Everything is urgent and profound when you're young because there's no basis for comparison yet - no substantial past to measure against, no lasting self-determined place in the order of things. Whatever moves you is bound to be transitory and you know it, and your tentative selfhood wants to bear witness in some fixed way.
I'm still young, but not so young that I don't have a past or a necessarily (in)consequential role to carve out right now. I miss the vitality of existence being vastly, headily fleeting. So, 18-year-old me would have, in all earnestness, cataloged the snapshot memories of Presentness. Maybe 23-year-old me ought to relearn something about everyday poignancy through blogging. It would take being a lot more shameless, and it would force me to call up my friends to have something about which to feel and write. (I live with my boyfriend Michael, but we get descriptively boring pretty fast.)
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
The Wednesday before I left Maryland, Seth and I had one of those long, synthesizing/rehashing conversations on the hood of my car. It was a warm, quiet night, and we had just meanderingly come home from seeing Garden State, walking past sprinklers and pausing on the steps of Chevy Chase ES to discuss our mutual discomfort with the movie's emotional affect. We discussed Modernism vs. Postmodernism - all the self-referentiality nowadays, the cataclysmal self-consciousness that reduces human experience to cliches. I suppose we felt reduced by our reactions to Garden State. And I said that we couldn't be paralyzed or ashamed that everything has been said and done before - Woolf, et al., write every moment as absolutely new, overspilling cliche.
I would like to say more about my last days in town with Seth, particularly our very nice last day together, but there really isn't anything. I think I feel done with this blog, and with all of the conjuring of the past I've tried to do. Something is fundamentally different now, and it's not just that Seth and I are pretty conclusively apart; it's some sort of private paradigm shift (to keep with the Postmodern buzz-words). I'm no longer so concerned with monitoring my own life. I'm no longer disproportionately or remarkably happy or unhappy; I'm living instead of Alive, and I feel passively abstracted and content. So far this year, I've read (everything I've been assigned!) Rousseau and Kant, Fowles and J.G. Ballard and Calvino, Saussure and Freud and Lacan. I've copy-edited for six hours straight, five times a week. I've stayed up for hours gossiping with Jess Mo., been picked up, and gone on a date.
It's not that I'm particularly full of potential, or that my surroundings are so rich; it's that it feels better not to notice. This is the fruition I wanted - the construction of my life as a self-perpetuating system, so I can sit back and absorb and enjoy. Concerning Seth, of course I still care about him, and I'm glad that we're still so close. As for this blog, I'm not up for it anymore - but I'll let you know if I change my mind.
I would like to say more about my last days in town with Seth, particularly our very nice last day together, but there really isn't anything. I think I feel done with this blog, and with all of the conjuring of the past I've tried to do. Something is fundamentally different now, and it's not just that Seth and I are pretty conclusively apart; it's some sort of private paradigm shift (to keep with the Postmodern buzz-words). I'm no longer so concerned with monitoring my own life. I'm no longer disproportionately or remarkably happy or unhappy; I'm living instead of Alive, and I feel passively abstracted and content. So far this year, I've read (everything I've been assigned!) Rousseau and Kant, Fowles and J.G. Ballard and Calvino, Saussure and Freud and Lacan. I've copy-edited for six hours straight, five times a week. I've stayed up for hours gossiping with Jess Mo., been picked up, and gone on a date.
It's not that I'm particularly full of potential, or that my surroundings are so rich; it's that it feels better not to notice. This is the fruition I wanted - the construction of my life as a self-perpetuating system, so I can sit back and absorb and enjoy. Concerning Seth, of course I still care about him, and I'm glad that we're still so close. As for this blog, I'm not up for it anymore - but I'll let you know if I change my mind.
Friday, August 20, 2004
[Cont.] On to my first important point, which is actually just an extended (bizarre, incongruous) story: On Friday the 13th, my aunt and uncle were in town for the approximate 10-year anniversary of my paternal grandma's death. My Aunt Jane had called my dad several months ago, informing him that she had their father's ashes (he died in 1988) and was incapable of disposing of them by herself. At the time, we had my grandma's ashes in our house (my dad didn't remember where exactly, which appalled my mom). It was decided that this 16-year lapse in filial duty should end over the summer, in the DC area, after dinner at my house and copious wine. The adults agreed upon American University as the final resting site, since my Grandma Muriel was head of the Sociology Department and apparently my Grandpa Joel obtained an Anthropology degree there. (I have no idea what he did with it, since I think he was a Psychology Ph.D.)
Anyway, the adults wanted to do this on Saturday, but I pointed out (joking) that illegal acts like ash-scattering are better done under cover of darkness. There was the added draw that they would be tipsy at the time (with the exception of my dad); this happy confluence of bravado and natural concealment was unlikely to be repeated at midday. As we got our jackets and filed into the car, my father reminded us that we didn't know ash-scattering was illegal. There had been some talk of trying to obtain permission: "Hey, do you remember Professor C.?" my dad had said, mock-enthusiastically. "Well, we've got her remains here, and we think it would be a great idea to scatter them somewhere on campus." (Beat.) "Oh, by the way, she won't be in class on Monday." Now, in the car, my Uncle Murray announced that he didn't believe what we planned to do - namely, evade campus security long enough to shadily dispose of human remains in a flower bed - was illegal, anyway.
