Title this "Changing, Remaining the Same"
It didn't feel fair, the prospect of picking sides.
But then the implied ultimatum was there, waiting to be read between the lines of sharp words and would-be boldfaced text. You are with him or you are with us. All of you. Pick.
I quietly chose. I wrote out an honest collection of words, read over and spell-checked once before it was sent. And I realized I'd chosen.
You want me to? Fine. I pick him.
I would have anyway, despite my efforts to downplay the decision. Everyone knew. But I resented them for making the decision that easy. It was supposed to be difficult.
Particular chunks of the old are being maintained for continuance, with little regard for the pieces that have been unceremoniously erased. There's seemingly little consideration about how we'll feel about seeing the old repackaged with new - same words, new voices.
I know I'll make the slightest of efforts - no more going out of my way - to see how it works out. Once. If it's convenient to me.
The fact that I feel so little of the enthusiastim and zest I've grown accustomed to is the biggest surprise of all.
The collective is now neither shiny and new nor familiar and comfortable. I'm not as bright-eyed and ready to be dazzled.
***
In other, sarcastically unrelated news: you needn't "quote yourself." Boldface accomplishes little. And dashes, if necessary, often work much better than ellipses.
Just sayin'.
11.30.2005
11.29.2005
It was winter when we bought the tickets.
I was asleep when Beth knocked on the door and said something then relatively indiscernable. I heard "Boston" and "U2," so mumbled something that apparently sounded like some form of confirmation.
When I woke up and wandered out of my room, thinking that I'd dreamt it all, Beth informed me that we had U2 tickets. For December.
This was March.
Each month, I've checked in to make sure the tickets are still safe and accounted for. Admittedly, I've also checked to see how much they're going for on eBay, but that's just because it's fun to play around with the idea of paying a chunk of rent with a ticket.
For the record, they're going for a lot.
Nine months have gone by. The FleetCenter printed out on the tickets has been transformed into the single most annoying name possible for a Boston building - TD Banknorth GARDEN*. Children could have been conceived and born during this span. And now Sunday approaches with the promise of Bono, The Edge, Larry and Adam.
I've never seen U2 live, and it feels as if the band is one of those you need to see at least once in your lifetime. The number of memories that have been linked to the band's discography - from youth to teenagedom, college to this relative adulthood - is pretty shocking when I take a step back to think about it.
We joked and groaned when the tickets arrived in the blank white envelope.
"It'll be WINTER AGAIN when we actually use these! That feels so far away!"
And yet here it almost is.
*There was one Garden. They tore it down to build this new place. Ahem.
I was asleep when Beth knocked on the door and said something then relatively indiscernable. I heard "Boston" and "U2," so mumbled something that apparently sounded like some form of confirmation.
When I woke up and wandered out of my room, thinking that I'd dreamt it all, Beth informed me that we had U2 tickets. For December.
This was March.
Each month, I've checked in to make sure the tickets are still safe and accounted for. Admittedly, I've also checked to see how much they're going for on eBay, but that's just because it's fun to play around with the idea of paying a chunk of rent with a ticket.
For the record, they're going for a lot.
Nine months have gone by. The FleetCenter printed out on the tickets has been transformed into the single most annoying name possible for a Boston building - TD Banknorth GARDEN*. Children could have been conceived and born during this span. And now Sunday approaches with the promise of Bono, The Edge, Larry and Adam.
I've never seen U2 live, and it feels as if the band is one of those you need to see at least once in your lifetime. The number of memories that have been linked to the band's discography - from youth to teenagedom, college to this relative adulthood - is pretty shocking when I take a step back to think about it.
We joked and groaned when the tickets arrived in the blank white envelope.
"It'll be WINTER AGAIN when we actually use these! That feels so far away!"
And yet here it almost is.
*There was one Garden. They tore it down to build this new place. Ahem.
Roo: Look, mama, look! A kite!
Kanga: Oh, my goodness! It's Piglet!
Winnie the Pooh: [being dragged behind Piglet] Happy Windsday, Kanga. Happy Windsday, Roo.
Roo: Can I fly Piglet next, Pooh?
Two days before December. 65 degrees. I would be skipping my way down the city's streets, did I not half expect to be blown away by blustery bursts of wind mid-skip...
Happy Windsday, dear readers.
Music: Red House Painters, "Between Days"
Kanga: Oh, my goodness! It's Piglet!
Winnie the Pooh: [being dragged behind Piglet] Happy Windsday, Kanga. Happy Windsday, Roo.
Roo: Can I fly Piglet next, Pooh?
Two days before December. 65 degrees. I would be skipping my way down the city's streets, did I not half expect to be blown away by blustery bursts of wind mid-skip...
Happy Windsday, dear readers.
Music: Red House Painters, "Between Days"
I'm eliminating entities in my life. Those that don't show some form of reciprocation are on the chopping block.
I need to figure out which to keep and which to lose.
I'm tired. I'm being selfish. And, frankly, I don't care.
Perhaps I'm subconsciously starting the annual year in review process. I'm taking a look at the picture I present and realizing that some of the angles are off - much of the energy that went into the creation of the picture may have been misused.
I know I'm attempting to amend a character trait - and that doing so is often futile - but I'm not willing to continue caring and, subsequently, feeling slighted or hurt.
A couple of items have already been striken from the list. A few more are being mulled over. Ultimately, I'll be able to have whittled down the list to things I can really put energy and passion into.
In the long run, I'm going to be better for it.
I need to figure out which to keep and which to lose.
I'm tired. I'm being selfish. And, frankly, I don't care.
Perhaps I'm subconsciously starting the annual year in review process. I'm taking a look at the picture I present and realizing that some of the angles are off - much of the energy that went into the creation of the picture may have been misused.
