just over a week and ive hit a wall. trying to write a blog on a day im working is kind of ridiculous for my brain. also, i think i wrote and received enough emails to kill a horse, all with people speaking into my ear. makes me go a bit loopy. its nothing a couple of tv mysteries cant solve, tho. the new love of my tv life is the show sherlock. it really is a perfect adaptation/bringing up to date of my favorite mystery stories ever. if youve never gotten into sherlock holmes, now is the time. go here to watch the first (and only until next fall) three episodes. a study in pink is the first. you only have a month from sunday so hop to it, the game is on.
so here it is, almost midnight. but i dont want to pawn off another random something i wrote a while back on you all again today. (by the time i finish it will be tomorrow and ill have to start all over again...argh) enough.
since i cant get him out of my brain, ill just bring you folks into the conversation. less about holmes and more about his home: london. i love that town with a passion. i lived there for four months the fall of 1999. it was my 'study abroad' semester and while my friends were going to india and africa and latin america, i went to the city i had spent so much time in already, but only in my head. remember, i was an english major with a penchant for shakespeare and theatre. it took until i was out of college to really delve deeply into american literature because i had spent all my high school and college years reading brit lit. i had read so many books and plays set in england generally and london specifically in my life by the time i visited the city, a very many of them written before the turn of the last century, (including every sherlock holmes story ever published) that i felt i knew my way around before id even settled into my flat. which ended up being a fantastic delusion because a kid who grew up in chicago, (where there are arrow straight streets that run for miles and miles and its a perfect grid--thanks chicago fire--of north/south and east/west streets and has a numbering system radiating out in each cardinal direction from state and madison, every block a new hundred, every 8 blocks a mile) was going to by definition get horribly lost in the nest, the warren, the tangle, the maze of streets that makes up the city of london. it is disordered and chaotic, utterly random in its numbering, and completely baffling in its classification of streets, avenues, lanes, roads, places, squares, circles, circuses, terraces, gardens, vales, and mewses. i promise, each and every one of those names is attached to a roadway of a different size and shape than its fellow, on the map of london. there is no end to the dead ending, twist and turning, roundabouting, jogging, zig and zagging, and every shift of direction, no matter how slight, changes the name of the street. i could walk from my flat to school via two routes. one, was down edgware road to the main street, which was oxford street, head east, and then up tottenham court road. took about 35 minutes. or, i could go as directly east as i could from my flat (instead of the down/up part) and, if i didnt get lost, cut 5-10 minutes off my walk and traverse a roadway that changed names 6 times between edgware and tottenham court. this is not an exaggeration, look it up yourself. and this is why no resident of london is without a copy of the 'a to z' (pronounced a to zed) which is basically a map of london in book form with an index of streets in the back. (it figures prominently in the second of the new sherlock episodes, updated from the almanac used for a similar purpose in the original story.)
for those of you who have never run across a mews (pronounced, at least by the american tongue, like 'muse'), or havent read sir arthur conan doyle as deeply as i, i will attempt to explain what that particular kind of roadway, or passage, is. if a square is a small (1 block in length per side) fenced in, private park (see the movie notting hill for an illustration) with a road that goes around all four sides (all the sides of this square-shaped road have the same name, like grosvenor square) with houses facing this road all around it (with their numbers starting in one corner and working their way up around the square back to the start so the lowest and the highest are a the same corner), then a mews is the miniature, back alley version of that. it was originally the place behind the grand houses on the square where you pulled in the carriage and found the stables to leave the horses. so, like an alley with garages, except when carriages went out with the automobile, the stables got turned into apartments, and people moved in. so its like having an apartment that looks out onto a courtyard. its rare (as far as i know) for a mews to be a through street. i always saw them as dead ends. and, if you care about this sort of thing, its not a very prestigious address to have. there is a great scene in a sherlock holmes story called, i think, 'a scandal in bohemia' where he hangs around a mews disguised as a coachman and gets all the information he needs about a certain suspect from the grooms in the stables of her house. its the kind of 'street' you can see and immediately cast your mind back to a time when it made sense to have an alleyway only 6ft wide and with no real turnaround and no exit. one of the thousand things that remind you how very long london has been a center of civilization and culture. im so very glad i took a history of london class while i was there. did you know there are still places in the city where you can see the original roman wall? the one they built to enclose entire the city back in the 3rd century? (which is now just the small neighborhood called 'the city' east of the west end which is like the loop in chicago, the financial center of london.)
but i digress. london, for someone with plenty of time and a compass, is an exceedingly pleasurable city to walk in. especially if you are willing to get lost. i realized early on in my semester there, if i took the tube anywhere in the first two zones (the smallest of the concentric circles radiating out from the city center used for the pricing of fares) i was doing myself a great disservice of 1) disorienting myself and 2) not allowing myself to see how all the different areas fit together. if i walked from one place to the other i understood the shift from neighborhood to neighborhood and realized things like the fact that those two tube stops were actually just a long block from each other and not worth the trip underground. the street im thinking of, between the embankment stop and the charing cross stop, quickly became my favorite one to walk down in london (or the part of london i knew, chiefly the west end). its called villiers street and one end opens on to the strand right near charing cross station and st. martin in the fields church (the one whose steps were famously recorded by edward r. murrow during an air raid in the blitz, he held the mic down to the steps to get the sound of londoners walking (walking!) to the air raid shelter in the crypt below), the other end not quite entering onto embankment road. there is a bridge over the thames right there, only for the train into charing cross and foot traffic, which gives you a fantastic view of southwark and westminster and the millennium ferris wheel (now called the london eye and which at the time was still being built). the thing about getting on that bridge is you have to do it from the second floor. sounds funny to think of a street as having a second floor, and it really was built into the building of charing cross station, but it felt as much like a public thoroughfare as the street was, and looked out over this street in the best people-watching fashion. i used to take this route from school, which was right next to the british museum, to the national theatre just over the river (which i did every other week that semester, i lost track of how many theatre productions i saw around town in that time but would estimate around 20). id spend a couple hours walking down charing cross road and stopping in every bookshop i saw, then climb up to my perch on villiers street and watch the commuters coming home from work, passing by the inevitable statue-type street performer at the bottom of the street, until it was time to go to the theatre. thinking back, i dont know if i ever walked on the street-level part of that street. i only ever wanted to be there for the birds eye view of the masses and the quaint little shops. it felt like standing on the bridge over the expressway near my home growing up. like watching a river flow past you. meditative and yet interesting, cuz noticing how very similar yet slightly different the people were was a fun game, the subtle variations in london working professional garb, almost invariably black and complete with the standard issue satchels or briefcases and the long umbrellas, some with their commuting shoes on--vastly different from their office shoes, cuz they never match the outfit. then every once in a while a splash of color, catching one's eye just like an autumn leaf getting borne down a stream would.
hm. seems to be a pattern of thought for me to write about, the places i can be alone with my thoughts, watching movement. wonder if thats to do with the fact that writing is such a solitary art, its another place in which im good at being alone.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
lesser of two evils...?
good lord this day has gotten away from me. i have done a ton of writing, just none of it is blog-worthy. lots of long emails. lots of thought about projects and ideas that arent mine. i dont have the wherewithal to come up with something this evening. seth and i stayed up till 3am talking about the house idea and making a timeframe of getting things done and then we were up at 9am having breakfast with the fam before work. and tonight im running lines with paul.