"It doesn't matter whether you believe it," my dad said, thoughtfully. "This is not some existential question about whether God is alive."
My mom and aunt, both lawyers (and sharing the backseat with me), quickly chimed in that they were certain it was illegal, but willing to pretend otherwise; they had learned about it in law school.
"In cremation class?" my uncle said.
On River Road, we approached the turnoff to my grandparents' old house. The adults were suddenly overcome by this promising new opportunity to expedite the ash-scattering. It was even, apparently, not technically trespassing to do so - as long as we stayed in the grassy strip at the periphery of the lawn, which was public property. As a sober person, I felt it was my moral obligation to object stridently. "Think of the Golden Rule!" I said. "Would you want strangers coming to your house at night to do such a thing? Would you want your children to dispose of you in a drainage ditch?" The others claimed they wouldn't mind, but, grudgingly, we continued on the route to AU. After about 15 minutes of attempted parking (God, acting through the construction patterns on campus, apparently did not smile on our task), we found a small lot in walking distance of the Sociology building. Carrying our two small parcels (one was in a cardboard box, and the other looked like simulated wood?), we self-consciously traversed the remaining distance; my dad and uncle talked about what a terrible postmodern story this would make, and how some further zany misadventures must inevitably befall us.
I said, "What would really be appropriate is if we had all gotten in a car accident on the way and died."
Outside the Sociology building was a bed of black-eyed susans and a path extending, eventually, to a main road; an AU bus parked ominously across the street. The two men opened their parcels to reveal plastic bags. I had been waiting the entire time to see whether the ashes would really look like kitty litter (as in A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, which was over-referenced that night), and I was disappointed to discover they were too fine and not gritty enough, more like dusty sand. Well, my dad and uncle punctured the bags and upended them over the flower bed, where the white ashes fell in wide swirls, in jarring contrast to the dirt. Everyone noticed this discrepancy and wasn't sure what to do. My grandma and grandpa were both at the very least agnostic, and their children were the same; nothing had been said to consecrate the act, and I don't think anyone knew of a decorous way to obscure the ashes. My father, matter-of-factly, began to kick dirt over them.
I felt a little sick. "Dad, you're stepping on your parents."
He said, "I think a good ending to the story would be if we realized the ashes were too conspicuous, so we peed on them."
My mom and aunt decried that as a terribly inappropriate joke, and we all walked back to the car (with a brief stop to discard the bags and boxes in a dumpster). I don't remember my grandpa much, but I used to participate in AU academic life a little with my grandma. I remember sitting in on a class, being babysat, when I was eight; I tried to keep still and look attentive so the other students might think I was a precocious college student, and I was surprised to find I understood most of the lecture. Another time, I handed out hors d'oeuvres at a cocktail party for her graduate students, feeling grown-up and self-satisfied. The second to last time I was at AU was for my grandma's memorial service (the last time was for those As You Like It hijinks), but the campus seemed surprisingly familiar. I walked up ahead with my dad, wearing my blue windbreaker, and he put his arm around me; I told him that his peeing ending idea lacked verisimilitude. [I think my second important point will wait until later, because I'd like to post before I go out this evening.]
Anyway, the adults wanted to do this on Saturday, but I pointed out (joking) that illegal acts like ash-scattering are better done under cover of darkness. There was the added draw that they would be tipsy at the time (with the exception of my dad); this happy confluence of bravado and natural concealment was unlikely to be repeated at midday. As we got our jackets and filed into the car, my father reminded us that we didn't know ash-scattering was illegal. There had been some talk of trying to obtain permission: "Hey, do you remember Professor C.?" my dad had said, mock-enthusiastically. "Well, we've got her remains here, and we think it would be a great idea to scatter them somewhere on campus." (Beat.) "Oh, by the way, she won't be in class on Monday." Now, in the car, my Uncle Murray announced that he didn't believe what we planned to do - namely, evade campus security long enough to shadily dispose of human remains in a flower bed - was illegal, anyway.
"It doesn't matter whether you believe it," my dad said, thoughtfully. "This is not some existential question about whether God is alive."
My mom and aunt, both lawyers (and sharing the backseat with me), quickly chimed in that they were certain it was illegal, but willing to pretend otherwise; they had learned about it in law school.
"In cremation class?" my uncle said.