I know I'm attempting to amend a character trait - and that doing so is often futile - but I'm not willing to continue caring and, subsequently, feeling slighted or hurt.
A couple of items have already been striken from the list. A few more are being mulled over. Ultimately, I'll be able to have whittled down the list to things I can really put energy and passion into.
In the long run, I'm going to be better for it.
11.28.2005
How does the country song go? And why do I remember it?
Jose Cuervo, you are a friend of mine
I like to drink you with a little salt and lime
DId I kiss all the cowboys?
Did I shoot out the lights?
Did I dance on the bar?
Did I start any fights?
Jose and I reunited on Saturday night. One brief, dazzling evening of pulsing lights, dancing and debauchery.
On Sunday, I decided to reinstate my anti-tequila-shot stance. It's not just a break. Jose Cuervo and I have broken up.
I don't like getting drunk. I don't enjoy the feeling of losing control, and I hate the next day hangover. So you can imagine how I felt yesterday, as I suffered the fourth worst hangover in V history.
A breakup. No chance of reconcilliation.
Jose Cuervo, you are a friend of mine
I like to drink you with a little salt and lime
DId I kiss all the cowboys?
Did I shoot out the lights?
Did I dance on the bar?
Did I start any fights?
Jose and I reunited on Saturday night. One brief, dazzling evening of pulsing lights, dancing and debauchery.
On Sunday, I decided to reinstate my anti-tequila-shot stance. It's not just a break. Jose Cuervo and I have broken up.
I don't like getting drunk. I don't enjoy the feeling of losing control, and I hate the next day hangover. So you can imagine how I felt yesterday, as I suffered the fourth worst hangover in V history.
A breakup. No chance of reconcilliation.
11.26.2005
"If we close our eyes as we walk up and then open them, real quick, at the same time, it'll be just like they just lit it."
We laughed and sipped our beers. We'd put in the effort - we met up at a corner along the pedestrian downtown and wove our way through throngs of people, strollers and puffy winter jackets.
The tree waited at the top of the street, positioned in a manner that would allow the church steeple to peek out over the top from any angle from which you viewed it. It was dark, but the small stage constructed before it was drenched in spotlights - stage lighting, television news lighting and the flickering flashes of cameras.
The annual Christmas musical segue into tree lighting, and we were standing against the brick building walls, underneath canopies and behind a post. In the cold. And, in my case, without a hat or gloves. With twenty minutes until lighting time.
The tree would be lit for a solid month, and we'd have plenty of time to ooh and aah in a less crushing environment.
Drinks? Dinner? Brewery? Lovely. My kind of way to celebrate the start to the holiday season.
As we pushed back - against the natural flow of bodies - the Christmas songs coursed through speakers up and down the street. Floppy woolen hats bounced atop heads in time to the beat.
I hadn't attended a large-scale tree lighting in years, and this extravaganza was my first Burlington demonstration of holiday spirit. But with the new snow and the fact that I'd barely started adding a scarf to my relatively lightweight jacket, the sight of sleighbells, holly, ribbons and lights was more than a little jarring.
When did the holidays sneak up on us?
E looked equally surprised. As we excused and pardoned and ooh-sorry-ed our way through the crowd, listening to "Winter Wonderland," I tapped her shoulder.
"Would it be bad of me to rush the stage yelling, 'NOT YET'?"
She laughed. "That would be awesome."
We laughed and sipped our beers. We'd put in the effort - we met up at a corner along the pedestrian downtown and wove our way through throngs of people, strollers and puffy winter jackets.
The tree waited at the top of the street, positioned in a manner that would allow the church steeple to peek out over the top from any angle from which you viewed it. It was dark, but the small stage constructed before it was drenched in spotlights - stage lighting, television news lighting and the flickering flashes of cameras.
The annual Christmas musical segue into tree lighting, and we were standing against the brick building walls, underneath canopies and behind a post. In the cold. And, in my case, without a hat or gloves. With twenty minutes until lighting time.
The tree would be lit for a solid month, and we'd have plenty of time to ooh and aah in a less crushing environment.
Drinks? Dinner? Brewery? Lovely. My kind of way to celebrate the start to the holiday season.
As we pushed back - against the natural flow of bodies - the Christmas songs coursed through speakers up and down the street. Floppy woolen hats bounced atop heads in time to the beat.
I hadn't attended a large-scale tree lighting in years, and this extravaganza was my first Burlington demonstration of holiday spirit. But with the new snow and the fact that I'd barely started adding a scarf to my relatively lightweight jacket, the sight of sleighbells, holly, ribbons and lights was more than a little jarring.
When did the holidays sneak up on us?
E looked equally surprised. As we excused and pardoned and ooh-sorry-ed our way through the crowd, listening to "Winter Wonderland," I tapped her shoulder.
"Would it be bad of me to rush the stage yelling, 'NOT YET'?"
She laughed. "That would be awesome."
11.25.2005
Funny, how one's mind can work in completely different ways when one's in a different type of setting.
I'm a visual driver. Once I've driven somewhere once, I generally know precisely where I'm going and have little or no problems.
(How I navigate when I've never been somewhere is a topic for another time.)
The drive to and from the family get-togethers in Massachusetts is no problem, as I've been traveling those roads, whether in the driver's seat or as a passenger, since I was five. I don't know much of Andover or Lawrence or whatnot - hell, not even much of Middleton beyond the block on which I lived - but I know those roads.
At 5:46 this morning, however, I was playing a numbers game I'd never played before.
114. 125. 495. 93. 89. Don't trust yourself to know the turn at sight. Trust the signs.
And, for the record, I did almost miss a turn. Hey. I was tired.
