Soon I will say goodbye to my little "Emily Dickinson" apartment on the near east-side. This apartment, (which is actually the top floor of a two story house built in the 1930's with most of its orignal fixtures including pedestal sink, tub, brick red plastic tile lining the bathroom walls and silver radiators embellished with beautiful scroll designs) has served me well over the year I've been renting. Having moved here after my divorce, this was my first solo apartment in five years. I brought new books, boys and friends to my white walled cocoon, and now I'm getting ready to re-imagine my life in another space.
I walk up to the house. You stay behind on the sidewalk and watch as I approach the unshuttered window by the front door. It's dark and luckily there are no sensor lights to spotlight the stranger creeping across the lawn. The visible fish tank anchored in the hallway glows blue and gold. Shadows of tiny waves play on the adjacent wall. The fish glide and pause, jet and dive, performing for the window watcher. My back is turned to you. You shift the weight of your stance and yawn, silently observing the light from the window flaring faintly around my shoulders to the crown of my head.
The oppressive summer heat has returned; Which means I'm painting. Which is to say I'm delving deep into the dark crevices of my psyche. I'm no painter. I just like playing with colors. I'm not being humble here, just honest. I like to layer, but only because when I sit down to paint I have no idea what I'm going to come up with, I'm wandering through splotches of color. My greatest fear in painting is to paint something that looks like it should be hung in an office, hotel or sold at a second hand store (and I'm not talking about the bad stuff that's so awesome you have to have it). When I feel myself veering into this cringe worthy territory I do something drastic (like take my hand and swipe it over the wet paint, blurring it out with more color until I have a "new canvas.") I get more frustrated as I go along, and deeper I go into those dark places of fear and loathing. A friend recently told me something I've heard before. "It's not the destination, it's the journey." Most everyone is familiar with those small words of encouragement. It's a fitting reminder for any kind of discouraging situation, and I suppose it's true enough. But it made me think about my own journey, that big great and sometimes terrible life journey, which has been more of a state of senseless wandering and sporadic episodes of fitful progress or digression (the latter seems to be more of a common state for me). What I'm trying to say is that I have no idea what I'm doing most of the time, and when I reach this realization I panic and try to do something, anything to find peace of mind. Usually I'm able to convince myself that I'm "okay" and making the "right" decisions for my life...that my wandering is more of a stream of consciousness kind of approach to life rather than taking aimless strokes on a canvas with an increasingly thick layer of paint. These words of consolation have become less reassuring with age. Which reminds me, I'm running out of paint. Paint isn't cheap, at least not the kind I prefer to work (play) with. I am learning though, that if I let the layers dry between dabs and swipes I use less paint, the colors are more true and it's a little easier to navigate what I'm wandering through.
What I've been up to the past few months... Good turnout and everyone seemed to have a great time! Three things to note: No fowl was harmed in this race, the Yaris and its occupants did not get sent to jail for driving down to picnic point and back, and the lost canoe was found! Is everyone ready for the next race?
"When crossing State Street, it’s generally a good idea to look both ways before stepping off the curb. This precaution holds true not only for buses, taxis and delivery trucks rumbling from Lake Street to the Capitol, but also for all of the bicyclists weaving between vehicles. Including the speed-hungry bike messengers and delivery riders who expertly maneuver around all obstacles. Reverently hailed by those in need of a nimble delivery and oftentimes slightly despised by pedestrians and drivers alike, these bike jockeys throw caution to the wind in the name of speed. What most don’t know about these bikers are the jocular rivalries that exist between them, with the question of who can deliver the most the fastest at their root.
An “alley cat” is an opportunity for the speed- and shortcut-inclined to unite in a relatively friendly, yet rather competitive challenge of speed and strength. Akin to a race-paced scavenger hunt, these events draw many aggressive bikers, though others prefer to leisurely imbibe along the way, picking and choosing which checkpoints to stop at. These races are a way to bring the biking community together in a mock-up of a typical workday.
Madison hosted its largest alley cat yet Saturday, dubbed “Don’t Kill the Messenger,” with participants not only from the city itself, but also from other cities such as Chicago. In fact, the winner, Nico Deportago-Cabrera, is a member of the Chicago Cuttin’ Crew and the winner of the North American Cycle Courier Championship men’s race. For his pains he won a golden Aerospoke wheel. As for local contestants, Madisonian Manny Wagnitz of Scram Couriers earned himself a pair of Velocity Deep-V rims for his third place finish.