On River Road, we approached the turnoff to my grandparents' old house. The adults were suddenly overcome by this promising new opportunity to expedite the ash-scattering. It was even, apparently, not technically trespassing to do so - as long as we stayed in the grassy strip at the periphery of the lawn, which was public property. As a sober person, I felt it was my moral obligation to object stridently. "Think of the Golden Rule!" I said. "Would you want strangers coming to your house at night to do such a thing? Would you want your children to dispose of you in a drainage ditch?" The others claimed they wouldn't mind, but, grudgingly, we continued on the route to AU. After about 15 minutes of attempted parking (God, acting through the construction patterns on campus, apparently did not smile on our task), we found a small lot in walking distance of the Sociology building. Carrying our two small parcels (one was in a cardboard box, and the other looked like simulated wood?), we self-consciously traversed the remaining distance; my dad and uncle talked about what a terrible postmodern story this would make, and how some further zany misadventures must inevitably befall us.
I said, "What would really be appropriate is if we had all gotten in a car accident on the way and died."
Outside the Sociology building was a bed of black-eyed susans and a path extending, eventually, to a main road; an AU bus parked ominously across the street. The two men opened their parcels to reveal plastic bags. I had been waiting the entire time to see whether the ashes would really look like kitty litter (as in A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, which was over-referenced that night), and I was disappointed to discover they were too fine and not gritty enough, more like dusty sand. Well, my dad and uncle punctured the bags and upended them over the flower bed, where the white ashes fell in wide swirls, in jarring contrast to the dirt. Everyone noticed this discrepancy and wasn't sure what to do. My grandma and grandpa were both at the very least agnostic, and their children were the same; nothing had been said to consecrate the act, and I don't think anyone knew of a decorous way to obscure the ashes. My father, matter-of-factly, began to kick dirt over them.
I felt a little sick. "Dad, you're stepping on your parents."
He said, "I think a good ending to the story would be if we realized the ashes were too conspicuous, so we peed on them."
My mom and aunt decried that as a terribly inappropriate joke, and we all walked back to the car (with a brief stop to discard the bags and boxes in a dumpster). I don't remember my grandpa much, but I used to participate in AU academic life a little with my grandma. I remember sitting in on a class, being babysat, when I was eight; I tried to keep still and look attentive so the other students might think I was a precocious college student, and I was surprised to find I understood most of the lecture. Another time, I handed out hors d'oeuvres at a cocktail party for her graduate students, feeling grown-up and self-satisfied. The second to last time I was at AU was for my grandma's memorial service (the last time was for those As You Like It hijinks), but the campus seemed surprisingly familiar. I walked up ahead with my dad, wearing my blue windbreaker, and he put his arm around me; I told him that his peeing ending idea lacked verisimilitude. [I think my second important point will wait until later, because I'd like to post before I go out this evening.]
Okay, a quick summary so I can get on to two more pressing points: Seth and I saw Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle in early August, which is the most convincing peer pressure I've ever seen to smoke pot. I have never smoked pot, and I can't imagine I would write about it online if I did - but Harold and Kumar is populated with nerdy, otherwise upstanding, externally successful potheads, and I have to admit the idea of drug use and people like my friends coexisting is compelling. I had actually gotten over this temptation (it was around August 5 that I saw the movie) until I watched The Breakfast Club, something I hadn't seen since childhood, at Seth's house the other day. In an expression of inter-caste unity, the prom queen, jock, geek, and two varieties of troubled teen smoke up together and laughingly or tearfully tell their secrets. I want the transcendent comradery that only illicit substances can bring.
Also, Seth was sick the other day, so I kept him company watching the Olympics. We commentated like during the DNC, and Seth transcribed ridiculous forced/mixed metaphors and awkward turns of phrase from the former-gymnast pundit. Unlike during the DNC, Seth was wearing a ratty bathrobe and made periodic moans or spasmodic contortions to indicate sickness. "I feel like death," he said.
"What are your other symptoms, besides feeling like death?" I said, trying to be helpful.
He felt better the following day, and I've continued to watch the Olympics, sometimes with him and sometimes alone. More than anything else, the gymnastics reminds me of an unfortunate period in my childhood when a neighbor family "watched" my sister and me before school and left us essentially unattended. Along with their two daughters, we decided to teach ourselves to do flips - which we accomplished by standing on their parents' bureau, across from the double bed, and launching ourselves in the air between the pieces of furniture, ideally landing on our feet or backs on the bed (versus the carpet, or the footboard, or whatever). I spent a long time teaching myself to do flips off the diving board at the public pool, with less consistent success (which is okay, because failure on the bed might have paralyzed me), but there's really nothing like the sensation of turning head-over-heels in open air. I did gymnastics for five or six years, and I miss that ease and motility. My sedentary body feels like such a burden now.
Anyway, Dave P. came back to town from Russian immersion at Middlebury, and a gathering was held in his honor on Wednesday. He had a basement full of Duplos and other exciting toys. I think if my social interaction never matures beyond this point (which it presumably will), I can be content - participating when I'm able to do so authoritatively, and otherwise finding sinister Duplos like the frowny face block and what looked like a guardtower and a microwave. I wasn't alone in my immaturity: GPaul composed a kinky limerick on Tara's behalf, she did his hair and attempted to draw various anatomical features on his leg (the boys are distressingly better at that than we are), and a contingent disappeared for a long time looking for popsicles. Yesterday, I experienced far more bombastic crassness when my family saw The Producers at the Kennedy Center. Some of the jokes I could have done without, but it was well worth it to see chorus girls and boys cheerfully dancing in a swastika formation (with gay-Hitler somewhere therein). [Broken into two posts for your scanning convenience.]
