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 Sunday,
29 December 2003
It's a game in which you try to make your partner say a certain
word without saying a provided list of associated words. For example,
if the word were "Darth Vader," you might not be able
to use the following words in your description: Luke Skywalker,
Star Wars, Empire, Jedi, Anakin. Playing this game with three different
generations can be problematic, but perhaps in some way it's better
than playing with the same-brained.
Me: He's a character in a series of movies directed by George Lucas...
The films take place in outer space... He's evil, and he breathes
really heavy... He wears a mask and wears all black...
My grandmother: Johnny Cash...?
Wednesday,
24 December 2003
The man at the counter said there was no way I was getting on that
plane, but then he changed his mind and said, "Merry Christmas"
(like it was an excuse) and handed my checked luggage to another
man who was to personally deliver it to the plane. It was 7:05 and
my plane was due to leave at 7:30. I'd been stressed in the taxi—it
was rush hour and the day before Christmas Eve, and the was full of cars with red-glowing tails and I was terribly
late—but I was tired enough and feeling sick enough that I
fell asleep in the taxi three times anyway.
I had accepted my fate, even before the man at the counter told
me I wasn't getting on that plane, and I was okay with it. I'd nodded
and already started to wheel my ugly green luggage to before he called me back to tell me I could
get on the plane. The plane ended up being delayed over an hour
anyway, although neither of us knew it yet.
So why, when I was offered an impossibly amazing from the airline to give up my seat, did I not take it?
One: because I was tired and sick and rather delirious, the kind
of delirious that comes with having taken serious sedatives (I hadn't),
or like when the hairdresser is combing your hair and you want to
fall asleep and don't really care what she does with the scissors.
Two: because I foolishly half-thought that people in NC would be
upset with me for not arriving as planned. (It turns out they would've
totally understood.) Three: because no one else was taking the offer,
which made me subconsciously discredit it. Four: because taking
the offer meant I would have to stand up and recover my bag from
the plane's belly (I was already sitting on the plane) and walk
through the cold and figure out where the hotel was and how the
hell I was going to get there. Five: because the alternate flight
to Raleigh would've been two legs, instead of one. Six: because
I am a big idiot.
The deal, had I given up my flight? Two round-trip tickets to anywhere
in the U.S./Canada, good for one year. Two free upgrades to first
class. $400 toward a plane ticket anywhere in the world, good for
one year. Free accommodations at a nice hotel that night, and a
nice dinner at that hotel. A first-class ticket to Raleigh first
thing the next morning.
Exactly one minute after the offer expired, I began banging my sick
aching head on the plastic oval window to my left. I didn't sleep
at all during the flight, like I'd planned. Instead, I used that
time to consider all of the places I could've gone for free but
chose not to. I thought about meeting Bill Murray at the hotel bar.
I thought about sitting in a quiet hotel room with cable TV and
getting rid of my sore throat with some sleep and a warm bath. I
wondered why my usual spontaneity was completely absent when I really
needed it.
Just after take-off, I watched as we climbed over Brooklyn, which
was made up of tiny bright orange lights, as if someone had pegged
its shape on a Lite-Brite. It looked just like it does on maps,
but didn't look real at all, and it seemed odd that I was able to
see a big, recognizable land mass in its entirety. I could make
out the flashing lights on JFK's runway (I was coming from LaGuardia),
and I had the irrational thought that it would be easy to land a
plane, because, look! the runway's right there, so obvious.
The Atlantic matched the black sky and looked like nothing, just
darkness. At that moment, I could see the flashing lights of twelve
other planes—I counted—flickering like lightning bugs
all around.
Sunday,
21 December 2003
It was a big enough gift that it covered a , and it was completely unexpected. I'd
just come back from camp—I was nine—and I saw it through
the kitchen window, standing prominently in the yard, its round
nylon nucleus and its shiny metal springs. I yelled an excited "thank
you" as I ran out the door to greet it, to climb on it, and
to jump around like popcorn until my legs and energy collapsed.