so ill give you a choice:
you can either read my friend j. hunt's blog from last week that has spurred some amazing discussion (some of which is mine) about experimental music and the place of art in entertainment *here*, which i have been thinking and talking and writing about a lot and i highly recommmend, or you can read an excerpt from something i was writing in october (part of which i put on facebook back then), below. (or both)
...i was excited to soon have time alone with her and I basked in the similarity of feeling coming from her in the way she drew me in--to confidences, to the couch, to her gaze. Oh, those eyes. The word hungry was never far from my mind when I looked into them. She seemed to want to satisfy some deep unquenchable hunger simply with looking. It seemed she could feed whatever part of herself was so needy by casting her eye upon anything, the city streets, the ministry buildings, the stellar graffiti, works of art, but it seemed people filled her up quickest and most satisfyingly. And i felt as tho it was increasingly at me, and into my own eyes that she wanted to look—to be fed upon. And it was at once both a pleasurable sensation, to have such a concentrated gaze turned your way, and a bit painful, as if she was able to search out and peer into the deep things inside me that one tends to hide from others' view. As if parts of your childhood you thought you'd outgrown showed up in the way you reached for the sugar to put in your tea. And she'd make an infinitesimal gesture or noise when she detected it, one of delight at the discovery, but smacking a bit of triumph, and one that made the subject immediately feel so very exposed. Ravaged, almost. Which, for me, was delightfully gratifying, as I hadnt truly been seen by another person in a very long time. Before traveling I had been living at my parents house in my own hometown, where every single person had known me from a tot and half of them saw my father when they looked at me, the other half saw my brother or mother. And diana and I have known each other for so long we dont even have to look to know what the other is thinking or feeling. And simply by virtue of being a tourist in many places in europe, certainly the ones you dont have language skills in, you are almost always made invisible. So, to be regarded with such fixity of purpose, even if that purpose was unknown and coming from a veritable stranger, was shockingly, and possibly dangerously, delicious. Like a well-mixed manhattan made from such smooth whiskey you might not even notice its power after a few.
I feel like I spent most of my time with her watching her struggle to figure out how to be so deep inside herself and yet to reach out to another person, and waiting to see how far she would then be able to let me in. it was like watching a young child learn to walk, but this wasnt her first time in courtship. I knew for a fact she had been with others before me. Nonetheless, like a child's first, each step was approached tentatively, but once the movement was made, the resolve to see it thru was firm. And once a step was taken it took a while to approach the next one. Which was fine with me, because it was fascinating to watch her work up to each one. I actually enjoyed it immensely, and the anticipation was great. The steps were just very small and I knew I could not make any of them for her, especially because I wasnt always sure exactly what they were going to be. The thing that kept me from being impatient was that she would never step backwards. Once we got to each level, she was happy to indulge in it with abandon. When we started holding hands, she couldnt be near me without doing so. Which was marvelous because she was an incredibly good hand-holder. That might sound odd, but even the simplest things can give one fabulously sensual pleasure. The thing that got me was when she would do it with two hands. She would come up next to me and slide, say, her left hand down my right wrist and along my palm so I would splay my fingers for hers to interweave themselves with mine, and then we would be quietly holding hands, at our sides, (her shoulders were shorter than mine so her hand was on the bottom) and this would be quite enjoyable in and of itself. but then she would shift herself slightly to stand just that much closer, and a fraction behind me, so our hands were bumping her left thigh, and then she would lean in just a bit and reach with her right hand around my arm, tracing the inside of my elbow, slipping her fingertips under my shirt sleeve, to cup my bicep with her palm, her long fingers reaching to the tender inside of my upper arm, her thumb gently rubbing my deltoid. (I am an extremely thin man, it is not as if these muscles were at all large or well defined. But she knew how to caress them to bring all of my attention to each one of them.) Sometimes she would do all this while resting her chin or temple on the very tip of my right shoulder. And all the while we would be standing in front of a work of art, or an exhibit case at a museum, thinking of nothing but each of the few and specific places our bodies were touching. It was exquisite.
so ill give you a choice:
you can either read my friend j. hunt's blog from last week that has spurred some amazing discussion (some of which is mine) about experimental music and the place of art in entertainment *here*, which i have been thinking and talking and writing about a lot and i highly recommmend, or you can read an excerpt from something i was writing in october (part of which i put on facebook back then), below. (or both)
...i was excited to soon have time alone with her and I basked in the similarity of feeling coming from her in the way she drew me in--to confidences, to the couch, to her gaze. Oh, those eyes. The word hungry was never far from my mind when I looked into them. She seemed to want to satisfy some deep unquenchable hunger simply with looking. It seemed she could feed whatever part of herself was so needy by casting her eye upon anything, the city streets, the ministry buildings, the stellar graffiti, works of art, but it seemed people filled her up quickest and most satisfyingly. And i felt as tho it was increasingly at me, and into my own eyes that she wanted to look—to be fed upon. And it was at once both a pleasurable sensation, to have such a concentrated gaze turned your way, and a bit painful, as if she was able to search out and peer into the deep things inside me that one tends to hide from others' view. As if parts of your childhood you thought you'd outgrown showed up in the way you reached for the sugar to put in your tea. And she'd make an infinitesimal gesture or noise when she detected it, one of delight at the discovery, but smacking a bit of triumph, and one that made the subject immediately feel so very exposed. Ravaged, almost. Which, for me, was delightfully gratifying, as I hadnt truly been seen by another person in a very long time. Before traveling I had been living at my parents house in my own hometown, where every single person had known me from a tot and half of them saw my father when they looked at me, the other half saw my brother or mother. And diana and I have known each other for so long we dont even have to look to know what the other is thinking or feeling. And simply by virtue of being a tourist in many places in europe, certainly the ones you dont have language skills in, you are almost always made invisible. So, to be regarded with such fixity of purpose, even if that purpose was unknown and coming from a veritable stranger, was shockingly, and possibly dangerously, delicious. Like a well-mixed manhattan made from such smooth whiskey you might not even notice its power after a few.