Also, Seth was sick the other day, so I kept him company watching the Olympics. We commentated like during the DNC, and Seth transcribed ridiculous forced/mixed metaphors and awkward turns of phrase from the former-gymnast pundit. Unlike during the DNC, Seth was wearing a ratty bathrobe and made periodic moans or spasmodic contortions to indicate sickness. "I feel like death," he said.
"What are your other symptoms, besides feeling like death?" I said, trying to be helpful.
He felt better the following day, and I've continued to watch the Olympics, sometimes with him and sometimes alone. More than anything else, the gymnastics reminds me of an unfortunate period in my childhood when a neighbor family "watched" my sister and me before school and left us essentially unattended. Along with their two daughters, we decided to teach ourselves to do flips - which we accomplished by standing on their parents' bureau, across from the double bed, and launching ourselves in the air between the pieces of furniture, ideally landing on our feet or backs on the bed (versus the carpet, or the footboard, or whatever). I spent a long time teaching myself to do flips off the diving board at the public pool, with less consistent success (which is okay, because failure on the bed might have paralyzed me), but there's really nothing like the sensation of turning head-over-heels in open air. I did gymnastics for five or six years, and I miss that ease and motility. My sedentary body feels like such a burden now.
Anyway, Dave P. came back to town from Russian immersion at Middlebury, and a gathering was held in his honor on Wednesday. He had a basement full of Duplos and other exciting toys. I think if my social interaction never matures beyond this point (which it presumably will), I can be content - participating when I'm able to do so authoritatively, and otherwise finding sinister Duplos like the frowny face block and what looked like a guardtower and a microwave. I wasn't alone in my immaturity: GPaul composed a kinky limerick on Tara's behalf, she did his hair and attempted to draw various anatomical features on his leg (the boys are distressingly better at that than we are), and a contingent disappeared for a long time looking for popsicles. Yesterday, I experienced far more bombastic crassness when my family saw The Producers at the Kennedy Center. Some of the jokes I could have done without, but it was well worth it to see chorus girls and boys cheerfully dancing in a swastika formation (with gay-Hitler somewhere therein). [Broken into two posts for your scanning convenience.]
Monday, August 2, 2004
And love is not a victory march
Conveniently, I didn't do very much that was interesting from late June to mid-July. I hung out with various combinations of Hank, Alison, Natalies D. and G., Seth, and Tara. I also read two or three books, overplayed XO and my new Smiths' Greatest Hits CDs, and watched such important cultural documents as Fahrenheit 9/11 and "I Love the 90s." One noteworthy exception (to tedium) took place on June 28, when Ben Folds/Guster/Rufus Wainwright played at Wolf Trap. I really hate Rufus Wainwright; I found his act obnoxious and simpering, especially when he brought his famous mother onstage to play piano during "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Guster was adorable and very catchy, though - three nice Jewish boys covering "The Boy With the Arab Strap," which I happily appended from my seat on the upper balcony. Apparently the band also covers "Come On Eileen" sometimes, albeit not that well!
Ben himself was in top form, though he played for only 40 minutes. I got my money's worth: I was a member of the "Army" horn section, something I've been practicing since Fall 2002 (grin). After the concert, my next significant life event took place on Saturday, July 17, when I awkwardly attempted clubbing for a second time. Tara and I fussed over our clothing and pre-gamed at Natalie G.'s, using daiquiri-flavored wine coolers and homemade tequila sunrises. Natalie's friend Rachel, who is poised and wise, stopped by in time to teach us about eye makeup and cleavage. Then, we Metroed to DC and pretended dignity while walking several blocks in the dark, in the rain, in high heels and shielding our hair with community newspapers. There was a restaurant in the basement of the venue (the Hawk & Dove), where I sat for a while puzzling over the new code of social ethics governing at whom to glance and for how long.
On Thursday, July 22, Dyanne, Tara, Seth, and I went to Ted Leo/The Pharmacists at the Black Cat. For reasons that were never fully explained to me, Dyanne and Tara wore formal gowns. [I wore my Indie Kid costume and a rain slicker, and Seth wore his everyday-indie clothes.] In the club, it was hot, dark, smoky, and crowded, so the girls attracted only occasional incredulous notice. Ted executed his set on speed (everything was 4x the pace it should have been), and made occasional plodding, useless remarks on the "punk rock community" and feminism. Last year after Tara, Nick S., Seth, and I saw the New Pornographers at Black Cat, we encountered shadiness on the way to the Georgia Ave. bus stop in the form of a motorcycle gang (I suppose? a rumble in the distance climaxing in a stream of motorcycles on the highway). This year, our post-show sketch factor was more personally tailored to Misses Dyanne and Tara. A homeless man on the road shouted at Seth, "How come you can get three beautiful women, and I can't get no woman?"
