I let a picture into my apartment. It happened months ago, and for some reason I never told you about it; I only mention it now, because I just got back a picture I took of it, sprawled out on my kitchen floor with an arrogant sort of lean.
It was a Saturday, sometime back in January, I think, and it had been howling all morning. I'd wrongly assumed that the noise was coming from outside and I'd managed to ignore it, until I walked in the kitchen and noticed the echo bouncing off the walls in the hallway. I opened the door a sliver, just enough to see it and for it to see me. It ran over and butted its head against my outstretched hand, making me pet it passively as it bumped my fingertips with its hard and soft head. I quickly closed the door, and put some dry pebbles on a plate and stuck the plate in the hall. No interest. Next, I dropped wet food on the plate, shaking it from a sticky spoon, and set it back in the hall. The cat completely ignored the wet food, something I hadn't anticipated, since, my cat, in contrast, will eat almost any food that's put in front of her at any time, often eating so much that she pukes.
Without giving it much thought, I closed my cat in my room and opened my apartment to the intruder. It was not particularly interested in me, but was fascinated by lots of different smells I probably don't know about. I watched as it inspected corners and shelves and furniture, combing my place over, cataloguing its odors. It would find a comfortable spot, stay there for 30 seconds, and then circle the living room and kitchen again. It was pretty clear to me that it had accidentally escaped from another apartment (otherwise it probably couldn't have gotten in my building), and I had no intention of keeping it. So I let it back out.
Monday night was Pinback, and I watched the band from the back of the room in what turned out to be one of the best locations: standing on a bench, leaning against the back wall sipping my sadly expensive drink, my feet roughly level with the feet of the people on stage, the sea of dark heads in front of me looking short and stumpy. It was good—one of those bands that don't quite look like you expected, who play their songs just as they sound on their albums, songs which remind you of specific times you listened to them. I was a little distracted, though, because for some reason at that moment I tried to recount all of the bands I've ever seen play live, an exercise that wasn't particularly productive and one that has plagued me ever since. In an effort to kill the exercise, I have made a list.
While looking through my tapes (to help with the list), I came across a tape cover for Run D.M.C.'s Raising Hell that my well-intentioned brother made for me in 1986. Since it was for his 12-year-old sister, rather than name the album by its actual title, he simply called it "Run D.M.C." He was a little less smooth when it came to the song entitled "Raising Hell," and simply retitled it "Raising." (See the tape cover, with a 1986 song list bonus.)
(Today) I watched martial artists spring from their feet to their hands while twisting their bodies and drawing arcs in the air with their feet; quick-wristed frisbee players snap discs out of the air with hands hidden behind their backs; roller skaters slide over smooth pavement backward, forward, airborne; a singer take advantage of the echo underneath a bridge in Central Park; a cowboy hat-wearing subway performer sing an impromptu song to my subway car about taking the L train to Brooklyn; break dancers spin on their hands and their backs and heads like wind-up toys; clips of films and acceptance speeches of accomplished actors, writers, and directors. And all day I've been reminded of practice and perfected skill and performance, and I've been wondering whether it's necessary to give up the range of things you're interested in and choose only one, in order to be really freaking good.
...
By the way, yesterday's peace march down Broadway was much better than anything I'd been to so far. Rather than try to describe it, I'll post pictures from the three rolls that I took once I get them back.
For the last few days I've been swinging back and forth between full-on war coverage and distraction, as if the war reminder has been the firm push on the back from an adult's hands, and the distraction is where I defy gravity for just a second, just at the end of my lurch forward.
In war-land, I have gone to a candlelight vigil, stood on the outskirts of a protest at Union Square, called my representatives, talked to those who already agree with me, read intimidating articles like this (I mean, look at that map), and opened the window to hear the sounds of my city, thinking about the sounds of that one.
In distraction-land, I: moved my website to a new host, rearranged my closet so that I can reach the short sleeves (just in time for the temperature to dip back down), got a sore throat, and put up a new set of pictures: pictures from Chinese New Year.
