I think he's just on the right side of morose.
12.05.2012
12.04.2012
fragments
My family cannot help comparing South Africa to other places, to the familiar - "These hills look like Ireland, don't they?" "This could almost be Newfoundland!" The damp green, the gentle slope. Why? To own it? I feel compelled to imprint something recognizable onto this landscape. We try to drain the exotic out of it. It makes it easier to look at.
***
All the safari guides with their wide stances, with their moustaches. There's monochrome to all of it. Khakis. They hold their hands behind their backs in locked grips, two fists. Everyone is so solid. Someone once told me, or I read it, or something, about all the women who come to Africa and fall in love with their guides. I can see how this could happen. You bypass or hop-skip that initial period of getting to know a person before trusting them. You have to jump in. They have the big gun. They know the rules. It's an enforced intimacy that is somehow redolent of survival, of getting-by.
***
Animals, in order of awe-factor: #1 Elephants. There is no comparison. #2 Giraffes. The same. We come closer to the prehistoric. Let's put rhinos up there too. There is no reason an animal should look like this. They didn't get the memo. Evolution skipped a beat. Everyone wants to see the lions, but they are really just big, sleepy house cats.
***
There's an emotional there-ness to Africa that I find exhausting. I think about the people I love who love this place. They are not people who live at the surface of things. I could see how these countries, this hard work, could give them a place to put their emotions, when they are not so comfortable carrying them. It eggs them on. I do better where I am the most dramatic thing on the landscape, where I have more room to enact my own daily hysteria. Maybe I am too selfish. The emotional there-ness of a place. Is that a thing?
***
In the jeep I press my feet against the metal like I have brakes beneath me. He pulls us closer to the animals and I stop breathing. No one else is as concerned as I am. My dad tells me that they know what they're doing, can sense when the animals will charge, are incited. Fine. But I know what I'm doing, too - I know that everything is unpredictable. You can't ever predict what anything or anyone will do in any particular moment. This is a truth that no one likes to be reminded of. You can't ever trust anyone. You can't ever trust a 600 pound leopard.
***
All the safari guides with their wide stances, with their moustaches. There's monochrome to all of it. Khakis. They hold their hands behind their backs in locked grips, two fists. Everyone is so solid. Someone once told me, or I read it, or something, about all the women who come to Africa and fall in love with their guides. I can see how this could happen. You bypass or hop-skip that initial period of getting to know a person before trusting them. You have to jump in. They have the big gun. They know the rules. It's an enforced intimacy that is somehow redolent of survival, of getting-by.
***
Animals, in order of awe-factor: #1 Elephants. There is no comparison. #2 Giraffes. The same. We come closer to the prehistoric. Let's put rhinos up there too. There is no reason an animal should look like this. They didn't get the memo. Evolution skipped a beat. Everyone wants to see the lions, but they are really just big, sleepy house cats.
***
There's an emotional there-ness to Africa that I find exhausting. I think about the people I love who love this place. They are not people who live at the surface of things. I could see how these countries, this hard work, could give them a place to put their emotions, when they are not so comfortable carrying them. It eggs them on. I do better where I am the most dramatic thing on the landscape, where I have more room to enact my own daily hysteria. Maybe I am too selfish. The emotional there-ness of a place. Is that a thing?
***
In the jeep I press my feet against the metal like I have brakes beneath me. He pulls us closer to the animals and I stop breathing. No one else is as concerned as I am. My dad tells me that they know what they're doing, can sense when the animals will charge, are incited. Fine. But I know what I'm doing, too - I know that everything is unpredictable. You can't ever predict what anything or anyone will do in any particular moment. This is a truth that no one likes to be reminded of. You can't ever trust anyone. You can't ever trust a 600 pound leopard.
11.07.2012
editor's note
Yesterday devolved into a pre-election anxiety shopping rally. Tried on the entirety of Zara, including the aforementioned dress, and many other things with leather and zippers that looked so banging on the hanger. As it turns out, one must have the body of the hanger to wear this shit.