Another passerby insisted (well, it was an empty threat) on shaking Seth's hand. "I gotta get your autograph - I gotta meet the guy who's got three such beautiful queens," he said. I guess I should always travel at night with girls in prom dresses, if I want to be accosted by strange, probably unemployable men. Anyway, the next evening I saw my sister as Lady Macbeth in the BAPA summer show. Two years ago, some friends and I made a really ill-fated trip to see Seth in the same company production (As You Like It, apparently). I was suddenly struck by how young we must have been; Seth, as a rising junior, was only one year older than my sister. And, when I was his age, I was a BAPA stagehand, uncomfortably tongue-tied around the other CITs whenever they discussed their love-lives. I suppose I'm lucky to have a younger sister to make high school seem darling and poignant.
On Saturday, July 24, I attended Live on Penn with a quorum of Bivalves. Fountains of Wayne was the opening act, followed by my beloved They Might Be Giants. It was actually a pleasure to see both groups (hearing "Denise" live was unexpectedly fun), but TMBG alone delivered hardcore bliss. I stood near Dyanne and Tara in the second row, in reach of the guardrail delineating Us and Them, and at ground zero for the confetti explosion during the second song. I know I hopelessly, continuously compare the present with the past, particularly for recurrent events - always gauging differences in atmosphere and impression, asking myself whether I'm happier now. The experience of watching TMBG last year from behind a tall fence was incomparable. I stopped for a moment, amid bouncing and belting song lyrics and shyly forcing eye contact with John Linnell, to realize that I was honestly very happy. There are things in my life that I dislike, but I'm separate and content - and if I'm smart (and blessed), I will keep that.
The final thing I want to mention is how much I enjoyed the Democratic National Convention. Seth and I had a date to watch Kerry on the 29th, sitting rapt in the basement and occasionally cheering or commentating. I feel impelled to do something useful with my time, maybe actively join Penn for Choice or the Queer Straight Alliance. I think/hope (?) there's no shame in being maneuvered in the direction of social consciousness.
Conveniently, I didn't do very much that was interesting from late June to mid-July. I hung out with various combinations of Hank, Alison, Natalies D. and G., Seth, and Tara. I also read two or three books, overplayed XO and my new Smiths' Greatest Hits CDs, and watched such important cultural documents as Fahrenheit 9/11 and "I Love the 90s." One noteworthy exception (to tedium) took place on June 28, when Ben Folds/Guster/Rufus Wainwright played at Wolf Trap. I really hate Rufus Wainwright; I found his act obnoxious and simpering, especially when he brought his famous mother onstage to play piano during "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Guster was adorable and very catchy, though - three nice Jewish boys covering "The Boy With the Arab Strap," which I happily appended from my seat on the upper balcony. Apparently the band also covers "Come On Eileen" sometimes, albeit not that well!
Ben himself was in top form, though he played for only 40 minutes. I got my money's worth: I was a member of the "Army" horn section, something I've been practicing since Fall 2002 (grin). After the concert, my next significant life event took place on Saturday, July 17, when I awkwardly attempted clubbing for a second time. Tara and I fussed over our clothing and pre-gamed at Natalie G.'s, using daiquiri-flavored wine coolers and homemade tequila sunrises. Natalie's friend Rachel, who is poised and wise, stopped by in time to teach us about eye makeup and cleavage. Then, we Metroed to DC and pretended dignity while walking several blocks in the dark, in the rain, in high heels and shielding our hair with community newspapers. There was a restaurant in the basement of the venue (the Hawk & Dove), where I sat for a while puzzling over the new code of social ethics governing at whom to glance and for how long.
On Thursday, July 22, Dyanne, Tara, Seth, and I went to Ted Leo/The Pharmacists at the Black Cat. For reasons that were never fully explained to me, Dyanne and Tara wore formal gowns. [I wore my Indie Kid costume and a rain slicker, and Seth wore his everyday-indie clothes.] In the club, it was hot, dark, smoky, and crowded, so the girls attracted only occasional incredulous notice. Ted executed his set on speed (everything was 4x the pace it should have been), and made occasional plodding, useless remarks on the "punk rock community" and feminism. Last year after Tara, Nick S., Seth, and I saw the New Pornographers at Black Cat, we encountered shadiness on the way to the Georgia Ave. bus stop in the form of a motorcycle gang (I suppose? a rumble in the distance climaxing in a stream of motorcycles on the highway). This year, our post-show sketch factor was more personally tailored to Misses Dyanne and Tara. A homeless man on the road shouted at Seth, "How come you can get three beautiful women, and I can't get no woman?"
