I'm sick (again?) and let's pretend that I didn't drop my iPod on the way home from work to be forever lost to the Boston streets (poof! gone), because it's Halloween, and that is super awesome.
Carving pumpkins
Singing kitty
No trick or treaters yet; it would appear that we are doomed to weeks of Reeses' cups and Hershey bars. It's cozy inside, and at the moment, I'm feeling festive.
When we were young, my mom would take us to the Borders Bookstore off the freeway near our house. I obligingly scoff at such overbearing commercial establishments now, but at the time I thought it was the most amazing and wonderful thing ever; they had a children's section with a reading cave.
It was just a nook under a staircase with some orange dragons painted on the walls, and a few pillows on the floor. But it was a hiding spot. No one could see you when you were inside unless they crawled on their hands and knees. There were usually lame kids' picture books inside, and at the age of twelve I'd scornfully push these to the side and set down my own stack of Jane Austen, Paul Zindel and John Bellairs.
After five straight days of officially smiling and shaking hands, dancing, eating, packing and unpacking, there is nothing I want more than to crawl into that white plaster cave. This time I'd hide there with five books by Brian Jacques. I wouldn't come out until I'd thoroughly experienced all servings of cherries jubilee and dandelion wine, and understood every aspect of love and war (as related by wee, well-intentioned mice). I'd read every page seriously and joyfully, without scanning, like you do when you're twelve.
An older couple wheeled their luggage behind me from the carpeted hall into the hotel elevator. I pressed the "*G" button , and the doors dinged shut politely. Ding, ding.
"What floor do we want?" he asked.
"Well I think we want the first floor," she responded.
"G is the first floor. It means 'ground.'"
"Hmph."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
"You seem a little upset."
"Well I didn't sleep very well last night! You know how I . . ." she trailed off. We all watched the silver doors.
There was a long pause.
"What floor do we want, again?" she asked.
"The first."
"Well look. There's no first floor button!"
"We're going to the first floor. I told you that."
"No, see, look!" She ran glossy pastel fingernails over 4, 3, 2, and *G. "That's just ridiculous. There's no first floor in this hotel."
"I just told you! 'G' means ground!"
"You didn't tell me that."
"I did, I just went over this entire thing." He sighed, rustling a white bushy mustache. I stared at the floor and tried not to make any sudden movements, as if they were the sort of dinosaurs that wouldn't see me if I stood completely still. Visions of elsewhere, Australia floated through my head; beaches, kangaroos, nice things. What did kangaroo fur feel like?
"We're very happily married," he said suddenly.
To tide you over until the time when I can actually write about this experience, here are a few absolutely stellar things to download and hear, courtesy of a session led by WFMU's Kenneth Goldsmith entitled "The Sounds of Madness." Also, this particular picture:
Jaap Blonk: long-lost relative?
(My favorite of the Chuck Jones was "Loveline Questions" but it doesn't seem to be available; check out the other Loveline remixes.)
I am going to try to get back to the hotel room before midnight, so that I can tell you all sorts of amazing wonderful stories from Third Coast before I technically leave it; but I'm currently caught up in the leaving-summer-camp magical chaos, and I have no choice but to be swept up in the current and pulled along. I can't tell you when I'll be back, or what will have happened, but it probably will have been the summer that changed my life.
Robert Krulwich said, "you should forever be in a state of love and a condition of terror."
I have never understood, enjoyed, or condoned the Ouilpo thing, and any talk of Oulipan exercises tends to inspire in me vascillating cries of depression and rage. "That's all well and good for inspiration, for getting out of a block," I've thought, "but for Christ's sake, quit publishing that crap."
And yet, give a few radio producers similiarly-inspired constraints, and they'll go and create something beautiful.
I realized that I'd been unhappy for a long time, feeling all of these various strings pulling me slowly, inevitably toward Chicago; and when I sit down and think about it, Chicago really is a convenient city for the majority of my future career and social goals. But for some unidentified reason I just really don't want to live in Chicago. I can't label why. It fills me with vague dread, like I had a bad dream about it, and failed to recall it the next morning to thusly assure myself it'd only been a dream.