Zara, we needs to talk about the boobs, and how I have them. You did not leave room. Perhaps you think they detach? Is that the purpose of your oversized clutches?
I vengeance-bought tights instead, and these little crushed velvet red shoes that I will refer to as oxblood-coloured, because oxblood is the colour of the season. Oxblood.
I also ate an entire box of off-brand Frosted Mini Wheats while muttering at polling data. And then at 2:00 a.m., with a bottle or three of wine, we took to the streets and exhaled. For the last couple of months I've been coming back to 2008, and to the memory of that night, when my ex said he was sort of tired, and would rather go to sleep than watch the election. I didn't argue, and I called him weeping when they announced the win, and he sort of murmured that it was good, and then went back to bed. The country was waking up, and he just wanted to sleep.
It is snowing outside, full fluffy flakes. The leak in my bedroom ceiling has finally slowed, leaving a wide brown maw behind. I've been watching the same video of Darren Criss for the past hour. Darren Criss is such a delightfully compact man. I keep thinking I'll cry, but I don't.
Zara, we needs to talk about the boobs, and how I have them. You did not leave room. Perhaps you think they detach? Is that the purpose of your oversized clutches?
I vengeance-bought tights instead, and these little crushed velvet red shoes that I will refer to as oxblood-coloured, because oxblood is the colour of the season. Oxblood.
I also ate an entire box of off-brand Frosted Mini Wheats while muttering at polling data. And then at 2:00 a.m., with a bottle or three of wine, we took to the streets and exhaled. For the last couple of months I've been coming back to 2008, and to the memory of that night, when my ex said he was sort of tired, and would rather go to sleep than watch the election. I didn't argue, and I called him weeping when they announced the win, and he sort of murmured that it was good, and then went back to bed. The country was waking up, and he just wanted to sleep.
It is snowing outside, full fluffy flakes. The leak in my bedroom ceiling has finally slowed, leaving a wide brown maw behind. I've been watching the same video of Darren Criss for the past hour. Darren Criss is such a delightfully compact man. I keep thinking I'll cry, but I don't.
when we lead with hope
Four more years. twitter.com/BarackObama/st…
— Barack Obama (@BarackObama) November 7, 2012
11.04.2012
random act of bravery
I spent the days of the hurricane in my apartment with the windows open. I weathered this one alone. It was difficult, honestly. But it was also okay. And all of my friends extended invitations to curl up into their couches or air mattresses. And that is a gift. And there wasn't much for me to weather, compared to what has been wrought on other neighbourhoods. I live in some sort of triangle of mercy, apparently, where the winds blow gently and the rain falls all in a line, with order, with reserve. Waking up to images of the devastation on Tuesday was heartbreaking. I have grown to love this city and how much it gives to those of us who live here, and I have been fortified by my facebook news feed, which was one long string of invitations, offers of hot water, of internet, of baked goods. We all baked. A lot. That's how we prepared. I had gathered my supplies on my kitchen table: plastic jugs of water, headlamp, matches, batteries, Jane Austen's Persuasion on DVD, and ingredients for various loaves. The next morning it looked sort of foolish and pitiful. When I read stories about babies being swept from their mother's arms and whole houses being uprooted to land somewhere new, it seems darkly absurd, the idea that two aaa batteries could be a safety net.
On one of the last days of this summer, I walked through Breezy Point on the way to The Boat for Singing Together. Did I tell you about that? A young couple built a tent from canvas and toggles on a piece of driftwood they found, and they've anchored it just off the coast. They shuttle you out there on a little motor boat and you sit in a circle with a bunch of strangers, dangling your feet in the water, singing. Literally singing. Walking to the harbour through the streets of Breezy Point, we were all amazed that a community like that could exist so close to the city - kids playing in the streets, parents with lawn chairs chatting with neighbours. It was a slice of suburbia against the Manhattan backdrop. It was a home. The couple who run The Boat told us that the community had been incredibly supportive. The teenagers kicked up their little sloops and rode around the tent, listening to the music. The night before we were there, one of the kids swam underneath the tent and came up in the center, grabbing one woman's legs and scaring everyone out of their minds. But in a kind way. You know. Anyway. This is what I've been thinking about. Those kids. That community.