I have a feeling the next few days (at least) will be spent largely getting lost somewhere in the former. But right now the TV is off, I'm alone with my oblivious pet, and all I can hear are faint musical notes, a car alarm, and distant engines and wheels on pavement: normalcy.
It was 65 degrees in New York today, and it seemed as if the entire city abandoned their apartments in collective appreciation. I went to Central Park, where I followed the winding roads that cut through its heart like arteries and veins, pumping bikes and pedestrians and inline skaters instead of blood. I followed the roads, then the throbbing bass, and then I headed in the direction of a swarm of people. (I knew what I was looking for.)
Inside the swarm was a neatly cut oval that was trafficked by roller skates and roller blades, by the shirtless and the tank-topped and the sunglassed, moving unevenly and persistently in a counterclockwise direction. From what I could tell, there were people participating from all financial backgrounds, and there was definitely a swirl of races and ages and body types. Fat, old, young, black, beautiful, Asian, skinny, white, immodest, Hispanic, stylish, plain, muscular, short, hairy, cornrowed, agile, tall, dreadlocked, bald. Almost everyone skated, and many danced—some by themselves, some synchronized line-dancing style, some ballroom-style, some breakdance-style. A couple people skated with water bottles on their heads, showcasing their strict balance, or they jumped and spun in the air, or wove in and out among the other skaters and swept past the onlookers, clearing us by inches.
A skinny black woman wearing gold sunglasses and MC Hammer pants danced on the inside of the circle next to the DJ, beside a round bald man sitting like a Buddah at her feet. Little white girls held hands and giggled as they sped round and round. An incredibly quick and fluid skater—a black guy wearing headphones and all gray—laughed with everyone else when he fell on his ass. "It's the first time today!" he insisted. A skinny Asian girl with a halter top and her hat turned sideways moved gracefully with her dance partner and made it look easy to look cool. A young white guy wearing bracelets and a bandana kept trying to learn how to spin in the air, and kept watching the feet on the guy next to him. I swear, as ridiculous as it sounds, everyone was smiling.
Even though I wasn't skating (but taking pictures), I didn't feel like I was distanced from the event, which is somewhat unusual. A couple of the skaters acknowledged me by skating right up to me and taking a playful swipe at the camera, or by saying something funny that I can no longer recall. Yes, reminded why I like it here so much, and reminded that I'm concerned what will happen when there's more reason to worry.
Later, I stood alone at a candlelight vigil for peace at Union Square, watching people sing and talk and take pictures and draw with chalk on the sidewalk. I watched and listened and dug my thumb into the warm wax of my candle.
...
The other Ryan has SxSW pictures up too.
I have a big tan block of soap that flew from Baghdad on Friday. It's made of olive oil, and apparently when you slice it in half, you discover that its guts are entirely green. For the past three weeks my friend David was there, the city with its breath held, and he brought it back for me, along with a hand-woven cream-colored bag that we think might be a loofah. He was there with his non-profit, encouraging communication between the children of that country and those of this one, with the help of a satellite, some scripted questions, and of course motivation. I helped the group with a couple of website updates while they were gone, which is the reason (I think) I was awarded the brown cube of clean.
It doesn't smell like traditional soap, and it doesn't smell like olive oil; I don't think I know this smell at all, so I'm pretending it's the smell of Baghdad. It's strange, holding something in your palm that was carved with foreign hands halfway across the world, in a place where early civilizations built history, a place that may be painfully reshaped if the current administration gets its way.
My hands now smell like Baghdad.
Excerpts from my [sxsw] weekend include: (Friday) leaving New York and getting picked up at the airport and being driven directly to a venue full of big-gutted Texans who were listening to Loretta Lynn play live. Standing at the counter there, I heard an uncertain "Lisa?," and I looked up to see an old friend of mine from North Carolina standing on the other side of the bar. Apparently he has lived in Austin three years, which means it's probably been four since we've spoken.