Thanksgiving was a similar blur of numbers. Temperatures, times, pieces of silverware, scoops of the ice cream T had brought with him from work (which he had made himself, might I add) to accompany the variety of pies. Driving times coupled with movie start times...numbers, numbers, numbers.
And I joke that I became a writer because I was lousy at math.
But it was an enjoyable holiday, certainly worthy of the traveling that required a 5 a.m. wakeup this morning. Regardless of what else may be happening in our respective lives, Thanksgiving, like Christmas, remains consistent. There will be six of us. We'll be at my grandmother's house. My grandmother, mother and I will fuss in the kitchen trying to get everything set. Football will be on in the living room. My brother will, at some point, fall asleep on the couch. He will convince me to try eating Tofurkey. I'll give it a shot and then quickly reach for the turkey. The group will talk about the Red Sox and movies and whatever else comes along. We'll good-naturedly bicker and tease and everything will work out the same way it always does. Year after year.
They might be exasperating from time to time, and certainly as quirky as any other groups of relations you'll come across, but as I sat at the table and looked at the hub of people with whom I meet up each holiday, I had to grin.
It might be a screwy little family, but dammit, it's mine.
In other news: Go see "Rent."
I'm a visual driver. Once I've driven somewhere once, I generally know precisely where I'm going and have little or no problems.
(How I navigate when I've never been somewhere is a topic for another time.)
The drive to and from the family get-togethers in Massachusetts is no problem, as I've been traveling those roads, whether in the driver's seat or as a passenger, since I was five. I don't know much of Andover or Lawrence or whatnot - hell, not even much of Middleton beyond the block on which I lived - but I know those roads.
At 5:46 this morning, however, I was playing a numbers game I'd never played before.
114. 125. 495. 93. 89. Don't trust yourself to know the turn at sight. Trust the signs.
And, for the record, I did almost miss a turn. Hey. I was tired.
Thanksgiving was a similar blur of numbers. Temperatures, times, pieces of silverware, scoops of the ice cream T had brought with him from work (which he had made himself, might I add) to accompany the variety of pies. Driving times coupled with movie start times...numbers, numbers, numbers.
And I joke that I became a writer because I was lousy at math.
But it was an enjoyable holiday, certainly worthy of the traveling that required a 5 a.m. wakeup this morning. Regardless of what else may be happening in our respective lives, Thanksgiving, like Christmas, remains consistent. There will be six of us. We'll be at my grandmother's house. My grandmother, mother and I will fuss in the kitchen trying to get everything set. Football will be on in the living room. My brother will, at some point, fall asleep on the couch. He will convince me to try eating Tofurkey. I'll give it a shot and then quickly reach for the turkey. The group will talk about the Red Sox and movies and whatever else comes along. We'll good-naturedly bicker and tease and everything will work out the same way it always does. Year after year.
They might be exasperating from time to time, and certainly as quirky as any other groups of relations you'll come across, but as I sat at the table and looked at the hub of people with whom I meet up each holiday, I had to grin.
It might be a screwy little family, but dammit, it's mine.
In other news: Go see "Rent."
11.23.2005
So.
Averi sent out an email announcing that the band will be continuing without Chad.
I'm duly noting that here.
So.
There will be no speculation, no discussion about what might have happened here. Not my place.
But my friends and I have noticed that things seemed different the last few shows we attended. I think a number of people probably did.
But one observation. Regardless of what may have occurred, the email sent out to fans could have - should have - been handled more diplomatically. You see announcements describing the disintigration of a musical collaboration from time to time, and a common thread among them is the strong face put forward to the listeners. Decision to go separate ways, wish X the best...
You don't generally see members of a band send out what amounts to a bitch-slap to the departing member(s).
I've listened to Averi for a long time now. I'd plan to continue doing so. And I plan to listen to Chad.
What I've always appreciated so much about the Averi guys is a sense of courtesy and appreciation that, I've found, characterizes each of the guys in the band. All five.
The email? Wildly out of character from what I've grown accustomed to. And, to be honest, I find the tactics used to be quite ill-advised.
It's surprising to see it played out this way. Email to the mailing list, posted right on the website, on the "About Averi" on the myspace...just wow.
Be angry. But don't completely tarnish the image of a collaboration that lasted for years. Or, at least, don't let that show too obviously.
I'm really disappointed with how this all appears to be panning out.
Averi sent out an email announcing that the band will be continuing without Chad.
I'm duly noting that here.
So.
There will be no speculation, no discussion about what might have happened here. Not my place.
But my friends and I have noticed that things seemed different the last few shows we attended. I think a number of people probably did.
But one observation. Regardless of what may have occurred, the email sent out to fans could have - should have - been handled more diplomatically. You see announcements describing the disintigration of a musical collaboration from time to time, and a common thread among them is the strong face put forward to the listeners. Decision to go separate ways, wish X the best...
You don't generally see members of a band send out what amounts to a bitch-slap to the departing member(s).
I've listened to Averi for a long time now. I'd plan to continue doing so. And I plan to listen to Chad.
What I've always appreciated so much about the Averi guys is a sense of courtesy and appreciation that, I've found, characterizes each of the guys in the band. All five.
The email? Wildly out of character from what I've grown accustomed to. And, to be honest, I find the tactics used to be quite ill-advised.
It's surprising to see it played out this way. Email to the mailing list, posted right on the website, on the "About Averi" on the myspace...just wow.
Be angry. But don't completely tarnish the image of a collaboration that lasted for years. Or, at least, don't let that show too obviously.
I'm really disappointed with how this all appears to be panning out.
11.22.2005
Does anyone else remember the simplesimon mailings?
I recently came across a mention I'd made to a mailing a few years ago and, in the natural progression of things, went back over poetic musings sent long ago by a largely anonymous author to equally anonymous readers. If you happened across the site - I can't recall how precisely that came to be for me - you had the opportunity to sign up for posts from somewhere within New York.
