gripped with the terrible fear that you may have dropped it when you briefly went out last night to run an errand — because you're about 90% certain it was in your bag then.

So you call the only person who has spare keys to your apartment. Their work whistle blows about 90 minutes later than yours, so you're hoping they're nearby and can "go check" for that elusive wallet, full of credit cards, cash and — yes — your driver's license.

But the phone just rings. And rings.

And rings.

And you're out of gas. And you have no water, no lunch, no breakfast.

You return to your car, search for your wallet (no luck), and count your spare change (intended for laundry tonight), rationing out enough (you hope) for a couple gallons of gas and (you think) a bottle of water.

And then you remember that gas is $3.14 a gallon, not $2.

But 1 gallon, coupled with the 1/2 you already have in there should be more than enough.

Right?

Right?!

Yes. You tell yourself.

It will be enough.

You log in to your credit accounts online to see if there are any charges you didn't approve (in case you did lose it last night after all).

Nothing so far.

So maybe it's home on top of your desk.

Maybe it's not.

Because even though the circumstances of the day are entirely your doing you know that, most often, the consequences are not.

***
But, anyway. I don't know about you, but I hate days like that.

Talking with Strangers

You know how when you're a kid, you have to watch these terrifying videos at school about not talking to strangers?

Or maybe you had to read a book where a perfectly handsome young man (or normal-looking woman) lures a girl into his car with a puppy?

[Lesson: not all child abductors are dirty old men]

In any event, my mother always obsessed over the possibility that I might be swiped up from our yard by the nomads who frequented the nearby "dormitory," and I was never allowed to play outside alone.

Not until I was in college, in fact.

But we'll save those emotional scars for another day. And, please, whatever you do: don't tell her what I did last Thursday.

You see, last Thursday I went into a stranger's house.

Completely uninvited...

Completely alone...

In a big city...

In a neighborhood that's anything but perfect.

And it didn't even occur to me, until later, that what I did wasn't necessarily the "smartest" thing to do.

It just sort of... happened. And then later I laughed to myself, thinking of what my mother would say.

You see, I was taking out the trash when an orange and white cat ran up to me, meowing.

I didn't want to touch him — for fear of what I could transmit to my cat, and also for fear that he would then insist on following me — but the poor thing wouldn't give in. In fact, when I walked to my car to get something out of the trunk, he insisted on following me.

He crossed the road behind me and kept meowing. And when I returned to my apartment, he followed me back across the street, still meowing and rubbing up against my legs.

"All right," I said, giving in, picking him up, and looking for his tags. "Let's see your name."

His tag happened to include his owner's phone number AND address. They lived about four blocks away — close enough that the cat probably wasn't entirely lost, but far enough away that the distance, coupled with his persistence, made me feel like I should at least try to return him.

So wearing socks and flip flops along with a business suit (don't ask), I headed east towards the address on his tag. The cat purred all the while, and was honestly one of the friendliest I've ever had the honor of escorting home (not that I do this often, but you get the idea).

What happened when I arrived was something out of a cheesy movie: a little girl, about 6 or 7, answered the door and actually started crying when she saw the cat in my arms.

"Jasper!" she screamed. "I've missed you so much!"

Her parents stood a few feet behind her, smiling at their daughter's delight. At this point, Jasper jumped out of my arms and began nestling up against the girl. She picked him up using both her hands, squeezing him just under his front legs.

"Where did you find him?" the father asked. "He's been missing for almost two weeks!"

I explained to them how Jasper was following me around, and they were amazed to learn he was actually so close to their house.

"I wonder if he wandered too far from home but was trying to find his way back?" the mother speculated.

"Whatever it was, thank you so much for bringing him back," continued her husband.

"Yes," added the little girl. "I've never been so happy!"

***OK, so by this point you're probably thinking: there's no way that happened.

And so to you skeptics out there, I say: you're exactly right.

Yeah, a cat was following me around. Yeah, I picked him up and took him to the address on his tags.

But what followed was much more boring; certainly not worth the time to tell a story. So I fabricated a few details.

Like the gleeful kid. And the happy family. And I left out the part where I rang the wrong buzzer at first. I left out the growling dogs. And also the part where a neighbor told me to just "put the cat in the backyard if no one answers [once I rang the proper buzzer]."

And, yeah, maybe the lady that owned the cat actually lets her cat outside from time to time. But she did say "Oh, I wondered where he'd gone off to! He's usually not gone so long, I was just thinking of looking for him." So that's something... right?

