City Love

Have you been writing? No. Why not? I don't know. I guess nothing has felt important enough to write about... (Reader peruses previous posts. Essays? Monster bathrooms? Really??)

So, yeah. Seems silly. I suppose my life has been as full of essays and monster bathrooms (or the post-collegiate equivalents) as it was. So what's the difference? Sharing my thoughts suddenly feels so self-indulgent. I wonder why. How would I know though, really?

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This has been a summer full of new things: new friends, living in tipis, living with 14-year-old girls, living without internet, singing and playing, square-dancing, peanut butter eating, double-layering of long-underwear (well, to be honest, that one's not new), paddling, planning on moving north.

So now I'm home, drinking coffee, going through cigar boxes full of detritus my once-younger self determined to be worthy of saving; a letter "From the desk of Sir Chloe and Sir Alex" which we must've written when we were about 8 years old, among other things. I saved that one, but a lot of things got the boot. Not unlovingly, thoughtfully certainly, but they were booted all the same. Movie stubs and photos- most of them didn't make the cut. As I've been pal-ing around, living a life appropriate to my newly adopted title, "Lady of Leisure", I've been looking around Oakland, loving it.

There's something about this city that makes me feel like I'm standing smack in the middle of a torrential downpour of rain. Stuck without a raincoat, I'm soaked to the bone in seconds. What can you do but embrace the flood and remember when you were younger how you used to take the long way back from the bathroom it was raining so that you could be in the rain for as long as possible? In a way, I am hesitant to call it mine because I feel like there's so much of it that I don't know. But then again, I've lived here my entire life, and what more license I possibly need? Except, maybe, owning the Oakland Raiders.

There's this thing about Oakland- it gets a bad rap. This summer, a new acquaintance of mine asked me if Oakland is totally "ghetto". I kicked him in the shins and asked if he always gets kicked in the shins. A city is so much more than we give it credit for, has so much more life to it than of often consider. It lives through us, and we live through it, so how could we think for one second that where we live doesn't matter? Or that our lives and our selves are separate from the cities where we live and make ourselves? What arrogance.

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Last night I found myself on the streets of San Francisco for the first time since I became this version of myself, after spending the summer outdoors under sun and stars, spending really good time with my best friend from high school, playing music, regrouping and reorienting and redirecting. I was there to hear the author Jonathan Safran Foer, speak. Genius.

Afterward, I stepped into the nighttime and was enveloped in cool, living, air. I was struck with a sense of freshness and electricity, and it occurred to me that I will miss this air, and this city. I wonder if I will find this elsewhere, this air and feeling and home.

GOODBYE! MUAH! I LOVE YOU!

Parting words from Ms. D. What more need be said?

Unutterably Soft

Moments of clarity often come at times when you don't expect them. Not only that, they come about things which you don't expect to take notice of until a curtain is drawn and you look up and say, "Oh."

In a time when breathing seems a chore and focusing is something that I used to do, Sandeep gave me a flower. It smells so sweet. A rose sent from the editors of this story who, looking down, think, "Hey, this girl might lose it. Let's sweeten the deal. " Over the past few weeks, Sandeep has been one of the main contributing factors to my continued tolerance of the confusion that has reigned supreme. And she gave me this rose. It smelled so good. And it was so soft. I walked around with it for the rest of the day; I couldn't very well just leave it somewhere. Maybe part of the attraction of flowers is that they are so fleeting. If you are overly-amorous with a flower, it's stem breaks or it's petals bruise. And even if you're ever-so-careful, it doesn't last for long. And you can only smell it when you inhale. You're denied that pleasure when exhaling. Or when you forget to breathe.

So there I was, walking around holding this rose, smelling it and better, feeling it. Flowers smell good, this we know. But they feel like velvet and butter and cinnamon and sugar. How do we forget this? Drifting from class to class, petting myself with my rose, I realized why women in those old portraits always hold the flowers right up to their faces; it's because they're so soft. I'll bet that when you're sitting for days on end for a portrait, you need a reminder of life and sweetness and light. And John Berger and I thought all along that these ladies were just positioning themselves in the most alluring and demure position for the male viewer. Shame on us.

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Cracked open, wind-burned, anxiously beating in the hopes of finding some thing some end. That’s not what’s meant to be, but still it beats with ravenous desperation. But under the covers in the darkness, the drum continues, magnified in an amphitheater where you are the giantess, your nose brushing the velvety sky, your eyes the stars. For all your grandness, you quiver. Beating becomes a hum, rousing sleeping birds from their nests to stare blearily at the sky and snuggling down deeper to thwart the cool and loneliness from which you have no shelter. Warm or cold hardly matters, because fear lights the night on fire and all that is seen exists behind eyes, between the hum.

