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 Friday,
27 February 2004
Thursday,
26 February 2004
You would have to see my apartment to know just how hard it is to
retrieve my alarm clock when two people are sleeping in my bed.
They'd been asleep for an hour or so when I discovered I'd . Initially, instead of attempting
a rescue, I'd decided to depend on my trusty but archaic cell phone
to play the part, but I couldn't figure out how to set the alarm,
or even whether it has an alarm. Looking for the manual wasn't an
option, nor was calling someone to request a wake-up call; I had
no light to work with, and it was already after 3 a.m.
My apartment is shaped something like , and the doorways to each room line up so that if
you are standing at one end of the apartment, you
can see all the way to the other end without obstruction. (It's
ideal for watching scary movies, because it's entirely devoid of
mystery corners.) Since the doorways are cut out of the center of
each wall, the side of my bed (rather than the headboard) is forced
to line up against the white plaster. (I've put a screen behind
the headboard in a crap Martha Stewart attempt at adding a wall.
See?)
My alarm clock sits on a homemade shelf above the bed, and at that
moment, it was being guarded by two sleeping dragons.
The door to my room opened with a grunt, as the multi-layered paint
on two enemy surfaces gave way. The dragons shifted. I crept through
the room and carefully peeled back the screen at the head of the
bed, and found myself looming over them voyeur-like. (I hoped they
wouldn't suddenly see me, because they would no doubt be startled.)
I acquired the alarm itself without issue, but unplugging it was
another matter, as the outlet was far from me, and the metal of
the bed frame was pushed up against the plug.
I tried sneaking under the bed, gently scooting a giant suitcase
and a bike frame out of the way, but discovered that was a dead
end early on. I considered lifting the end of the bed in the air
and placing it a few inches further away from the wall, but immediately
rejected that idea as well. The dragons were snorting and moving
the covers around. A leg moves, an arm bends.
I grabbed the cord and tried to yank it out of the wall, my left
arm tugging at the cord inches from their faces. The digital red
glow had disappeared from the face of the clock, but the metal prongs
were committed to staying wedged in the socket. I couldn't put the
clock down, unless I put it on a pillow right next to someone's
head (or unless I returned it to the shelf [square one]), so I just
stood there for a second, clock cradled in one arm, and the cord
draped across the other.
Defeat. I reluctantly tapped a dragon on the shoulder and asked
for help.
Tuesday,
24 February 2004
My arm has been hurting for at least a week, just above my metallic
right elbow. My physical therapist has me doing stretches in which
I hold my right arm in front of me, palm up, parallel to the floor,
and I pull back (and down) the fingers on my right hand using my
other arm. Doing this, unfortunately, highlights how my arm still is. Sometimes I'm inclined to
force it, but I don't dare, or, rather, I can't. Other times I leave
it bent, and mentally declare it a normal (rather than a deformed)
twin.
Heat helps loosen it up, like it's my arm's first drink at a party.
That's how physical therapy sessions always begin—with me laying
on my stomach, my arm stretched out behind me, a coiling around my arm. I'm not allowed to use the
ultra-sound on my arm, as it has the potential to heat my hardware
to an "unsafe" degree. I'm not entirely sure what would
happen if the metal became hot, but in my imagination, it would
turn bright orange and cook the inside of my arm like a piece of
chicken.
My physical therapist regularly makes positive comments about my
progress, but she anticipates my response before I have a chance
to speak. "It looks really good today...it's not straight enough
for you, though, I know." Her Japanese accent is strong, but
her English is near-perfect. I've only had to explain one word to
her ("sleet") and .
Today Rick guessed that I probably have tendonitis, which would
explain why my arm feels like it's been trampled. I don't know what
I did to get it, nor am I totally clear on how to get rid of it,
beyond practicing a new and unpleasant maneuver that I just learned,
which incorporates a Styrofoam cup and a giant ice cube, and involves
me pressing the ice-filled cup to my inflamed joint and swirling
it around in a circle.
