I have always been obsessed with people’s hair, perhaps because I’m convinced there is a connection between a person’s hair and how that person defines him or herself. Growing up, each girl in my classes had different hair. Some had blonde, dark brown, light brown. Chocolate-colored, caramel-colored, the shade of fire and the shade of straw. Some had long hair, pouring down their backs like a waterfall; some had short Tinkerbell pixie cuts. Some had short hair chopped off at the chin or at the shoulders. The only similarity was that every girl had straight hair. Everyone … except one.
When Iowa’s atmosphere turns heavy and humid and anything moveable begins to react to the sauna that is summer in the Midwest, my hair balloons into a giant tent around my head. It takes on a life of its own, and I’ll always remember an acquaintance’s comment, “Your hair is eating your head!” On rainy days and through the summers, I could always feel my self-confidence plummeting as my hair rose. Why couldn’t I just have straight hair like all the normal girls?
College is an amazing thing. In some ways it forces and in other ways it allows you to become yourself. I spent years of my childhood fighting Mother Nature armed only with a hairdryer, a straightener, and FrizzEase (thank you, John Frieda!) Nights spent out and about with friends in college proved that early morning wake-up call was just too early, and an amazing thing happened: I stopped straightening my hair.
My friends began to call me Pigpen due to the state of frizz and curls and general chaos my hair is in upon wakening every morning and although I tried to fix this, nothing worked. (Pulling it into a ponytail only makes the shorter hairs fall out and stick straight up). At first I was embarrassed by my general state, but then I gradually came to terms with it.
Slowly but surely I began to wear it curly everyday—not just on mornings I woke up late. And slowly but surely I began to (gasp!) like it. Four years later and I can’t even remember the last time I wore my hair straight. Now when it gets curly, I point it out and laugh at myself. I buy myself Pigpen T-shirts and egg on the jokes.
This is only one of my many unwelcome qualities, and not to say it’s gone—I still have bad hair days. Some days, I wake up and look in the mirror, shriek, and still want to run and hide under the covers. The difference is what I saw as a curse when I was a kid is now something I allow myself to feel good about. Now instead of hiding under the covers or repressing with a straightener, I force myself to look in the mirror. And smile. And face the undesirable qualities. They are what make me me. And somehow, by the end of the day, those characteristics become personally distinctive and are almost … yes, appreciated.
Sunday, October 12, 2003
Friday, October 10, 2003
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
In the Scrapbook of my Mind
Today I went to visit my friend Jenny. Jenny hasn’t been my roommate since freshman year, and although that was more than three years ago, sometimes it still feels like I’ll go home to find Jenny sitting at her computer typing away on aol while telling me a story about a “stupid boy” and asking if she can borrow my black boots—“you know, the going out ones.”
The reality is that, although when we get together, we giggle and gossip like we’ve never been separated, we rarely see each other now. We try to have lunch a couple times a semester and talk on the phone a handful of times, but she has her friends and I have mine, and although our groups wave and say hi to each other, we rarely all hang out together.
Anytime I see her, I immediately begin reminiscing about the year we lived together; the year we knew each other inside and out. I always think of the time we stayed up until four a.m. “studying” for our 7:30 a.m. final exam in American politics. “It’s impossible to study without making Velveeta shells and cheese, giving each other pedicures, and talking about our families,” we rationalized all night long. I think about how we never once said good night to each other all year long because we would chatter long into the night until one of us finally dropped off to sleep. I think about how I would tease her for being a computer geek and she would ridicule my addiction to soap operas. I remember how we would instant messenger each other even though our desks were close enough we could have reached out and touched each other. I remember tuning into MTV’s Undressed and not being able to turn it off despite our unanimous vote it was hideous. “It’s like a train wreck,” we would patiently explain to our friends, “you can’t not look at it.” “Yeah,” the other would chime in, “it’s so bad, it’s good.” I reminisce on our super hero names—Super Curl and Phat Girl—and our made up words—churmastotastic—because “great” and “super” just didn’t seem to cover it. I remember how I used to tease her about her fingernails. “You paint them and then immediately take the polish off. Then you paint them again and take the polish off again. I mean, really Jen! What’s the point?” I remember the first night we bonded while sitting on our dorm room floor. “You collected unicorns when you were little? Me too!” “Your mom is an English teacher, speech coach, and drama director? Mine too!” “You were the shortest person in your graduating class? Me too!”
Today we had a conversation the way we used to. I said, “I brought you a package.” I’m sorry about your dad. She said, “Shells and cheese!” My comfort food. You remembered. I said, “Among other things.” Her face twisted and did something indescribable to my throat as she pulled out the stuffed unicorn. “You shouldn’t have.” Thank you. I cleared my throat and said thickly through the fuzz, “I’ll be there on Thursday. Call me if you need anything.” Or call me if you don’t.
And as I left her, walking the long dark sidewalk to the street and watching the glittering reflections of the street lamp bounce off the asphalt, my chest clutched a little as I realized today’s visit was already locked up in the scrapbook of my mind alongside nail polish and MTV and all-nighters, right where it didn’t belong. And my heart wanted to weep a little for her at its finality.
The reality is that, although when we get together, we giggle and gossip like we’ve never been separated, we rarely see each other now. We try to have lunch a couple times a semester and talk on the phone a handful of times, but she has her friends and I have mine, and although our groups wave and say hi to each other, we rarely all hang out together.
Anytime I see her, I immediately begin reminiscing about the year we lived together; the year we knew each other inside and out. I always think of the time we stayed up until four a.m. “studying” for our 7:30 a.m. final exam in American politics. “It’s impossible to study without making Velveeta shells and cheese, giving each other pedicures, and talking about our families,” we rationalized all night long. I think about how we never once said good night to each other all year long because we would chatter long into the night until one of us finally dropped off to sleep. I think about how I would tease her for being a computer geek and she would ridicule my addiction to soap operas. I remember how we would instant messenger each other even though our desks were close enough we could have reached out and touched each other. I remember tuning into MTV’s Undressed and not being able to turn it off despite our unanimous vote it was hideous. “It’s like a train wreck,” we would patiently explain to our friends, “you can’t not look at it.” “Yeah,” the other would chime in, “it’s so bad, it’s good.” I reminisce on our super hero names—Super Curl and Phat Girl—and our made up words—churmastotastic—because “great” and “super” just didn’t seem to cover it. I remember how I used to tease her about her fingernails. “You paint them and then immediately take the polish off. Then you paint them again and take the polish off again. I mean, really Jen! What’s the point?” I remember the first night we bonded while sitting on our dorm room floor. “You collected unicorns when you were little? Me too!” “Your mom is an English teacher, speech coach, and drama director? Mine too!” “You were the shortest person in your graduating class? Me too!”
Today we had a conversation the way we used to. I said, “I brought you a package.” I’m sorry about your dad. She said, “Shells and cheese!” My comfort food. You remembered. I said, “Among other things.” Her face twisted and did something indescribable to my throat as she pulled out the stuffed unicorn. “You shouldn’t have.” Thank you. I cleared my throat and said thickly through the fuzz, “I’ll be there on Thursday. Call me if you need anything.” Or call me if you don’t.
And as I left her, walking the long dark sidewalk to the street and watching the glittering reflections of the street lamp bounce off the asphalt, my chest clutched a little as I realized today’s visit was already locked up in the scrapbook of my mind alongside nail polish and MTV and all-nighters, right where it didn’t belong. And my heart wanted to weep a little for her at its finality.
Friday, October 03, 2003
When Your Younger Brother Grows Up
When your younger brother grows up, most likely it will come as a bit of a shock. You will be doing lots of growing up on your own—graduating from high school, moving away to college, developing your own life, staring your college graduation and future in the face—and suddenly you realize that while you were doing all your growing up, alas! Time did not stand still and your younger brother is indeed growing into his own person.
You’re shocked when you wander into his room one day and he’s watching … MTV?!? He’s far too young for that, you think, and just when the words begin to form on your lips, you suddenly realize he’s fifteen. When you were fifteen you were nearly all grown up, a young adult with a job and school driving permit making your own choices. Is it possible that he is nearly all grown up?
Now that you stop and think about it, the evidence if mounting. Remember the time you went to see Lord of the Rings with him, and amidst all the swashbuckling and swordfighting and intricate plot and numerous characters with names beginning with ‘G,’ you find that you have no idea what the hell is going on. And just when you’ve come to terms with this, and have decided to instead focus on the eye candy, er—actors, the younger brother leans over and whispers, “That guy’s had the ring for years and has gone mad from its power.” You look over in shocked silence. He obviously knows what’s going on and you don’t. In other words, he knows what’s going on and you don’t. He’s the more informed, the expert, the one with the answers. And, even more shocking, instead of feeling as if you’ve gone through the Twilight Zone or come out the wrong end of a timewarp, you’re … impressed.
Gradually you become more aware of the person he’s turning into. He makes you laugh—and now it’s not just because he says stupid but hilarious remarks, but because he’s actually funny. His emails have the wry, off-the-wall tone distinctive to the other entertainer in the family; your sister. He can impersonate many actors and is especially good at never breaking character.
And now, you are not the only one looking out for others. Now when you go to see movies, he leans over and whispers to you, “You may want to leave. You’re not gonna like this scene coming up.” But when you don’t, and spiders the size of houses begin scuttling across the screen, he pats your arm and asks gently, “Do we need to leave?” as you convulse and shake your limbs to get the hairy gigantic arachnids that are now crawling on you off. Afterwards, he doesn’t even say, I told you so.