I feel like I spent most of my time with her watching her struggle to figure out how to be so deep inside herself and yet to reach out to another person, and waiting to see how far she would then be able to let me in. it was like watching a young child learn to walk, but this wasnt her first time in courtship. I knew for a fact she had been with others before me. Nonetheless, like a child's first, each step was approached tentatively, but once the movement was made, the resolve to see it thru was firm. And once a step was taken it took a while to approach the next one. Which was fine with me, because it was fascinating to watch her work up to each one. I actually enjoyed it immensely, and the anticipation was great. The steps were just very small and I knew I could not make any of them for her, especially because I wasnt always sure exactly what they were going to be. The thing that kept me from being impatient was that she would never step backwards. Once we got to each level, she was happy to indulge in it with abandon. When we started holding hands, she couldnt be near me without doing so. Which was marvelous because she was an incredibly good hand-holder. That might sound odd, but even the simplest things can give one fabulously sensual pleasure. The thing that got me was when she would do it with two hands. She would come up next to me and slide, say, her left hand down my right wrist and along my palm so I would splay my fingers for hers to interweave themselves with mine, and then we would be quietly holding hands, at our sides, (her shoulders were shorter than mine so her hand was on the bottom) and this would be quite enjoyable in and of itself. but then she would shift herself slightly to stand just that much closer, and a fraction behind me, so our hands were bumping her left thigh, and then she would lean in just a bit and reach with her right hand around my arm, tracing the inside of my elbow, slipping her fingertips under my shirt sleeve, to cup my bicep with her palm, her long fingers reaching to the tender inside of my upper arm, her thumb gently rubbing my deltoid. (I am an extremely thin man, it is not as if these muscles were at all large or well defined. But she knew how to caress them to bring all of my attention to each one of them.) Sometimes she would do all this while resting her chin or temple on the very tip of my right shoulder. And all the while we would be standing in front of a work of art, or an exhibit case at a museum, thinking of nothing but each of the few and specific places our bodies were touching. It was exquisite.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
home-free to home-base in a gajillion 'easy' steps
this evening, my younger brother seth and I are going to have a business dinner where we get together and talk seriously, man to semi-man, about buying a house together in chicago. Most likely in the Logan Square neighborhood of which he is already a resident. For some reason, in the past 6 months, the number of houses that have been foreclosed on in that area has gone from no more than 50 to over 300, at least according to the real estate website im wont to frequent these days. Now im not so sure that trying to purchase a house in foreclosure is the best idea out there, but im optimistic that if those properties become bank owned, they will be sold at a price closer to the amount left on the mortgage than to the amount they would have sold for even last year. The plan is to start researching and get a real estate agent who's willing to help look, and find a house near the blue line that is a 2-flat (or a duplex for non-chicagoans) for $100,000 (or less) so the mortgage, when locked into a 4% interest rate for 30 years, is manageable. The thing that will make this a two person job is the property taxes. on a house with so much square footage in the city we are looking at $5000 a year, most likely. However, if we have a house with 2 units (one for each of us) and each unit has 2 bedrooms, and either of us ever wants to have a roommate, then 'rent' for each of us living there would be obscenely cheap. The thing is, tho, finding a house at this price usually means finding one in pretty bad shape. I am more than happy to put in the sweat equity this sort of place requires, tho. im looking for a project to keep me busy and settled in one place for a while. Again, the eternal optimist in me says that working on a place, somewhat slowly as I can figure out how to fix it up and amass the money to do it, would be really fun. Seth of course referenced the movie 'the money pit' with tom hanks which is hilarious if you dont own a house and spirit breaking if you are thinking about buying a fixer-upper.
My motives for buying a house are mostly based on the two parts of my personality that have the hardest time coexisting and allowing me to stay sane: my host and my traveler. My host, who has been laying dormant for a year and a half now while ive been a non-stop guest, is so very ready to have a place of their own to nest in and be a homebody and have people over all of the time, visitors who need a place to stay, friends coming over for dinner, community events like house shows and game nights and potlucks and crafternoons and book clubs and any other events I can think up. My traveler, who is close to having their fill of my current lifestyle, will soon pop up again, tempting me away from the life my host has created, no matter how wonderful, and convincing me there are more places to see and things to explore and ways of living to experience, which I know I wont be able to resist. But i can at least lessen the difficulty when said situation arises by living in a place that isnt too expensive to be able to pay 'rent' and still have money to travel. Or a place that I could rent out my unit of, know that seth is still there to take care of his share, and go away for a time. Like, spend summers in seattle or berkeley or detroit or nyc or wwoofing somewhere across the globe, or spend a year writing in a garret in paris, or london, or edinburgh, or cinqueterra, italy. (none of these are out of my ken, as I have seriously thought about each of them and only wwoofing have I not had first-hand knowledge of) or simply give myself the amount of time and space I need to sit still in a room by myself, listening to the voices in my head and getting them down on paper in a way that will actually lend itself toward publication, which is a kind of going away in itself.
point being, I could have a place that was always my home that was set up specifically so that I wouldnt have to leave it outright in order to go away for a time. Which would mean I would have a place to come back to (aside from my parents house which at 32 is getting a little silly) that is near the fam (especially the little fox cub mentioned in my previous post who has more to do with my choice of location than im ready to deal with) not to mention all the amazing and lovely people ive known for so long who, by virtue of being midwesterners, are a remarkably loyal bunch, and (so I have been told multiple times already) absolutely love the idea of chicago being my chosen and legitimate home-base. Cuz thats who I am: not a person with a home, necessarily (as proved in my home-free nature these days), but one with a home-base. In fact, I might proffer that as a name for our house. Home base, where the mastermind behind homeroom lives, where recording projects of various kinds are happening in the basement and attic, where sometimes the two hermits in the two units never go outside or see the other one unless one of them remembers to make dinner and thinks to share it, and where sometimes the house is full to the brim with people staying over to catch up, eat up, fix up, store up for winter, share stories, and sing songs, all the while creating something beautiful and just maybe getting it down on paper, film, tape, digital file, canvas, or wall, either for just themselves or to share with others. If you want to be part of my home base, for any length of time, lemme know. Im taking applications now. ;) everyone is welcome to visit, stay, and collaborate; help fix, cook, garden, create; bring along their ideas, energies, plans, projects, productions, and progeny. If I will have visited you in my 2 years of travel, you are required to come stay with me so i can repay you in kind, you have an open invitation. if i havent made it out to see you i apologize and desperately want you to come to me so i can make it up to you. in other words: everyone, anywhere, come. If im there, you are welcome. If im not, you are still welcome. get the keys from seth and make yourself at home.
[of course, this is all contingent on our plans tonight coming to fruition in the next 8 months, and there is a lot that can go awry between a planning dinner and closing, but...] *I want this.* And have for a long time. Just didnt know where or how or when. The best solution I could find is here, in the recession with seth, now. I will let you know how its coming and send out invitations when my host has finally gotten his way.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
avuncular ecstasy
warning: this blog is going to be somewhat lofty and dramatic in its praise and awe for a certain very small child. to be transparent about my bias i will let you know now that the little one in question happens to be related to me. this might or might not have anything to do with the choice of language used below, and i beg your patience and critical reading skills to separate fact from fiction, exaggeration from accurate assessment, wild claim from hard truth. (in other words, take everything forthcoming with a grain of salt, but i beg you to withhold judgment till you meet the subject in person.)
my nephew alex is the cutest thing on the planet. now i know you want to say something like 'thats what everyone says about their own family member,' but as my older brother nate (alex's father) has said 'its a fact that he is empirically good looking,' and tho we all laugh at his false modesty, not one of us disagrees. i feel like i have a bit of proof, however. i have traveled all around the country and shown every last one of my hosts a picture of said 'lil toots' (as his grandmother calls him) and each time i have watched my host's face melt into a puddle of admiration and the strong desire to pinch cheeks. its inevitable. allison (alex's mother) talks about walking down the street and having passersby stop to admire the peanut.
it helps that he is also the most good-natured human being under 1 year old known to humankind. he *always* has a smile on his face, he makes up excuses to laugh, he practically forces himself into giggle fits, and he just, by his presence, makes your day brighter. its almost obscene. he is really delighted by everything which makes him a delight to be around. my entire nuclear family believes wholeheartedly that he is 1) a miracle, 2) the most beautiful, 3) the most intelligent, and 4) the most talented child to ever arrive on this planet. and we are happy to bore others with proofs of these claims. we feel this way because 1)he is ours, and 2) he is the first of the next generation to grace our tight little club and we are ever slightly more than giddy at the prospect of being a part of his life. the thing that makes all of us a little crazy is that my brothers and i grew up at least 4 hours away from any aunts, uncles or grandparents and never really knew how it works when the extended family is close enough to be a regular part of your life. my dads brothers and their families were way out in LA, if we got out there once every other year we were doing good. my closest grandparent was my moms mom down in southern indiana and she would come stay with us for a couple weeks a couple times a year so we knew and loved her, but not in a 'this is a constant in my life' sort of way. not like the fact that my parents take care of alex during the allison's workday every friday (shes a teacher and is done before nate) and he knows life in their house and falling asleep and waking up to them like its totally normal. which it is to him. its just so far from any of our understandings of growing up i think we are all still a little shocked at how lucky we are to find ourselves in this position. (i include myself theoretically at this point...see below.)