I spent every sunny day of the next several summers on it; my friends
and I would play , we'd lie on it in our bathing
suits until our skin melted into an unhealthy shade of brown, and
we'd set the moving sprinkler underneath so we could jump through
the water. We'd teach each other jumps and handsprings and flips
and became springy little . We pushed the trampoline next to a tree house and
fell from the sky like acorns. My dad would sometimes "coach"
me at my request (although, honestly, I don't recall him really
criticizing my attempts). A few times my friends and I camped out
on it in our sleeping bags.
Sometimes we hurt ourselves by falling through the springs or landing
on each other in a ball of sharp elbows and knees, but we were young
and resilient, and jumped right back on.
My parents eventually were forced dismantle it when I was in college,
thanks to a pack of random kids who'd regularly make use of it and
leave trash scattered around the yard. I've jumped since, though,
on other trampolines, and have discovered I can still do most of
the things I used to be able to do; the difference is, I'm only
brave enough to do the things I already know, unlike the young version
of myself, who'd try relatively reckless stunts without much coaxing.
Anyway, it occurred to me that I should look out for a trampoline
while I'm visiting NC over Christmas. It also occurred to me, a
few weeks ago, that I ought to go bowling with some friends who
had invited me. Perhaps it's a good sign, but I keep completely
forgetting that I recently broke my arm.
These days I'm no longer going to physical therapy, due to the stingy
limitations of my health insurance, despite my physical therapist's
insistence that this is a "" for me. So instead, I'm trying to force myself to
straighten and strengthen my arm on my own.
It's not going very well, and I can't figure out why. I can't figure
out why my arm isn't more important than making mixed CDs or sitting
at the computer doing whatever seems productive or hanging out with
friends or sleeping an extra ten minutes. It's a mystery.
I'm trying to do better.
Monday,
15 December 2003
Pictures from the High Line. (37 total)
(what I wrote | what
Michael wrote)
Sunday,
14 December 2003
My dad brought it back from Israel in 1998, along with a few other
souvenirs for himself, for friends, for me and my brother. When
he unpacked, he spread the items out on the bed and asked what I
was interested in having. I immediately claimed the goblet, a hand-painted
porcelain creature with a collection of unrecognizable images filled
in with watery blues and greens and browns. The goblet was of course
the item he'd picked out for himself, I later learned, but he told
me to take it and shooed it away with a flick of his hand.
Whenever my parents give me something, I feel bad if I don't use
it enough, if I don't like it, if I break it, or if I lose it. By
giving me something that he actually wanted, my dad unknowingly
fed that guilt, which (admittedly) is out of proportion and glows
like an aura around the goblet's porcelain edges.
I keep loose change in the goblet, but rarely do I actually "use"
it or even go near it. I did today, however. In a sad Christmas-induced
financial emergency, I poured all of the change out on my dresser
and scooped the silver to one side. Three seventy-five! I had soup
for dinner.
Tomorrow is payday, which means, among other things, I'll again
begin replenishing the goblet-bank with shiny metal snacks.
Saturday,
13 December 2003
I was eighteen when I went to Europe for the first time. Straight
to Romania, rather than to the traditional west, because that was
the opportunity that was presented to me; I certainly wanted
to see the west. It was 1993, less than four years after the Iron
Curtain had parted, and so I there weren't very many of us yet that had ventured
to the other side.
Our plane landed in Budapest, where we caught a train that hummed
over the Hungarian countryside. All I saw of Budapest was through
the smudgy glass of a swerving taxi, and, honestly, all I remember
of it was the outside of the train station and the pictures of naked
women that were taped to the taxi's dashboard.
The train ride is equally spotty—I remember yellow earth speeding
by, and that the train was constructed so that you could stand outside
and feel the wind whip past you. And that the train cars were divided
into small rooms, enough for six people to sit snugly and stare
at each other. That the conductor wore a crazy hat and punched holes
in your ticket and eyed your first-world passport.