(Saturday) wearing a plastic camouflage helmet that whirrs like a siren when you push the medallion on the front, a noise that sounds like it's coming from the core of your head rather than on top of it.
(Sunday) having an early morning conversation with a five-year-old boy, which went something like this: [him] Last night I wet my pants, and so I got dressed right away this morning. [me, not sure how to respond] That makes sense. [him] Of course it makes sense. You know it makes sense; I know it makes sense; everyone knows it makes sense. People know what makes sense.
(Monday) walking around Austin all afternoon, leaning over railings and inspecting old train cars and getting hot and sweaty from doing absolutely nothing! I miss late spring.
(Tuesday) watching my big, expensive camera bag almost get stolen, as it got pulled by its strap underneath the bathroom stall in the airport. I realized what was happening just in time, won the tug of war, and yelled some profanities at her. I only saw her shoes.
Otherwise, I spent time in panels learning, my time out of panels learning and unlearning, and practically all of my time with other people, many of whom I wish lived wherever it is I live.
In the airport, when I looked up at the turquoise and pink departure board [CHICAGO—BOARDING; LONDON—ON TIME; TORONTO—DELAYED], this time I didn't pick out the large and inevitably more appealing cities and wish I was going there instead of where I was headed. Because I was already going to a large, appealing city. Finally.
Wednesday night: I was standing at a small round table filled with scattered brochures and magazines, there to answer any questions asked about NRDC. I had spotted Sigourney Weaver right away; I knew she was going to be there (she was hosting the event), but I didn't expect for her to look so familiar and pleasant, as if I know her because she's one of my parents' good friends, someone who's hung out in my living room with us on the other side of the TV. And I didn't expect her to come up to my table while I was standing there alone and watch the looping footage of rainforest animals in Belize, which was playing on the small screen right beside my head.
Rather than saying "hi," as any normal person would've said (or as I would've said to any normal person), I looked around at everything else—everything but her—as if she weren't even standing there. I wasn't trying to be rude, but just the opposite. The five minutes that she stood there, I kept reminding myself, "That's Ripley/the Gatekeeper/Dian Fossey/Janey, all crammed into one real person," and I kept hoping she'd have a question for me to break the awkward silence. Instead, my partner at the table walked up and said hello to her, and of course she said hello back and was very kind and I felt stupid for being so awkward and for not treating her like anyone else.
It's strange, the effect the famous have on the unfamous, and the feeling you (as the unfamous) drag around with you after hanging out in a room speckled with Very Important Persons for an evening. It's easy to swing back and forth between feeling like a VUP and reminding yourself that there's really no inherent difference between VIPs and VUPs. Except that maybe one of the VUPs was wearing a $6 necklace, hair dye that was administered in her kitchen, chipped black fingernail polish, and that she really cares about an $105 parking $105 parking ticket.
During the course of the evening, we ate and drank and wandered around and watched the event while hovering in doorways.
...
Today I'm leaving for Austin, for SxSW. Back on Tuesday.
Was it worth it? No, but I don’t think I regret going. On Tuesday night Mark, Scott, an extra ticket, and I met at a rental car place in midtown, picked up our new Honda and some sandwiches, and start-stopped through rush-hour Times Square, slipped onto the New Jersey Turnpike, and sped to Philadelphia. Riding in a car through New York, especially through Times Square, makes me feel like I’m looking at the city from the outside, a pane of smudgy glass between me and the people criss-crossing on the sidewalks, and I suddenly wonder more about the people than I do when I’m walking among them (why are they here? how long have they lived here? what do they do? do they look around at their surroundings anymore?). Riding in a car on the New Jersey turnpike reminds me that cars are fun sometimes, that road trips with friends and windows down and good music are liberating, and that there are clusters of trees in the world not choked by concrete.
I stood alone outside of the sold-out Interpol show for what must’ve been 40 minutes, each of my hands placed on an opposing bicep in an effort to get warm. Two couples asked me for tickets, but shrugged and walked away when I told them I only had one ticket to sell. Naturally, minutes after they’d rounded the corner, a man with either less patience or more money than me gave me his extra ticket, saying it’d probably be easier for me to get rid of two tickets than one. In the end, it was a lonely short-haired girl who made the exchange with me at cost, and I threw in the extra ticket for free.