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There are times when I think to myself, 'My heart hurts.' The grownup in my mind looks at the 4-year-old in my mind, right into her eyes, and asks, 'What do you mean?' I can't answer. Not in terms I'm accustomed to using. 'I feel it in my heart, and in my belly. They're all twisted up and sad.' What advice does the grownup give the kid?Hmmm.

'I know how you feel, I feel that way sometimes too.'

'Try breathing really deeply, and letting it all go.'

'Do you want some hot chocolate?'

search out stories

Gal writes*,

Here’s the story: life is a dream.

Sometimes something I read just opens up my mind. Cracks it wide open, and in streams sunlight and fresh air. This is one of those times. A moment of epiphany, often one that I've had before, that I hope I'll never stop having. I don't exactly think that there is an end to life, but more a means to living. Not a revolutionary concept, I know. But what would it mean if I lived that way? What if I sought out stories in the life I'm living, not the one that I wishfearpredictregret tolivelivinglivedwilllive? Find the story and hold it up for everyone to see, they won't be able to look away. Maybe when they do look away, their sight will be forever changed. Or maybe just changed for a minute. It was worth it though, wasn't it? See the dream that you're living and the colors glow with intensity and potential. buzzzzzzz. How could I not have seen them before?

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Abortion. It's a difficult topicconversationexperience. I don't quite know how I feel about it. Well, that's not true. I believe that it should be easily accessible. Not taken lightly. Surrounded by conversation and support for those whose lives it brushes and screams through. Maybe I feel differently since Tikva came into my life, came and went from the life I can touch. It's possible that what has changed is my certainty in what I would choose for myself. Not something that I need to consider, have had to consider, in earnest. But it came up last night. In conversation with a friend, I got a glimpse of the brilliant lifelove that has so drawn me to her;

When my sister got pregnant, when I could finally put together a coherent sentence, I asked her if she was going to keep 'it'. 'It,' as if 'it' was a thing. Now 'it' is my nephew, and I can't imagine my life, my family, the world, without him. I couldn't imagine denying him the right to the world and life, and denying the world the right to him.

So inclined to embrace her wisdom, it occurs to me that this could be bigger. I could make a choice, see the world with more kindness and empathy, hear other people, what they say or mean to say or communicate without saying. Listen to the part of me that says, this person is brilliant and in need of love, instead of the part that says, oh shut up, will you? Write a story, own your authorship, make it into something to be proud of, feel love for.

Colored flags fluttering in the breeze, light like butterflies and bright in their singing.

Look at me, I am the life you are living. You have to see me first though, and I am yours.


* Quoted from The Man Who Fell In Love With The Moon by Tom Spanbauer

To Haiti with Love

Hi folks! This is a service announcement, rather a departure from the usual musings of a befuddled and bedazzled, almost-bachelor-degree-wearin'-twenty-something. Please check out this website, created with spectacular magic and common sense by René and Kate. As you will see, they have collected offerings from artists and imaginers from all sides of the globe to auction off. All proceeds of the auction will go to St. Joseph's family of homes for children in Port au Prince, Haiti. Check it out, and bask in the glory of what being a person is all about. These ladies have the right idea. You might even see some offerings from a certain blogger/coed who you find to be disarmingly persuasive...

P.S. And hurry up, will you? The auction ends Monday!

On Pirates, Book Reviews, and Intimate Irony

OOH! Kate is publishing her book about PIRATES! I'll get it for Graham who, at 12 years of age is about one skipped brushing away from transforming his hair into one large, seaworthy dread...

My heart stopped, and I looked away before I was spotted, before my attention brought any sort of self-consciousness to the scene upon which I had stumbled. I had gotten this book for Graham. He had said, upon receiving it 'Oh, cool,' and redirected what small part of his attention he had used to respond to me back to whatever he was doing- much more interesting. Obviously. But here he was, sitting at the kitchen table with his usual shades-of-tan dinner and...wait, what's that in his hand? OH NO! It's the DREAD CREW! There he sat, happily smacking his lips, eating his pizza with ketchup or chicken nuggets or similarly kid-approved meal item, patently unaware of anything but the grubby, swarthy, gnarly, brazen adventures unfolding on the projector-screen just behind his eyes.

Look Mom, he's reading the pirate book!

I know, he hasn't put it down. He loves it.