The event started at 7:45 p.m. in a misty Burrows Park with the distribution of manifests, checklists of tasks to be completed for points. The lists included various checkpoints, which participants biked to in order to gain points, as well as items that could be collected or completed for more points. About 60 riders braved the chilly, wet weather conditions and their myriad blinking bike lights could be seen racing throughout Madison’s streetscape.
The checkpoints sprawled around the city, from Picnic Point to Warner Park At the infamous Bascom Hill, riders arrived at the Abe Lincoln statue and were given two options: bike downhill, over the pedestrian bridge, around the third level of Humanities and back up, or walk the same route minus the Humanities loop. For an extra point, participants could carry a gallon of water with them on their trip. Due to the slippery weather, many riders chose to walk, though some persevered to conquer Bascom by bike.
At Tenney Park, tennis court lights emanated like beacons for riders who came to try to score on a seasoned bike polo goaltender, in hopes of crossing off not only a stop on their manifests but also gaining a five-minute bonus.
Among other stops, participants could venture out to a windy Picnic Point bonfire, write four lines of love poetry at Espresso Royale’s lower location and “tip” cow-costumed humans. On the way, riders could carry cardboard boxes, pick up flags in a desolate cemetery, search for irreversibly ruined bike parts and tear envelopes off popular establishments for extra points toward their total. Once found, these items had to be carried on their person to the finish line, the Come Back In on Wilson Street. Upon arrival, riders handed in their wilted and water-stained manifests to be tallied.
The mood was jovial as they waited for announcement of the top scorers with beers in hand, exchanging stories and complaints of cramping muscles. As winners were announced, prizes distributed and proper congratulations made, the general disposition of the group didn’t waver much, as another gathering of Madison’s bike community and a few transplants ended."
I've been neglecting my blog for a while. After surviving winter in the snow cave that is Madison, I've been sneaking quietly through spring. ...Maybe not that quietly. I purchased another bike when the winter slush still covered the ground. Meet my yellow fixed gear (Miyata 710). I've been taking it out for short jaunts around town now that the stage has been set for warmer weather, sprouts and blooms, and clear sidewalks occassionaly made slick by the rain. Speaking of rain... I am keeping my fingers crossed for fair weather on April 24th. But rain or shine the show will go on. You're probably wondering "what show?" Well friends, that would be the Alley Cat race Ra and I are hosting. Don't Kill the Messenger is going to be an event the Midwest will not soon forget.
i brought home some plants today. plants to put in various pots on my balcony. i enjoy watching everyone flitting around colorful buds and blooms like hummingbirds deciding which flora to gather.
The oldest living tree — which is also one of the oldest living beings — is thought to be a bristlecone pine, Pinus longaeva. It is certainly more than 4,600 years old, and by some reckonings, it celebrates its 4,842nd birthday this year. But however you count, when it was a sapling, the great pyramids of Giza had not yet been built. -nytimes.com
Monday, March 29, 2010
Blood runs wild without need for the heart. Free at sunset, dead at dawn. Men on horses chase me in the meadow. Two of them send me stampeding off the cliff. See me raining, dampening the red earth below. See their pleased expressions now that they've killed the untamed intruder passing through their land. Now I am sinking below them, seeping red on their hands.
When I am reborn, shape me in stone. Slickrock footpaths will trace my neck to the small of my back, tiny vertebrates will burrow in my rib cage, hollowing my bones. Sand will swirl on my surface and glitter in my wake. I will lay still as the surest stepping stone, collecting water in small potholes, gathering life in the cracks and folds. Changing and unchanged. Made new by erosion, made whole.
It would feel warm if it weren't for the wind. Last night I set out on my bike, wearing not enough layers to protect me from the punchy breeze. After a few blocks of spinning wheels my body temperature started to rise, making me believe it was already Spring. It is almost Spring, but not quite. Still, I can feel it try when the sun peaks out behind the shade of clouds, and when the man on the corner winks at me or not me but the woman behind me. I keep riding by the same homes, the same families. The kids are growing up. The cars get big. The cars get small. I see my summer cat investigating the freshly thawed ground with two swipes of his left paw. He sees me and flies. I am flashing light, a twinkle in the moon's eye, until after a few more hours when it too decides to hide.
I miss the streaming ribbons of highway weaving looping tangles of grey pavement skirting clover fields under the sun swinging low in the fading light blue light, like those twilights spent driving in upstate new york, after having walked out on another arguement, tired of the fight.