But despite all this, you still go home and discover the crumbs and spills all over the floor that he and his posse left for you. You find yourself wanting to smack him or at the very least shake some sense into him. But instead, you satisfy yourself with giving him a lecture on responsibility and cleanliness, culminating with a scream, “What’s wrong with you?” And suddenly, you’re transported back 15 years and in your mind’s eye, you see the puckered face of the newborn brother with his shiny, perfect nose and eyes squinted shut, and his tiny, pink fist wrapped around your pinky finger. You cringe at the memory of the day your six-year-old self accidentally dropped him and the hysterical weeping in the locked bathroom that followed. You remember the time you lost him for thirty seconds in Hallmark and the panic-edged horror that chomped your heart. You remember your first year of college when he called to tell you he loved you and missed you. And the answer to your own question hovers in your heart. What’s wrong with him? Absolutely nothing.
You’re shocked when you wander into his room one day and he’s watching … MTV?!? He’s far too young for that, you think, and just when the words begin to form on your lips, you suddenly realize he’s fifteen. When you were fifteen you were nearly all grown up, a young adult with a job and school driving permit making your own choices. Is it possible that he is nearly all grown up?
Now that you stop and think about it, the evidence if mounting. Remember the time you went to see Lord of the Rings with him, and amidst all the swashbuckling and swordfighting and intricate plot and numerous characters with names beginning with ‘G,’ you find that you have no idea what the hell is going on. And just when you’ve come to terms with this, and have decided to instead focus on the eye candy, er—actors, the younger brother leans over and whispers, “That guy’s had the ring for years and has gone mad from its power.” You look over in shocked silence. He obviously knows what’s going on and you don’t. In other words, he knows what’s going on and you don’t. He’s the more informed, the expert, the one with the answers. And, even more shocking, instead of feeling as if you’ve gone through the Twilight Zone or come out the wrong end of a timewarp, you’re … impressed.
Gradually you become more aware of the person he’s turning into. He makes you laugh—and now it’s not just because he says stupid but hilarious remarks, but because he’s actually funny. His emails have the wry, off-the-wall tone distinctive to the other entertainer in the family; your sister. He can impersonate many actors and is especially good at never breaking character.
And now, you are not the only one looking out for others. Now when you go to see movies, he leans over and whispers to you, “You may want to leave. You’re not gonna like this scene coming up.” But when you don’t, and spiders the size of houses begin scuttling across the screen, he pats your arm and asks gently, “Do we need to leave?” as you convulse and shake your limbs to get the hairy gigantic arachnids that are now crawling on you off. Afterwards, he doesn’t even say, I told you so.
But despite all this, you still go home and discover the crumbs and spills all over the floor that he and his posse left for you. You find yourself wanting to smack him or at the very least shake some sense into him. But instead, you satisfy yourself with giving him a lecture on responsibility and cleanliness, culminating with a scream, “What’s wrong with you?” And suddenly, you’re transported back 15 years and in your mind’s eye, you see the puckered face of the newborn brother with his shiny, perfect nose and eyes squinted shut, and his tiny, pink fist wrapped around your pinky finger. You cringe at the memory of the day your six-year-old self accidentally dropped him and the hysterical weeping in the locked bathroom that followed. You remember the time you lost him for thirty seconds in Hallmark and the panic-edged horror that chomped your heart. You remember your first year of college when he called to tell you he loved you and missed you. And the answer to your own question hovers in your heart. What’s wrong with him? Absolutely nothing.
Saturday, September 27, 2003
S’mores
Emily pulled out the economy-sized Hershey’s chocolate bar and as she began to break it into thumb-sized pieces she remarked, “You two can each have one piece. The rest are for me.” She flipped over the packaging and read, “Serving size: 5.”
Tara cut in, “It’d be perfect for you … if you were five people.”
I was distracted by Aunt Mel prodding me with a long oddly-shaped stick that Rob had roused from the yard. I grabbed it reluctantly. “I don’t really like my marshmallows roasted. Well, I guess I’ll eat it as long as it’s just lightly golden.”
The rest of the family was incredulous. No, no. If you do it that way, your chocolate won’t even be melted. It will be one solid hunk instead of a gooey mess that drips down your fingers and onto your clothes. No, no. It’s best when you allow it to get really burnt—or better yet, catch on fire so you have to blow it out.
I ignored them, refusing to yield in a situation where I could end up with dark chocolate stains down the front of me. I happily ate my treat without dripping anything down the front of me, studying the Christmas lights twined around the tree. I squinted and unsquinted my eyes, making the happy sparks glitter and fuzz, then sharply clear and come into focus. I imagined my parents a state away on a trip, and wished suddenly, urgently, that they were here to see the sparkling stars glimmering only ten feet in front of my eyes.
Emily tried to make Grandpa a S’more but had difficulty in getting the angle right. Her mom kept urging, “Just sit on the ground. Settle into that dirt; it’s really comfortable.” She had urged me the same thing also; that was how I knew my marshmallow was done. But Emily is always a good sport and settled in as she watched not one, not two, but three marshmallows fall off her stick and into the dirt. Just as surely as her marshmallow would go up in flames, it would fall off her stick and into the fire.
“Oh well,” Melody said philosophically. “It’s just adding a nice scent to the fire.” The hypnotizing flames, bellies full of food, and atmosphere of family cheer were making us intoxicated and we all laughed with good humor found usually only on Christmas night after the younger grandchildren had disappeared into a bedroom to play with their various games while the older grandchildren, myself included, listened to our parents discuss memories from their childhood.
Our voices got cheerier and more boisterous until we three girls, Emily, Tara, and I, were shrieking with laughter as Aunt Mel and Grandma auctioned graham crackers (regular and chocolate), marshmallows, leftover cake, and two 16 ounce bars of chocolate on us. As an afterthought, Mel shoved a bag of potato chips into a Ziploc baggie and asked who wanted them. The contents of my shoulder bag were already so full my arm stuck out ala Randy in A Christmas Story, so I figured how much could one more bag hurt. I held the straps open as Melody wrestled the chips in without crushing them. Amidst waves of good-byes, more giggling from the girls and Mel, and a studied walk down to the curb so as to avoid crushing the plants, we could hear Grandma advising, “Now girls, don’t eat that chocolate all in one night.”
We piled into Emily’s car, careful to avoid the seat that had gotten wet in the carwash, and laughed all the way home, stomachs hurting at the thought of all that delicious food that would be awaiting us tomorrow.
Tara cut in, “It’d be perfect for you … if you were five people.”
I was distracted by Aunt Mel prodding me with a long oddly-shaped stick that Rob had roused from the yard. I grabbed it reluctantly. “I don’t really like my marshmallows roasted. Well, I guess I’ll eat it as long as it’s just lightly golden.”
The rest of the family was incredulous. No, no. If you do it that way, your chocolate won’t even be melted. It will be one solid hunk instead of a gooey mess that drips down your fingers and onto your clothes. No, no. It’s best when you allow it to get really burnt—or better yet, catch on fire so you have to blow it out.
I ignored them, refusing to yield in a situation where I could end up with dark chocolate stains down the front of me. I happily ate my treat without dripping anything down the front of me, studying the Christmas lights twined around the tree. I squinted and unsquinted my eyes, making the happy sparks glitter and fuzz, then sharply clear and come into focus. I imagined my parents a state away on a trip, and wished suddenly, urgently, that they were here to see the sparkling stars glimmering only ten feet in front of my eyes.
Emily tried to make Grandpa a S’more but had difficulty in getting the angle right. Her mom kept urging, “Just sit on the ground. Settle into that dirt; it’s really comfortable.” She had urged me the same thing also; that was how I knew my marshmallow was done. But Emily is always a good sport and settled in as she watched not one, not two, but three marshmallows fall off her stick and into the dirt. Just as surely as her marshmallow would go up in flames, it would fall off her stick and into the fire.
“Oh well,” Melody said philosophically. “It’s just adding a nice scent to the fire.” The hypnotizing flames, bellies full of food, and atmosphere of family cheer were making us intoxicated and we all laughed with good humor found usually only on Christmas night after the younger grandchildren had disappeared into a bedroom to play with their various games while the older grandchildren, myself included, listened to our parents discuss memories from their childhood.
Our voices got cheerier and more boisterous until we three girls, Emily, Tara, and I, were shrieking with laughter as Aunt Mel and Grandma auctioned graham crackers (regular and chocolate), marshmallows, leftover cake, and two 16 ounce bars of chocolate on us. As an afterthought, Mel shoved a bag of potato chips into a Ziploc baggie and asked who wanted them. The contents of my shoulder bag were already so full my arm stuck out ala Randy in A Christmas Story, so I figured how much could one more bag hurt. I held the straps open as Melody wrestled the chips in without crushing them. Amidst waves of good-byes, more giggling from the girls and Mel, and a studied walk down to the curb so as to avoid crushing the plants, we could hear Grandma advising, “Now girls, don’t eat that chocolate all in one night.”
We piled into Emily’s car, careful to avoid the seat that had gotten wet in the carwash, and laughed all the way home, stomachs hurting at the thought of all that delicious food that would be awaiting us tomorrow.
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Nature Girl: That’s (Not) Me
I love nature. I go for long walks in the woods and hike up mountains before breakfast. I pitch my tent and wander to the stream where I bathe leisurely before relaxing in the sun while I read Hemingway. I am one with nature. Later I catch my own fish and clean and cook it myself. Howling wolves don’t scare me—I revel in the danger the wilderness offers me. I am woman. Hear me roar.
In reality, I hide inside. I want the air conditioner on if the temperature gets even slightly above 77 degrees. I stay up late and sleep in late. Early to bed and early to rise may make a man healthy, wealthy and wise, but it also takes a toll on a girl’s social life. Plus, it’s boring. I don’t sit in the sun without my 45 SPF sunscreen, and my J.Lo-inspired straw hat makes a fashion statement as much as it shelters me from harmful UV rays. I never, ever go anywhere without my cell phone. You just never know who you might need to get in contact with.
