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 Thursday,
29 November 2001
Wednesday,
28 November 2001
I won an auction on ebay in mid-October, and it wasn't until
this week I received the item. I almost never bid on anything
(this was number three), so the chances of me landing a uncommunicative
seller were quite slim. Of course that's what happend; I had to
write the seller three times before I heard from her at all (two
weeks after the auction), and, a month after the auction, when
I still hadn't received my lens, I tried to call the number she'd
given ebay, which of course had been disconnected. The seller
finally wrote back (after I wrote a mildly threatening e-mail,
so mild it probably wasn't even detected) and said she'd sent
the lens the week before, and don't I know the US Postal Service
is slow these days?
Days later, still no lens, and no slip of paper at my door. Then
on Sunday night, while Martin was digging underneath couch cushions
for the remote, he found a slip from the postal office, dated
a week earlier, that said I have a package waiting. Oops. I still
can't figure out how that happened, but now I feel ridiculous
giving negative feedback, even if she does deserve it.
In other mail-related news, I received the December issue of The
Sun yesterday. When I walked in from work, Martin said, "You're
on the cover of the Sun" and tossed the magazine toward me.
On the cover is a fuzzy, high-contrast black and white picture
of a girl with a faint halo over her head, and, he's right—it
does look a lot like me. Creepy.
Tuesday,
27 November 2001
My office smells remarkably like nothing. I only notice the
absence of smell because of the presence of smell elsewhere—the
smell of freshly sharpened pencils in the hallway, bleach, hovering
like a cloud around the bathrooms, and, just this week, the smell
of Christmas in the lobby, emanating from a tackily-decorated
tree. Just past the swish of the doors, the fragrance of fir bleeds
into the faint scent of fallen leaves, unless it's just at the
time of day when the city's tobacco is being processed, in which
case, Durham smells like a giant unlit cigarette. Then it's highway,
diesel exhaust and wind, and home, which smells like nothing either,
but for an entirely different .
Monday,
26 November 2001
Dear driver-side door,
Please refrain from jamming, so that I am no longer forced to
climb over the gear shift, getting the strap of my bag caught
on the emergency brake while bumping my head and knee and filling
the air with curses.
Thank you.
***
For the last few weeks, I've noticed two white bunnies hanging
out along my street, predominately congregating in a certain corner
of the Y parking lot. I'm not sure who they belong to, but they're
certainly not wild. Their fur is bright and dangerous, their ears
especially long, and their build, big. Perhaps their owner feels
they need time outside of the cage, or perhaps they escaped when
the owner opened the cage at mealtime. Although I've enjoyed watching
their strange movements, I've been a little concerned that one
would dart out in front of me as I drove by, or that Leeches would
bring one home, dragging the poor creature up the back steps with
her teeth.
But neither of those things has happened. No, instead, someone
else hit one of the bunnies, smacking it with rubber and
throwing it to the side, and someone else laid it—stretched
out—over a stump just by that corner of the Y parking lot.
And, the next day, instead of a bunny, Leeches delivered a dead
sparrow to my back door.
Saturday,
24 November 2001
I meant to go over to Jay's yesterday to play two songs for
him, but he had already heard one of them and he wanted more than
that anyway. He wanted to drive away from lights and traffic while
he listened, and to get lost, to explore a road he'd always wanted
to go down but never had, except he didn't know of a road that
fit those requirements. And so Greg and I climbed in Jay's car
to help him out, to suggest a destination, a direction, or merely
a (belated) left or right, like aimless and wasteful 16-year-olds
in a borrowed car. We jaggedly went south, talking and listening
and turning around and eventually we found ourselves at Daddy
Rabbits, a biker bar just north of the thriving town of Angier.
It's a small place, with just enough room for two quarter-eating
pool tables, a bar, and a row of stools. The atmosphere is enormous,
despite the building's size. The ceiling is covered with Harley
Davidson t-shirts, hefty white bras scrawled over with markers,
and Confederate flags held up by thumbtacks; on the walls are
newspaper clippings and pictures, handwritten signs and buzzing,
electric beer signs, and in the sink, a sign that says, "Don't
sit in the sink."
When we walked in, a friendly man with a limp approached us and
introduced himself. Then he jokingly (at least we think it was
a joke) said to Jay, "You're standin' in a bad place, 'tween
me and my beer." We moved to the bar to get a drink from
the near voiceless bartender, who, when asked what happened to
her voice, gave the explanation, "I got really drunk last
night, and when I scream, I lose my voice."
We stayed long enough to play a few games of cut-throat and drove
directly back home, no longer thinking about winding detours and
exploration.