Marj came into the library where I work on Monday. She couldn't wait to tell me the latest news on her sister. Before she could shimmy out of her full length thrifted turquoise coat she started filling me in on her sister's 95th birthday which took place the previous weekend in Florida. At the age of 95 her sister still enjoys an active outdoors lifestyle. Marj tells me that her sister isn't able to walk very well on account of arthritis, but she can still hold an oar and paddle. For her birthday, she went on a 25 mile kayak trip. The trip was interrupted when her kayak tipped, spilling her into freezing water. It was 40 degrees when she stood shivering on the shore. She told Marj, "It was the perfect birthday." Marj smiled, shook her small fists in the air and said "My sister's a fighter, even at 95. There are young people who can't even do what she did." She was proud.
Some shapes wade in through my mouth. They linger in the narrows, lapping against the ballast of my tongue, gently rocking the roots of my teeth. Some shapes sneak in through the corner of my eye. They slip through soft footed covering their tracks, traveling untraceable as they glide through the pass. Other shapes climb in through my right ear. Settling in a washed out cleft, braced and secure against the eminent tides. Some shapes are breathed in, absorbed through fingertips, carried on the skin before sinking heavy and released again.
marj is a regular at the library where i work. she lives in an apartment complex across the street. her husband used to come in on a regular basis before his passing last march. he would read the papers and talk about the stock market and the price of gas, how to save money and the environment. he was a runner and loved to race. marj would come in front time to time to read the paper or newsweek. we never spoke much, marj and i. she started coming in almost every day, monday-friday last summer. she started using the computer. her kids helped her set up an email account and showed her a few computer basics. when she comes across something new or unknown she asks me for help. she tells me about her bingo winnings and how she gives the proceeds to the food pantry. "50cents...$2..." she says "it adds up." today she walked into the library, stood in front of my desk and reached into her pocket. "I have something for you!" she said. pulling out an envelope and opening it it to show me what was inside, she said "it's just a little treat, they were giving them away at bingo and i thought 'i know just who to give this to.'" she gave me the little cup with red and white m&m's and a dove milk chocolate heart and i said "thank you" about a dozen times... but it doesn't feel like i could ever say thank you enough to express my gratitude towards marj, her thoughtful gesture and how it made me smile.
The buzz of my phone woke me up this morning a few minutes to six. My mom sent a text with a photo of my cousin (Adam) holding his brand new baby boy, followed by another text saying that this baby was born on my late papa's (her father's) birthday. Adam is the first of 14 cousin's on my mom's side to have a baby. He is the 4th oldest (I am the 3rd). I'm beyond happy for my family. Waking up to good news is a great way to start any day! Also... blue skies!
Happy birthday papa and new baby!
Here comes the sun by the Beatles Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say it's all right
Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here Here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say it's all right
Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here Here comes the sun, here comes the sun and I say it's all right
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes... Sun, sun, sun, here it comes... Sun, sun, sun, here it comes... Sun, sun, sun, here it comes... Sun, sun, sun, here it comes...
Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say it's all right It's all right
And if my heart be scarred and burned, The safer, I, for all I learned; The calmer, I, to see it true That ways of love are never new- The love that sets you daft and dazed Is every love that ever blazed; The happier, I, to fathom this: A kiss is every other kiss. The reckless vow, the lovely name, When Helen walked, were spoke the same; The weighted breast, the grinding woe, When Phaon fled, were ever so. Oh, it is sure as it is sad That any lad is every lad, And what's a girl, to dare implore Her dear be hers forevermore? Though he be tried and he be bold, And swearing death should he be cold, He'll run the path the others went.... But you, my sweet, are different.
The first light is faint. A sliver of moon still glints in the sky. Rooftops covered in snowfall from last night are illuminated by the pink golden glow of sunrise. The light is brightest just before the sun slips behind the heavy grey that blankets the February sky. Her eyes open under the white sheets on her white bed in her white room which is in her white house in the white north. She is looking without seeing for a moment before her vision gains focus and expands again. Confused by the diaphonous view through bedsheets diffused by morning light, she calculates her location with non-exact percision. She is here. Outside leafless branches bend and flex with the casual movement of melting ice. Without looking at the clock, she suspects the train has already left and that it is a quarter to nine.