[at right: tofu all over his face]
all that said because i got to hang out with him yesterday. it was the first time in a month id seen him (which tends to be the standard amount of time between visits these days) and he has grown a lot in that time. not in size or shape, but in dexterity and mobility and perception. he is figuring things out at a rate of at least 5 a day, whether its that reaching for something will get it passed to you, or that when you make a growly roaring sound when you want another bite of banana you get fed and tons of smiles, or that you can get from one place to the other by getting from a sitting position to all fours and then back again, but getting up over one leg and sitting down over the other which accomplishes both a different location and orientation in the process (try it, it works). he is brilliant and amazing and so much fun, but my heart almost broke when i walked into my mom and dads kitchen yesterday morning and he looked up at me with a face that was halfway between indifferent and curious, and all over unrecognizing. cuz this means hes paying attention to the people in his life outside of his mom and dad and he knows them. so the logical conclusion of that is: i am not one of the people in his life. weep for me. this is a tragedy i am having a hard time recovering from. cuz what i dont like to tell people is i was 2,120 miles away when he was born, and i didnt meet him till he was 11 days old. my name does not appear in the home-made 'on the day you were born' book that lists the rest of my family as being excited to meet him that day. i am an awful aunt. uncle. ray ray. (thats the compromise right now between myself and allison, alex's name for me will be ray ray. everyone else is gramma barb, grampa wayne, and uncle seth. itll do for now...) whatever my title, im failing in my role.
and ive realized, even if i settle in chicago to be closer to him (which decision i will be more forthcoming with in a later post) i know myself well enough by now that i know i will not always be able to stay here. the travel bug bit hard more than ten years ago and wont let go. and its the opposite for my brothers, they will never leave chicago. ever. even to travel. i had to beg and plead seth just to come visit me in seattle. so i will always be the one thats away, the one that travels for holidays, the one that is coming home to visit. which on some levels might be to my advantage when alex gets older and threatens to run away to live with ray ray in london for the summer before college to escape the tyranny of his parents, but for now is painful only to me, the little one oblivious to his unfamiliarity with this person that looks vaguely like those people most important to him. which feels unfair, cuz there was a time when he was half as old as now, when he used me as a napping substrate and he knew my smell as one that meant safety.
so this has spurred in me the desire to make my presence in his life known. granted, right now it helps that i will be around for his first thanksgiving, his first christmas, his first birthday (in feb), cuz he is old enough to be paying attention and i wanna be there for all of that. but then ill be traveling for 4 months and might only spend 2 days in chicago that whole time, and well, he might start talking during that period. i will most certainly miss his first steps, and his first words (unless those come soon). im coming to terms with the idea that most of my presence in his young life might be thru sending postcards and pictures and videos. on the train home this concept formed itself into a childrens book entitled 'kisses from ray ray' which was about all the varying ways that a little fox cub named kit gets 'kisses' from a bigger fox, named ray van fox, who travels all over the world and sends these kisses thru the mail or the interwebs or thru other family members or what have you.
sometimes its just a postcard with the symbol of an x and an o on top of each other, like this:
which, coincidentally, ray ray has tattooed on a forearm (does this both look and sound familiar? it should). sometimes ray ray draws one on kits arm, too.
im kinda super excited both about the real-life version of this story, and the possibility of making it into an actual book. problem is, i cant draw worth shit. anyone have ideas for how to illustrate this or want to collaborate with me on it? anyone...? bueller...bueller...?
my nephew alex is the cutest thing on the planet. now i know you want to say something like 'thats what everyone says about their own family member,' but as my older brother nate (alex's father) has said 'its a fact that he is empirically good looking,' and tho we all laugh at his false modesty, not one of us disagrees. i feel like i have a bit of proof, however. i have traveled all around the country and shown every last one of my hosts a picture of said 'lil toots' (as his grandmother calls him) and each time i have watched my host's face melt into a puddle of admiration and the strong desire to pinch cheeks. its inevitable. allison (alex's mother) talks about walking down the street and having passersby stop to admire the peanut.
it helps that he is also the most good-natured human being under 1 year old known to humankind. he *always* has a smile on his face, he makes up excuses to laugh, he practically forces himself into giggle fits, and he just, by his presence, makes your day brighter. its almost obscene. he is really delighted by everything which makes him a delight to be around. my entire nuclear family believes wholeheartedly that he is 1) a miracle, 2) the most beautiful, 3) the most intelligent, and 4) the most talented child to ever arrive on this planet. and we are happy to bore others with proofs of these claims. we feel this way because 1)he is ours, and 2) he is the first of the next generation to grace our tight little club and we are ever slightly more than giddy at the prospect of being a part of his life. the thing that makes all of us a little crazy is that my brothers and i grew up at least 4 hours away from any aunts, uncles or grandparents and never really knew how it works when the extended family is close enough to be a regular part of your life. my dads brothers and their families were way out in LA, if we got out there once every other year we were doing good. my closest grandparent was my moms mom down in southern indiana and she would come stay with us for a couple weeks a couple times a year so we knew and loved her, but not in a 'this is a constant in my life' sort of way. not like the fact that my parents take care of alex during the allison's workday every friday (shes a teacher and is done before nate) and he knows life in their house and falling asleep and waking up to them like its totally normal. which it is to him. its just so far from any of our understandings of growing up i think we are all still a little shocked at how lucky we are to find ourselves in this position. (i include myself theoretically at this point...see below.)