Another passerby insisted (well, it was an empty threat) on shaking Seth's hand. "I gotta get your autograph - I gotta meet the guy who's got three such beautiful queens," he said. I guess I should always travel at night with girls in prom dresses, if I want to be accosted by strange, probably unemployable men. Anyway, the next evening I saw my sister as Lady Macbeth in the BAPA summer show. Two years ago, some friends and I made a really ill-fated trip to see Seth in the same company production (As You Like It, apparently). I was suddenly struck by how young we must have been; Seth, as a rising junior, was only one year older than my sister. And, when I was his age, I was a BAPA stagehand, uncomfortably tongue-tied around the other CITs whenever they discussed their love-lives. I suppose I'm lucky to have a younger sister to make high school seem darling and poignant.
On Saturday, July 24, I attended Live on Penn with a quorum of Bivalves. Fountains of Wayne was the opening act, followed by my beloved They Might Be Giants. It was actually a pleasure to see both groups (hearing "Denise" live was unexpectedly fun), but TMBG alone delivered hardcore bliss. I stood near Dyanne and Tara in the second row, in reach of the guardrail delineating Us and Them, and at ground zero for the confetti explosion during the second song. I know I hopelessly, continuously compare the present with the past, particularly for recurrent events - always gauging differences in atmosphere and impression, asking myself whether I'm happier now. The experience of watching TMBG last year from behind a tall fence was incomparable. I stopped for a moment, amid bouncing and belting song lyrics and shyly forcing eye contact with John Linnell, to realize that I was honestly very happy. There are things in my life that I dislike, but I'm separate and content - and if I'm smart (and blessed), I will keep that.
The final thing I want to mention is how much I enjoyed the Democratic National Convention. Seth and I had a date to watch Kerry on the 29th, sitting rapt in the basement and occasionally cheering or commentating. I feel impelled to do something useful with my time, maybe actively join Penn for Choice or the Queer Straight Alliance. I think/hope (?) there's no shame in being maneuvered in the direction of social consciousness.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Here is something from around July 7, to placate Dyanne while I work on more:
Fifteen minutes with you
Oh I wouldn't say no
Seth and I saw Napoleon Dynamite circa its release date, which brought back surprisingly fond memories of middle school dweebdom. I know, I'm still a dweeb, but less spectacularly. Back then, there was such unself-conscious ungainliness among my group of friends (the pariah femme clique). It was charming, idyllic, and nowadays alien, since we're all so relentlessly self-aware. One illustrative anecdote: The Humanities and Communications Magnet held a graduation pool party/formal dinner/dance, which provoked various degrees of consternation as I wondered first whether to wear a two-piece swimsuit (I decided against and was very much in the minority), and later whether to wear a dress or a skirt, pantyhose, makeup, etc. The dance itself was a mess, after all my preoccupation. A nerdy boy - worse off than me, I perceived, in the social hierarchy - cornered me and confessed a three-year crush and asked me to dance. After a brief, awkward attempt, I ran and hid in an upstairs dressing room for the remainder of the evening. Aww (grin).
Before the movie, Seth and I walked through Bethesda's night scene: whole blocks of outdoor tables sporting tapas, Thai food, & more. Seth expressed an old desire to swipe food from a table as we passed, which, I pointed out, he's been saying for almost as long as I've known him. His courage/manhood thus challenged, he left me at a bench by the former Giant-turned-store-for-seasonal-or-transient-proprieters, returning several minutes later, at a jog, with a handful of nachos for both of us. [He acquired them with permission from two young men at Jaleo, who reportedly looked Weirded Out.] On June 25, Seth arranged another food-related outing with Nick S. and Tara, for beef and pork ribs, buffalo wings, collard greens, etc. I'd never eaten such things before, and, in spite of my relative finesse with chopsticks/Maryland crab dissembling (or not so much), I found dinner very taxing and overly awkward. Afterwards, we meandered over to Bethesda Metro, where we discovered innovative phallic graffiti, and Nick chased Seth around brandishing an umbrella.
An old friendly acquaintance of mine, Griff, appeared from the shadows and engaged us (mostly Nick and Seth) in esoteric conversation for more than an hour. Then, Nick left us for a concert, and Tara and I fell asleep to the sounds of Wayne's World in Seth's basement. She and I were roused unhappily at approx. 12:50 AM, and we made it home - to meet again, nine hours later, for a day-trip to Rehobeth Beach, DE. Liliya accompanied/transported us, Tara navigated, and I sat uselessly in the backseat eating other people's food. We got lost only two or three times. In various states of scandalous undress (poorly concealed bikinis), we appealed for help from 1.) antique show docents at a community center, 2.) staffpeople at a small airport in a cornfield, and 3.) clerks in a tiny convenience store located (for serious) on a median strip splitting a fairly well-trafficked road. We did make it to the beach by early afternoon, and, after further adventures in parking and eating lunch, we completed a condensed version of all my favorite childhood beach things.