The room is filled with humans doing things that would seem strange
if it weren't a physical therapy gym: a woman walking in place in
a tub of water that has a transparent wall; a man standing on a
small trampoline on one leg while playing catch; people laying in
contorted positions and balancing objects as if they're circus animals.
No one notices a person who's painting her elbow with a Styrofoam
cup of ice. It's nice; when we enter the room, it's as if we get
a license that states it's impossible to look silly. We come close,
though.
Sunday,
22 February 2004
Their names are in the phone book of my cell phone, in my old (and
outdated) address book, and in the folders of —names of people I no longer communicate with
(for whatever reason) but who were once important enough to me that
I optimistically took down their information. (Good intentions and
sentimentalism are what keep me from deleting them.)
Somewhere, I still have the names of people I met at various camps
half my life ago. Stale street names and digits that belonged to
people I shared half-remembered experiences with, people whom I
would almost definitely not recognize today.
The kids from Rockingham. I went to choir camp for two consecutive
years, when I was 9 and 10. The kids from my town (Lexington) would
always share a large cottage with kids from a town called Rockingham,
which was hours away by car and might as well have been Spain. Our
cottage was divided in half (boys' bunks on one side of the building
and girls' on the other) and sat right on the beach; the camp itself
was located at an old fort we were sure was haunted. The kids from
Rockingham were cool, and seemed somehow more advanced—they
had an unusual air of confidence for kids that age, and they were
already having first and second kisses, already having "relationships."
All of us developed week-long crushes on the Rockingham kids. (I
never aggressively pursued mine; they were always secret and from
afar.) Anyway, I haven't seen or heard from any of the Rockingham
kids since that summer. I have pictures, though, and I remember
names.
Martin. Martin was from Virginia and was part of a throng of boys
attending soccer camp at the local university. My friend Stephanie
had befriended (and declared her love for) a cute skater named Brian
who had an asymmetrical bowl cut and a wardrobe covered with the
Vision Street Wear logo. Martin, his subdued friend, was by default
the guy I was "supposed" to like, because it made a neat
equation. Martin and I only became friends (rather than what Stephanie
had envisioned), but we did keep in touch for at least one phone
call after he'd returned home. I know this because my brother once
wrote "Lisa, Martin called" on the refrigerator dry-erase
board, accidentally using permanent marker. As far as I know, those
words are still hovering on my parents' refrigerator, fourteen years
later.
Dana. I shared a dorm room with Dana for a long weekend during freshman
orientation at college. We'd stay up late talking, and we'd show
the other freshmen around Raleigh, a city we both felt somewhat
familiar with (namely, we dragged them to a dark, underground club
that we both agreed was cool). During the four years that followed,
we'd occasionally run into each other, and (I think) would mutually
recognize that we would probably still get along if we ever made
the effort to get together. The interaction never failed to go the
same way: how-are-yous, semi-generic responses, we should get together
sometime soon, I'll call you, yes that'd be great. (I think we hung
out only once post orientation.)
I still try, to some extent, to contact the more recent ones—people
whom I spent time with in hostels and trains in Europe, companions
in old offices and classrooms—but none of us do very well,
barring a handful of old close friends. I tell myself that we will
be in contact again even though I don't always believe it, because
I find the alternative rather depressing.
The names in my cell phone are the most recent ghosts, and therefore
the most perplexing ones, as I've only lived in New York for a year
and a half. How is it that I've already lost touch with so many
people whom I've known only a short time? And why do I even find
that sad? I couldn't possibly keep up with all of the people whose
information I've collected over the course of my life, and I'm quite
sure I wouldn't even want to. Even so, I don't delete them, and
I think of them fairly often, if only because I scroll past their
names so frequently.
Stef and Matt are visiting from Raleigh, harmoniously staying with
me in my skinny apartment. I like how out-of-town guests encourage
me to go places I wouldn't normally go, and encourage me to keep
my days entirely open. I feel almost like I'm on vacation myself.