[at right: tofu all over his face]
all that said because i got to hang out with him yesterday. it was the first time in a month id seen him (which tends to be the standard amount of time between visits these days) and he has grown a lot in that time. not in size or shape, but in dexterity and mobility and perception. he is figuring things out at a rate of at least 5 a day, whether its that reaching for something will get it passed to you, or that when you make a growly roaring sound when you want another bite of banana you get fed and tons of smiles, or that you can get from one place to the other by getting from a sitting position to all fours and then back again, but getting up over one leg and sitting down over the other which accomplishes both a different location and orientation in the process (try it, it works). he is brilliant and amazing and so much fun, but my heart almost broke when i walked into my mom and dads kitchen yesterday morning and he looked up at me with a face that was halfway between indifferent and curious, and all over unrecognizing. cuz this means hes paying attention to the people in his life outside of his mom and dad and he knows them. so the logical conclusion of that is: i am not one of the people in his life. weep for me. this is a tragedy i am having a hard time recovering from. cuz what i dont like to tell people is i was 2,120 miles away when he was born, and i didnt meet him till he was 11 days old. my name does not appear in the home-made 'on the day you were born' book that lists the rest of my family as being excited to meet him that day. i am an awful aunt. uncle. ray ray. (thats the compromise right now between myself and allison, alex's name for me will be ray ray. everyone else is gramma barb, grampa wayne, and uncle seth. itll do for now...) whatever my title, im failing in my role.
and ive realized, even if i settle in chicago to be closer to him (which decision i will be more forthcoming with in a later post) i know myself well enough by now that i know i will not always be able to stay here. the travel bug bit hard more than ten years ago and wont let go. and its the opposite for my brothers, they will never leave chicago. ever. even to travel. i had to beg and plead seth just to come visit me in seattle. so i will always be the one thats away, the one that travels for holidays, the one that is coming home to visit. which on some levels might be to my advantage when alex gets older and threatens to run away to live with ray ray in london for the summer before college to escape the tyranny of his parents, but for now is painful only to me, the little one oblivious to his unfamiliarity with this person that looks vaguely like those people most important to him. which feels unfair, cuz there was a time when he was half as old as now, when he used me as a napping substrate and he knew my smell as one that meant safety.
so this has spurred in me the desire to make my presence in his life known. granted, right now it helps that i will be around for his first thanksgiving, his first christmas, his first birthday (in feb), cuz he is old enough to be paying attention and i wanna be there for all of that. but then ill be traveling for 4 months and might only spend 2 days in chicago that whole time, and well, he might start talking during that period. i will most certainly miss his first steps, and his first words (unless those come soon). im coming to terms with the idea that most of my presence in his young life might be thru sending postcards and pictures and videos. on the train home this concept formed itself into a childrens book entitled 'kisses from ray ray' which was about all the varying ways that a little fox cub named kit gets 'kisses' from a bigger fox, named ray van fox, who travels all over the world and sends these kisses thru the mail or the interwebs or thru other family members or what have you.
sometimes its just a postcard with the symbol of an x and an o on top of each other, like this:
which, coincidentally, ray ray has tattooed on a forearm (does this both look and sound familiar? it should). sometimes ray ray draws one on kits arm, too.
im kinda super excited both about the real-life version of this story, and the possibility of making it into an actual book. problem is, i cant draw worth shit. anyone have ideas for how to illustrate this or want to collaborate with me on it? anyone...? bueller...bueller...?
Friday, November 5, 2010
totally unprepared
okay, so this is my post for today, the previous one is from yesterday but was wonky...thats what i get for trying to be at least a day ahead of myself...but now, i have nothing prepared for today.
last night i was hanging out and drinking and eating and playing euchre with some good friends here in chicago and at least three times over the course of the evening i thought 'that would make a good blog post' but of course, with all the eating and drinking and playing euchre and talking to till super-late i forgot every one of them. so here i am again, updating older writing for popular consumption. ill try to make this my last 'warm over the leftovers' kind of post till prolly tech week... :/
this is a conglomeration of the outtakes from the piece i performed at ethan's 'chestaide' fundraising night in ann arbor in july. (in the post entitled 'today its my shirt')
Daily I have no idea whether im going to be given that one kind of authority and privilege, the kind you get by being seen as a man, or if people are gonna treat me like im a freak.
I still have a moment of panic every time I step into the men's room that someone is gonna call me out on being there—even tho ive never even been double-taked—but its vastly superior to the feeling of stepping into the women's room and having everyone stare at me like Ive trespassed somehow. I always felt the need to make eye contact with and smile at every woman in there so they wouldn't feel threatened. I felt like an interloper, which is how ive always felt in all-female spaces. Like my being there was somehow wrong.
I feel much more at home in all-male spaces, even tho im still unsure of the code of conduct and feel a bit like a spy. but its not like im putting on a disguise in order to infiltrate, its just that I feel a lot more comfortable living life as someone who people would more readily identify as a man than a woman. If only it didnt have to be either/or.
But then I think about hitchhiking. I'm homeless, without the funds to fly around the country as much as id like. I want to stand on the side of the road with my thumb out, looking like a pleasant guy to pass the next couple hundred miles with in friendly conversation. For the length of a journey like that, I think of ways to keep from creating that shift in perspective in people, the one that makes them unsure of how to proceed, having already put me in one category in their head, and finding that the necessity of shifting to another uncovers a huge gap in prescribed etiquette. Of course, I am outraged that people feel the necessity to shift at all, but that's not a battle I can fight in someone else's car on some highway between destinations.
The source of blame is how differently men and women are raised—and what they are taught to believe is appropriate for each gender. Nonetheless, in order to survive, I have to work in that paradigm. Having not been socialized as a man means im a bit behind on the code of conduct, however. Therefore, ive worked out some rules of engagement:
Rule: men dont use that much inflection in their voices. Even when asking a question, you shouldn't go too far up at the end. Corollary: men should never let the end of their sentence go up if they aren't asking a question.they wont be taken seriously, or even 'worse', they might be seen as gay.
Rule: men dont hunch their shoulders. Corollary: men are never trying to hide their pecs. Concavity is for people with low self-esteem (or something to hide).
Rule: if a man concedes space or right-of-way on the sidewalk, he is thought of as a wuss by all the men nearby. Corollary: he is thought of as a gentleman by all the women in the vicinity.
Rule: the proper way for men to address another male they dont know is to say, 'hey, man.' corollary: if you reply in an unmanly register, you get an 'oh, sorry, ma'am,' in reply.
Man and ma'am. One consonant difference and it changes my whole identity as seen by a stranger.
Speaking of single consonants, getting referred to by 'he' instead of 'she' still makes me a little dizzy and puts a huge smile on my face—my biggest tell.
Rule: men dont smile that big or often. Corollary: men also dont tend to smile at kids all goofy and soft, like I sometimes find myself doing, for fear of being seen as a creepster. i now feel like i have to make eye contact with the parents and look like someones favorite uncle so they dont worry about my motives.
Conclusion: If the goal is to avoid at all costs the moments when you get clocked as a man by someone and partway thru the interaction the person changes their mind, dont let this sort of thing happen:
I was walking with saunia in the castro at night, and a drunk woman addressed us with a hearty 'gentlemen!' from about 20 ft away. by 10ft we were 'lady and gentleman?', by 3ft it was a surprised and half-aplogetic 'oh! Ladies...' In the matter of a minute we had morphed from a couple of gay men to a couple of lesbians. At no point was she right.
Ive decided it has a lot to do with who im with at the time of assessment. Guilt by association, if you will. traveling with my ex, luka, a tranny-boi that identifies on a more genderqueer level than the beard allows others to see, I was seen as a gay man because people read luka as such, thats who they thought he would be with.