I did. And just as I'd start to forget the simplesimon existed - or each time I began to assume the author had ceased with the venture - another mailing would be waiting for me in my inbox. Ready for consumption and, if I desired (and I often did), contemplation.
A smile came across my face as I saw the title of "today could be."
I loved those mailings, this one in particular.
people want to read stories
and poems and see movies and
they want them to be about
love and finding love and loving
love and losing it
and they tell their stories
and give people these labels
"the one that got away," that's
one, and the names and faces
correlate with an idea that
someday love will find them
drinking tea at night
when they've already given up looking
so they pretend to give up looking
and they tell themselves,
"i guess i am just one of the sad ones"
and they tie nooses around their necks
swallow too much of something or other
the things they use to kill them
or they will walk around with a glazed face
waiting for the person who recognizes those eyes
to come and step up to them
in the idle highway of the unexpected evening
The Night When Everything Changed:
so they keep markers by their calendars
so the box can be marked immediately,
as soon as the chance comes to do so,
The Day That Everything Changed.
*****
In other news. Tomorrow will be a flurry of writing, errands, battling the snowfall and, finally, a holiday-prompted excursion back onto highways that will lead me to Massachusetts, family and, schedules permitting, friends.
Mother Nature, I thank you in advance for your cooperation.
But I wanted to be sure to wish you a very, very happy Thanksgiving.
I recently came across a mention I'd made to a mailing a few years ago and, in the natural progression of things, went back over poetic musings sent long ago by a largely anonymous author to equally anonymous readers. If you happened across the site - I can't recall how precisely that came to be for me - you had the opportunity to sign up for posts from somewhere within New York.
I did. And just as I'd start to forget the simplesimon existed - or each time I began to assume the author had ceased with the venture - another mailing would be waiting for me in my inbox. Ready for consumption and, if I desired (and I often did), contemplation.
A smile came across my face as I saw the title of "today could be."
I loved those mailings, this one in particular.
people want to read stories
and poems and see movies and
they want them to be about
love and finding love and loving
love and losing it
and they tell their stories
and give people these labels
"the one that got away," that's
one, and the names and faces
correlate with an idea that
someday love will find them
drinking tea at night
when they've already given up looking
so they pretend to give up looking
and they tell themselves,
"i guess i am just one of the sad ones"
and they tie nooses around their necks
swallow too much of something or other
the things they use to kill them
or they will walk around with a glazed face
waiting for the person who recognizes those eyes
to come and step up to them
in the idle highway of the unexpected evening
The Night When Everything Changed:
so they keep markers by their calendars
so the box can be marked immediately,
as soon as the chance comes to do so,
The Day That Everything Changed.
*****
In other news. Tomorrow will be a flurry of writing, errands, battling the snowfall and, finally, a holiday-prompted excursion back onto highways that will lead me to Massachusetts, family and, schedules permitting, friends.
Mother Nature, I thank you in advance for your cooperation.
But I wanted to be sure to wish you a very, very happy Thanksgiving.
11.21.2005
I'm talking on the phone as I drive down the highway. M is at her home, typing away on the computer as we chat. I can hear the keys clicking away wildly. She chuckles.
M: It's funny that you said that, E just IM'ed me the same phrase, about something different.
V: E? Like E, E?
M: Yes, that E.
V: Tell her I said hi!
M: (Laughing) I am doing so right now.
V: Tell her I wanted to know if she wants to get coffee tomorrow.
M: She does.
V: Excellent!
M: She wants to know where.
V: Pooh Corner.
M: Wha-
V: Hey, J's calling me! Leave a message, J!
M: J? Yay!
V: He left a message. I'll have to call him back.
M: Tell him I said hi!
V: I will!
I live in Vermont. E lives in Vermont. M, the messenger, lives in Massachusetts.
I love friends as technologically-dependent as I.
***
(NOTE: To understand the following, I recommend you view Howie Day's "She Says" video, if you haven't already. Available here.)
To: Howie Day
From: V
Re: "When she says she wants some other video..."
I watched as the wind blew back the jet black hair above your brooding face. You jump into the waves as the setting sun blazes yellow and orange in the background, and you emerge from the surf, water dripping from your backlit frame. A young woman, impossibly beautiful, waits for you on shore, perhaps living, perhaps a ghost.
(Get it? GHOST? Do you get it, Howie? It kills me, kills me. Oh, wait. Kills me? HA! I can't stop the punny! OK, back to the storyline.)
You stare into her eyes. It's a dark, smoldering gaze laced with lust, with pain, with disbelief and with uncertainty.
Oh, the passion and the angst, drawn together into one stormy package. Squeal, squeal, sigh, sigh.
So. I'm sorry, Howie. Was I supposed to take that compilation of cliches and questionable acting seriously?
And, more importantly, did you???
(ANOTHER NOTE: Let it be stated, outside the framework of my teasing, that I did appreciate two aspects of the "She Says" video. Any shots that featured HD performing on the highway overpass completely worked. Loved them. Well done. And the grin on HD's face as he turned to jump off the roof/pier/whatever that was into the water - I remember that grin. It's the prankster grin. Hadn't seen it for awhile. Good call to bring it back again. Made me smile. When I wasn't busy smirking.
Hey. I just expected something...else. I've listened to that song as it grew from live to the Blue EP to Australia to SATWN to the various radio remixes...and I said for far too long that I'd just have to marry the man who plays and sings that song for me. I thought he'd just do something a little less...done before...for a song that's been his signature for more than a half decade. Note to musicians: you don't need ornate concept videos when a simple song works so well. Work with the song. Don't try to overpower it. You'll lose.)