Friday,
20 February 2004
Co-worker Sarah saw a dead chicken on the subway steps this morning.
She noticed a few articles of clothing draped over the railing before
she spotted it. It had white feathers, she said, and it was propped
up on one of the steps.
She waited a whole 45 minutes to tell us, co-worker Ian pointed
out. Where are her priorities?
The chicken isn't the first dead livestock she's seen this week.
On Tuesday, she told us about a rotting goat head in her
neighbor's yard. The head still had fur on it, and had melted-down
candles encircling it. I was disappointed to hear she hadn't taken
any pictures. She has, however, done a little research on the subject.
She learned that it is not uncommon for sacrificial carcasses to
be left near train tracks (although she didn't say why, or whether
subway steps were sufficient).
When she mentioned the goat head to , he told her about the dead cats the neighbor had once
"hung out to dry" in the backyard. I pictured them attached to a
clothesline, clothespinned up like socks, their bodies sunken and
matted. "I think he may have said something about the cats hanging
from a tree," she offered. We speculated about where the cats may
have come from.
...
She's been in her new home less than a week. So far, she likes it.
Apart from the sacrificed animals, that is.
Wednesday,
18 February 2004
Monday,
16 February 2004
1. Sometimes I mistake other people for me. Of course, within a
fraction of a second I realize that it isn't me, because it would
be impossible for there to be two of me. The person I mistake for
me doesn't even have to look much like me, although often she does.
In any case, it's an odd feeling to think someone else is you, however
brief that moment is. It's a little bit like accidentally seeing
your reflection in a store mirror and thinking it's someone else,
but without the judgment.
2. I gave away my old computer. It was nice, actually. I got to
hang out with someone I hadn't seen in almost a year-and-a-half.
It went about how I'd expected—we got along well and made references
to the things we know about each other, the things we could assume
hadn't changed. We talked about things that were new, about plans
and goals and people. We ate burritos and closed down a wood-paneled
bar near Penn Station; we were abandoned by the other customers
and were cleaned around. It wasn't about the computer, anyway. I
think I feel better.
3. Lately it's been bothering me that my mid-twenties are stubbornly
distancing themselves, not because I necessarily want to be in the
same place as I was then, but because those years feel close, even
though the calendar says otherwise. I have a theory that it's because
I still feel like I know the person I was then, it being the first
five-year period that I haven't changed substantially. ... I don't
feel old otherwise. And apparently I don't look old, at least according
to .
4. My surgeon sent me two letters this past week. The second was
a bill for $890, which is not the only letter of that sort I expect.
The first was to ask me to donate money to the hospital.
Aren't those more or less the same letter?
5. At the zoo this weekend, loud children made a red panda nervously
pace back and forth. I watched two tigers slap each other with big,
furry paws. I ate stale curly fries out of desperation. A peacock
ran away from me. A monkey tried to feed me some bright orange food
by smashing it up to the glass, where I'd placed my hand for his
benefit. That made me really happy.
Tuesday,
10 February 2004
I once saw my friend Scott jump onto the subway tracks to retrieve
a Chinese fortune that he keeps in his wallet. It had slipped out
of his fingers and floated down to the trough of discarded batteries,
dirt, electricity, and rodents, and, without pausing, Scott hopped
down and hoisted himself up again in one graceful move. He stood
on the platform grinning, holding the tiny piece of paper between
his thumb and index finger, as I looked at him incredulously.
I often think about that when I'm standing on the edge of the platform,
the yellow warning paint under my feet. I wonder what it would take
for me to leap down there; what would I have to drop? The thought
process follows a strict path. I consider the items I have in my
possession, and whether they would merit a dangerous rescue. The
answers are always the same.
My camera? A yes to that. My cell phone? Umm...not sure. My nice
umbrella? No way. It's then that I remember that I promised myself
I wouldn't drop anything, because I don't want to be forced to make
that kind of decision. Then I clutch whatever I'm holding with the
same ferocity as if I were standing on the edge of a cliff.