The storm ground campaigning to a halt for a few days. One man mobilized the National Guard, consoled victims, put the full weight of his office and his country behind salvaging what was left behind. Another man bought cans of soup so he could take photos of himself receiving the soup from his aides. He tried to swallow his words about privatizing FEMA and his pitiful, ceaseless dismissal of climate change. Some people say this is no time for politics. There is no better time for politics.
I can't vote in this country. As ever, the election approaches and I am left with this immense feeling of fury and ineptitude. I read all the articles, re-tweet the horrifying soundbites about rape and rising oceans and the 47%, the same 47% who are now struggling to rebuild their homes and eat and just BREATHE. There is one man who believes the state is not responsible for caring for its citizens. That there is a big white house waiting for him where he can sit and grow richer and not do a whole lot, because that's what government should do: abandon those who can't help themselves, when "helping themselves" means working, caring for your family, staying healthy, loving who you love. To be as blunt as I can be: I do not understand, not even remotely, the sheer cruelty and ignorance and idiocy of anyone who casts their vote for that man. Not ever. Not now. You have to be better than that. We have to be better than that. We have to offer hot water and warm clothes to those who don't have them. We have to bake them some bread. We have to believe in compassion. It's so goddamn easy to care only for yourself, and so goddamn worthless.
To be clear: what I'm doing is not brave. Yesterday I walked down to Red Hook and spent a few hours at the distribution centre, moving rolls of toilet paper from one place to another place. And again, and again. It was easy and it was nothing. The people who are trying to put a life back together out of ocean-beaten wood? They are brave. But all together, all the small movements from people all over this city, no matter how small, are monumental. They were overwhelmed by volunteers in Red Hook, so much so that they stopped accepting them. I know that not all communities have seen this sort of mobilization, but it was heartening, for a moment, to see everyone in that big room, just picking up things and moving them somewhere else, how such a small act can mean so much. It was easy and it was nothing. You take a small piece of paper or stand in front of a computer. You believe in compassion. It is easy and it is undeniably brave. And all together, it can be monumental.
10.28.2012
hurricane sandy
i know you want to run far away from one more / and that it's comin' at a bad time / some cold place heartless ways for all we know -
10.22.2012
10.21.2012
today is dedicated to
- Chai lattes and corn & pear muffins
- Freedom
- Fall sun
- Duffel coats
- Foresight (ie. mine) (ie. hurrah for extended care and knowledgable young tattooed men at the Genius Bar) (ie. now that I'm tattooed too I feel like there's a language I haven't yet learned, like what do you call someone else's tattoo when you have one yourself? Tats? Ink? Art? I wanted to compliment his but I felt like such a jackass, someone must know the answer to this...)
- The Hudson River Greenway
- Murray's Cheese Shop
- The Cheesemonger at Murray's Cheese Shop who served me at least $10 worth of cheese samples topped with raisins soaked in balsamic, apple butter, fig spread, and for dessert, two blue cheeses showered by chocolate, until I had to ask him to stop -
- A Dance with Dragons (I cannot be shamed)
- Fresh coats of paint.
.jpg)
- Freedom
- Fall sun
- Duffel coats
- Foresight (ie. mine) (ie. hurrah for extended care and knowledgable young tattooed men at the Genius Bar) (ie. now that I'm tattooed too I feel like there's a language I haven't yet learned, like what do you call someone else's tattoo when you have one yourself? Tats? Ink? Art? I wanted to compliment his but I felt like such a jackass, someone must know the answer to this...)
- The Hudson River Greenway
- Murray's Cheese Shop
- The Cheesemonger at Murray's Cheese Shop who served me at least $10 worth of cheese samples topped with raisins soaked in balsamic, apple butter, fig spread, and for dessert, two blue cheeses showered by chocolate, until I had to ask him to stop -
- A Dance with Dragons (I cannot be shamed)
- Fresh coats of paint.
.jpg)
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