M: It's funny that you said that, E just IM'ed me the same phrase, about something different.
V: E? Like E, E?
M: Yes, that E.
V: Tell her I said hi!
M: (Laughing) I am doing so right now.
V: Tell her I wanted to know if she wants to get coffee tomorrow.
M: She does.
V: Excellent!
M: She wants to know where.
V: Pooh Corner.
M: Wha-
V: Hey, J's calling me! Leave a message, J!
M: J? Yay!
V: He left a message. I'll have to call him back.
M: Tell him I said hi!
V: I will!
I live in Vermont. E lives in Vermont. M, the messenger, lives in Massachusetts.
I love friends as technologically-dependent as I.
***
(NOTE: To understand the following, I recommend you view Howie Day's "She Says" video, if you haven't already. Available here.)
To: Howie Day
From: V
Re: "When she says she wants some other video..."
I watched as the wind blew back the jet black hair above your brooding face. You jump into the waves as the setting sun blazes yellow and orange in the background, and you emerge from the surf, water dripping from your backlit frame. A young woman, impossibly beautiful, waits for you on shore, perhaps living, perhaps a ghost.
(Get it? GHOST? Do you get it, Howie? It kills me, kills me. Oh, wait. Kills me? HA! I can't stop the punny! OK, back to the storyline.)
You stare into her eyes. It's a dark, smoldering gaze laced with lust, with pain, with disbelief and with uncertainty.
Oh, the passion and the angst, drawn together into one stormy package. Squeal, squeal, sigh, sigh.
So. I'm sorry, Howie. Was I supposed to take that compilation of cliches and questionable acting seriously?
And, more importantly, did you???
(ANOTHER NOTE: Let it be stated, outside the framework of my teasing, that I did appreciate two aspects of the "She Says" video. Any shots that featured HD performing on the highway overpass completely worked. Loved them. Well done. And the grin on HD's face as he turned to jump off the roof/pier/whatever that was into the water - I remember that grin. It's the prankster grin. Hadn't seen it for awhile. Good call to bring it back again. Made me smile. When I wasn't busy smirking.
Hey. I just expected something...else. I've listened to that song as it grew from live to the Blue EP to Australia to SATWN to the various radio remixes...and I said for far too long that I'd just have to marry the man who plays and sings that song for me. I thought he'd just do something a little less...done before...for a song that's been his signature for more than a half decade. Note to musicians: you don't need ornate concept videos when a simple song works so well. Work with the song. Don't try to overpower it. You'll lose.)
Oh, me.
Well, it's normally, "Oh, you." Friends and family who obligingly listen to me prattle on about the latest idea, endeavor or scheme. V has something else up her sleeve, V has something else that she wants to do, somewhere else she wants to be.
Oh, me. Ever the optimist, ever determined, ever driven.
I can't keep still. Not in a fidgety, bounce-in-my-seat manner. More "relax? What is this concept you speak of?" I need to be doing, planning, seeing something so I, as a result, have something to look forward to. Something that will lift me out of whatever stasis I find myself in if I spend too much time looking around and not enough time looking forward.
I'm not an optimist, I'm a cynic. Because if I don't have something else I'm doing, there's not going to be anything around me to keep me from feeling as if I'm not getting anywhere and won't be anything.
Because that's what I'm convinced I'll realize if I don't focus on something else.
I couldn't sleep last night, despite the fact that my eyes felt so heavy that the fatigue burned behind my eyes as I stared up at the ceiling.
I thought of sitting, shivering on a cement stoop during a January night. It was cold; my coat wasn't cutting down on the chill as I waited for him to finish his thought. But I was fascinated by what might follow.
He paused to light another Marlboro Red, spinning on one heel as he inhaled. The bottom of his leather trench coat twirled around to heavily flap against his leg. He breathed out and regarded me through the thin wire-framed glasses he'd aquired sometime during the previous year.
"It's a little intimidating, actually. You know what you want and you're so focused on it that you block out any doubt or uncertainty. It feels like you're just checking off items on some list as you go along," he said. "But you're so happy as you're doing it that the intimidation doesn't register right away. You draw people to you, with that smile and joy. You really are one of those rays of sunshine."
I smiled and chuckled. It was sweet and I wasn't laughing at him, but I knew he was mistaken.
"I know it sounds cliched, but it's true! You don't realize it, do you?" He joined in my laughter before he crossed the walkway to stand next to my stoop seat. I looked up at him and didn't say anything.
He knew I didn't.
"Well, you are."
As I tried to fall asleep and quiet the frustrated rumbles of discontent in my mind, I wondered what's happened to him since.
Hell, I wondered what's happened to me.
Well, it's normally, "Oh, you." Friends and family who obligingly listen to me prattle on about the latest idea, endeavor or scheme. V has something else up her sleeve, V has something else that she wants to do, somewhere else she wants to be.
Oh, me. Ever the optimist, ever determined, ever driven.
I can't keep still. Not in a fidgety, bounce-in-my-seat manner. More "relax? What is this concept you speak of?" I need to be doing, planning, seeing something so I, as a result, have something to look forward to. Something that will lift me out of whatever stasis I find myself in if I spend too much time looking around and not enough time looking forward.
I'm not an optimist, I'm a cynic. Because if I don't have something else I'm doing, there's not going to be anything around me to keep me from feeling as if I'm not getting anywhere and won't be anything.
Because that's what I'm convinced I'll realize if I don't focus on something else.
I couldn't sleep last night, despite the fact that my eyes felt so heavy that the fatigue burned behind my eyes as I stared up at the ceiling.
I thought of sitting, shivering on a cement stoop during a January night. It was cold; my coat wasn't cutting down on the chill as I waited for him to finish his thought. But I was fascinated by what might follow.