Friends will occasionally suggest we do something new and exciting and I’m quick to agree. Hey, I’m spontaneous. “Yeah, camping’s great. I used to camp all the time. Let’s do it sometime. We’ll make S’mores.” Later, I am forced to set them straight. “Camping?” I repeat, wrinkling my nose. “As in … a tent … and no bathrooms? Sure, camping’s great in theory. But in actual practice…” I trail off, indicating I know something they don’t from my extensive history with the wilderness of the Midwest. “Besides, what about showering? I have to shower. Everyday. It’s this thing I have. And we’ll need pop. You know how I like to have a diet Cherry Coke every couple of hours. Vending machines don’t grow on trees, you know.”
Then I’ll pick up my Cosmo or InStyle and see a cute work-out outfit or brand new sneakers in a color I just have to have—never mind that I never wear shoes that aren’t either a) flip-flops or b) something strappy with a heel that will put me above 5 foot 2. Now, to go along with the new shoes, I’ll need a new denim skirt—one of those ones that looks like it’s been washed a million times—and brand new make-up to give myself that au naturale look I’m aiming for.
“Earth tones are in this fall, Rixie,” one of my friends recently informed me. “What?” I cried in a panic. “Earth tones? I don’t have the coloring for earth tones. More to the point, I don’t have the wardrobe for earth tones.” I have to wonder if, when the fashion gods decided earth tones were in, they counted on all the drama that goes along with preparing for a season. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that there’s only one thing to do: hit the mall. Might as well break in those new sneakers.
In reality, I hide inside. I want the air conditioner on if the temperature gets even slightly above 77 degrees. I stay up late and sleep in late. Early to bed and early to rise may make a man healthy, wealthy and wise, but it also takes a toll on a girl’s social life. Plus, it’s boring. I don’t sit in the sun without my 45 SPF sunscreen, and my J.Lo-inspired straw hat makes a fashion statement as much as it shelters me from harmful UV rays. I never, ever go anywhere without my cell phone. You just never know who you might need to get in contact with.
Friends will occasionally suggest we do something new and exciting and I’m quick to agree. Hey, I’m spontaneous. “Yeah, camping’s great. I used to camp all the time. Let’s do it sometime. We’ll make S’mores.” Later, I am forced to set them straight. “Camping?” I repeat, wrinkling my nose. “As in … a tent … and no bathrooms? Sure, camping’s great in theory. But in actual practice…” I trail off, indicating I know something they don’t from my extensive history with the wilderness of the Midwest. “Besides, what about showering? I have to shower. Everyday. It’s this thing I have. And we’ll need pop. You know how I like to have a diet Cherry Coke every couple of hours. Vending machines don’t grow on trees, you know.”
Then I’ll pick up my Cosmo or InStyle and see a cute work-out outfit or brand new sneakers in a color I just have to have—never mind that I never wear shoes that aren’t either a) flip-flops or b) something strappy with a heel that will put me above 5 foot 2. Now, to go along with the new shoes, I’ll need a new denim skirt—one of those ones that looks like it’s been washed a million times—and brand new make-up to give myself that au naturale look I’m aiming for.
“Earth tones are in this fall, Rixie,” one of my friends recently informed me. “What?” I cried in a panic. “Earth tones? I don’t have the coloring for earth tones. More to the point, I don’t have the wardrobe for earth tones.” I have to wonder if, when the fashion gods decided earth tones were in, they counted on all the drama that goes along with preparing for a season. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that there’s only one thing to do: hit the mall. Might as well break in those new sneakers.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
The Sanctuary
"This is our apartment, this is a girl's apartment. It's pretty and it's purple."
--Jennifer Aniston, Friends
The Sanctuary
From the outside it’s not much. Set on a dead end street with a backdrop of several railroad tracks that periodically rumble through as the Midwest version of an earthquake, the apartment buildings are small, square and brick. There’s little grass to be found, and what remains is russet and lifeless. But mostly there are patches of mud, so deep they take close to a week to dry out after a rainstorm. A herd of motorcycles belonging to the building manager rests comfortably outside the front door blocking the entrance to the building. The tenants pretend not to notice out of respect—or possibly fear—for the manager. A small woman whose skin has seen too much sun and hair has seen too much bleach, she manages to intimidate most people at the first meeting merely by crowding personal space and rasping in an accusatory tone, “What’s this spilled on the floor here? Messes mean eviction!” She’s harder than any of the college students living in her building will ever have to be. Instead they attempt to focus on the view beyond the motorcycles—the concrete pasture littered with souvenirs from last weekend’s parties.
But the aura in Number One offers an oasis from the distractions of the outside. Inside, the scent of Glade Lilac Spring lingers and mixes with a few burning candles which softly illuminate the home. Paris shouts from the walls where black and white posters of the skyline and Eiffel Tower, and framed paintings of L’Arc de Triumph and the opera look down on colorful red and blue furniture. A coffee table pulled close to the couch invites feet to find a place among the eclectic mix of magazines, books, flowers and half-empty cans of diet Cherry Coke. A pile of textbooks on the floor is offset by an oak bookcase that is so crammed with movies (ironically), all that’s missing is a sign reading “Please present your Blockbuster card.”
The two-dimensional Mexican dancers leer down at the pile of unopened mail, while the air, sticky and uncomfortable though it may be, is oddly pleasing in congruence with the tropical backdrop of the posters. The melody of soft giggling trickling from the kitchen is an appreciated contrast to the screaming trains outside. Sunshine streams in through the windows reflecting off picture frames and shiny utensils. The quarters are cozy, not cramped, and wait in anticipation for chilly nights to be spent in front of a hot stove like pioneer days.
The microwave dings and the dishwasher begins another cycle, reminding the house that despite the calendar status of September, the crisp cool days of autumn are a far-off dream. As the giggles die away down the hall, devoured by the rev of motorcycles and the screech of car brakes, the apartment stills and there is a ringing reminder that it is not the location or even the décor of the apartment that makes it home, but the life of the inhabitants.
--Jennifer Aniston, Friends
The Sanctuary
From the outside it’s not much. Set on a dead end street with a backdrop of several railroad tracks that periodically rumble through as the Midwest version of an earthquake, the apartment buildings are small, square and brick. There’s little grass to be found, and what remains is russet and lifeless. But mostly there are patches of mud, so deep they take close to a week to dry out after a rainstorm. A herd of motorcycles belonging to the building manager rests comfortably outside the front door blocking the entrance to the building. The tenants pretend not to notice out of respect—or possibly fear—for the manager. A small woman whose skin has seen too much sun and hair has seen too much bleach, she manages to intimidate most people at the first meeting merely by crowding personal space and rasping in an accusatory tone, “What’s this spilled on the floor here? Messes mean eviction!” She’s harder than any of the college students living in her building will ever have to be. Instead they attempt to focus on the view beyond the motorcycles—the concrete pasture littered with souvenirs from last weekend’s parties.
But the aura in Number One offers an oasis from the distractions of the outside. Inside, the scent of Glade Lilac Spring lingers and mixes with a few burning candles which softly illuminate the home. Paris shouts from the walls where black and white posters of the skyline and Eiffel Tower, and framed paintings of L’Arc de Triumph and the opera look down on colorful red and blue furniture. A coffee table pulled close to the couch invites feet to find a place among the eclectic mix of magazines, books, flowers and half-empty cans of diet Cherry Coke. A pile of textbooks on the floor is offset by an oak bookcase that is so crammed with movies (ironically), all that’s missing is a sign reading “Please present your Blockbuster card.”
The two-dimensional Mexican dancers leer down at the pile of unopened mail, while the air, sticky and uncomfortable though it may be, is oddly pleasing in congruence with the tropical backdrop of the posters. The melody of soft giggling trickling from the kitchen is an appreciated contrast to the screaming trains outside. Sunshine streams in through the windows reflecting off picture frames and shiny utensils. The quarters are cozy, not cramped, and wait in anticipation for chilly nights to be spent in front of a hot stove like pioneer days.
The microwave dings and the dishwasher begins another cycle, reminding the house that despite the calendar status of September, the crisp cool days of autumn are a far-off dream. As the giggles die away down the hall, devoured by the rev of motorcycles and the screech of car brakes, the apartment stills and there is a ringing reminder that it is not the location or even the décor of the apartment that makes it home, but the life of the inhabitants.
Sunday, September 14, 2003
My Wife Left Me for a Guy Named Jesus
Veering from my usual format today to post somebody else's words. They're just too funny not to post.
My Wife Left Me for a Guy Named Jesus
Words and Music by Paul Dinello from Strangers with Candy
Hail Mary, full of grace
Your boy kicked me in the face
He made my wife run away
for a big promise on Judgment Day
My wife called me a sinner
I guess I'll be fixing my own dinner
Now I'm left with pain and loathing
caused by a wolf in Messiah's clothing
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Now I see a cross and I fall to pieces
It hurts to say his dad's name when someone sneezes
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Do you think you're such a big shot raising people from the dead?
Or a slight of hand with a loaf of bread?
You're a second-rate magician … with everlasting life
whose latest trick is my disappearing wife
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
I could cure a cripple … with a prosthesis
And I can walk on water … when it freezes
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
And Jesus better watch his back...