Friday,
23 November 2001
It's Friday, almost 1:30, and I'm still in my pajamas. I haven't
eaten anything at all, but eggs sound perfect and warm. Wait.
A glance at the outdoor thermometer tells me it's 70 degrees outside;
I wonder if it's broken? Maybe cereal is more appropriate today,
sitting on the back steps with an intruding cat face nearby. Then
I will clean the house and make a mixed tape and break to see
an old friend and do everything I can do on this stolen watch.
Stolen, because it's neither weekday nor weekend, and because
my obligations and plans are liquid and have thinly spilled all
over this giant four-day weekend, filling only corners and crevices.
The rest of the time is mine, and unaccounted for.
Oh, there is one
thing I won't be doing today.
Thursday,
22 November 2001
Just in time for Thanksgiving, my friend Jay posted a
story about Turkey.
Wednesday,
21 November 2001
I realize I'm late to the party, but I figured I should stop
pretending that I don't know about your birthday wish and get
on with it. So, Choire,
here's something I wouldn't normally post:
Sometimes I wish I would've had a different childhood. Not that
mine was bad; it wasn't. It was just safe, and rural, and uniform.
I hated my high school. I had friends, some of them good friends,
but none of whom I think felt displaced in the same way I did.
There was virtually no counterculture (ok, there was a metalhead
or two, but that was all); it wasn't cool to be misunderstood
or confused or to think acid washed jeans, chunky gold nuggets
and chains, mullets, and tightly rolled up jeans were ugly; in
fact, nobody seemed to be rebelling in any way at all. (I rebelled
in a variety of ways, some of which are probably more entertaining,
but since my parents will read this, I'm going to limit myself
to fashion.)
I knew I didn't like what the girls were wearing—bright baggy
shirts with gems glued on them, gold chain-link belts, flat dress
shoes with little bows, stirrups, big, fluffy hair, and layers
of pink and purple make-up, something like the fashion popular
with evangelist wives. So, instead, I wore boys' clothes, the
only real alternative I saw at that time. Now, the clothes I wore
weren't especially cool, either; in fact, I think the outfits
I came up with weren't attractive to anybody at all—not boys,
not other girls, not parents, not even me. But at the time, I
only knew about two choices: pink, pleated rayon shorts, or this
sort of preppy boy look I eventually achieved. Once, I even had
a girl ask me if she could give me a make-over. You know, the
kind you see in the movies, when the plain, fashion-impaired girl
is suddenly recognized as a vixen once you put some sparkly clothes
on her? (I refused. I mean, this girl had the largest helmet of
blonde curls in the entire school.)
So anyway, I eventually figured things out as far as who I am
and how I fit in the larger puzzle, though I think my self-perception
might still be a little screwy. Perhaps that's why I drink in
new experience so readily, to make up for the years of going to
school in the middle of a tobacco field.
Tuesday,
20 November 2001
I've added two pictures of the
Pentagon to the rest of the D.C. pictures and I've added a
few links. No words, though. I'm out.
Monday,
19 November 2001
On my way home from work tonight, I stopped in at the grocery
store to pick up a couple things for dinner (now that I pretend
to cook). I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible
and was pleased with how efficient I'd been, how quickly and with
few detours I walked from the front door to the cashier. After
eyeing people's baskets to see who had the least items, I stepped
into the shortest line and found myself standing directly behind
but probably haven't seen since
then. I'm not sure why, but without thinking, I jumped out of
line and hid behind a shelf, making a pitiful attempt at nonchalance
while peeking around bags of chips to see if it was really him.
(It was.) So I waited there awkwardly, pretending to read labels
but really just waiting for him to leave, and finally I grew impatient
just started doing more shopping, turning my 3-minute errand into
one that lasted fifteen.
The weird thing is that I like that guy, and it probably would've
been nice talking to him...I'd recently heard he's living in Raleigh
and have wondered if I would run into him somewhere. There's just
something so loaded about meeting someone whom you haven't seen
in years. You size each other up, you try to sum up your life
in two impossible sentences, and you break it off with a false
"see you around" that makes both parties uncomfortable.
Or, alternatively, you find a spot to hide or pretend not to see,
and then, when the opportunity has passed, you wonder why you
didn't take it.
Sunday,
18 November 2001
I felt a gentle shove at about 4:40 a.m., my dad standing
in the dim glow of the living room, telling me it's time. I pulled
on sweaters over my pajamas, wrapped a scarf around, put on my
jacket and glasses and stumbled out of my grandparents' house
into the cold West Virginia night. I found my dad standing by
his car, his neck craned and eyes pointed upward. Earlier he'd
mapped out a place for us to go, a clearing on top of a hill where
the light pollution was modest and the sky open. We drove to the
spot, the engine cutting through the quiet, sleeping town, and
watched as meteors scratched the sky in all directions. No sound
except for a distant rooster and our muted whispers...there's
one...did you see that? As the sky lightened, we headed
back to the car, crept back in the house, and continued dreams
and snores, as if the night hadn't been interrupted at all.