He paused to light another Marlboro Red, spinning on one heel as he inhaled. The bottom of his leather trench coat twirled around to heavily flap against his leg. He breathed out and regarded me through the thin wire-framed glasses he'd aquired sometime during the previous year.
"It's a little intimidating, actually. You know what you want and you're so focused on it that you block out any doubt or uncertainty. It feels like you're just checking off items on some list as you go along," he said. "But you're so happy as you're doing it that the intimidation doesn't register right away. You draw people to you, with that smile and joy. You really are one of those rays of sunshine."
I smiled and chuckled. It was sweet and I wasn't laughing at him, but I knew he was mistaken.
"I know it sounds cliched, but it's true! You don't realize it, do you?" He joined in my laughter before he crossed the walkway to stand next to my stoop seat. I looked up at him and didn't say anything.
He knew I didn't.
"Well, you are."
As I tried to fall asleep and quiet the frustrated rumbles of discontent in my mind, I wondered what's happened to him since.
Hell, I wondered what's happened to me.
I dreamt last night that I traveled to Memphis. I didn't tell anyone I was going, I just drove to the airport, bought a ticket and went.
As I took in the sight of the skyline and the Mississippi, I set my iPod to play one of my favorite Rufus Wainwright songs.
Then came hallelujah sounding like mad Ophelia for me in my room living...
And when I got off the plane and reached a terminal dripping with Elvis-inspired decorations, I asked for directions to the zoo.
As I took in the sight of the skyline and the Mississippi, I set my iPod to play one of my favorite Rufus Wainwright songs.
Then came hallelujah sounding like mad Ophelia for me in my room living...
And when I got off the plane and reached a terminal dripping with Elvis-inspired decorations, I asked for directions to the zoo.
11.20.2005
What's more alarming - that Kevin Smith brought Jay and Silent Bob to "Degrassi" or that I was so excited to rent the two-episode DVD?
It's a toss-up, I know.
The frightening thing is that the episodes are brilliant. Irreverent, witty, chock full of Canadian jokes and self-deprecation - the only thing missing was a Jason Lee cameo.
But we did get Canadian ninjas, so that nearly makes up for it.
I am a Kevin Smith junkie. Like countless others in my generation, I have spent years giggling or outright guffawing at the crude jokes laced into surprisingly savvy social commentary. "Chasing Amy" remains my favorite Smith movie; my crush on Lee has continued despite the bad hair and moustache of "My Name is Earl."
A two-stint episode on the Canadian version of "Fifteen" should hardly have left me shaking with laughter, but thoroughly amused I was. Smith did his homework and fit fanciful lunacy into existing storylines and character relationships. He made Jay and Silent Bob fit in and stand out, and he even allowed to the bittersweet cliffhanger endings the show is known for.
And he even still managed to rag on Affleck.
I don't know what was being smoked when the idea originated, but as Smith made fun of "Mallrats," I was ready to shout out my approval.
Oh wait. That's right. I did.
Music: Tristan Prettyman, "Love, Love, Love"
- 1:30 p.m.
It's a toss-up, I know.
The frightening thing is that the episodes are brilliant. Irreverent, witty, chock full of Canadian jokes and self-deprecation - the only thing missing was a Jason Lee cameo.
But we did get Canadian ninjas, so that nearly makes up for it.
I am a Kevin Smith junkie. Like countless others in my generation, I have spent years giggling or outright guffawing at the crude jokes laced into surprisingly savvy social commentary. "Chasing Amy" remains my favorite Smith movie; my crush on Lee has continued despite the bad hair and moustache of "My Name is Earl."
A two-stint episode on the Canadian version of "Fifteen" should hardly have left me shaking with laughter, but thoroughly amused I was. Smith did his homework and fit fanciful lunacy into existing storylines and character relationships. He made Jay and Silent Bob fit in and stand out, and he even allowed to the bittersweet cliffhanger endings the show is known for.
And he even still managed to rag on Affleck.
I don't know what was being smoked when the idea originated, but as Smith made fun of "Mallrats," I was ready to shout out my approval.
Oh wait. That's right. I did.
Music: Tristan Prettyman, "Love, Love, Love"
- 1:30 p.m.
I was in second grade when Ryan Curtis, a fourth grader, jumped feet-first onto the other end of the see-saw. I didn't see him prepare for the jump, but I remember gripping worn wooden handlebars until my hands burned as I shot up into the air. I never let go, even as I landed awkwardly on the beam and slammed my head on top of my right hand. I bruised my chin and cut my lip.
The recess monitor alerted my teacher to what had just passed, and she hurried out to bring me back into school and clean me up. She handed me the carton of chocolate milk I was supposed to drink during snack later that morning, as there wasn't an ice pack handy and the milk was still cold. She had wrapped a paper towel around it and told me to press it against my mouth.
It would help, she said, and it did. I was able to stop crying and I was fine by the time my classmates returned to their desks.
I remember that Ryan had been laughing as I was led away, but I have no recollection of him from that point on. My trust had been broken and I told myself that I would never forgive him. So he simply ceased to exist to me. He just disappeared.
I'm surprised to see you, but happy. Things feel right now, as you and I each know that the other is here for this. We've been there so many other times that it's almost expected.
I wave and smile brightly, but you return the gesture with much less gusto. I imagine you thinking that you're not willing to come off as fake or shallow like I do, that you're being honest and I'm not.
But you're mistaken. Of course it's jarring, I won't deny that. I've grown used to not seeing you and I almost forgot, in a way, that you were still going through days and weeks. That we both made our ways here - to the same part of here, even - is a bit of a shock; naturally, I feel somewhat awkward.