As our plane landed today, I thought "you know, if I don't want to ever live here, I just won't." An in this fashion the unhappiness ended.
Pictionary was played! Charades were played! Boggle was played! Speed scrabble was played! More pictures (of course) of our sordid adventures in Vermont - just click on the subsequent lumberjack to observe the horrifying squalor!
Jurvis, axe thing, cabin
Flickr has become my new scrapbooking project, and its digital nature both delights and saddens me. What will I do with all of the notes, receipts, and game scorecards I save, if not adhere them next to their corresponding memories?
I had a very vivid dream this morning about a fax machine existing on my boyfriend's nightstand, which, to my horror, was faxing his pants. I was trying to awake and alert him to this problem, but he seemed unphased.
Also in said dream I was simultaneously composing this particular post, which I was sure would amuse everyone: "When I woke up this morning, my boyfriend's fax machine was faxing his pants. He seemed unphased."
I like to think that I have a "healthy respect" for heights, more than a fear. But some people don't have my problems.
Sarah sleeps
The minute we reached the top of the cliff, it began snowing. We observed as winter slowly drifted into Vermont; and it almost felt voyeuristic, like watching a stranger settle into a deep, uninhibited sleep.
Ask any girl and they'll probably tell you: "I love sweater weather!" Most guys will politely agree, or, if they are in the mood to be flirty and witty, or are too obtuse to recognize the dynamic here, they will argue about sweaters and the cold they imply.
Go ahead, ask. Or, if you are a girl, tell a guy that "I love sweater weather!" and observe the reaction.
Or, search Adrianne's blog for the word "sweater." Being on the cutting edge of our generation's linguistic zeitgeist, I am assuming it's in here a few times, probably dating back to posts from her "awkward teenage years" (note: she was certainly no more awkward than the rest of us, and at least she didn't write bomb threats on the bathroom stalls. Unless there's something I don't know...)
I have been trying to think of any interesting commentary on this situation. But I can't. I would, however, like to point out that the whole "I-love-sweater-weather / oh-really-I-like-the-Spring-more / Really?But-you-can-always-take-off-a-sweater-if-you're-hot / But-the-Fall-means-it-is-cold" conversation has already been had. In fact, when fake audiences are fake laughing to this fake conversation on CBS sitcoms, you know it is time to eliminate it from our discourse.
"Sweater weather," it's been swell. But can we all agree its time to move on?
Here is what my next week looks like:
2 hours from now: jump into the car with Jurvis and drive 4 hours to Nick's remote (gun-owning remote, not hayrides and apple orchards remote) charming cabin in Vermont, where the weather promises to be near-freezing and rainy all weekend. What is it with me and remote cabins lately?
Sunday night: Return to Boston. Remain in Boston for two days.
Wednesday early morning: Meet coworkers at airport and fly to Chicago, then shuttle to Evanston. It's the 5th annual Third Coast Audio Festival! Pumped. Remain in Chicago for four days, schmooze, work, schmooze.
Saturday morning: Fly from Chicago to Philadelphia. Honestly people, you need to get your marriages under control. Remain in Philly for 1 night.
Sunday evening: Get home somehow. I actually haven't figured this out yet. We're getting home, right dear?
Point being, the next nine days will be a true test for me with this contest. But tomorrow is actually exciting, because I will have no internet or cell coverage and welcome my good chum Charles onto the Mismatched scene. Charles knows me from my awkward high school years; I know Charles from his high school years of bizarre poise and maturity. (I mentioned his other blog before, but now seems like a good time to mention it again.) Hi Charles!
The deserted laundromat was minutes away from closing when the young, knobbly-legged dude with a Bud bottle in his hand came up behind Sara and I and began humping the window, grinning like an asshole. His friend knocked on the glass so we would notice it. Then he pretended to spank us, and gyrated against the pane.
Situations like these inspire an anger in me that I am almost completely incapable of controlling. There was a moment that the three of us shared - Sara and I staring in an unpleased fashion, the guy and his friends convulsing with laughter - and then I raised my arm and began beating the window with my fist as hard as I could.