I liked the set, and the venue had a certain charm, minus the potent hot dog smell coming from the stand in the back corner. I watched the bass player bounce around and rearrange the hair that hung in his eyes; the keyboardist slither over the keys as if he’d taken too many muscle relaxers; the side-burned lead guitarist stoically strumming the clean notes that divide their songs (like Moses) into chorus and verse. But the edge of the balcony hung directly over my head, distancing me from the show by an invisible wall. I wanted to creep closer, but there were too many people in the way.
A quick drive back to New York, and then it was (one) curling around the city on near-empty streets in: Chelsea, Midtown, Queens, east Brooklyn, and west Brooklyn. (two) Trying to find parking near my apartment at 3 in the morning. (three) Parking far enough away from a fire hydrant. (four) Getting a ticket for parking too close to a fire hydrant, a ticket that says something about $105. (five) Spending two morning rush hours in traffic and rain. (six) Going twenty extra blocks out of my way to refill the gasoline that I’d turned to exhaust the night before. (seven) Being late for work (eight) and exhausted.
(A is for asphyxiation.) There's a truck parked on my street with no head and no tail, but with just a trailer hitch and a little metal cone-shaped hat which I suppose covers a vent of some sort. Out of the truck snakes a homemade, insulated, soft, plastic-wrapped tube that arches over the sidewalk and is stuffed into a corner of my building. The snake is responsible for heat and hot water, since the traditional heater stopped doing its job on Thursday morning, an event the water heater announced with parties of smoke that crept quietly into my apartment, mingled for a while, and slowly dissipated.
(B is for bottom-dweller.) We got our picture taken together sort-of by accident; he saw a camera out of its bag and came out of his booth at the front of the train and jokingly suggested that we get our picture taken together. I waved him over and he plopped down beside me on the cold, blue bench, and our pupils shrank at the command of the flash. Then I started questioning him, asking some of the things I've been wondering about the subway system. Q: What are they doing to the L right now? A: They are working on the decade-long project of completely automating the trains, something my new friend was cynical about. Q: How fast does the train go? A: Generally it travels at about 35 mph. When it's going downhill, such as under the river, it goes as fast as 50 mph; uphill, it's only going about 20-25. The express trains sometimes reach 70.
After he spoke, I looked down the tracks and saw an army of people walking with flashlights, though all I could actually see were white lights and the mostly red glow of the surrounding plastic, dancing and swinging deep in the dark tunnel. Since then I've thought of a hundred other questions to ask him.
(C is for company.) We walked across the Brooklyn Bridge at dusk, even though it wasn't on the way to where we were going. The pedestrian and bike path (one strip of asphalt divided by a yellow line, a division policed by hissing bikers) is in the middle of the bridge, above and between the lanes of traffic, and below the orderly spider web of wires that gives the bridge support. We went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which is housed in a building that glows like a mirage. We ate dinner in a good, incredibly cramped Vietnamese restaurant. We went to where the posh, metal heads, swing dancers, and hipsters hang out. (In four separate venues, of course.)
(D is for death.) It's hard to remember how my mind processed his words when I was young, but I do know I liked the familiarity of his routine—the singing as he walked in the door, the systematic shedding of his jacket and shoes for more relaxed clothing, the announcement of where he was going to take us. I liked the cat that spoke in meows punctuated by a few clarifying words of English. I liked moving beyond The Land of Make-Believe, seeing the machines that twisted pretzels into doughy knots and the money-manufacturing machines that had pressed some of the coins that eventually made their way to me, the coins which sat disorderly in a cold jar on my desk, or that sat in a warm pocket and were slid across a counter in exchange for some candy. I didn't like the bloodshot nose that protruded out of the King's Friday's face. I didn't like when the show ended, because I've never liked endings.