Highlights included: playing in the water, playing at Funland, consuming a half-pound of Candy Kitchen sweets & fudge, and later eating delicious Chinese carryout in our laps as we crossed the Bay Bridge (it appears, from this entry, that meals are very important to me). Funland, the boardwalk amusement park, has acquired a souped-up Real Ride, "The Claw," which Tara and I tried. It has a retractable cylindrical base, from which extend arms (or "talons," I guess), which are attached to cages (?? God knows?). Tara and I were bolted into a purple cage, which had no internal seatbelts, only handgrips - the idea being that, if you lose your grip, you fall into the grill part of the cage, but I'm fairly confident I could fit through the slats. So, the ride begins, the cylinder protracts, the cages spin, and then the arms begin to pivot and the cages turn upside-down. At that point, Tara and I were looking up at the underside of the ride - the mechanics of the cylinder and arms - and I was contemplating the size of the slats, etc. I told her afterwards that it was the amusement park equivalent of a tequila shot: more doable if you don't know what to expect. [To be continued....]
Fifteen minutes with you
Oh I wouldn't say no
Seth and I saw Napoleon Dynamite circa its release date, which brought back surprisingly fond memories of middle school dweebdom. I know, I'm still a dweeb, but less spectacularly. Back then, there was such unself-conscious ungainliness among my group of friends (the pariah femme clique). It was charming, idyllic, and nowadays alien, since we're all so relentlessly self-aware. One illustrative anecdote: The Humanities and Communications Magnet held a graduation pool party/formal dinner/dance, which provoked various degrees of consternation as I wondered first whether to wear a two-piece swimsuit (I decided against and was very much in the minority), and later whether to wear a dress or a skirt, pantyhose, makeup, etc. The dance itself was a mess, after all my preoccupation. A nerdy boy - worse off than me, I perceived, in the social hierarchy - cornered me and confessed a three-year crush and asked me to dance. After a brief, awkward attempt, I ran and hid in an upstairs dressing room for the remainder of the evening. Aww (grin).
Before the movie, Seth and I walked through Bethesda's night scene: whole blocks of outdoor tables sporting tapas, Thai food, & more. Seth expressed an old desire to swipe food from a table as we passed, which, I pointed out, he's been saying for almost as long as I've known him. His courage/manhood thus challenged, he left me at a bench by the former Giant-turned-store-for-seasonal-or-transient-proprieters, returning several minutes later, at a jog, with a handful of nachos for both of us. [He acquired them with permission from two young men at Jaleo, who reportedly looked Weirded Out.] On June 25, Seth arranged another food-related outing with Nick S. and Tara, for beef and pork ribs, buffalo wings, collard greens, etc. I'd never eaten such things before, and, in spite of my relative finesse with chopsticks/Maryland crab dissembling (or not so much), I found dinner very taxing and overly awkward. Afterwards, we meandered over to Bethesda Metro, where we discovered innovative phallic graffiti, and Nick chased Seth around brandishing an umbrella.
An old friendly acquaintance of mine, Griff, appeared from the shadows and engaged us (mostly Nick and Seth) in esoteric conversation for more than an hour. Then, Nick left us for a concert, and Tara and I fell asleep to the sounds of Wayne's World in Seth's basement. She and I were roused unhappily at approx. 12:50 AM, and we made it home - to meet again, nine hours later, for a day-trip to Rehobeth Beach, DE. Liliya accompanied/transported us, Tara navigated, and I sat uselessly in the backseat eating other people's food. We got lost only two or three times. In various states of scandalous undress (poorly concealed bikinis), we appealed for help from 1.) antique show docents at a community center, 2.) staffpeople at a small airport in a cornfield, and 3.) clerks in a tiny convenience store located (for serious) on a median strip splitting a fairly well-trafficked road. We did make it to the beach by early afternoon, and, after further adventures in parking and eating lunch, we completed a condensed version of all my favorite childhood beach things.
Highlights included: playing in the water, playing at Funland, consuming a half-pound of Candy Kitchen sweets & fudge, and later eating delicious Chinese carryout in our laps as we crossed the Bay Bridge (it appears, from this entry, that meals are very important to me). Funland, the boardwalk amusement park, has acquired a souped-up Real Ride, "The Claw," which Tara and I tried. It has a retractable cylindrical base, from which extend arms (or "talons," I guess), which are attached to cages (?? God knows?). Tara and I were bolted into a purple cage, which had no internal seatbelts, only handgrips - the idea being that, if you lose your grip, you fall into the grill part of the cage, but I'm fairly confident I could fit through the slats. So, the ride begins, the cylinder protracts, the cages spin, and then the arms begin to pivot and the cages turn upside-down. At that point, Tara and I were looking up at the underside of the ride - the mechanics of the cylinder and arms - and I was contemplating the size of the slats, etc. I told her afterwards that it was the amusement park equivalent of a tequila shot: more doable if you don't know what to expect. [To be continued....]
Saturday, July 24, 2004
What I've been doing with my free time (including the countless hours at work when I'm not working) instead of blogging:
15% Reading Freud's A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis, which is fun but taking a long time because...
40% Sleeping. I am far too young or old or lazy for a 40-hour workweek. Also:
25% Updating the DP Style Guide, incl. cross-referencing and converting the whole thing to HTML
20% Socializing
But a post is coming soon.
15% Reading Freud's A General Introduction to Psychoanalysis, which is fun but taking a long time because...