Hanging out with my friend saunia, a short-haired, somewhat femme lesbian, im seen as the person who would most likely be her companion—a butch dyke. We get 'hello, ladies' all the time. And this is in berkeley. (btw, what butch wants to be called a lady?)
this summer when i was visiting an old college roommate, stacey, who both is and looks like a heterosexual woman, I hypothesized that I would be seen mostly as a straight man. But given that a hetero couple is the norm, that assumption was the hardest to prove, tho there was a moment with a cute guy behind an ice cream counter who interacted with me in a 'sup, bro?' kind of way, that led me to believe i was correct (and made me sad cuz he was really cute).
left to my own devices, I find myself trying to pass as a man. Not because my own personal identity is really that committed to one end of the spectrum, but because its so much more fun and gratifying. Im not trying to deceive anyone, im just trying to tip the scales a little more towards the identity in me that has been unseen by others for so long.
I mean, Id rather be a betwixt and between, but it seems identity is only partly what you perceive of yourself. Its also partly what others perceive you to be. my problem lies in the disparity between those two perceptions. Maybe someday we will get to a place where our genders can be fluid depending on how we're feeling, which will be reflected in our clothing and demeanor choices, which, cross your fingers, will be interpreted appropriately by our viewers, whose interactions with us will then reinforce how we feel about who we are.
And while im wishing, id like a pony...
last night i was hanging out and drinking and eating and playing euchre with some good friends here in chicago and at least three times over the course of the evening i thought 'that would make a good blog post' but of course, with all the eating and drinking and playing euchre and talking to till super-late i forgot every one of them. so here i am again, updating older writing for popular consumption. ill try to make this my last 'warm over the leftovers' kind of post till prolly tech week... :/
this is a conglomeration of the outtakes from the piece i performed at ethan's 'chestaide' fundraising night in ann arbor in july. (in the post entitled 'today its my shirt')
Daily I have no idea whether im going to be given that one kind of authority and privilege, the kind you get by being seen as a man, or if people are gonna treat me like im a freak.
I still have a moment of panic every time I step into the men's room that someone is gonna call me out on being there—even tho ive never even been double-taked—but its vastly superior to the feeling of stepping into the women's room and having everyone stare at me like Ive trespassed somehow. I always felt the need to make eye contact with and smile at every woman in there so they wouldn't feel threatened. I felt like an interloper, which is how ive always felt in all-female spaces. Like my being there was somehow wrong.
I feel much more at home in all-male spaces, even tho im still unsure of the code of conduct and feel a bit like a spy. but its not like im putting on a disguise in order to infiltrate, its just that I feel a lot more comfortable living life as someone who people would more readily identify as a man than a woman. If only it didnt have to be either/or.
But then I think about hitchhiking. I'm homeless, without the funds to fly around the country as much as id like. I want to stand on the side of the road with my thumb out, looking like a pleasant guy to pass the next couple hundred miles with in friendly conversation. For the length of a journey like that, I think of ways to keep from creating that shift in perspective in people, the one that makes them unsure of how to proceed, having already put me in one category in their head, and finding that the necessity of shifting to another uncovers a huge gap in prescribed etiquette. Of course, I am outraged that people feel the necessity to shift at all, but that's not a battle I can fight in someone else's car on some highway between destinations.
The source of blame is how differently men and women are raised—and what they are taught to believe is appropriate for each gender. Nonetheless, in order to survive, I have to work in that paradigm. Having not been socialized as a man means im a bit behind on the code of conduct, however. Therefore, ive worked out some rules of engagement:
Rule: men dont use that much inflection in their voices. Even when asking a question, you shouldn't go too far up at the end. Corollary: men should never let the end of their sentence go up if they aren't asking a question.they wont be taken seriously, or even 'worse', they might be seen as gay.
Rule: men dont hunch their shoulders. Corollary: men are never trying to hide their pecs. Concavity is for people with low self-esteem (or something to hide).
Rule: if a man concedes space or right-of-way on the sidewalk, he is thought of as a wuss by all the men nearby. Corollary: he is thought of as a gentleman by all the women in the vicinity.
Rule: the proper way for men to address another male they dont know is to say, 'hey, man.' corollary: if you reply in an unmanly register, you get an 'oh, sorry, ma'am,' in reply.
Man and ma'am. One consonant difference and it changes my whole identity as seen by a stranger.
Speaking of single consonants, getting referred to by 'he' instead of 'she' still makes me a little dizzy and puts a huge smile on my face—my biggest tell.
Rule: men dont smile that big or often. Corollary: men also dont tend to smile at kids all goofy and soft, like I sometimes find myself doing, for fear of being seen as a creepster. i now feel like i have to make eye contact with the parents and look like someones favorite uncle so they dont worry about my motives.
Conclusion: If the goal is to avoid at all costs the moments when you get clocked as a man by someone and partway thru the interaction the person changes their mind, dont let this sort of thing happen:
I was walking with saunia in the castro at night, and a drunk woman addressed us with a hearty 'gentlemen!' from about 20 ft away. by 10ft we were 'lady and gentleman?', by 3ft it was a surprised and half-aplogetic 'oh! Ladies...' In the matter of a minute we had morphed from a couple of gay men to a couple of lesbians. At no point was she right.
Ive decided it has a lot to do with who im with at the time of assessment. Guilt by association, if you will. traveling with my ex, luka, a tranny-boi that identifies on a more genderqueer level than the beard allows others to see, I was seen as a gay man because people read luka as such, thats who they thought he would be with.
Hanging out with my friend saunia, a short-haired, somewhat femme lesbian, im seen as the person who would most likely be her companion—a butch dyke. We get 'hello, ladies' all the time. And this is in berkeley. (btw, what butch wants to be called a lady?)
this summer when i was visiting an old college roommate, stacey, who both is and looks like a heterosexual woman, I hypothesized that I would be seen mostly as a straight man. But given that a hetero couple is the norm, that assumption was the hardest to prove, tho there was a moment with a cute guy behind an ice cream counter who interacted with me in a 'sup, bro?' kind of way, that led me to believe i was correct (and made me sad cuz he was really cute).
left to my own devices, I find myself trying to pass as a man. Not because my own personal identity is really that committed to one end of the spectrum, but because its so much more fun and gratifying. Im not trying to deceive anyone, im just trying to tip the scales a little more towards the identity in me that has been unseen by others for so long.
I mean, Id rather be a betwixt and between, but it seems identity is only partly what you perceive of yourself. Its also partly what others perceive you to be. my problem lies in the disparity between those two perceptions. Maybe someday we will get to a place where our genders can be fluid depending on how we're feeling, which will be reflected in our clothing and demeanor choices, which, cross your fingers, will be interpreted appropriately by our viewers, whose interactions with us will then reinforce how we feel about who we are.