Saturday,
17 November 2001
We left early Friday morning, stopping in Pittsboro to put
antiques on photo paper, my dad anxious to be my camera bag caddy
and photo advisor. Another day of deep blue skies, early enough
that the sun still cast sharp shadows. If you count in hours,
the trip to West Virginia took a long time. Oddly enough, it didn't
take long at all in terms of how the time passed in my head. In
fact, time is moving differently altogether. It's slower here—I'm
not able to overfeed my days with work and social activities and
creating and cooking and planning—my life doesn't live here.
Eating times are earlier. Bedtime and breakfast, earlier. And
most of the time, I'm not even paying attention to what the clock
says.
Today my grandmother turned 80 years old, so relatives from North
Carolina, New Jersey, and West Virginia convened to mark the occasion
and to stand in rows in front of fireplaces posing for the Whiteman
paparazzi. Of course there's lots of food and always the suggestion
of more…what more can we feed you? Is there anything you
can think of that you'd want to eat? Can I get you another serving?
Just one more spoonful?
At dinner tonight, after putting down my utensils in defiance,
my new cousin-in-law began enlightening me about the rules she
was subjected to during a semester she attended a fundamentalist
Christian college in Florida. I don't even remember quite how
it came up, but soon all of my cousins were recounting ordinances
and guidelines and reasons for demerits and expulsion from their
various Christian colleges, probably encouraged by my obvious
shock at what they were saying. I felt sort of helpless with the
information; where do I store that in my head? What do I do with
that piece of knowledge? It's strange, moving from vague ideas
to concrete examples far worse than you ever imagined. The only
thing I knew to do was to make a list, as if that made it official
or digestible, so that I could share it with someone who'd be
equally incredulous. (To my relatives' credit, they find these
rules much too extreme.) Anyway, here it is. The
list.
***
In less than four hours, someone is going to get me out of bed
to watch streaks of white travel in arcs across the sky and fade
to black. And I am going to crawl back onto my mattress on the
living room floor, where I will, in turn, fade to black.
Thursday,
15 November 2001
I've thought about this picture a
few times since September 11th, but for some reason I hadn't looked
at it until putting it in a photo album a couple days ago. It's
just a picture taken from my hotel room in New York last March,
a colorless picture with a glare, one that I barely remember taking.
The only thing that makes it significant is that I was staying
at the World Trade Center Marriott, something I haven't heard
mention of since the 11th, but something I'm certain no longer
exists. I had gone there on a business trip (which sounds much
more official than it actually was) and spent three days in different
hotel conference rooms, listening to people speak Spanish (I don't
speak Spanish), spending time with my laptop, eating tasty, overpriced
food, and, evenings, heading up to East Village to hang out with
my old friend Natasha.
I don't claim to be directly affected by what happened on the
11th, but it is strange to think about the room where I slept
and made phone calls and brushed my teeth, the square where I
eyed kitschy stands full of busy postcards and oil paintings,
the conference room where I burned my thumb by sticking it in
my near-boiling coffee, the conference room where I soaked my
thumb in a mug of crushed ice for two hours—it's strange
to think that those places simply no longer exist. They only remain
as pieces of my memory and as one colorless picture with a glare.
My last day there, I chatted with a humorous porter on the outside
steps while I waited for my ride. I wonder if he's okay.
***
Tomorrow morning I'm leaving for West Virginia, but I'll be bringing
my computer.
Wednesday,
14 November 2001
You know the feeling when you leave town for a few days/weeks/years,
you return and everything looks the same (just as you expected
it would) but it all feels unusually cold, almost unfamiliar?
Maybe landmarks and buildings have been leveled, maybe there's
a strip mall in place of the forest you used to play in, maybe
the people you knew have changed or moved away or forgotten you.
Maybe nothing changed at all, except you. I moved away from Lexington,
North Carolina on my twelfth birthday, and it wasn't until roughly
four years later that I'd put enough space between myself and
the town to achieve that feeling of cold, as if the town had grown
up without me, or I had grown up without the town.
These days it seems it only takes a weekend away to drive the
temperature down. I'm waiting for it to get warm again.