Recently, a different friend, also named Scott, mentioned buying
a can of Spam as part of a cheap stash of groceries. Which got me
thinking: how much money would I require to eat a can of Spam in
one sitting? I decided that $100 seemed like a fair price, a conclusion
I later shared with Scott (who maintains that Spam tastes quite
good, despite its infamous and disparaged ingredients).
I did make the connection. It did occur to me how absurd it was
that eating a can of Spam could be less attractive than . Of course, when I think of it
that way, the Spam easily wins. On Sunday Scott joked, "So
then, how much money would it take for you to rescue a can of
Spam from the tracks?"
Today an 18-year-old girl was killed by a train when she jumped
onto the subway tracks to retrieve her cell phone. My answers have
changed.
Sunday,
08 February 2004
I've put up some pictures: New
York summer. Have a look.
Wednesday,
04 February 2004
It happened in this order: I discovered him, looked for signs of
life, and made a phone call. Then we had a photo shoot, I pet him
on the head with a single finger, I said I was sorry, and I tossed
him out the window by his long, sleek tail.
He landed on the ground, which is what I'd hoped—on the snow,
actually, which covers the imported rectangles of grass in the backyard
of the newly built (and vacant) condos behind me. I can still see
him from my
window, still bent in the shape of a smile and lying on his side.
Yesterday, the apartment building excitement came at 2 a.m. in the
form of a loud, angry man who'd been locked out of his apartment
during an argument. Or at least I think that's what happened; I
saw none of it, and he was yelling in a language I don't know. But
then, don't arguments in any language sound pretty much the same?
Tuesday,
03 February 2004
For what it's worth, here
are the states I've seen; I think it's time to go to Kansas.
Try it yourself, here.
(via Alison
and Ryan)
Sunday,
01 February 2004
There's a strip of road in East Village that's lined with Indian
restaurants; they stand side-by-side soldier-like, wearing almost
identical red and gold uniforms. I've heard it called Curry Row,
although I suspect that isn't the official designation. It's also
been suggested that there's a single giant kitchen located in the
bowels of the street that supplies all of the restaurants with food,
and, as a result, it doesn't matter which one you choose.
You don't choose, anyway. The moment you pause outside of one of
the restaurants—to look at the menu or glance through the window
or ask the people you're with where they'd like to go or to simply
tie your shoe—you belong to the restaurant in front of you.
The staff are predators that sit in wait for your feet to stop moving;
as soon as you're stationary, and gesture you inside, telling you of
(perhaps) free music, a free glass of wine, or free dessert. They
sting you with some sort of paralyzing poison that prevents you
from saying no—they sing to you like sirens—and you hypnotically
shuffle inside.
Of course, it's easier to watch the hunt from a distance, as a third
party. Tonight, after , seven of us sat at a table at one of the restaurants,
in front-row seats just by the door. We'd spot the prey and watch
the restaurant greeter respond. Get 'im! One of us would
whisper. Sometimes, he'd snap them in with the grace and speed of
a frog that's tongue-lassoing a fly; other times, he'd notice them
too late, and they'd continue down the red and gold path.
The food in these places, by the way, is really good, and, once
you're inside, the predatory staff instantly becomes friendly and
accommodating. Our restaurant supplied live music (one of the musicians
played a sitar), including one track we decided sounded something
like the Indian version of The Simpsons' opening theme. While we
ate, a very bored 8-year-old boy (who was likely the son of one
of the employees) wandered around and watched patrons; as soon as
he was noticed, he'd recoil and run away.
The friends I'd gone to the restaurant with didn't know each other
all that well, which made it even more satisfying that they all
got along so well, that they were so good at making each other laugh,
and that they effortlessly made me forget about my nervous hangover.
The pre-show anxiety was worse, when my legs felt unnaturally weak
and like they were no longer part of my body. I wonder how many
times it would take for my legs to like the stage, to be
planted like sturdy and sure Sequoias. Today they were saplings.
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