And while im wishing, id like a pony...
drama bug
for the last three days ive woken up with lines from hamlet in my head. this is not surprising, ive been re-reading it non-stop since i saw the play last wednesday (and watched a film version i hadnt seen the week before to gear up for the performance) and yes, im fully aware of how weird/nerdy/dorky that is. some of you might not know (tho i dont know how you would have missed this) that i was an english lit major in college and was kinda a closet theatre major, which manifested in many ways, not the least of which was that i took at least 3 shakespeare courses (one of which was taught in london where i saw 6 of the 7 plays we studied on stage). this after having read at least 6 shakespeare plays in high school and growing up going to 'wayne v-- patron of the arts night' every summer since i was 10 years old which entailed attending whatever performance of shakespeare oak park festival theatre was presenting that year at austin gardens. so, yeah. i cut my teeth on this stuff and have spent a lot of time with a few of the plays, whether seeing them, reading them, or writing papers about them. twelfth night (for obvious reasons) king lear (for no special reason) and hamlet (for reasons to be divulged below) are the three i know incredibly well.
somehow in all of this, you might be surprised to know that tho i have been a part of quite a few theatre productions over the years, i have never once acted shakespeare. i say this as a form of transparency. i dont have first-hand knowledge of the language in my mouth for hours at a time, nor the embodiment of a shakespearean character in my self. truth is, i would love to. viola has always resonated strongly with me (that should have been a clue at some point), and when i stop lying to myself and just come out with it, hamlet is my dream role. (yes, im aware of how self-dramatizing and exactly like every stereotypically-full-of-themselves actor that is. i know, i know. [insert slight self-deprecating head shake here]) but its true. i would kill to play hamlet. or maybe i should say i would wait to kill until the very last moment possible when im practically already dead, to play hamlet.
the point that i started out to make is that ive been living and breathing this play recently and i think i have a pretty damned good idea of how i would want it to be done if ever i were a part of producing it. (i promise you now that i will never ever propose directing and starring in it, tho id like to do both, separately...) right, point being: i want a queer hamlet.
i want a hamlet who used to be with laertes, then moved on to ophelia when her brother left the country, has had a thing going with horatio for some time that comes to a head (pun intended) during the course of the play, used to mess around with rosencrantz (whose new boy is guildenstern), flirts with guildenstern out of spite, has probably played with at least one of the players, and generally runs the whole show by flirting with everyone.
i want the nunnery scene with ophelia to be a coming out moment, i want his speech to horatio about how good a friend he is to end up in a make-out session, i want all of his interactions with the players to impress the fact that he is playing all of the time with everyone (and is a ham himself), i want the closet scene to be like sisters talking about the men in their lives, i want every interaction with R&G to be lewd and dirty as hell, i want ophelias madness to also stem from her discovery that hamlet and her brother used to do it, i want laertes' anger with hamlet to be partially fear of being outed, i want most of his 'antic disposition' and wordplay to be more along the lines of being a diva, (with lots of camp, even queening) and flirting, all of that coming to a peak with the osric scene. the point being he knows how to control people and when there are a lot of them paying too close attention to him for any actual revenge to happen. therefore he 'speaks daggers but uses none' and flirts with those who enjoy it to get what he wants, and with those who dont to make them uncomfortable.
and the best part is, i promise im not just making shit up. i mean, kinda, but everyone is allowed interpretation from the text. but honestly, the text can support all of these things. there are so many cock jokes in this play i cant even count them.
do me a favor. re-read hamlet with these things in mind and tell me if it isnt one of the most fun and biting and dramatic shows you can think of.
signed,
ray i-wish-shakespeare-could-be-my-boyfriend van fox
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
life in training...
I think about train tracks a lot these days. I guess this isnt different than my normal way of being, tho. Im pretty much always aware of where the train tracks are in relation to myself. That started growing up next to a huge expressway that had both the L tracks and a freight line or two that ran along next to the lanes of traffic. The bridge I walked over on my way home from school took me over that torrent of travel and id play around with trying to get the big rigs to honk for me, or stand up close to the fencing and look over when a semi passed underneath, pretending the top of the trailer was the ground I stood on, getting vertigo and feeling like falling over. Sometimes id just stare at the lanes upon lanes of cars driving both into and out of downtown chicago, my view reminiscent of the video game 'frogger,' feeling the movement like choreography in my body, the vibration of the engines rumbling thru my legs and chest. Id watch from both sides of the bridge, sometimes catching the attention of the cars below, sometimes trying to spit on their roofs. It was the urban kids version of pooh sticks I played at, whiling the time away, hoping to be able to stay till the moment when the setting sun glinted directly off the skyscrapers, making their windows all look golden. It felt kinda miraculous cuz you had to be in the right place at the right time on the right day to see it and having caught it once or twice has stuck with me over the years as a personal triumph. Back then, those train tracks meant either the way into the city, if you were focusing on the loud and frequent rapid transit trains, or a slow link to the country, if you felt like paying attention to the creeping, tired looking freight cars which never seemed to go anywhere but then were gone. Being a city kid with no use for the country i focused on those L trains which were my link to the city as a high schooler, but maybe more importantly, which were the rhythm of my young life. they punctuated the aural landscape of my entire childhood, they could be heard every 10ish minutes passing nearby, if the windows were open or it was quiet, you could hear them inside. if you were outside, you couldnt get away from them, distracting a free throw at alley basketball, interrupting a conversation on the patio, the background noise of every kick the can or capture the flag game played on my block. my memories of summer nights as a child are characterized by the alternately rousing and lulling sounds of the blue line L train.
I went to a college in the middle of rural iowa that was founded at the intersection of two freight train lines, a north/south and an east/west. the n/s tracks actually went thru campus, cutting off my dorm from the academic buildings, slicing thru our pathways without so much as a light or a gate. I could stand as close as I wanted to the tracks as the train passed, I could leave a penny on the rail and have something super thin and smooth left over. I could walk for an hour on the tracks, balancing on a rail the whole time, as a study break, (or a social break as the school was so small sometimes it felt hard to get away from everyone) a half hour out, another half hour back. Or id walk to a preferred place and stop to think before heading back. 15 minutes north and youd be in the middle of corn fields, 15 minutes south and you could settle yourself on one of the ties that made up the tiny bridge over 2nd ave and watch the slow part of town take its time going by. These walks were always done to clear my head by concentrating on something going out far beyond myself, guiding me forward, making me keep my balance on a 3 inch wide piece of steel. It was a way of calming my mind and body, making me think about nothing academic, theoretical or emotional, simply letting me concentrate on spacial and physical dynamics and movements until I could get to the point of not concentrating on them at all. Putting body and visual sense on autopilot and letting my brain free associate or come to a realization about a problem, or simply exist in the physical world around me. It was walking meditation at its best and gave me a deep sense of peace in the knowledge that I became very good at making my way down those rails which were always spanning ahead, always allowing me to see beyond myself and away to parts unknown. The sense of anticipation for the future, of welcoming adventure, of travel as opportunity that had started on a bridge over 290 in chicago was crystallized into true love of movement there. The low wail of the train whistle rolling past my dorm room at 4am that had started out as a referent to the trains I used to hear at home, came to remind me that there always would be a way of constantly moving forward without forgetting where youd been.