I remember my year spent living in Brooklyn and how displaced I felt surrounded by concrete and steel. I would walk to the Promenade, stand at the rail and watch the heavy stream of traffic rush beneath me, wondering where everyone was going and if anyone would take me with them. I finally moved to spend a summer in upstate NY where I watched fawn and fox play in the field that was my backyard. That summer was a long deep breath and exhale, a much needed return to what I feel sustains me. Brambles and pine, redbuds and dogwoods blooming. When I close my eyes I see red earth and slate with smooth curves gently carved by summer rains, metamorphic rock that is born through change, a change that comes to me through the shifting scenery, the direction of the wind. I grew up in a small town in Oklahoma that was called my home. But it never felt like home, only a place with familiar faces and recognizable street names. Eventually I ended up in Madison. I haven't decided if this feels like home yet... When I think of home I think of somewhere I have never been. I feel the lonely absence of something I have never known and the painful displacement from a place I have never been. Saudade solastalgia. Does it even exist?
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
I suppose it takes strength to endure life, but when it is a life you have created out of fear or indifference, then it takes a lot more strength and courage to be accountable and transform the fear into change.
I found this quote by Pema Chodron and thought it was appropriate for Martin Luther King's birthday.
"This leads to a bigger underlying issue for all of us: How are we ever going to change anything? How is there going to be less aggression in the universe rather than more? We can then bring it down to a more personal level: how do I learn to communicate with somebody who is hurting me or someone who is hurting a lot of people? How do I speak to someone so that some change actually occurs? How do I communicate so that the space opens up and both of us begin to touch in to some kind of basic intelligence that we all share? In a potentially violent encounter, how do I communicate so that neither of us becomes increasingly furious and aggressive? How do I communicate to the heart so that a stuck situation can ventilate? How do I communicate so that things that seem frozen, unworkable, and eternally aggressive begin to soften up, and some kind of compassionate exchange begins to happen?
Well, it starts with being willing to feel what we are going through. It starts with being willing to have a compassionate relationship with the parts of ourselves that we feel are not worthy of existing on the planet. If we are willing through meditation to be mindful not only of what feels comfortable, but also of what pain feels like, if we even aspire to stay awake and open to what we're feeling, to recognize and acknowledge it as best we can in each moment, then something begins to change." -Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times
At some point, you stop thinking about time. You stop thinking about what day it is, what month, what year. When you look for time, you discover no one can agree on the second. Distance between then, now, and when is arbitrary. Time becomes a question of "how do I feel?" and "what ever became of...?" You ask questions until every word begins to sound the same, only incoherent syllables remain. You discover that there is no need to speak. Time becomes a line, a crease, the knitted brow of thinking. You try to forget time, carefully smoothing away what never was, what came to be, and what might still come. Time rejects your silent invocations and conjuring. Finally, time becomes a monument, a photograph, a door... but you don't think about time anymore.
The sun was slow to rise this morning. I've been noticing the days lasting longer. It's hard for me to put myself into winter, it's hard for me to stay still in my own body and mind. The cold, the monochrome vistas, the dark. I usually escape for a while. I'm here in body but my senses have flown south. It isn't like summer, when I can feel each bead of sweat as it rolls down my back, sometimes starting at the nape. It isn't like summer when I go for long walks and bike rides just to hear other people living through the open windows of my neighborhood. My favorite thing is to hear someone practicing a musical instrument, playing a song I know... I like to hear jazz being played unsteady and shaky through bloom scented air that sometimes smells of fragrant fish and gasoline as it drifts off the lake. Winter has failed to capture my attention the way every other month has and does. But I don't entirely put the blame on winter. My thin blood and penchant for dresses and scant tights rather than woolen sweaters and snow boots makes anything below 65 degrees Fahrenheit entirely unenticing. This morning though, I noticed the sun softening the window panes in my bedroom. A slight blue glow diffused by ivory lace. I noticed the light painted through the black wicker shades that hang in my bathroom. Only in winter would I see this light - fragmented on glass through the ice. I still feel distant, but the distance I feel sometimes comes into focus... the visible life - puff of cool air meeting my warm breath, crystallized water tapestries on glass, the bare branches and twigs individually encased in ice, my feet as they pat the ground and crunch the cold covering - sometimes slick, sometimes soft, sometimes a puddle masked by thin ice. Suddenly the cold snaps me back into place and I remember where I am. Looking down at my hands, I notice the dry cracks and breaking skin that cover my veins, veins that have pulsed freely for 933,947,758 seconds and counting. Plunging into the cold, I feel myself again.
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