My Wife Left Me for a Guy Named Jesus
Words and Music by Paul Dinello from Strangers with Candy
Hail Mary, full of grace
Your boy kicked me in the face
He made my wife run away
for a big promise on Judgment Day
My wife called me a sinner
I guess I'll be fixing my own dinner
Now I'm left with pain and loathing
caused by a wolf in Messiah's clothing
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Now I see a cross and I fall to pieces
It hurts to say his dad's name when someone sneezes
My wife dumped me for a guy named Jesus
Do you think you're such a big shot raising people from the dead?
Or a slight of hand with a loaf of bread?
You're a second-rate magician … with everlasting life
whose latest trick is my disappearing wife
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
I could cure a cripple … with a prosthesis
And I can walk on water … when it freezes
I'm as good as that guy named Jesus
And Jesus better watch his back...
Saturday, September 13, 2003
The Gift of the Rooster
“My brother’s voice, like my own, is high-pitched and girlish. Telephone solicitors frequently ask to speak to our husbands or request that we put our mommies on the line. The Raleigh accent is soft and beautifully cadenced, but my brother’s is a more complex hybrid, informed by his professional relationships with marble-mouthed, deep-country work crews and his abiding love of hard-cord rap music. He talks so fast that even his friends have a hard tie understanding him. It’s like listening to a foreigner and deciphering only shit, … bitch, and the single phrase You can’t kill the Rooster. ‘The Rooster’ is what Paul calls himself when he’s feeling threatened.”
--David Sedaris, “You Can’t Kill the Rooster” from Me Talk Pretty One Day
“David Sedaris is coming for a reading at the University of Iowa? And you have tickets?!? And it’s on your 21st birthday?!? NO FAIR!!” she cried from Paris via her cell phone. “Everything happens while I’m out of the country.”
With this in mind, I picked up a copy of his latest published piece, a play called The Book of Liz. Remembering one of mine and Natalie’s favorite lines from Me Talk Pretty One Day, I shyly asked him to write, “To Natalie. Good luck beating that rape charge” when it was finally my turn to meet David Sedaris. “Sure,” he said without missing a beat. “Usually I only get that request from guys.”
“So how was it?” she asked during our next phone conversation.
“Great. Hysterical. Everything I’d imagined and more.”
“Did you get to meet him?”
“No, we couldn’t,” I unabashedly lied. I wasn’t sure why I said that. I had been planning on spilling the beans immediately. We suck at secret-keeping from each other. But the lie just popped out of my mouth. Sometimes the impulse to lie beats out my brain.
Okay, I said to myself, I’ll keep it for her birthday and give it to her then. Over the course of the next five months I nearly spilled the beans more than once. In an innocent conversation with Natalie I said, “That reminds me of when Tara and I met … this guy … on the street, and, um, well, never mind. This is a really pointless story.” I rolled my eyes at myself. Good cover, Rix. I agonized to myself, why did I lie? Why didn’t I just say yes, I met him and then give her all the delicious details, like the fact that he had a F*ck it Bucket full of candy just like in You Can’t Kill the Rooster. And he told me to take an extra one since it was my birthday. Five months is too long, I berated myself. Why, why, why?
Last night was her birthday. She laughed when she saw the book. “Turn the page,” I urged. We locked eyes. She knew. Her reaction was nothing short of what I would expect. Oh. That’s why I lied.
--David Sedaris, “You Can’t Kill the Rooster” from Me Talk Pretty One Day
“David Sedaris is coming for a reading at the University of Iowa? And you have tickets?!? And it’s on your 21st birthday?!? NO FAIR!!” she cried from Paris via her cell phone. “Everything happens while I’m out of the country.”
With this in mind, I picked up a copy of his latest published piece, a play called The Book of Liz. Remembering one of mine and Natalie’s favorite lines from Me Talk Pretty One Day, I shyly asked him to write, “To Natalie. Good luck beating that rape charge” when it was finally my turn to meet David Sedaris. “Sure,” he said without missing a beat. “Usually I only get that request from guys.”
“So how was it?” she asked during our next phone conversation.
“Great. Hysterical. Everything I’d imagined and more.”
“Did you get to meet him?”
“No, we couldn’t,” I unabashedly lied. I wasn’t sure why I said that. I had been planning on spilling the beans immediately. We suck at secret-keeping from each other. But the lie just popped out of my mouth. Sometimes the impulse to lie beats out my brain.
Okay, I said to myself, I’ll keep it for her birthday and give it to her then. Over the course of the next five months I nearly spilled the beans more than once. In an innocent conversation with Natalie I said, “That reminds me of when Tara and I met … this guy … on the street, and, um, well, never mind. This is a really pointless story.” I rolled my eyes at myself. Good cover, Rix. I agonized to myself, why did I lie? Why didn’t I just say yes, I met him and then give her all the delicious details, like the fact that he had a F*ck it Bucket full of candy just like in You Can’t Kill the Rooster. And he told me to take an extra one since it was my birthday. Five months is too long, I berated myself. Why, why, why?
Last night was her birthday. She laughed when she saw the book. “Turn the page,” I urged. We locked eyes. She knew. Her reaction was nothing short of what I would expect. Oh. That’s why I lied.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Vertical Drop
In the last four years, I have moved four times. Being a college student, this is not exactly unusual. I moved in to my latest apartment in August. Friends and family have complimented my roommates and me on our delicious decorating proficiency. We spent many a day (and many a $20) buying the perfect photos to hang on that empty wall and picking out the perfect candle and flower vases to put on that empty space on the ledge. Our apartment is an exquisite oasis from the demands of college courses. Because of this, it’s always a shock for me to step out my apartment and remember that, oh yes, we live by the railroad tracks.
The railroad tracks are a startling contrast to our beautiful décor and conjure many different reactions in me. I find myself always singing lines from “In the Ghetto” when I exit the building. Other days when people ask me where I live, I try to look tough and respond, “I’m from the wrong side of the tracks.” Some days I even see Natty Gann and John Cusack jumping from train to train on their way out west.
I’ve been on a train only once that I can recall. I remember little of the ride but that we were on a family vacation and I was sharing a seat with only my mom. As I rarely get her to myself, my memory long ago let go of the unimportant details such as where we were, where we were going, what we were talking about. I do remember I was mad at her. Sensitive to a fault, I was “punishing” her for some small slight by not speaking to her. As a truce, she began to tickle my back and sing some made-up song entitled “Erica.” Although I don’t remember whether or not I stopped my ridiculous punishment, I can only hope that I let her off early for good behavior. I want to be worthy of the significance the memory holds in my mind; I want to be worthy of the fact that I had her to myself that morning on the train.
I can’t hear the train whistle from inside my apartment, but some days I almost wish I could.
The railroad tracks are a startling contrast to our beautiful décor and conjure many different reactions in me. I find myself always singing lines from “In the Ghetto” when I exit the building. Other days when people ask me where I live, I try to look tough and respond, “I’m from the wrong side of the tracks.” Some days I even see Natty Gann and John Cusack jumping from train to train on their way out west.
I’ve been on a train only once that I can recall. I remember little of the ride but that we were on a family vacation and I was sharing a seat with only my mom. As I rarely get her to myself, my memory long ago let go of the unimportant details such as where we were, where we were going, what we were talking about. I do remember I was mad at her. Sensitive to a fault, I was “punishing” her for some small slight by not speaking to her. As a truce, she began to tickle my back and sing some made-up song entitled “Erica.” Although I don’t remember whether or not I stopped my ridiculous punishment, I can only hope that I let her off early for good behavior. I want to be worthy of the significance the memory holds in my mind; I want to be worthy of the fact that I had her to myself that morning on the train.
I can’t hear the train whistle from inside my apartment, but some days I almost wish I could.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?: Part III
A man with no imagination has no wings.
-Muhammad Ali
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part III: Continued from September 1
For a while, the writing came easily, pouring from my multi-colored Bic pens in a torrent of half-completed thoughts and sentences. In lime green ink was written the story of the oldest kid, Jeremy Olsen (affectionately referred to as “Germ” by his siblings) and how he successfully saved himself and a small child from falling over a waterfall. The twins came alive in purple ink on their first day of school. The thoughts and feelings of the lonely youngest Olsen were best expressed through blue ink. In an effort to individualize the triplets, one of their voices was told in first-person point-of-view, in the form of a journal.
Nicole and Michelle were thrilled with the exhilarating adventures found on the loose leaf wide-ruled notebook paper and I was thrilled with the reception my writing received from them. Yet as much fun as we had, by the time I got to page 38, I had ditched Nicole and Michelle, and now printed in Curly Q handwriting was:
The Olsens: A Novel
By Erica Michelle Acton
Did I abandon them due to their lack of effort? Shortage of input? Because they were unreliable and worthless in the storytelling process? While that’s all true, I am unconvinced that this is the reason I no longer wanted to write with them. I finally broke this revelation to them in the shade of the same mature oak that we’d met beneath so many recesses before. The memory runs like bad breakup dialogue in my head.
Me: This isn’t working for me. I think we should write with other people.
Them: Was it something we did? Was it something we said?
Me: It’s not you guys. You’re both really great. It’s me. It’s all me.
And the truth of the matter is, it was me. I didn’t want to share the creative process. I knew what was best for the stories and the characters and I didn’t need anyone butting in, trying to tell me what to make my characters say, feel, and do. Instead of a beautiful harmony, the piece was becoming three discorded voices singing off-key. To save the song, I realized, I must make it a solo.
