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 Monday,
31 March 2003
Sunday,
30 March 2003
I let a strange cat 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 that's 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.
Wednesday,
26 March 2003
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 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 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
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.)
Monday,
24 March 2003
Sunday,
23 March 2003
(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 song to my subway car about taking the L train to
Brooklyn; spin on their hands and their backs and heads
like wind-up toys; 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 . Rather than try to describe it, I'll post pictures from
the three rolls that I took once I get them back.
Thursday,
20 March 2003
Wednesday,
19 March 2003
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 , 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 .
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.
 Sunday,
16 March 2003
It was 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.
Saturday,
15 March 2003
My SxSW pictures
are up. (So are Ryan's.)
Thursday,
13 March 2003
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 . 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.
Wednesday,
12 March 2003
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.
Friday,
07 March 2003
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 for an evening. It's easy to swing back
and forth between feeling like a VP
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 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.
Thursday,
06 March 2003
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.
Sunday,
02 March 2003
(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 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 right now? A: They are working on the decade-long
project of completely the trains, something my new friend was cynical about.
Q: How fast does the train go? A: Generally it travels at about
. When it's going downhill, such as under the river, it
goes as fast as ; uphill, it's only going about . The express trains sometimes reach .
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 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.
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2003 | February 2003>>
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