(Beams with victory and delight)

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Hey Alex!

Hey Graham.

Do you know what my favorite part of "The Pirates of the Backwoods" was?

(Oh no, he's already finished it, and I'm not even half way done! He's going to spoil it! Make him STOP!!) Errr...what? (holds breath)

The "honey lessons." Like, "the undiscovered joys of occasional bathing." Huh huh huh.

(Whew! Already read that part. The irony, however, is not lost on me. Maybe you could take a lesson or two from Joe yourself; Eh, Mr My-Hair-Only-Looks-Cool-If-It-Hasn't-Been-Washed-For-A-Week? Undiscovered joys of bathing indeed!)

Blown out of the water with a SKREEEEEEEEEEEEE!

I turned on my computer with the intention of writing something very different. But these things happen, life get's in the way. My blogger dashboard (oh yes, that is blog-lingo, and yes, I am that cool. You knew it, I knew it, let's not pretend any longer...) opened and Gal had made a post just 19 minutes ago. Guess what? Dahlia is 6 today! I hardly need give any background, as anybody whose talked to me for 5 minutes knows who Dahlia is.

It was so funny, the other day, my friend Dahlia and I went to the park...
You went to the park?
Yeah, with my friend Dahlia.
(look of confusion, searching, reevaluating friendship with conversation partner)
She's 5.
5 years old?
Yeah.
What do you mean, she's your friend.
Uh...well...she's...my friend.

Gal, Dave, and Dahlia recently moved to Ohio. Away. We here on Mather Street have missed them all desperately, and today is no exception. Because look what they're doing! Look what Dahlia's becoming! How did that happen? At what point do the family members and acquaintances you see only sporadically stop saying "Look how tall you are!" and do you start noticing all the little people around you transforming into butterflies? Really tall butterflies...

I'm back home, whatever that means, and having an acute sensation of having wasted time. In India, in Iceland, time that's gone by leaving my hands just a little more weather-worn. Seeing Dahlia, thinking of her as a SIX-YEAR-OLD, gives me pause.

We met when she was 1 1/2, when I was...18? And nobody who knows Dahlia will be surprised to know that, after a few months of babysitting her part time, it occured to me for the first time in my life that I might not want to have kids. A fading violet Dahlia is not. She's a real princess, the kind that says 'No thanks I'd rather go play with my friends, and by the way, 100 years is too long to wait in a magical sleep. Step up your game sir, or you're going to be passing on your crown to your royal hound and her regal puppies. Who are SO cute, by the way. Can I name them?'

So, here's to the regal, splendid, effervescent, and indomitably vivacious Dahlia. Happy birthday Love!

December´s Endless Summer, Part 2

It´s going to be legen...wait for it...DARY!

On the cusp of returning home, leaving Iceland, feeling slightly wind-tossed and worn-down, looking forward to coming home and concerned that the glow of homecoming will wear off leaving behind, just, you know...normal life. What if that happens? What if I have to go back to real life? That would be...well...normal?

It´s funny traveling with sister-like creatures because, well, they´re sisters. And that means a lot of things. Infinite comfort and ease. Safety in the assurance that you´ll get wrapped in a soft down-comforter and cozied up with those warm bodies no matter how much of a dragon you´ve been all day.

And we all have our days.

And then there are those days. The days when you are your most wretched self because you´re exhausted with yourself, exhausted with the destructive rhythms which reappear over and over again between people you´ve known and loved and fought with over and over again. Those days though, don´t end with tears. And if they do, night pours ambrosia in your ear which mixes with your dreams, of memories of marco polo in California and buttered toast with jam and cheese in Iceland. You wake up, and it´s ok. It´s her, after all.

H: So, are you guys going back tomorrow?
S: Wait, what?!
H: Back to the pool...
S: Oh! I thought you meant back to California.
A: Yeah, jeeze, it wasn´t that bad of a day...

So I´ll be sad to leave. And glad to return, home and back to Iceland. No question.

December's Endless Summer, Part 1

Patsy got to the airport soon after I arrived, but just long enough after said arrival that I thought she might not have remembered that today was the day of my arrival. Slightly shaken, I spent the car ride with her winding down, wondering what it might mean for me to be here, in Iceland, after four months in India. Was I ready? Would I be able to be what I needed to? Show enough gratitude? Engage enough with my friends here while simultaneously trying to disengage with the India that I had just left behind?

We arrived at the house, and I followed Patsy through the door.

Hello?
Hello?
Hello?!
Hello!
HELLO!
Hello!!!

Oh! home.