Honestly? I felt like a jerk for bringing him back.

I mean, they let him out. And he'd probably have found his way back.

But, yeah, I'd still do it again — 'cause I'm a sucker like that.

But, please, don't tell Mom.

I Would've Driven Miles for This

And...

Well...

I suppose technically...

We did.

Mr. Woodcock (Movie Review)

I don't care what anyone says. I don't even care that this film has an abysmal 13% rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

It made me laugh and, well, if that was it's objective (it is a comedy, after all), then it was reasonably successful.

Sure, most of the humor is dark and, yeah, some of it is crude. And, there's nothing "funny" about a grown adult gym teacher (Billy Bob Thornton) teaching a group of 13-year old boys how to wrestle by body slamming one of their pudgy classmates. Except that, eh, it actually is kind of funny.

This film is about that pudgy little kid, who grows up, loses weight, writes self help books... and then returns home to find that his mother is engaged to marry his old gym teacher -- the mean, cantaknerous Mr. Woodcock that was the bane of his junior high school existence. one part of his past that he's unable to part with.

I needed a laugh that night. And I got one. Sort of. I mean, it wasn't a guffaw.

But it sufficed.

So stop judging me.

The Devil and Daniel Johnston (Movie Review)

In the past seven days, I've become extraordinarily obsessed with the music and artwork of one Daniel Johnston.

Some of you may recall one of his more famous sketches from a t-shirt Kurt Cobain repeatedly wore on stage and to signings. Some of you may have even heard an artist like Beck or Wilco or Flaming Lips cover one of his more folksy tunes. Or maybe you recognize him from a VW commercial.

And some of you, like me, may be ashamed to realize just what you've missed out on these past several years.

For me, my obsession with Johnston worked like this:

• Washington goes to Austin last weekend for work.
• Washington happens to be there during Austin City Limits, for which I was terribly envious.
• Washington returns with a cute little t-shirt (a gift for yours truly) sporting an alien looking frog and the words, "Hi, how are you?"

Within a day, I was researching the artist and queuing up a documentary made about his life: The Devil and Daniel Johnston (2005), which I watched this past weekend.

There's not much else for me to say, except that I've already legally downloaded a couple songs, and expect to purchase an album or two in the next week (as much for the artwork as the songs themselves).

But first, a bit about the film.

The Devil and Daniel Johnston offers a disheartening glimpse into the life of a manic depressive whose state was exacerbated by drug use in the mid to late 80s.

That is to say, he was already prone to unhealthy highs and lows — in regards to his emotional and psychological state — but met a veritable point of not return after a bad trip made it nearly impossible for friends and family alike to "deal" with him.

The end result: the man who took South by Southwest by storm on more than one occasion — the man who inspired the likes of Kurt Cobain and counted people like "Sonic Youth" among his closest friends — spent several long stints of his life in asylums, never wholly able to pursue a career as a musician or an artist.

An ex-girlfriend interviewed in the film espoused her fear that Daniel was a bit too much like that proverbial flower in the desert — the rare one that blooms rather beautifully, and then disappears wholly unknown to man.

I think she's on to something there, as Johnston has a bit of a cult following by musical crowds (particularly in Austin), but otherwise isn't a name that's ever made it into the mainstream, even though he first entered the public sphere more than 20 years ago.

In any event, his story is a sad one and even when he sings out of key, his lyrics — which have a sort of Indie Folk quality — are beautiful.

I was sorry to watch his unfortunate descent, though I think this film likewise demonstrates why so many past artists, a la Van Gogh, weren't fully appreciated until after their death: they're oftentimes so much so a danger to themselves that they can't forge a career out of their talent: rather, their talent is a creature of the very thing that marks their undoing.

But Johnston is still very much so alive, and only in his mid-40s. His life's aspiration was to be famous, and — for whatever it's worth — he's found at least one new fan in the Midwest.

FINAL GRADE: A-

Beowulf & Grendel (Movie Review)

What a disappointment.


I mean, sure, perhaps I was a little too excited to see that an 8th century Old English epic poem about 6th century Scandavia had been turned into a film — and perhaps that excitement foolishly elevated my expectations.


Whatever it was, I found this film at times laughable. Granted, when I think of pieces of classical literature that would be difficult to adapt for the big screen, Beowulf easily makes the top ten. But I never expected to want to laugh about it.