It's still red and swollen. I'm not entirely sure why I did it. But nobody stopped until Sara picked up her cellphone and began to dial the police.
It's around this time of year - late Octoberish in Boston, usually even earlier in Minnesota - that I'm forced to come to terms with at least seven more months of inadequate warmth.
There is a kind of desperation to editing. Yesterday I got my first draft of my Lulu-made book in the mail; and despite the initial, almost holy excitement of holding something I'd written in published form, I began dog-earing and marking up pages immediately. I finished making my notes in it a few minutes ago, and was overwhelmed by a tremendous sense of relief.
"At least if I die tomorrow," I think, "someone will know what to do."
Today is my sister's twenty-second birthday! To commemorate and celebrate this fine occasion, here is a picture of her on a drive to a cemetery in Savannah. Birthday!
It's later than you think, unless you're 22
I also have a rather nice image of her laughing and generally having a good time, if you're into such typical "today is so-and-so's birthday" blogging fare. But I know you; you're into cemeteries. Birthday!
1. A Tom Waits cover album of Rod Stewart's best hits.
This morning, we were cheerfully repenting the previous night's sins by scrubbing dishes and wiping down dirty playing cards, when I remembered - ding! - how much I love Rod Stewart.
"Have I tooooold . . . you lately . . . that I love you?" I began.
"Have I tooooold . . . you lately . . . that I care?" Jurvis chimed in.
"You fill my heart with gladness . . . take away all my sadness . . . ease my troubles, that's what you do."
Maybe our voices were a little raspy from last night's debauchery, or maybe we've been screaming into our pillows every night like the professionals, but we sounded like Tom Waits doing a cover of Rod Stewart. And I'll be damned if it didn't sound freaking fantastic. More songs were attempted, and met with equal favor. Downtown train? Come on, Waits was born to sing that.
The downside was, I knew that when I got home to my music collection I couldn't possibly be sated; because the song that was in my head did not exist. We need to draft a letter to Tom Waits, esq.
Update: well shit. Great minds think alike. Retarded minds don't google before they write.
2. A mail app to improve society.
If technology was really focused on making our lives better, it would utilize spellcheck as a spam-identifying rule. Does this exist yet? All I see is the idea (um, three years ago), and then a negation, I think? I have friends much more qualified to consider these things, so maybe I should step down.
But I want stringent rules. No mispelled words, no grammar atrocities allowed. One wrong "their" and you're out, spammer.
The minute you lose count of how many drinks you've had is fifteen minutes after you should have stopped drinking.
I have this pipe dream of purchasing the old hair salon next to my house and converting it into the most awesome bookstore ever. The location is amazing, and I don't think anyone else has realized it yet because it's been abandoned for some time; it's also neighbored by "Princess Nails" and a bad chinese restaurant/drug front. Every day I pass by, I think about how I'd arrange the window displays.
There was the most gorgeous Alaskan husky on the red line train coming home today. His fur glowed softness, like seeding dandelions in springtime. He had these clear blue eyes that could've made a Brita commercial; they made you think of cold and purity, refreshment and safety on the top of some grand snowy mountain. It was a damn relief to look at him. Every now and then he'd rest his soft head in the lap of a fellow commuter, topaz eyes gently turned upwards.
His owner made eye contact with people in the car, and if they smiled and held out a hand, he'd point at them and the dog would walk over and lick their fingers or nuzzle their knees. The response to this was usually tangible, silent joy.
I've never seen anything like it. Everyone on that train was smiling, slowly reaching out their hands to touch that dog.
I went to church last Sunday for the first time in well over a year, since a friend of mine was conducting the service and it was one of those things I've been meaning to do, for the past year or so. Worship the Lord, I mean. I've been really bad about it lately.
It's funny, because while I consider myself a spiritual person, I don't feel any particular guilt about going through long phases without a church service. I kind of view church - at least, the kind of church I like to go to - as similar to an exercise class. It's nice to be surrounded by similarly motivated people, and an instructor can elegantly compose things for you, but in the end you can accomplish most of the same goals at home.