Perhaps the experience gave me the misguided assumption that collaborative writing was not for me. But not everything that came out of this was bad. If pride is a sin, I was definitely going to hell over the self-importance I felt for this story. Back in the age when “good” stories and “talented” authors were judged by the length of a story and the difficulty level of the vocabulary, my peers deemed this story an incredible success. But perhaps my real growth as a writer was that, even beyond the external feedback and praise, I was proud of this story for the work I had put into it. The experience taught me the power of my own imagination, but more importantly, the rewards of perseverance. Boxes containing dozens of unfinished, abandoned stories now were balanced with this finished piece. As Jules Renard said, “Talent is a question of quantity. Talent does not write one page; it writes three hundred.” To be honest, it probably wasn’t all that entertaining to the reader, but more than a decade later, that point is moot because it meant so much to the writer. It taught this writer to keep writing because despite writer’s block, bad endings, and uninteresting characters, in the end, it may result in a piece I’ll be proud to put my name on. And who knows? Maybe someday my name will appear alongside another’s. After all, real life is stranger than fiction.
-Muhammad Ali
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part III: Continued from September 1
For a while, the writing came easily, pouring from my multi-colored Bic pens in a torrent of half-completed thoughts and sentences. In lime green ink was written the story of the oldest kid, Jeremy Olsen (affectionately referred to as “Germ” by his siblings) and how he successfully saved himself and a small child from falling over a waterfall. The twins came alive in purple ink on their first day of school. The thoughts and feelings of the lonely youngest Olsen were best expressed through blue ink. In an effort to individualize the triplets, one of their voices was told in first-person point-of-view, in the form of a journal.
Nicole and Michelle were thrilled with the exhilarating adventures found on the loose leaf wide-ruled notebook paper and I was thrilled with the reception my writing received from them. Yet as much fun as we had, by the time I got to page 38, I had ditched Nicole and Michelle, and now printed in Curly Q handwriting was:
The Olsens: A Novel
By Erica Michelle Acton
Did I abandon them due to their lack of effort? Shortage of input? Because they were unreliable and worthless in the storytelling process? While that’s all true, I am unconvinced that this is the reason I no longer wanted to write with them. I finally broke this revelation to them in the shade of the same mature oak that we’d met beneath so many recesses before. The memory runs like bad breakup dialogue in my head.
Me: This isn’t working for me. I think we should write with other people.
Them: Was it something we did? Was it something we said?
Me: It’s not you guys. You’re both really great. It’s me. It’s all me.
And the truth of the matter is, it was me. I didn’t want to share the creative process. I knew what was best for the stories and the characters and I didn’t need anyone butting in, trying to tell me what to make my characters say, feel, and do. Instead of a beautiful harmony, the piece was becoming three discorded voices singing off-key. To save the song, I realized, I must make it a solo.
Perhaps the experience gave me the misguided assumption that collaborative writing was not for me. But not everything that came out of this was bad. If pride is a sin, I was definitely going to hell over the self-importance I felt for this story. Back in the age when “good” stories and “talented” authors were judged by the length of a story and the difficulty level of the vocabulary, my peers deemed this story an incredible success. But perhaps my real growth as a writer was that, even beyond the external feedback and praise, I was proud of this story for the work I had put into it. The experience taught me the power of my own imagination, but more importantly, the rewards of perseverance. Boxes containing dozens of unfinished, abandoned stories now were balanced with this finished piece. As Jules Renard said, “Talent is a question of quantity. Talent does not write one page; it writes three hundred.” To be honest, it probably wasn’t all that entertaining to the reader, but more than a decade later, that point is moot because it meant so much to the writer. It taught this writer to keep writing because despite writer’s block, bad endings, and uninteresting characters, in the end, it may result in a piece I’ll be proud to put my name on. And who knows? Maybe someday my name will appear alongside another’s. After all, real life is stranger than fiction.
Monday, September 01, 2003
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?: Part II
You don't get harmony when everybody sings the same note.
--Doug Floyd
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part II: Continued from August 31
My co-authors approached me knowing full-well that it would be impossible for me to refuse. This was for two reasons: a) I am a nice person and always find it hard to refuse my services where I’m so clearly needed, and b) I am unable to resist flattery. Okay, so perhaps I accepted their offer for the latter reason only, but at least I’m not cheap. They spent at least one-fifth of morning recess sweet talking. Luckily for them, my co-authors consisted of my two best friends, Nicole and Michelle. I had known Nicole since I was about four days old and Michelle and I pretended to be one another on a regular basis. Needless to say, they knew my pressure points and I caved quickly due to their incessant adulation.
Once I had signed on to the project, we set up meetings to plan the plot. We met regularly for at least two days. The first congregation occurred behind an old tree at the edge of the playground. We were all intimately familiar with the old wrinkled oak. It was affectionately referred to as the ‘kissing tree.’ All three of us had received our first kisses behind that tree during one recess or another the year before. The tree was thick in the trunk with lots of offered shade for us to lounge under comfortably while dreaming and planning. But more importantly, it was a welcomed oasis from the watchful eye of Mrs. Koester, on recess duty. The best way to design a fabulous novel, we decided, was through the delegation of tasks with me doing the grunt work (i.e. the writing) while Nicole and Michelle, geniuses that they are, helped with the plot and the ever important task of choosing the characters’ names.
As fifth graders, original works had, to this point, consisted of the basic introduction of hero or heroine, followed by a problem which the hero quickly overcomes. If our writing was really going to get notice from our peers, it was time to try a more avante garde style. We agreed the story would focus on a family of eight kids with a chapter devoted to each one and their adventures. In essence, it was eight short stories tied together through the characters’ common last name. We applauded ourselves on our originality and wondered why no one had thought ever before to try this short-story/novel idea.
Obviously, we agreed, character development was very important. Just for fun we threw in a set of triplets and a set of twins. In fact, that part was so much fun that when it came to the actual story, the writing was becoming a pain in the neck. At first, I diligently met with my co-authors before transcribing a single word. However, their helpful “write somethin’ good” was more than enough to halt the flow of language altogether. It wasn’t long before I was scribbling notes on looseleaf paper in secret, in hopes they would lose interest in the project, thereby making the trio a solo act.
To be continued...
--Doug Floyd
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part II: Continued from August 31
My co-authors approached me knowing full-well that it would be impossible for me to refuse. This was for two reasons: a) I am a nice person and always find it hard to refuse my services where I’m so clearly needed, and b) I am unable to resist flattery. Okay, so perhaps I accepted their offer for the latter reason only, but at least I’m not cheap. They spent at least one-fifth of morning recess sweet talking. Luckily for them, my co-authors consisted of my two best friends, Nicole and Michelle. I had known Nicole since I was about four days old and Michelle and I pretended to be one another on a regular basis. Needless to say, they knew my pressure points and I caved quickly due to their incessant adulation.
Once I had signed on to the project, we set up meetings to plan the plot. We met regularly for at least two days. The first congregation occurred behind an old tree at the edge of the playground. We were all intimately familiar with the old wrinkled oak. It was affectionately referred to as the ‘kissing tree.’ All three of us had received our first kisses behind that tree during one recess or another the year before. The tree was thick in the trunk with lots of offered shade for us to lounge under comfortably while dreaming and planning. But more importantly, it was a welcomed oasis from the watchful eye of Mrs. Koester, on recess duty. The best way to design a fabulous novel, we decided, was through the delegation of tasks with me doing the grunt work (i.e. the writing) while Nicole and Michelle, geniuses that they are, helped with the plot and the ever important task of choosing the characters’ names.
As fifth graders, original works had, to this point, consisted of the basic introduction of hero or heroine, followed by a problem which the hero quickly overcomes. If our writing was really going to get notice from our peers, it was time to try a more avante garde style. We agreed the story would focus on a family of eight kids with a chapter devoted to each one and their adventures. In essence, it was eight short stories tied together through the characters’ common last name. We applauded ourselves on our originality and wondered why no one had thought ever before to try this short-story/novel idea.
Obviously, we agreed, character development was very important. Just for fun we threw in a set of triplets and a set of twins. In fact, that part was so much fun that when it came to the actual story, the writing was becoming a pain in the neck. At first, I diligently met with my co-authors before transcribing a single word. However, their helpful “write somethin’ good” was more than enough to halt the flow of language altogether. It wasn’t long before I was scribbling notes on looseleaf paper in secret, in hopes they would lose interest in the project, thereby making the trio a solo act.
To be continued...
Sunday, August 31, 2003
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?: Part I
The highest reward for a person's toil is not what they get for it, but what they become by it.
--John Ruskin
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part One
Over last summer vacation, I read a novel called The Nanny Diaries. It is a wonderful book in its own right, but I confess to picking it up for more than just good reviews. Of course I was aware of the buzz surrounding it—it was at the top of the charts for several months and the audio version had Julia Roberts’s name attached. These were not, however, the captivating factors that motivated me to read it. I was intrigued by the fact that it had not one, but two authors attached to its title. And while this is not that unusual in its own right, it is rare for me to be interested in a work of fiction with two pictures on the back book flap. I often wonder how collaborative authors work together and how they are satisfied with the final result. The hours spent together, the strain of adjusting to someone else’s suggestions, the frustration of not being able to hold the pen or punch the computer keys, the conflict between ideas—it’s too much for me to bear. Or perhaps I only feel this way because of my own collaborative disaster. My first—and last.
My career as a writer began at the time I could first hold a pencil between my young clumsy fingers, but I was slightly older when I was first approached to be part of a team. I was a full-time fifth grader, part-time writer/ dreamer spending my nights in reveries of fame, success and inevitable headlines that were sure to read Fifth-grade protégé or First New York Times Best-Selling Author Under 12, etc. etc. My days were spent dreaming up the page-turners that were actually going to make me renowned. This was a pivotal time in my life as a writer. Everything was starting to bloom, from nature to my career. Outside, the snow was long gone, but the days were just starting to warm up. Little green buds were starting to bloom on the trees and the grass was finally losing its dead brown quality of the winter and sprouting fresh green blades that beckoned to be run and played and rolled around on. The air was fresh and left the tingling sensation of feeling alive. And inside, this was it—this was the moment. Others were seeking out my ability, my expertise. They sought my candid clear voice that cut through the dark obscurity of the humanity bringing hope and offering inspiration. They sought me. This could only mean one thing. I had made it.