Tuesday,
13 November 2001
I stayed home sick today, slept, catalogued negatives, chewed
pasty vitamin C tablets, and sat with Amtrak as she galloped around
me. She's gone now, Amtrak, after only one short week. Some friends
of mine wanted a kitten before I even advertised her, and, abruptly
as she came, she left again. I miss her, of course, but there's
good news: I won't be the old woman with 100 cats that I've half-worried
about becoming. I can give them away; I'm just a foster
parent.
So, anyway, I've put up a few pictures of her (they'll be the
last), along with some pictures from the bowling alley on my birthday
and from this past weekend in D.C. Enjoy.
Monday,
12 November 2001
Sunday,
11 November 2001
I don't want to forget the details of yesterday. Of course
I can write down events and those events can spark memories, but
I don't want to forget the glue that holds those events together—what
the warm sun felt like, the drop in temperature on the shady side
of the street, the smell of the leaves that I crunched through
when I stepped out of my car, how the chicken curry made my lips
tingle, the tattooed arm of the cashier, the way people danced
in the club, the sound of the scissors as they snipped off chunks
of hair that then floated to the floor.
Yesterday morning we walked through old town Alexandria (trying
to stay on the sunny sides of streets) and found brunch, freshly
squeezed orange juice, Washington's free weekly, and blisters.
In the afternoon, we climbed a hill that overlooked the destruction
of the Pentagon, which resembled a giant sheet cake that had had
a slice jaggedly and violently removed. Later we strolled through
Georgetown underneath a pink sky, ducking in shops and trying
things on, eating spicy Indian food and drinking mango lassis.
Finally we stood in line at the Black Cat, and stood in line,
and stood in line, and went inside. It was night and I danced until my legs were sore, forgetting,
momentarily, where I was and that I wasn't alone. After we got
back sometime around 3 a.m., Ingo got a homemade haircut and I
fell into bed.
***
I do want to forget the details of today.
Friday,
09 November 2001
So I'm staying in a tall hotel in Alexandria with broken elevators,
scientists, and aging, decorated military (none of which I am,
by the way). I guess I am sort of part of the scientists, though
only by association. A couple hours ago I found myself at a banquet
for the American Society for Gravitational and Space Biology,
though Ingo and I didn't stay for the entire event. On our way
to dinner, we waited ten minutes for the elevator (which never
came) next to a pacing woman wearing a noisy turquoise prom dress
who was singing la-la-la to herself the whole time we waited.
Finally we bolted for the stairs, followed by the trilling and
swish swish of the shifting taffeta from behind. Before we could
make it to the lobby, the stairs abruptly stopped, and a pack
of us (including the turquoise lady) were stuck in a tiny space
surrounded by doors that seemed to go nowhere. After opening various
doors and walking in circles, we managed to maneuver our way down
and through a crowd of stiff-backed military. As dinner ended,
the singing woman reappeared and...oh my, she sang opera for us
in front of an entirely unnecessary microphone. I had to tilt
my head and press my ear to my shoulder to block out some of the
high notes.
***
Twenty-seven yesterday, the age rock stars tend to die. So I guess
it's good I'm not a rock star.
I'm spending the weekend in the D.C., so my next post will be
from there. I haven't packed and I'm late and my room and head
are chaotic, but the weather is perfect and my car is running
mysteriously well.
Wednesday,
07 November 2001
Approximately 6:15. Hear the NPR blaring in my right ear.
See Leeches standing on top of my alarm clock, her paw on top
of the radio ON button. Close her out of my room and go back to
sleep. 7:17. The first wave of alarms goes off. Hit snooze. Give
the other cat a sleepy pet and go back to sleep. 7:34. Second
wave of alarms. Repeat: snooze, pet Jane, sleep. 7:45. Roll out
of bed and make my way through the blurry house to the bathroom.
Put in my contacts, and follow a trilling Jane to her bowl. Feed
Jane, and get her fresh water. Feed Leeches, and get her fresh
water. Feed Amtrak, and get her fresh water and a saucer of warm
milk. Toast waffles. Damn. It's almost 8:00.
7:55. Sift through the pile of clothes on my floor, but abandon
the project to check out the outdoor thermometer. Resume sifting.
Wonder if anyone at work has noticed that I wear the same black
pants every other day. Decide no one has, and put them on. 8:05.
Brush my teeth, pack my lunch, fill a water bottle, and rescue
my waffles from the toaster. Ignore Jane, who's already asking
for more food. Let Leeches outside. Sit with Amtrak and let her
chew on my hair and bury her tiny face in my neck. 8:13. Grab
the eighty-two bags I take to work (and never need) and slowly
scan my room to look for things I might be forgetting. 8:15. Leave
the house. Notice that Leeches wants to come back inside via the
room where the kitten is, guide her back in, and stand over her
while she eats two more bites. Practice burning patience as Leeches
stands in the doorway, indecisive. 8:18. Put a tape in, take the
usual route, chew on dry waffles, and hope for better traffic.