Kelly said something in his sermon, however, that really made me grateful to have attended it. He described working with a Unitarian youth group, and asking them the typical youth group lead question of "What do Unitarian Universalists believe?" - a question I personally have awkwardly hedged at many the cocktail party. But a girl in the youth group responded, he said, with the following:
"Well, I would start by telling them with what you believe, because then at least we know that one Unitarian believes it."
I love this answer. I feel like it epitomizes not only the liberal openness of Unitarianism as a whole to a wide range of beliefs, but that it also carries to the smaller, day-to-day, hour-to-hour fluidity that I associate with spirituality. What do you believe right now?
I wish I could always be writing my response to this question down, so that I would know that at one time I had believed it.
Two mighty forces become one in the new Employablog, featuring two of my good friends (from the homeland!) searching for harmony with the working world on the east coast. One post in and I'm pumped.
"I did something really stupid and illegal last night," I told my therapist.
"Oh?" she said.
This is how it was: the room was pitch black, since the minute we'd heard footsteps we'd shut off our flashlights, and we didn't move for some time. The eyes were desperate to adjust; I scanned the darkness around us fervently, poring into industrial meat freezers, outlines of abandoned sinks and cutlery. Someone could be down that hallway. Or the other hallway. Any number of people could, in fact, be inside any one of the dozens of hallways, which led into any number of small, sagging rooms, the rooms behind them, and unless they wanted to be friendly enough to introduce themselves we might not know about them until it was too late. This is what I was telling myself, at this moment.
But primarily in our interest: who was upstairs?
"Nick," I whispered fiercely, "I need to leave, right now."
I could feel him look at me, trying to gauge the situation. He'd been fairly confident the entire time, though before we left his house he'd talked about how we could defend ourselves with hammers.
"Really?"
"We are in serious danger here."
"Adrianne, who ever is in this building is not out to kill us. I think we'll be fine."
"I can't. I have to turn back."
"Ah, come on."
There was a distant clatter. We all froze again, ears straining.
"What was that?" Sarah whispered.
"That was just the construction across the street."
"This is a huge abandoned psych hospital in the middle of Boston, and it takes about two minutes to get into it. We can't be the only ones here."
More silence.
"I need to leave."
My eyes strained behind us, into the kitchen. Then back down the peeling hallway in front of us, then into the dark rooms at our sides. I thought about how I would get out of this place with that goddamn intricate pathway we'd made: from the boarded-up underground door, to the old courtyard, to the rusty hole in the basement window.
It was not sounding attractive at that moment. Neither was staying. I hate moments like these.
I'd entered thinking I was facing and conquering a fear, but instead I was realizing how retardedly vulnerable I really was; a wisp of a girl, boarded inside a large, dark facility I'd never seen before with whoever else was poor or crazy enough to need it. I mean honestly, what the fuck?
They walked with me to the window, where I squeezed dismally back through and landed unceremoniously into the moonlit courtyard. Boston raged quietly outside. I pushed my legs through the overgrowth like a person in a dream. At our entrance I kicked the plyboard from the door as hard as I could, so that it crashed to the ground - as if ill-intentioned people were like bears, and could be frightened away with loud noises.
I stumbled up the stairs. A man was repairing a flat tire in the parking lot, and everything was very quiet.
"Well," I thought. "That happened."
I can't believe how long of a hold-up it's caused me to make this cover. Today, with two hours of free time (free time!) on my hands, I finally just sat down and threw something together.
Front + spine
Now I've just got to figure out what to put on the back cover with no New York Times reviews to quote. I'm seriously considering just making a few up. (If you like, you can email me some of your own. It'll be fun!)
I've always joked (without really knowing why I found it funny) that my hero is Amelia Earhart. I guess because it's the stereotypical response of, say, a six-year-old; but then, who else talks about heroes, anyway? Pochahantas or Hillary Clinton should be equally amusing for this reason, and I just don't think they are.