From the grunts and gestures of Grendel — the troll the brave warrior Beowulf seeks to destroy — to crude dialog clearly spoken in-between bits of sorta Old English I struggled to hear (between being sick, having a 20-year-old television, and this DVD not having subtitles, I probably actually only heard 1/2 of the dialog), I was definitely hoping for at least a little something more than this 2005 production was able to provide.


The film also takes some poetic liberties in regards to its portrayal of Grendel — in the film, he is no more a beast than are the men who hunt him. And while I suppose you could take that message from the original epic poem (and, honestly, given my cynicism towards my fellow man, it's a message I empathize with), the filmmakers make him one of the most sympathetic characters — an egregious breach from the original, if I remember correctly (please note, I haven't read Beowulf in years — fellow English majors, please let me know if I'm not remembering correctly).

So in this regard, I'm torn: I recall feeling sorry for Grendel before, but in this film he and Beowulf are co-protagonists with a clear respect for one another, rather than absolute foils. So do I appreciate this editorial "tweak" — since I think it says more about human nature — or condemn it for breaking so egregiously from the original?

I dunno. All I do know is, I hope the next film based on this poem (apparently, another one is due out later this year) is better than this.




FINAL GRADE: C-/D+

For Those Who Have Asked to See Pictures of My New Car and/or My New Nephew

Now you get to see BOTH!

Yes, kids, that's my trunk. And, yes, that's my nephew.* We ran out of seats in the front, and he tucked rather nicely into the back — not to mention, he actually seemed to like it there.

Relax. It wasn't a long drive.

OK, so maybe he wasn't so thrilled once the car started to move...


Just kidding. That's him kicking his feet around, a favorite hobby of his (for the record, he also enjoys laughing, cooing, soiling perfectly good diapers, dancing, "talking" to his parents, and spitting up on Washington).

[Who, for the record, was the one to put him in the trunk in the first place — the "spit up" occurred a couple hours later — I suspect a conscious act of revenge. This is one smart kid, I tell you.]

Anyway. A fair few of you are probably mortified by now, so you can rest assured the car remained in park the entire 30 seconds my nephew was momentarily stowed away.

He's still just as happy and healthy as ever. Here's proof:


See? One week later, and perfectly fine. Sorry to say I can't take credit for this photo — it's his mother's handiwork. Apparently he was looking outside rather intently, watching his father scrape paint away from (what was once) an opaque window.



*Professional stunt baby. Don't try this at home or in parking lots. No babies were harmed and/or ever in immediate danger in the creation of this post. Babies belong in properly secured car seats, not trunks. Thank you.

I Know How You Heel

If You Regularly Commute In City Traffic During Rush Hour, You've Dreamt of This

The Corpse Bride (Movie Review)

With films such as Beetle Juice and Edward Scissorhands to Tim Burton's credit, I'm beginning to recognize recurring themes in his films: death, dinner parties (unusually interrupted) and a penchant for finding beauty where others never think to look.

And it's not so much the things Burton portrays, as it is the way he does it -- particularly when he employs stop motion animation, as is the case for The Corpse Bride (2005) -- a story about a Victorian man (Victor) engaged to marry a girl (Victoria) he's never met.

The night before his wedding, he's kidnapped from a forest and dragged down into the underworld, the unwitting husband of a corpse bride he "accidentally" proposed to.

As Victor tries to return to his bethroed in the Land of the Living, he likewise grows fond of his rotting bride (who initally repulsed him). Either way, this film personifies male-pattern cold feet in the most eerily charming fashion possibly.

Only real complaint I have is that this is a "musical" of sorts -- and I don't care for musicals. The characters do periodicially burst into song, which annoys me more than I care to admit... even if they're not your traditionl "Beauty and the Beast" standards.

But with insightful lines like "Die, die we all pass away // But don't wear a frown cuz it's really okay // And you might try 'n' hide // And you might try 'n' pray // But we all end up the remains of the day" it's hard to complain to much.




FINAL GRADE: B+

Dude, Where's My Mucinex?

I'm sick. Here's a picture.

Brick (Movie Review)

I spent the first 20 minutes of Brick (2006) obsessing over how unbelievable the characters were, and how hackneyed the plot — even if it was a noveau twist.

But then something hit me. And as soon as I was thinking the lone merit to be found pertained to the way in which the film was shot, I recollected two lone words from the DVD's sleeve:

Film noir.