To be continued...
--John Ruskin
One is the Loneliest Number...Or is it?
Part One
Over last summer vacation, I read a novel called The Nanny Diaries. It is a wonderful book in its own right, but I confess to picking it up for more than just good reviews. Of course I was aware of the buzz surrounding it—it was at the top of the charts for several months and the audio version had Julia Roberts’s name attached. These were not, however, the captivating factors that motivated me to read it. I was intrigued by the fact that it had not one, but two authors attached to its title. And while this is not that unusual in its own right, it is rare for me to be interested in a work of fiction with two pictures on the back book flap. I often wonder how collaborative authors work together and how they are satisfied with the final result. The hours spent together, the strain of adjusting to someone else’s suggestions, the frustration of not being able to hold the pen or punch the computer keys, the conflict between ideas—it’s too much for me to bear. Or perhaps I only feel this way because of my own collaborative disaster. My first—and last.
My career as a writer began at the time I could first hold a pencil between my young clumsy fingers, but I was slightly older when I was first approached to be part of a team. I was a full-time fifth grader, part-time writer/ dreamer spending my nights in reveries of fame, success and inevitable headlines that were sure to read Fifth-grade protégé or First New York Times Best-Selling Author Under 12, etc. etc. My days were spent dreaming up the page-turners that were actually going to make me renowned. This was a pivotal time in my life as a writer. Everything was starting to bloom, from nature to my career. Outside, the snow was long gone, but the days were just starting to warm up. Little green buds were starting to bloom on the trees and the grass was finally losing its dead brown quality of the winter and sprouting fresh green blades that beckoned to be run and played and rolled around on. The air was fresh and left the tingling sensation of feeling alive. And inside, this was it—this was the moment. Others were seeking out my ability, my expertise. They sought my candid clear voice that cut through the dark obscurity of the humanity bringing hope and offering inspiration. They sought me. This could only mean one thing. I had made it.
To be continued...
Saturday, August 16, 2003
Friday, August 15, 2003
Here's to you, Ms. Robinson
I like people who make me like them. Saves me so much trouble forcing myself to like them.
--Charmion King, Anne of Green Gables, 1985
I’ve known Hayley Robinson forever.
Good friends through sixth and seventh grade, we became best, inseparable friends in eighth grade. We spent all day at school together making faces and copying each other’s homework, then go home to talk on the phone every night. I have vivid memories of replacing the receiver in its cradle, smiling to myself because of our long conversation on Keanu Reeves’s best feature and the funniest line from Parenthood. We were a team, one for both and both for one. Gradually we began to spend more and more time together. I don’t think our relationship has ever been unhealthy, but with years to give me objective, I see that in connecting so completely with each other, we were missing out on other healthy aspects of normal teenage life. We were so close we became isolated from other friends and other activities. And then we became isolated from each other. To put it like that, it sounds very dramatic—and it wasn’t. There was no falling out, no fights. Just growing up. We simply grew apart.
I don’t regret any of the time we spent together and I don’t regret the time we were more distant. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything because they only made us work harder to stay friends. And that made me see how extraordinary and incomparable our relationship is. Yet, at the same time, it’s completely mundane. We’re two ordinary girls who know each other inside and out and have been friends forever.
Sure, forever only amounts to nine or so years in calendar time, but Caesar is highly overrated. When I read Hallmark cards and see cheesy movies about “old friends” who can pick right up where they left off with no awkwardness and guilt about the time that has passed since they last saw each other, I know that Hayley fits that mold in my mind. In 35 years, I’ll pick up the phone to hear someone singing, “Just like me, they long to be, close to you,” and when she gets to the part where she forgets the words I’ll jump in and try to help, and only cause more confusion until we’re laughing so hard we’ve regressed and are thirteen years old again, tying up the phone lines for “important calls.”
Then we’ll probably make plans to go to dinner at Applebee’s where she’ll order a peach daiquiri and I’ll order a strawberry, and we’ll each take a sip of the other’s drink. We’ll check movie times and agree if we spend an hour or two in the restaurant, we can still make a movie. We’ll order and then, a few minutes later, look around us and realize that, one, the restaurant is closing and the staff is glaring at us impatiently to leave and two, we missed the movie. Again.
But neither one of us will be disappointed or, truthfully, even care.
We’ll probably drive around so we can continue talking about the things we talk about now. Her life and my life, memories and old times, mutual friends and work. We’ll catch up on family and talk about movies and books and entertainment gossip as if we know these people personally.
And later I’ll try to put my finger on what makes our relationship pulse.
Hayley peppers her speech with words like “sweetie” and “honey” and she feels them. While I constantly say things like, “When I grow up…,” Hayley looks at me and sees who I am, who I was, and most importantly, who I want to be. I don’t mean she understands who I want to become, but that she sees that person already inside of me. She’s not telling me what I want to hear, but she is encouraging me to find these things within myself.
Hayley is the only person I’ve ever met who looks for a life lesson in every situation. When life hands Hayley a lemon, she pushes herself to look for options beyond lemonade. Every person she meets and every situation she comes across will teach her something. She looks for her answers. And she’s learning them. She evolved right before my eyes. And I’ll continue to see it for as long as I know her.
She’s so full of her own wisdom and so humble in sharing it.
Our friendship is not any more special than any other relationship she has or I have. It’s not more valuable. It’s not that we’re closer. In fact, day-to-day details of our lives are often left untouched during conversation. I find out about things that happened months afterward (a car accident comes to mind) and vice versa. And the distance makes it no less easy. But we’ve worked too hard to get here and we’ve both got too much invested. Perhaps if it were anybody else, it would be an effort to maintain this friendship.
But it’s not anybody else.
And it’s no effort. No effort at all.
--Charmion King, Anne of Green Gables, 1985
I’ve known Hayley Robinson forever.
Good friends through sixth and seventh grade, we became best, inseparable friends in eighth grade. We spent all day at school together making faces and copying each other’s homework, then go home to talk on the phone every night. I have vivid memories of replacing the receiver in its cradle, smiling to myself because of our long conversation on Keanu Reeves’s best feature and the funniest line from Parenthood. We were a team, one for both and both for one. Gradually we began to spend more and more time together. I don’t think our relationship has ever been unhealthy, but with years to give me objective, I see that in connecting so completely with each other, we were missing out on other healthy aspects of normal teenage life. We were so close we became isolated from other friends and other activities. And then we became isolated from each other. To put it like that, it sounds very dramatic—and it wasn’t. There was no falling out, no fights. Just growing up. We simply grew apart.
I don’t regret any of the time we spent together and I don’t regret the time we were more distant. I wouldn’t trade those years for anything because they only made us work harder to stay friends. And that made me see how extraordinary and incomparable our relationship is. Yet, at the same time, it’s completely mundane. We’re two ordinary girls who know each other inside and out and have been friends forever.
Sure, forever only amounts to nine or so years in calendar time, but Caesar is highly overrated. When I read Hallmark cards and see cheesy movies about “old friends” who can pick right up where they left off with no awkwardness and guilt about the time that has passed since they last saw each other, I know that Hayley fits that mold in my mind. In 35 years, I’ll pick up the phone to hear someone singing, “Just like me, they long to be, close to you,” and when she gets to the part where she forgets the words I’ll jump in and try to help, and only cause more confusion until we’re laughing so hard we’ve regressed and are thirteen years old again, tying up the phone lines for “important calls.”
Then we’ll probably make plans to go to dinner at Applebee’s where she’ll order a peach daiquiri and I’ll order a strawberry, and we’ll each take a sip of the other’s drink. We’ll check movie times and agree if we spend an hour or two in the restaurant, we can still make a movie. We’ll order and then, a few minutes later, look around us and realize that, one, the restaurant is closing and the staff is glaring at us impatiently to leave and two, we missed the movie. Again.
But neither one of us will be disappointed or, truthfully, even care.
We’ll probably drive around so we can continue talking about the things we talk about now. Her life and my life, memories and old times, mutual friends and work. We’ll catch up on family and talk about movies and books and entertainment gossip as if we know these people personally.
And later I’ll try to put my finger on what makes our relationship pulse.
Hayley peppers her speech with words like “sweetie” and “honey” and she feels them. While I constantly say things like, “When I grow up…,” Hayley looks at me and sees who I am, who I was, and most importantly, who I want to be. I don’t mean she understands who I want to become, but that she sees that person already inside of me. She’s not telling me what I want to hear, but she is encouraging me to find these things within myself.
Hayley is the only person I’ve ever met who looks for a life lesson in every situation. When life hands Hayley a lemon, she pushes herself to look for options beyond lemonade. Every person she meets and every situation she comes across will teach her something. She looks for her answers. And she’s learning them. She evolved right before my eyes. And I’ll continue to see it for as long as I know her.
She’s so full of her own wisdom and so humble in sharing it.
Our friendship is not any more special than any other relationship she has or I have. It’s not more valuable. It’s not that we’re closer. In fact, day-to-day details of our lives are often left untouched during conversation. I find out about things that happened months afterward (a car accident comes to mind) and vice versa. And the distance makes it no less easy. But we’ve worked too hard to get here and we’ve both got too much invested. Perhaps if it were anybody else, it would be an effort to maintain this friendship.
But it’s not anybody else.