In the sixth grade our class wrote three research papers; one to be on a species of bird, another on a family member, and another on "your hero." (I loved doing these research papers simply because they required illustrations. I was so bummed when I got to high school and learned this was the most disposable step of paper-writing.) You could choose your topic as long as it remained within the given theme. Bird? The Ruby-Throated Hummingbird. Family member? Grandma. Hero? I remember puzzling over this for a few days.
"Mrs. Bramwell? I don't think I have a hero."
"Why don't you write about Amelia Earhart?"
So it began. I thought it was hilarious from day one.
In other news, I told my mother a few days ago that I was going to be Amelia Earhart for Halloween this year, and she commented, "Really? That's strange. Your grandmother was always talking about her. I think she was her hero."
Oh, I'm sorry. Did I just totally fall in love with you?
There is something about white wine that makes me overwhelmingly likely to compliment another woman's clothing.
I've decided to pick up a comforting habit; every time I go somewhere new, I will find an awesome, independently-owned bookstore and acquire a book of poems by an author I haven't read before. Portland was Nazim Hikmet (now he will always be associated with a rainy hotel window with a warm to-go cup full of chai), and San Francisco was Rainer Maria Rilke (awkward moments in small poetry rooms). So far, so good.
You, who have never left my feeling,I usually don't go for more "formal" poetry - this is one sonnet of many from Sonnets to Orpheus - but I am absolutely loving this little dude. Three bonus points: antique sarcophagi! (Aaaand . . . minus three: "whence flittered enchanted butterflies." But let's pin that one on the translator.)
I greet, antique sarcophagi,
whom the happy waters of Roman days
flow through as a wandering song.Or those so open, like the eyes
of a happy awakening shepard,
- full of stillness and bee-balm -
whence flittered enchanted butterflies;all those whom one wrests from doubt
I greet, the mouths once again opened
that already knew what silence means.Do we know it, friends, do we not know it?
These two mold the hesitant hour
in the countenance of man.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you . . . far too many pictures for a four-day span. All pretty-leafed adventures can be viewed here.
It's electric.
Ride, ride, ride!
The days we spent in Minnesota, you may note, were obscenely gorgeous; what one might call "sweater weather." My blood approves (though your kisses are a better fate).
All throughout high school and college, I witnessed my friends and peers trying to figure out who they were. There was this wild-eyed desperation I've always associated with the young person; an ability to eagerly throw oneself into activities with the head turned, trying to see who's watching, and - in so doing - constructing one's identity through another's eyes. Like trying clothes on, and relying on other people to tell you if they fit.
It's funny, but I'd never felt that way until I graduated college. And now here I am: twenty-three and eyes darting.
In the tradition of offering loved ones as desktop wallpaper, here is my sister atop an autumnal cliff, for your seasonal enjoyment. Click image for a ridiculously large version!
Paige looks out
More pictures soon - I'm currently getting upload errors from flickr, and it's cramping my album-makin' style.
I brought with me a tattered, paperback book; a new leatherbound journal, my knitting needles with a year's worth of woolen scarf, a recently-repaired camera, three sweaters. I'd envisioned tough living: the cliffs like black teeth that we would brave to some small nook where we would build our fire, shielded at last from the wind. At night we'd go to the Northern Lights restaurant for wild rice soup and rhubarb strawberry pie.
But the cabin we rented wasn't the same cabin my family would stay in ten years ago, and the first weekend in October is not the less popular Memorial Day weekend on the north shore. The leaves are at their peak, and so are the businesses; all our old favorite restaurants had since expanded into giant tourist traps, and their dusty parking lots had no room for our car.
"The Rustic Inn has a wait of forty minutes? At two o'clock? Since the #$%^ when?"
Things were different. People and places had changed.
But even though the cabin was a highway across from Lake Superior (the cars rushed by like large, cold waves), and I didn't write or read or experience much quietude at all, I will always approve of a roaring fire pit. The cabin smelled like new wood, soft carpet. We drank beers, played cards and ate marsmallows. And I can't believe I'd forgotten the feeling of the alpine slide: a quickness past the ears, a roar of autumn, and the sudden dip in altitude you expected but that always surprised you, took your breath away.