Mostly these days I think about train tracks as my route to my destination via amtrak. Ive become kinda obsessed with taking the train everywhere I go. It means I get to see a lot more of the country than I would flying, as I seem to bounce back and forth between chicago and the west coast quite often. It is so much more interesting to while away a day staring out at the tan grasses of montana or the sulfur yellow rocks of utah than spend 4 fours with white clouds hurrying past. What do I have to hurry for? All ive got is time. The only thing in my life is the journey. The destinations I pick have friends and loved ones at them, which is marvelous and I will enjoy when I get there. but sometimes my travel time is the only time I have totally to myself, and extending it to be a couple days long (especially when a train ticket costs the same as a plane ticket but by definition includes a place to sleep for two nights) gives me a welcomed break from being a guest somewhere. I therefore think of my time on trains as a retreat. This last trip from seattle to chicago I didnt even bring a book, which necessitated that I either write or sleep. I did a lot of both. 2 letters, a childrens book idea, some work on a story, 1 and a half blog posts, and a lot of time with my dear hamlet, re-reading the play, making cuts, thinking about how I would direct it (this is a blog post waiting to happen, coming soon). Its amazing how much work you can get done with almost 3 days of no internet access...
the thing about train tracks and train travel that I think I started wanting to say back when I was rumbling thru minnesota, is that they immediately connote meditation for me. I mean, of course people get up and move around and get to know their fellow passengers on trains in a way you never could do on a plane, so there is a sociable aspect to it, but still, you are passing thru countryside, some of which cant be seen unless you are on a train (there are no roads there) at a pace that gives you time to mull over the shifting landscape (without the distraction of other cars on a road) and to feel the changes from one geographical location to the next. To remember how yesterday iowa was so softly green and today nevada is so violently red. To contemplate how different life must of necessity be between hilly maryland and west virginia and flat ohio and indiana. To be fully aware of each of the 2000 miles separating life in seattle from life in chicago and all the places and lives in between. Gives you time to get used to the difference, because the change is so much less drastic and you can see the evolution.
All this said, and I have yet to talk about the rhythm. The train for me is a place where listening to music is not needed because there is always this back beat rhythm of the wheels on the rail seams, the swinging sway of the cars on the tracks, the periodic ritardando and accelerando of entering and leaving stations. those stops become the pauses between songs when everyone gets antsy while waiting expectantly for the silence to quit being so loud and the train's music to start its lullaby again. Which is not to say that I dont ever listen to music on the train, my choices just have to be the kind that move in the same way. Yo la tengo's 'and then nothing turned itself inside out' was exactly suited for a grey/blue-misty-mountainous western montana morning, and (yes, ill admit it) counting crow's 'august and everything after' made for a marvelous golden-brown-sunny-rangeland eastern montana afternoon. Fleet foxes' self-titled was perfect. Just perfect.
but this traveling rhythm is important to keep me aware of the movement of the train, my movement thru life, my memories of travel, my plans for future places, my simultaneous awareness of where i am, where ive been and where i want to be. every L train near my house, every rail balancing step ive taken, every train trip that has taken me to a temporary home with loved ones, has comforted me with the familiarity and promise that my travel equals my life. and i trust the train to take me thru it. i know no other way.
I went to a college in the middle of rural iowa that was founded at the intersection of two freight train lines, a north/south and an east/west. the n/s tracks actually went thru campus, cutting off my dorm from the academic buildings, slicing thru our pathways without so much as a light or a gate. I could stand as close as I wanted to the tracks as the train passed, I could leave a penny on the rail and have something super thin and smooth left over. I could walk for an hour on the tracks, balancing on a rail the whole time, as a study break, (or a social break as the school was so small sometimes it felt hard to get away from everyone) a half hour out, another half hour back. Or id walk to a preferred place and stop to think before heading back. 15 minutes north and youd be in the middle of corn fields, 15 minutes south and you could settle yourself on one of the ties that made up the tiny bridge over 2nd ave and watch the slow part of town take its time going by. These walks were always done to clear my head by concentrating on something going out far beyond myself, guiding me forward, making me keep my balance on a 3 inch wide piece of steel. It was a way of calming my mind and body, making me think about nothing academic, theoretical or emotional, simply letting me concentrate on spacial and physical dynamics and movements until I could get to the point of not concentrating on them at all. Putting body and visual sense on autopilot and letting my brain free associate or come to a realization about a problem, or simply exist in the physical world around me. It was walking meditation at its best and gave me a deep sense of peace in the knowledge that I became very good at making my way down those rails which were always spanning ahead, always allowing me to see beyond myself and away to parts unknown. The sense of anticipation for the future, of welcoming adventure, of travel as opportunity that had started on a bridge over 290 in chicago was crystallized into true love of movement there. The low wail of the train whistle rolling past my dorm room at 4am that had started out as a referent to the trains I used to hear at home, came to remind me that there always would be a way of constantly moving forward without forgetting where youd been.
Mostly these days I think about train tracks as my route to my destination via amtrak. Ive become kinda obsessed with taking the train everywhere I go. It means I get to see a lot more of the country than I would flying, as I seem to bounce back and forth between chicago and the west coast quite often. It is so much more interesting to while away a day staring out at the tan grasses of montana or the sulfur yellow rocks of utah than spend 4 fours with white clouds hurrying past. What do I have to hurry for? All ive got is time. The only thing in my life is the journey. The destinations I pick have friends and loved ones at them, which is marvelous and I will enjoy when I get there. but sometimes my travel time is the only time I have totally to myself, and extending it to be a couple days long (especially when a train ticket costs the same as a plane ticket but by definition includes a place to sleep for two nights) gives me a welcomed break from being a guest somewhere. I therefore think of my time on trains as a retreat. This last trip from seattle to chicago I didnt even bring a book, which necessitated that I either write or sleep. I did a lot of both. 2 letters, a childrens book idea, some work on a story, 1 and a half blog posts, and a lot of time with my dear hamlet, re-reading the play, making cuts, thinking about how I would direct it (this is a blog post waiting to happen, coming soon). Its amazing how much work you can get done with almost 3 days of no internet access...
the thing about train tracks and train travel that I think I started wanting to say back when I was rumbling thru minnesota, is that they immediately connote meditation for me. I mean, of course people get up and move around and get to know their fellow passengers on trains in a way you never could do on a plane, so there is a sociable aspect to it, but still, you are passing thru countryside, some of which cant be seen unless you are on a train (there are no roads there) at a pace that gives you time to mull over the shifting landscape (without the distraction of other cars on a road) and to feel the changes from one geographical location to the next. To remember how yesterday iowa was so softly green and today nevada is so violently red. To contemplate how different life must of necessity be between hilly maryland and west virginia and flat ohio and indiana. To be fully aware of each of the 2000 miles separating life in seattle from life in chicago and all the places and lives in between. Gives you time to get used to the difference, because the change is so much less drastic and you can see the evolution.
All this said, and I have yet to talk about the rhythm. The train for me is a place where listening to music is not needed because there is always this back beat rhythm of the wheels on the rail seams, the swinging sway of the cars on the tracks, the periodic ritardando and accelerando of entering and leaving stations. those stops become the pauses between songs when everyone gets antsy while waiting expectantly for the silence to quit being so loud and the train's music to start its lullaby again. Which is not to say that I dont ever listen to music on the train, my choices just have to be the kind that move in the same way. Yo la tengo's 'and then nothing turned itself inside out' was exactly suited for a grey/blue-misty-mountainous western montana morning, and (yes, ill admit it) counting crow's 'august and everything after' made for a marvelous golden-brown-sunny-rangeland eastern montana afternoon. Fleet foxes' self-titled was perfect. Just perfect.
but this traveling rhythm is important to keep me aware of the movement of the train, my movement thru life, my memories of travel, my plans for future places, my simultaneous awareness of where i am, where ive been and where i want to be. every L train near my house, every rail balancing step ive taken, every train trip that has taken me to a temporary home with loved ones, has comforted me with the familiarity and promise that my travel equals my life. and i trust the train to take me thru it. i know no other way.
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