Ah, yes! So that's why the plot, however 21st century suburban, seemed vaguely familiar. And, yes, THAT's why the characters — teenagers caught up in a suburban drug world — sound like uncannily intelligent adults with a penchant for McGuyver-esque crime-solving.

It's a modern take on an old genre (a la The Maltese Falcon). And the sooner you realize that, the sooner you'll appreciate the film.

Brick is essentially about a girl caught up in a drug world; her murder; and the ex-boyfriend who talks like Bogart intent on solving the mysteries surrounding her death.

All in all, an interesting film that can be difficult to get into — especially if you forget to read the DVD sleeve.

FINAL GRADE: B

9 to 5

All together now, in unison: "I am a beautiful and unique individual..."

Dearest Jeff Tweedy

I took this photo for you. Now, please, help me find tickets to your sold-out show.

I don't even care that it's unseasonably cold.

Love always,

The Third Worst Poet in the Galaxy

Tempus Fugit, Part II

Taking photographs, for me, is a bit of a sickness.

That's not to say I'm so busy capturing moments that I fail to live them. Rather, you might say I'm so busy trying to live them that I experience a nauseating compulsion to draw certain moments out to infinity.

And since *I* won't live forever (though science is working on it), the fact remains that a significant portion of my photophilia is the desire to share moments — or my perspective of the everyday (the same thing, really) —with others: whether that's a particularly breathtaking sunset, or an old grain silo that has most certainly seen better days.

And yet: there are some things I cannot show you. Like four weeks ago, driving just minutes after a tornado and severe thunderstorms downed trees and flooded roads — stifling my daily commute for the rest of the week. At the midsection of a particularly gruesome downpour, I drove past a 9 or 10 year-old boy holding a mangled STOP sign over his head for protection from the rain.

Once I realized he was heading down a driveway which I assumed to be his home, I was free to address my own, personal agony with the situation:

I had left my camera at home that morning, and would never be able to show someone what I saw. That boy and his STOP sign — and the jungle of fallen trees behind him — are now at the forefront in my brain, but only as I type them now — with the actual experience just recent enough.

But how long until I forget about him? How long until that memory is covered in another, and then another, and with no pictures to remind me... the memory becomes lost?
***
There was last weekend, too. Hiking over and around sand dunes that seemed never to end, with winds so severe that — when combined with sand — they meant certain death for any camera.

So you leave the camera behind.

Lock your car doors (click twice until it beeps).

And almost immediately experience this dip in your stomach as you realize just how much you will never be able to show people. Just how much you may one day forget.

Kids running sideways, yelling and laughing after tumbleweeds.

Adults jumping and yelping as the sand beats against bare skin.

A three-year-old girl with ringlets and a sundress, running as fast as her little legs will take her

Her father, panting and shouting behind her

This was taken from my car, after the "end" of the walk -- here you see the first of several climbs on a 4 mile (if you walk the whole thing there and back) trip.

Both of these were taken at another dune prior to stowing my camera away for good

But these instances, as I describe them, really only cover one of the five senses: and as much as I prefer to go on kidding myself, the fact remains that life isn't all about what you see. In which case, even with my camera in tow, I can never wholly recreate anything.

Not the feel of my bare feet sinking into sand — so quick, and so assuredly — as we make the steep descent down.

Not the sound of the waves coming in (and then out again). Not even the taste of a raspberry "Squishie" after a long walk in the sun, or the smell of wet leaves just beginning to give in to autumn.

But sometimes photography, purely on the basis of sight, triggers something in our brain that recalls all of these senses. And then, in a flash, you're there — again, or for the first time.

Science tells us our olfactory senses work in much the same way — it is for this reason that being re-introduced to an old, vaguely familiar scent can propel us back through time to a memory we'd all but forgotten.

And then, before you know it, you're in your grandmother's garden. Or crawling onto your father's lap. Or sitting in the truck bed of an old Ford, driving 50 mph on a highway with the wind at your back.

But there is no button I can push to record these scents. No technological interface that would allow me to instantaneously share these aspects of living with the rest of the world.

But I can hit that shutter in hopes that one day looking at that photo will bring to mind the touch; the taste; the smell; and the feel.

For me, or anyone who cares to remember.

Because, well. As much as I hate to admit it, this life won't last forever. As soon as we're that kid chasing after tumbleweeds near Lake Michigan, we're sitting alone at a restaurant just to help the time pass.

Though secretly, and enviably, you can't help but think — old or young — that there was never enough time... before.