Ritual. Every weekday, the same slice of minutes, the same pattern.
Do you have one too?
Tuesday,
06 November 2001
Today isn't my birthday, even though I have a birth certificate
that says it is. Actually I have , an oddity that wasn't discovered until
I prepared to get my driving permit just before I turned 15. At
the time, my mom couldn't find my original birth certificate (which
was needed for the permit), so she contacted the hospital where
I was born and had a copy sent. The copy had all the information
correct on it, except that it claimed I was born on November 6th
rather than November 8th. Not a big deal—I mean, it's only
two days—but I was a little concerned that I had been celebrating
my birthday on the wrong day all my life (though my mother assured
me I hadn't been).
So of course I took advantage of the two-day grace period (it
suited my impatience), and for years, November 6th was printed
on my license, long after my mom found my original certificate
and confirmed that I had, indeed, been born on the 8th. There
were awkward moments…I never knew what date to fill in on
official documents (I didn't want to lie or be inconsistent,
though I had to do one or the other), and occasionally I had to
explain my situation to someone behind those official documents,
only to get a blank stare in return. Finally, (sometime after
I turned ),
I had my license changed, and November 6th instantly became just
another day of the year. All that's happened is that my old friends
are permanently confused as to when my birthday really is. So,
happy un-birthday to me.
***
I hope you remembered to vote! (That is, of course, if you think
like I do*.)
*just kidding.
Sunday,
04 November 2001
Uh-oh. I didn't mean for this to
happen.
It was just a random series of events and decisions and it could've
happened differently or not at all (I've retraced my steps and
wondered what if I had done this instead), but, in any
case, there's a one-pound gray kitten curled up in my living room
at the moment, probably peeing on the couch and launching fleas,
but I don't care. It was hiding beneath some railroad ties and
might've gotten flattened, or, at the very least, had batches
of kittens of its own one day, so I did the right thing (...right?).
Intermittent yelps that sounded like a crow (or was that a cat?)
and the next thing I know, I'm standing in red mud far past a
No Trespassing sign, and Martin is running after a wobbly
gray ball of fur. By now she's had a proper bath, received a name
(Amtrak), eaten turkey, drunk milk, fallen asleep, and woken back
up again. I'm not going to get attached. Nope.
Saturday,
03 November 2001
Morning. I rolled out of bed without an alarm, ate cereal
with fruit (a weekend luxury), and lazed around until the thermometer
glared at me, a digital 80 written on its face. Martin talked
me into a bike ride that ended up lasting all afternoon, running
errands and weaving through empty squares by the government buildings
downtown, my pants rolled high to keep them out of reach of the
chain. We rode through parts of Raleigh I don't remember having
seen before, and it felt like being in another town altogether,
the town I know hiding just a few streets away. There were a few
hills, one in particular, that were deserted enough and sloped
enough to fly without pedaling, and for a moment I felt completely
alone, as I sailed past houses and parked cars and trees still
full of red and yellow.
We ducked into the Natural Sciences Museum shortly before it closed,
punching buttons that delivered frog noises, reading depressing
accounts of now-extinct animals, staring at salamanders and snakes
that stared back. Then there was a smell, somewhere, of food cooking,
and Martin and I crossed pavement and sidewalks and grass to get
to the grocery store. We stuffed his backpack full and devoured
a large chunk of the baguette before heading home.
Evening. It still seems too early to be getting dark. Right now
I'm pouring wine on the grilled chicken in my stomach and trying
to figure out whether I should go to a promising party or the
Death
Cab for Cutie show. Pros and cons, and I've got three CDs
playing on shuffle (all DCFC), and I think I should probably call
someone who's going to the party to make the debate fair.
Thursday,
01 November 2001
Last night I went out in my Medusa costume for the third time
in less than a week, and though lots of other people were in costume
as well, it felt like any other day of the year—not like
Halloween—but like Halloween Observed. Although the
people at each party were entirely different, and though I modified
the costume slightly each night, by the third night I almost felt
like I wasn't in costume at all, but that the rubber snakes and
wires were just a piece of awkward jewelry, like big, dangly earrings
that happened to brush the roof of the car when I sat inside.
Part of it, I'm sure, is that at last night's party, I knew few
people and talked to even fewer. Somehow, if no one seems to notice
you've got snakes springing off your head and a little stone doll
tucked under your arm, you forget that you look out-of-place.
Well, at least until you leave the party.
<<December
2001 | October 2001>>
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