We crossed into Romania by VW van, after dark. (It was the vehicle
we'd be driving around the country for the next fourteen days, and
the first stick shift I would ever operate.) At the border, we were
greeted by a snake of cars that extended for probably a mile, cars
containing people who were waiting to make polite conversation with
the border guards and clear the check point; their presence promised
hours of cramped longing, turning the engine off and on, braking
and gassing, inching forward.
Our driver was savvy, however, and knew that all we needed to bypass
the line was a $10 American note. As we sped by the staggered mess
of parked cars, I slouched down in my seat, embarrassed. (Later,
we would get out of two speeding tickets by paying off the respective
cops with a mere 50 cents each, and we'd undeservedly feel like
generous heroes when we'd leave a $1 tip for a waitress.)
Tuesday,
09 December 2003
I've been playing my guitar again. Well, some. For the last few
years, my guitar sat in the corner like a child that's misbehaved,
stuck there so I can ignore it. Ignoring it over a period of time,
it recently told me, makes its fretboard pale and dusty, and turns
its strings into sharp, skin-piercing wires. It also makes my fingers
soft and naive, like the hands of a businessman; the callouses that
were once there have been neatly absorbed into my skin like lotion.
There's more: the brain in my head and the brain in my hands have
forgotten how to be dance partners, as well as some of the steps
crucial to "dancing." They don't want you to watch them
as they try to relearn. They really hope their neighbors can't hear
them make the pear-shaped wood cry.
Saturday,
06 December 2003
For Christmas, I am asking for the ability to see the present time
with the clarity with which I'll see it in the future. Meaning,
I want the wisdom of hindsight right now. But it seems to
be as difficult as trying to see the New York skyline while standing
next to the Empire State Building. Not happening.
Also on the list: no more snow, a new computer, a right arm that
will straighten completely, vaporized medical bills, a particular
camera lens, and something realistic, like, I don't know, a DVD
or something.
I've turned into the sort of person who doesn't like Christmas very
much. Not in the exaggerated hackneyed Scrooge manner, nor in the
frenzied stressed shopper manner. Rather, I dislike it in the quiet
headache let's-not-talk-about-it manner. I will probably put up
my clear green inflatable tree again this year anyway.
Thursday,
04 December 2003
Monday,
01 December 2003
It's totally untrue that New Yorkers are not nice.
Walking toward my apartment yesterday, I saw some 10-year-olds pounding
a car with big sticks as if it were a piñata. Pieces of metal
and glass were flying off the machine the way water flies off a
wet dog, which clearly made the kids happy.
I slipped into my apartment and returned with my . The kids had stopped chipping away at the car,
but they were still hanging around, their sticks resting on their
shoulders like baseball bats. I didn't want to upset the boys or
make them nervous, but figured that they were ten years old, after
all, and didn't pose any major threat to me or my camera, that the
worst that could happen is that they'd ask me to leave.
I began filming the car. The windshield looked like it had accepted
a meteor; the only glass that was left was around the edges, and
that was barely holding itself together into a pattern of tiny clear
shards. The car itself looked like a crumpled piece of paper, which
fit in nicely on my street.
As soon as they noticed me, the boys ran up to me and excitedly
reported what happened in a single breathless run-on sentence: the
guy whose car it is didn't want the car anymore and was beating
on it himself but then got tired and said we could finish the job.
I asked them if they would do me a favor and continue beating the
car for a few seconds more while I filmed them. They were wary and
didn't want to be on film, but agreed to help me out. Without thinking,
they slid their heads inside their jackets so that their shoulders
disappeared and their faces were hidden, like little street nuns.
They gave the car a few more whacks for my benefit, smiled and asked
me whether that was okay, and had they beaten the car enough?
Really , right?
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