40% Sleeping. I am far too young or old or lazy for a 40-hour workweek. Also:
25% Updating the DP Style Guide, incl. cross-referencing and converting the whole thing to HTML
20% Socializing
But a post is coming soon.
Monday, July 19, 2004
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands
Seth was away at Beach Week on June 3, so we celebrated our two-year anniversary on Monday, June 7. Last year, we went to Pho; this year it was A&J's, for a $10 meal of dumplings, tripe, bean curd, and wontons. He asked me what we should do after lunch, and I suggested going back to my house. "To do what?" he said.
"Hang out, have conversations,” I said. “We've been managing fine so far."
"Do you mean today, or for the past two years?"
Both are generally true, as I replied - I can't conceive of the sheer volume of conversation hours the two of us have logged. Our dates have been mostly walking around/sitting in various Bethesda locales, punctuated with media appreciation and restaurant meals. It's remarkable how much we've found to say about ourselves, our friends, books, and music (with incidental other things like world affairs and religion). For example, on our anniversary celebration day, we: played a record of T.S. Eliot reading "Prufrock" and made fun of his British accent/Midwestern drawl fusion; became disproportionately excited over "Bizarre Love Triangle" while playing New Order in the car; and were self-consciously sentimental.
Other things that we've done on dates more recently (because the chronology is superfluous): walked to The Other Side of Town, where there are actual homeless people and a fenced-in dirt lot next to a dingy CVS, and lay on the couch in his basement after his parents were asleep, watching "Who's Line is it Anyway?" For once, in the countless times we've done that, we didn't have to worry about a legally enforced midnight curfew - because I am no longer 17, and neither is he! We also played Scrabble, visited Bethesda ES playground, and read poetry out loud. I was pleased to report those things to my boss, when he asked how I spent my day off (last Thursday). He looked a little appalled and said, "Ah, freewheeling youth."
On Thursday, June 10, I saw Seth, as well as Hank and Tara, for Harry Potter. Neither of the boys has read the books, and Seth hadn't even seen the first two movies; Tara and I provided whispered plot summaries. Afterwards, we sat for a while in the picnic chairs chained outside Potbelly's, while Hank rooted through Tara's purse. (He also abandoned it in a wheelchair-access elevator across the street, but Seth made him retrieve it.) On Wednesday, June 16, Nick S., Tara, Natalie G., and I met for dinner, and afterwards Seth came and Natalie left – and we went to my place to watch Duck Soup. It was our first exposure to a Marx Brothers movie (for everyone but Seth), and it was really surprisingly funny. We chased it with soft porn that we found on channel 350, playing with my TV's new sybaritic features.
As the street hardly understands
Seth was away at Beach Week on June 3, so we celebrated our two-year anniversary on Monday, June 7. Last year, we went to Pho; this year it was A&J's, for a $10 meal of dumplings, tripe, bean curd, and wontons. He asked me what we should do after lunch, and I suggested going back to my house. "To do what?" he said.
"Hang out, have conversations,” I said. “We've been managing fine so far."
"Do you mean today, or for the past two years?"
Both are generally true, as I replied - I can't conceive of the sheer volume of conversation hours the two of us have logged. Our dates have been mostly walking around/sitting in various Bethesda locales, punctuated with media appreciation and restaurant meals. It's remarkable how much we've found to say about ourselves, our friends, books, and music (with incidental other things like world affairs and religion). For example, on our anniversary celebration day, we: played a record of T.S. Eliot reading "Prufrock" and made fun of his British accent/Midwestern drawl fusion; became disproportionately excited over "Bizarre Love Triangle" while playing New Order in the car; and were self-consciously sentimental.
Other things that we've done on dates more recently (because the chronology is superfluous): walked to The Other Side of Town, where there are actual homeless people and a fenced-in dirt lot next to a dingy CVS, and lay on the couch in his basement after his parents were asleep, watching "Who's Line is it Anyway?" For once, in the countless times we've done that, we didn't have to worry about a legally enforced midnight curfew - because I am no longer 17, and neither is he! We also played Scrabble, visited Bethesda ES playground, and read poetry out loud. I was pleased to report those things to my boss, when he asked how I spent my day off (last Thursday). He looked a little appalled and said, "Ah, freewheeling youth."
On Thursday, June 10, I saw Seth, as well as Hank and Tara, for Harry Potter. Neither of the boys has read the books, and Seth hadn't even seen the first two movies; Tara and I provided whispered plot summaries. Afterwards, we sat for a while in the picnic chairs chained outside Potbelly's, while Hank rooted through Tara's purse. (He also abandoned it in a wheelchair-access elevator across the street, but Seth made him retrieve it.) On Wednesday, June 16, Nick S., Tara, Natalie G., and I met for dinner, and afterwards Seth came and Natalie left – and we went to my place to watch Duck Soup. It was our first exposure to a Marx Brothers movie (for everyone but Seth), and it was really surprisingly funny. We chased it with soft porn that we found on channel 350, playing with my TV's new sybaritic features.
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