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After crashing so hard the night before, I woke up to dusky light at 9 in the morning. The only other person home was Ivar, the budding young gallant who has taken the place of the two-year-old who left with the Thormars for colder pastures when I was 10.

Would you like some bread?
Yes please.
With cheese? Or we have patte too.
I'd love some cheese!
(young gallant presents sleepy and mussed American wanderer with a plate on which is set a piece of toast, buttered, with sliced cheese on top. The American wonders who this young man is. And how does he know where they keep the cheese slicer?)

Would you like anything to drink? Tea or juice?
I would LOVE some tea.
(mysterious young gallant makes tea)
I don't know if you like milk and sugar, so I'll just put them here on the table.
(gallant hands American a cup of tea, takes his own to his seat, and opens the paper. Did I read the paper, reflects the American, when I was 13? Do I read it NOW?)
Thank you so much Ivar!
You're welcome.

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Hanna and I decided to go to the pool. It was snowing. It was SNOWING!!!! But the pool is the place to be here in Iceland. That is, the place to be besides the bar. And as it wasn't yet evening, we decided on the pool. The pools here are warm, and endlessly so, as a result of the geothermal heating which keeps the country running and in high spirits. We showered, put on our suits, and stepped out into the frigid cold. The kind of cold made up of lots and lots of tiny ice crystals which you can't see, but which sting you like I-don't-know-what. We hopped in the jacuzzi. We sat there, chatting, shoulders deep in steamy water, fat snowflakes falling on our eyelashes, just like in the "Sound of Music". Just like that, except not so real and infinitely more magical. Is this real life?

the sound of Rain

I can't give it to you here. It's a sound, and anyway, if I recorded it, it wouldn't be the same. Maybe a part of it is that you can't control it, can't call it on demand. It comes when the clouds are full and softens everything, calms the earth for as long as it will. I can't think of many sounds that are more gentle, can't really even describe what it is exactly, because the words don't add up to the sound or the feeling. Who's surprised? Get deep enough into words and realize that they really only go so far. But still, remembering the sound is good...

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A: OK, so I've made a list of reasons why you should go to Barista with me.

S: Oh no, I can't.

A: So, you'll study, and then have your Hindi lesson...

S: No, I said no.

A: ...then, we'll walk down the hill, and that'll be really good because it will get you all focused because all your [makes swirling gesture around head] things will be moving...

S: No, I'm not going.

M: Who'se going to Barista?
S: Not me.

A: ...and then, we'll get there, and you'll be all focused and we can do homework...

S: No, I can' t go, I never get anything done.

A: ...and it'll be really good and we really will do homework...

S: Do you need any help getting things together?
M: No, only with the second thing.

A:...and I'll make sure that you do homework and I'll do homework too.

S: What? No, I am not going to Barista. I need to stay here and get some solid work done.

A: OK, fine, that's fine. I'll just go to my room and cry.

S: OK. Let me know when you're done.

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We find home in the most unexpected places, don't we? In a book, in a sound, in a house, in a freezing-cold-unfortunate-excuse-for-a-guest-house-with-a-manager-who-sings-a-little-while-he-works-so-his-voice-echoes-in-the-high-cold-rooms. Maybe they're not so unexpected, maybe we knew we would find them, and that's why we're here, why we keep searching, why we go out even though we're scared to death. Maybe that's why this up-and-down life works out, because even when we're sulky and anxious, sometimes it starts to rain on the walk home and we find our scorched and stinging hearts cooled and softened.

For Graham

These are two of my new Indian friends. My friend Ariel and I have named them Chini (sugar) and Masala (spice). When our teacher adopted them from the animal shelter, they had some demoralizing names like Bubbli and Busi...or something. It doesn't matter. Our names are better. Now we just have to wait for the others to catch on.

(Chini is the grey one, Masala is the orange.)

Home

These girls are my home. There home has been my home many times in my life, will always be my home. On more than one occasion, I have walked in and burst into tears, letting the guard I've built up during the day crumble in the glow of them. My sisters, my best friends. I can't imagine life without them, and don't have to because they are always will be there. A soft feather bed to fall into when I need to curl up and hide, letting tears fall and dry of their own accord, being replaced by crackling smiles, halting laughter, hot chocolate, impulsive adventures into the unknown. Life is good with these girls, even when it is not good. Thank goodness for them.

The problem with arguing with my dad...

Me: Look at this picture! Isn't that cute?
Papa: I don't do cute. It's dumb.
Me: Your face is dumb!
Papa: It's genetic.
Me: . . .