I have no intention of walking over to you to say hello, much as I think you expect me to. It would be the polite thing to do, to say hi and exchange strained chitchat. I'm well, you're fine, we've each been working and keeping busy. Same old, same old, you know.
But I can't be bothered to lie for the sake of courtesy. You don't know, and it hasn't been the same as it always has been. And I don't want to share it with you, nor do I want you to share your new developments with me. Neither of us deserves to know about the other.
There are new people in my life now, people you will frankly, likely never meet. They've listened to me laugh and cry and tell stories, much like how you used to. And I know their stories, much as I used to know yours.
I thought of you sometimes, but after a bit, I just stopped. I prefer to think of you as you were when I knew you. I almost forgot that you were continuing on, same as me.
It might be cold of me, but I just prefer to forget about you existing as someone I don't know. The person I once knew well is gone.
I don't feel a need to look back to see you again. I looked over once, that was enough. There's a gap in the crowd, and I'm going to walk away with my friends.
But it really was good to see you. I'm glad you made the trip.
Music - Ani Difranco, "Good, Bad, Ugly"
- 12:45 p.m.
11.18.2005
It's practically a textbook example of a Non-Day. That is, were a Non-Day to ever find its way into a textbook.
It doesn't feel like a Friday. Nor any day, really. Much like that random episode of a television series you love, when the contents of the episode have no relation to anything else that's happened during the season's storyline.
(The one that comes to mind most vividly is the post-Sept. 11 episode of "The West Wing." Remember that? "Isaac and Ishmael"? Great storytelling device. Standout episode. But the actors explained prior to its airing that the episode was stand-alone, that it had no relation whatsoever to the season that would begin the following week.)
I floated my way to the car this morning. Snow was on the ground, but it took half a minute for that to register with me. Didn't seem quite right. The parking lot was oddly void of cars when I arrived. Downtown streets? Also sparesly populated. People seemed listless, disconnected. As did I.
Maybe it's simply perception. Perhaps I'm just overtired. But it seems as if yesterday and tomorrow will probably link back together into a reasonable series of events, but today is just hanging out in a misty sort of Other.
So I'm going with it and thinking about things I wouldn't normally think about.
The thought had stuck in my head some time ago, but for some reason, it came to the forefront recently, and I've been trying to tell myself to let it work itself out of my head.
But, in classic form, it's not working itself out, so I decided to see what comes of it.
So today, I decided to make some calls, establish some contact and see if this crazy idea I have actually appeals to anyone else who might benefit from it. See what happens.
If not, no worries. But if so, it could be work out remarkably well.
So hey. Let's see.
"Who knows where thoughts come from? They just appear."
Music: Matt Wertz, "Comfort"
- 2:55 p.m.
It doesn't feel like a Friday. Nor any day, really. Much like that random episode of a television series you love, when the contents of the episode have no relation to anything else that's happened during the season's storyline.
(The one that comes to mind most vividly is the post-Sept. 11 episode of "The West Wing." Remember that? "Isaac and Ishmael"? Great storytelling device. Standout episode. But the actors explained prior to its airing that the episode was stand-alone, that it had no relation whatsoever to the season that would begin the following week.)
I floated my way to the car this morning. Snow was on the ground, but it took half a minute for that to register with me. Didn't seem quite right. The parking lot was oddly void of cars when I arrived. Downtown streets? Also sparesly populated. People seemed listless, disconnected. As did I.
Maybe it's simply perception. Perhaps I'm just overtired. But it seems as if yesterday and tomorrow will probably link back together into a reasonable series of events, but today is just hanging out in a misty sort of Other.
So I'm going with it and thinking about things I wouldn't normally think about.
The thought had stuck in my head some time ago, but for some reason, it came to the forefront recently, and I've been trying to tell myself to let it work itself out of my head.
But, in classic form, it's not working itself out, so I decided to see what comes of it.
So today, I decided to make some calls, establish some contact and see if this crazy idea I have actually appeals to anyone else who might benefit from it. See what happens.
If not, no worries. But if so, it could be work out remarkably well.
So hey. Let's see.
"Who knows where thoughts come from? They just appear."
Music: Matt Wertz, "Comfort"
- 2:55 p.m.
When I should be sleeping, I decide instead to play around with this. Logic? I can't find it either.
But I'm digging the new layout. So hey.
Commenting format has had to change, due to the fact that dear Blogger doesn't seem to like it when I cheat on it with a BlogSkins layout. My apologies, but I'm thinking the new commenting system might (in theory, I hope) be easier for those with AND without Blogger accounts to comment.
Hint, hint.
I'm also working on getting the archives up and running - as for now, they aren't cooperating, but I'll work on that shortly. (UPDATE - fixed! Hurrah!)
You know, when I'm not supposed to be, well, sleeping.
Music: Paddy Casey, "Rainwater"
- 12:55 a.m.
But I'm digging the new layout. So hey.
Commenting format has had to change, due to the fact that dear Blogger doesn't seem to like it when I cheat on it with a BlogSkins layout. My apologies, but I'm thinking the new commenting system might (in theory, I hope) be easier for those with AND without Blogger accounts to comment.
Hint, hint.
I'm also working on getting the archives up and running - as for now, they aren't cooperating, but I'll work on that shortly. (UPDATE - fixed! Hurrah!)
You know, when I'm not supposed to be, well, sleeping.
Music: Paddy Casey, "Rainwater"
- 12:55 a.m.
11.17.2005
Crows' Nest
I'd brought my camera to Higher Ground on Tuesday, but left it at home the night after. The battery was low, I was going to be running late in arriving - no need to bring something I'd wind up not using. Practical, I thought to myself as I searched for a spot within a sea of cars outside the venue.
As I stood in what I like to call The Crows' Nest for the first time, with an absurdedly amazing view of the show, I wondered why the hell I'd decided to start being practical at such an impractical time.