And it’s no effort. No effort at all.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Quittin' Time
“I generally come in [to work] at least fifteen minutes late, ah, I use the side door--that way Lumbergh can't see me, heh--after that I sorta space out for an hour. … Yeah, I just stare at my desk, but it looks like I'm working. I do that for probably another hour after lunch too, I'd say in a given week I probably only do about fifteen minutes of real, actual, work. … It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s just that I don’t care.”
--Ron Livingston, Office Space, 1999
As my last official day of work approaches the 5 o’clock hour, I feel a bit nostalgic and yes ... even misty-eyed. (Ha ha, gotcha!) Despite my merriment, however, I am also thinking of the good times I've had here. Like the time
--I spent an entire afternoon working on my nails after borrowing Traci's terrific nail buffer (have recently decided to incorporate "terrific" into my everyday speech after the astonishing discovery that quite a surprising lack of people use it).
--A certain co-worker told me his or her story about sleeping under their desk because he or she was just so tired they couldn't keep their eyes open.
--All the catching up on my correspondence on company time (rixiestarr@hotmail.com).
--Getting FANTABULOUS presents from Denise (it was a gorgeous vase this summer to accompany the glass picture frames from last summer).
--Wasting away precious, valuable working minutes with Traci and Mitzi while planning ways to torture my dad.
--Reading Mitzi's hilarious emails when she was in the other offices. Here's a good excerpt... "Things are interesting as ever here. I haven't seen a person yet with a full set of teeth. Look at all the money one saves on toothpaste and brushes. ... No death threats today, just one pissed off guy telling me he isn't going to walk 20 miles one way for his appointment. I'm really disappointed about that!" Good, huh?
--Researching (see Site Navigation to the right above Archive)
--Plotting my future best-selling novel
--And ...oh yeah! Blogging all this at work while I'm bored!
Now I’m usually a work-first, play-later kind of girl, but there’s just something about this job that reminds me: there are two types of people—those finish what they begin and those that
Hey! It’s quitting time!
--Ron Livingston, Office Space, 1999
As my last official day of work approaches the 5 o’clock hour, I feel a bit nostalgic and yes ... even misty-eyed. (Ha ha, gotcha!) Despite my merriment, however, I am also thinking of the good times I've had here. Like the time
--I spent an entire afternoon working on my nails after borrowing Traci's terrific nail buffer (have recently decided to incorporate "terrific" into my everyday speech after the astonishing discovery that quite a surprising lack of people use it).
--A certain co-worker told me his or her story about sleeping under their desk because he or she was just so tired they couldn't keep their eyes open.
--All the catching up on my correspondence on company time (rixiestarr@hotmail.com).
--Getting FANTABULOUS presents from Denise (it was a gorgeous vase this summer to accompany the glass picture frames from last summer).
--Wasting away precious, valuable working minutes with Traci and Mitzi while planning ways to torture my dad.
--Reading Mitzi's hilarious emails when she was in the other offices. Here's a good excerpt... "Things are interesting as ever here. I haven't seen a person yet with a full set of teeth. Look at all the money one saves on toothpaste and brushes. ... No death threats today, just one pissed off guy telling me he isn't going to walk 20 miles one way for his appointment. I'm really disappointed about that!" Good, huh?
--Researching (see Site Navigation to the right above Archive)
--Plotting my future best-selling novel
--And ...oh yeah! Blogging all this at work while I'm bored!
Now I’m usually a work-first, play-later kind of girl, but there’s just something about this job that reminds me: there are two types of people—those finish what they begin and those that
Hey! It’s quitting time!
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Moving Day
"Would you all stop yelling in our apartment? You are ruining moving day for us!"
--Matthew Perry, Friends, 1994
Rachel: "Thanks for the party. Do you want me to help clean up?"
Monica: "Are you kidding? You've had your fun. Now it's my turn."
--Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox, Friends, 1994
At the end of July, a group of girlfriends and I went back to school. The purpose of this mid-summer meeting was officially to clean out our old apartments and move into our new apartments. The unofficial reason was to break in our new roommates and get together and giggle. We were all busy in our respective homes, but broke for lunch. We were excited about the coming year and shared stories about each other as new roommates.
“This morning,” my best friend Natty told us, smiling across the lunch table at her roommate, “Emily and I ate fruit salad and sipped pink lemonade while sitting on our balcony enjoying the view.” I caught my roommate Kelley’s eye and we both suppressed gagging motions. Who makes fruit salad and pink lemonade on moving day? Isn’t moving day about dirt and grime, and not eating until late at night when you order unhealthy take-out or pizza with so much grease it runs down your elbows? And who has time to sit leisurely on a balcony? Isn’t moving day about stress and crabbiness, and berating yourself for not being more organized? It’s not that I was jealous of Emily’s Martha Stewart abilities … well, except that I was. Kelley and I routinely had ice cream for breakfast, if we ate at all, because it was fast and easy and there was no clean-up if you ate out of the carton (which we did). For a moment I envisioned my roommate and I enjoying breakfast on our balcony. … But I’m no Julia Child. Diet Coke would be substituted for the pink lemonade, and instead of fruit salad there would be dry cereal, or if we were really lucky, enough clean bowls and spoons for Cocoa Puffs with milk. The breakfast of champions!
I was brought out of my reverie by a hacking cough from Kelley. As I pounded her on the back, I explained to Natty and Emily that that morning, we had had oven cleaner and Windex for breakfast as we were in the middle of cleaning. In reality we spent most of the time running from the kitchen to the balcony for clean air. “This trying not to die from asphyxiation stuff is tiring,” Kelley sighed after recovering. “I sure wish we had someone to make us pink lemonade and fruit salad,” I added wistfully. “Well,” Natty said, gazing fondly at her roommate, “that’s what happens when you have Emily as a roommate. We’re having some more when we get home.” They smiled indulgently at each other, and while Kelley swiped at some oven grease staining her shirt, I made a mental note to pick up some Scrubbing Bubbles on the way home. Mmm. Dessert.
--Matthew Perry, Friends, 1994
Rachel: "Thanks for the party. Do you want me to help clean up?"
Monica: "Are you kidding? You've had your fun. Now it's my turn."
--Jennifer Aniston and Courteney Cox, Friends, 1994
At the end of July, a group of girlfriends and I went back to school. The purpose of this mid-summer meeting was officially to clean out our old apartments and move into our new apartments. The unofficial reason was to break in our new roommates and get together and giggle. We were all busy in our respective homes, but broke for lunch. We were excited about the coming year and shared stories about each other as new roommates.
“This morning,” my best friend Natty told us, smiling across the lunch table at her roommate, “Emily and I ate fruit salad and sipped pink lemonade while sitting on our balcony enjoying the view.” I caught my roommate Kelley’s eye and we both suppressed gagging motions. Who makes fruit salad and pink lemonade on moving day? Isn’t moving day about dirt and grime, and not eating until late at night when you order unhealthy take-out or pizza with so much grease it runs down your elbows? And who has time to sit leisurely on a balcony? Isn’t moving day about stress and crabbiness, and berating yourself for not being more organized? It’s not that I was jealous of Emily’s Martha Stewart abilities … well, except that I was. Kelley and I routinely had ice cream for breakfast, if we ate at all, because it was fast and easy and there was no clean-up if you ate out of the carton (which we did). For a moment I envisioned my roommate and I enjoying breakfast on our balcony. … But I’m no Julia Child. Diet Coke would be substituted for the pink lemonade, and instead of fruit salad there would be dry cereal, or if we were really lucky, enough clean bowls and spoons for Cocoa Puffs with milk. The breakfast of champions!
I was brought out of my reverie by a hacking cough from Kelley. As I pounded her on the back, I explained to Natty and Emily that that morning, we had had oven cleaner and Windex for breakfast as we were in the middle of cleaning. In reality we spent most of the time running from the kitchen to the balcony for clean air. “This trying not to die from asphyxiation stuff is tiring,” Kelley sighed after recovering. “I sure wish we had someone to make us pink lemonade and fruit salad,” I added wistfully. “Well,” Natty said, gazing fondly at her roommate, “that’s what happens when you have Emily as a roommate. We’re having some more when we get home.” They smiled indulgently at each other, and while Kelley swiped at some oven grease staining her shirt, I made a mental note to pick up some Scrubbing Bubbles on the way home. Mmm. Dessert.
Monday, August 11, 2003
Musings on a Hurricane
Gillian: "Sal? Thanks."
Sally: "For what?"
Gillian: "For being my sister."
-Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock, Practical Magic, 1998
Aunt Frances: "My darling girl, when are you going to understand that "normal" isn't a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage."
-Stockard Channing, Practical Magic, 1998
My sister: Part I
Hurricane Tara.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener she sensed what she had to offer was larger than a little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has blamed our parents for being the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-lease!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. My parents uttered these now mundane phrases in times of childhood tantrums, teenage tantrums, musical genius, and what can only be classified as Hilarity, Tara-Style. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.” They would alternate these phrases with feeling of pride (“She’ll never let anyone push her around!” their eyes said. Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never) and exasperation ready to turn into full-blown rage at a moment’s notice, depending on how they felt. Or rather, how she felt.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way. And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When her powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, Tara was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle. I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at Tara, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece. Hurricane Tara was stubborn, contrary, bright, a drama queen slash actress to her core. These qualities took root and sprouted into an independent, artistic, non-conformist, determined entertainer—an adult Tara. A down-to-earth diva with great hair and a streak of sarcasm, to boot. She simultaneously wears her heart on her sleeve and is intensely private. She has both the ability to make me laugh harder than anybody and infuriate me more than anyone. And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
Sally: "For what?"
Gillian: "For being my sister."
-Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock, Practical Magic, 1998
Aunt Frances: "My darling girl, when are you going to understand that "normal" isn't a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage."
-Stockard Channing, Practical Magic, 1998
My sister: Part I
Hurricane Tara.
That’s what we called her. That’s what she called herself. Even as a pre-kindergartener she sensed what she had to offer was larger than a little four-letter name could do justice. Hell, what she has is larger than life. For when she was good, she was—well, still a wild child. But when she was bad…
Webster’s defines hurricane as a noun, a violent storm, characterized by extreme fury and sudden changes of the wind, and generally accompanied by rain, thunder, and lightning. Also used figuratively, they inform us.
Since we were young, Tara has blamed our parents for being the middle child. And to top that off, as she tells them often, she’s the only one of the three of us who has to scrounge for a nickname. When asked about Tee-Wee or Tara-Teacakes, I can still see an eight-year-old Tara rolling her eyes. “Puh-lease!” She may not have nicknames, but neither my brother nor I have inspired phrases or sayings like Hurricane Tara has. My parents uttered these now mundane phrases in times of childhood tantrums, teenage tantrums, musical genius, and what can only be classified as Hilarity, Tara-Style. Not only does she have her own personal cheer: “Tar-rah-rah-boom-de-ay!” but the nursery rhyme “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” was revamped into “Tara, Tara, quite contrara.” They would alternate these phrases with feeling of pride (“She’ll never let anyone push her around!” their eyes said. Sometimes I thought I saw something behind their eyes during an especially disruptive meal … something that looked like, “In trying to teach independent thought, we may have sold the idea of conformity short… our other two conformers—er, children—didn’t turn out so bad. They may end up in a cult someday unable to make their own decisions, but at least the words “Yes, I agree,” will have escaped their lips more than never) and exasperation ready to turn into full-blown rage at a moment’s notice, depending on how they felt. Or rather, how she felt.
Tara had an intense, deeply personal relationship with the Naughty Chair. She was probably more intimate with that chair than any other possession she owned, her beloved stuffed animals included. In fact, the naughty chair also doubled as Tara’s mealtime chair. It was just easier that way. And her voice… “She could be a Broadway star with the power behind her lungs,” my mother often says. When her powerhouse voice was threatening to cause deafness in the rest of us, Tara was introduced to a new form of punishment. The bottom of the staircase was officially rezoned as The Time-Out Zone. Some meals we didn’t see Tara at all.
Life was quieter this way, but not as interesting, and all that pent-up energy would be released when the sun down. Pulling out my battery-operated keyboard, we would select a song and in a whirlwind, Hurricane Tara would lift herself up on her toes ballerina-style and whirl herself around the house. When Tara was seven and my mom wrote a rap for each of us kids to perform about ourselves, Tara ended hers sweetly, “Some people tell me I can be a pest, but Mommy and Daddy really love me the best.” It was the perfect ending—she was a sweet, adorable child smiling shyly—until she ad-libbed a maniacal, almost out-of-control cackle. I remember furious words being exchanged when Tara became possessed by the hurricane and jazz-stepped through the shot during our brother’s turn, but now we look back and laugh at that pair of legs dancing across the room, reminding us of the old days. “Remember when Hurricane Tara refused to change out of her tutu, even to go fishing?” we reminisce. “Remember when Tara would go outside and start The Twilight Bark just to get all the dogs in the neighborhood riled up in time for bed?”
Some days I wish for old times, and I look so closely at Tara, trying to find a remnant of Hurricane Tara leftover from our childhood that I don’t see anything familiar. I have to remind myself that a painting begins with one color and a few single strokes, and evolves gradually into a masterpiece. Hurricane Tara was stubborn, contrary, bright, a drama queen slash actress to her core. These qualities took root and sprouted into an independent, artistic, non-conformist, determined entertainer—an adult Tara. A down-to-earth diva with great hair and a streak of sarcasm, to boot. She simultaneously wears her heart on her sleeve and is intensely private. She has both the ability to make me laugh harder than anybody and infuriate me more than anyone. And it is these moments, when she causes me to double over and laugh so hard I cry and then, seconds later, causes me to chase her down with murderous, uncivilized rage that only sisters can inspire in each other, I see Hurricane Tara right in front of me, wearing her tutu and barking unrestrainedly at the neighborhood, accompanied by larger-than-life thunder and changes in the wind.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
An English major’s idea of fun reading:
“I love quotations because it is a joy to find thoughts one might have, beautifully expressed with much authority by someone recognized wiser than oneself.”
--Marlene Dietrich
An English major’s idea of fun reading:
"I have never let my schooling interfere with my education."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"Wear the old coat and buy the new book."
-Austin Phelps
"In America only the successful writer is important, in France all writers are important, in England no writer is important, and in Australia, you have to explain what a writer is."
--Geoffrey Cotrell
"The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who
cannot read them."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"What we become depends on what we read after the professors have finished with us. The greatest university of all is a collection of books."
--Thomas Carlyle
"Attention to health is life's greatest hindrance." - Plato (427-347 B.C.)
"Plato was a bore." - Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)
"Nietzsche was stupid and abnormal. - Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910)
"I'm not going to get into the ring with Tolstoy." - Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)
"Hemingway was a jerk." - Harold Robbins
"In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards."
--Mark Twain
--Marlene Dietrich
An English major’s idea of fun reading:
"I have never let my schooling interfere with my education."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"Wear the old coat and buy the new book."
-Austin Phelps
"In America only the successful writer is important, in France all writers are important, in England no writer is important, and in Australia, you have to explain what a writer is."
--Geoffrey Cotrell
"The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who
cannot read them."
- Mark Twain (1835-1910)
"What we become depends on what we read after the professors have finished with us. The greatest university of all is a collection of books."
--Thomas Carlyle
"Attention to health is life's greatest hindrance." - Plato (427-347 B.C.)
"Plato was a bore." - Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900)
"Nietzsche was stupid and abnormal. - Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910)
"I'm not going to get into the ring with Tolstoy." - Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)
"Hemingway was a jerk." - Harold Robbins
"In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards."
--Mark Twain
Monday, August 04, 2003
Narnian Wonder
"Until there was a threat to it, I never loved reading. One does not love breathing."
--Scout Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I am a book junkie. Just as I have to breathe, I have to read. My security blanket is not warm and fuzzy; it is square with rough edges and a shiny hard cover, but I sleep with it just the same. I rarely use my library card, preferring instead to hoard my money and spend my hard-earned cash on books, so after I am finished reading, I can keep them. One does not throw away their childhood stuffed animals; I cannot part with my books. Is there anything more delicious than picking up a brand new book, running your fingertips lovingly over the spine, feeling the rough edges of the pages as you flip through them, and finally—after much internal fanfare—opening the front cover and hearing the satisfying split of the binding. The split that marks the initiation of the brand-new to the lovingly treasured. The split that allows the book to say to the world: Not only was I anticipated, paid for with hard-earned currency, and read, I was treasured.
Perhaps the only thing more delicious than a brand-new book is an old tattered, worn-out book. These are the books that show I don’t just see words on a page or even just pictures in my mind. I see a time in space and a space in time. I know where I was and what was happening in my life during the read of these books. Each tattered copy marks not just a novel finished, but a landmark on my mind or—if I’m really lucky—in my life.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was the first story (of many) that I remember haunting me. I could not—cannot—get away from it. I was not allowed to watch television growing up (a gift I will never be able to fully thank my mother for, despite the hours I spend in front of the TV now), so from an early age I watched television through the pictures in my head instead of on the screen. Even so, I was not prepared for Narnia, the lion, the witch, or most especially, the wardrobe. The idea that one could escape into a different world from such an ordinary, mundane thing as a closet! Although the story has dissipated somewhat in my mind, the memories of wonder, awe, and plain and simple pleasure have evolved from feelings to moments of time and space inside me. For me, Narnia is not found through a door in my closet, but inside a 7x10 inch square sitting on my bookshelf.
--Scout Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee
I am a book junkie. Just as I have to breathe, I have to read. My security blanket is not warm and fuzzy; it is square with rough edges and a shiny hard cover, but I sleep with it just the same. I rarely use my library card, preferring instead to hoard my money and spend my hard-earned cash on books, so after I am finished reading, I can keep them. One does not throw away their childhood stuffed animals; I cannot part with my books. Is there anything more delicious than picking up a brand new book, running your fingertips lovingly over the spine, feeling the rough edges of the pages as you flip through them, and finally—after much internal fanfare—opening the front cover and hearing the satisfying split of the binding. The split that marks the initiation of the brand-new to the lovingly treasured. The split that allows the book to say to the world: Not only was I anticipated, paid for with hard-earned currency, and read, I was treasured.
Perhaps the only thing more delicious than a brand-new book is an old tattered, worn-out book. These are the books that show I don’t just see words on a page or even just pictures in my mind. I see a time in space and a space in time. I know where I was and what was happening in my life during the read of these books. Each tattered copy marks not just a novel finished, but a landmark on my mind or—if I’m really lucky—in my life.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe was the first story (of many) that I remember haunting me. I could not—cannot—get away from it. I was not allowed to watch television growing up (a gift I will never be able to fully thank my mother for, despite the hours I spend in front of the TV now), so from an early age I watched television through the pictures in my head instead of on the screen. Even so, I was not prepared for Narnia, the lion, the witch, or most especially, the wardrobe. The idea that one could escape into a different world from such an ordinary, mundane thing as a closet! Although the story has dissipated somewhat in my mind, the memories of wonder, awe, and plain and simple pleasure have evolved from feelings to moments of time and space inside me. For me, Narnia is not found through a door in my closet, but inside a 7x10 inch square sitting on my bookshelf.
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