The camera phone just didn't cut it.
Ahem.
The two food drives, when added together, equalled a rousing success for RFAR. I believe the totals were in the 1,250-1,500 pound range. Most of which was gathered last night as I was frantically trying to finish up the day's tasks and get to the venue, which made me feel guilty, but I was still happy to celebrate with the RFAR posse I'd been able to help work with as much as I could.
So many people were willing to help out and donate something - it made me feel not quite so convinced that apathy rules the world these days.
Or, at least, I felt that way for a moment or two. I'm looking forward to the opportunity to continue working with the organization, so I keep on getting that natural high.
And, with the last notes of "Jesus on the Radio" (no mics, band lined along the front of the stage - is this becoming a pattern? Matt Nathanson, Averi, Guster...who next?), the Fall Concert Season came to a close.
Two and a half weeks before U2, a show that has been looming ahead of us for so long that it feels impossible that it could be approaching, and, to the best of my knowledge, no concerts between now and then.
I'm psyched. I'm going to relax. At home. With the exception of Thanksgiving on the North Shore, I'm not taking roadtrips, not going to shows until December. The batteries need recharging. People can come to me.
That said, it was a hell of a way to end the season. Viva la Guster...
As I stood in what I like to call The Crows' Nest for the first time, with an absurdedly amazing view of the show, I wondered why the hell I'd decided to start being practical at such an impractical time.
The camera phone just didn't cut it.
Ahem.
The two food drives, when added together, equalled a rousing success for RFAR. I believe the totals were in the 1,250-1,500 pound range. Most of which was gathered last night as I was frantically trying to finish up the day's tasks and get to the venue, which made me feel guilty, but I was still happy to celebrate with the RFAR posse I'd been able to help work with as much as I could.
So many people were willing to help out and donate something - it made me feel not quite so convinced that apathy rules the world these days.
Or, at least, I felt that way for a moment or two. I'm looking forward to the opportunity to continue working with the organization, so I keep on getting that natural high.
And, with the last notes of "Jesus on the Radio" (no mics, band lined along the front of the stage - is this becoming a pattern? Matt Nathanson, Averi, Guster...who next?), the Fall Concert Season came to a close.
Two and a half weeks before U2, a show that has been looming ahead of us for so long that it feels impossible that it could be approaching, and, to the best of my knowledge, no concerts between now and then.
I'm psyched. I'm going to relax. At home. With the exception of Thanksgiving on the North Shore, I'm not taking roadtrips, not going to shows until December. The batteries need recharging. People can come to me.
That said, it was a hell of a way to end the season. Viva la Guster...
11.16.2005
Good, Bad, Ugly
There's been a particularly lingering crush, and it's bothering the hell out of me.
He is a pain in the ass. Opinionated and stubborn, he likes to be the one doing the talking, doing the explaining. He seems accustomed to people hanging on every word he says. He talks when he feels like it, not necessarily when others want to talk about something. Yes, he can be charming and sincere and seemingly thoughtful, and yes I find myself happy when I'm in his company, but these demonstrations occur on his timetable, not necessarily others. He can forget about things that are important to other people. He hears what he wants to and expects a grin and sheepish apology to make up for being incorrect.
Granted, I could say many of those things about myself. And therein lies part of the problem. The guy reminds me so much of myself sometimes that I wonder if I'm incredibly narcissistic or a sucker.
Whatever it is, I still think he's pretty amazing. And that, in turn, pisses me off.
As I said my goodbyes and shook some hands with a smile recently, I realized that it was nice to be able to say hello and introduce myself to people I'd never before met. To establish, if only for a beat, the reality that a few Yous and I exist in the same place at the same time. And we were all aware of that for a moment, through eye contact, a smile and some chitchat.
It was very nice. But that was it. And I realized, as I said goodnight with a wave over my shoulder, that this realization brought both good and bad news.
The good? I'm not quite as susceptible as I'd thought to those particular kinds of men. And that's not why I've found myself with a crush that I'm starting once again to force myself to shake off.
The bad? Apparently I just have really exasperating taste in men.
He is a pain in the ass. Opinionated and stubborn, he likes to be the one doing the talking, doing the explaining. He seems accustomed to people hanging on every word he says. He talks when he feels like it, not necessarily when others want to talk about something. Yes, he can be charming and sincere and seemingly thoughtful, and yes I find myself happy when I'm in his company, but these demonstrations occur on his timetable, not necessarily others. He can forget about things that are important to other people. He hears what he wants to and expects a grin and sheepish apology to make up for being incorrect.
Granted, I could say many of those things about myself. And therein lies part of the problem. The guy reminds me so much of myself sometimes that I wonder if I'm incredibly narcissistic or a sucker.
Whatever it is, I still think he's pretty amazing. And that, in turn, pisses me off.
As I said my goodbyes and shook some hands with a smile recently, I realized that it was nice to be able to say hello and introduce myself to people I'd never before met. To establish, if only for a beat, the reality that a few Yous and I exist in the same place at the same time. And we were all aware of that for a moment, through eye contact, a smile and some chitchat.
It was very nice. But that was it. And I realized, as I said goodnight with a wave over my shoulder, that this realization brought both good and bad news.
The good? I'm not quite as susceptible as I'd thought to those particular kinds of men. And that's not why I've found myself with a crush that I'm starting once again to force myself to shake off.
The bad? Apparently I just have really exasperating taste in men.
11.15.2005
One quick note (and one quick photo)...
...before I go to sleep.
"Rainy Day." That's all I'm saying about that, as it should speak volumes about my thoughts on Guster's performance this evening.
"Rainy Day." That's all I'm saying about that, as it should speak volumes about my thoughts on Guster's performance this evening.
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