We drive a good car. It is blue and relaxing and fast, but
still gets good mileage. The car is Italian, like my wife. She is prone to fits
of jealousy, and I’ll often see her tailing me on the way to work, sometimes
directly, and at others with a car or two between us. She drives poorly and
looks agitated. Sometimes I’ll pull off suddenly for coffee, making small talk
with the woman at the register asking after the weather and the day. Back on
the road, I’ll find myself staring in the rear view, seeing if I can spot the
white of her knuckles gripping the wheel at 9 and 5. She’s a nervous driver,
and was never any good at it. I’ll wonder sometimes, how she and my infant son
managed to get out of the house so quickly, after I leave. I wonder what kind
of shoes he’s wearing, or whether his little toes are tapping like a piano
player across keys on his car seat. I wonder where they go after this morning
ritual is over—If they’ll slip back down to the playground to haunt people
there or stop at their favorite Gelato place up around fifth. I want them to
follow me forever, but I always lose them in the glare of the sun, or the
passing of a big blue truck. No matter how much I slow down, I can never quite
catch them, warn them to stay off the roads, and just like that, they are gone
again, without even stopping to say goodbye.
Bombs and Brooms
I was looking all over the house for the broom. The children
had left toys all over the floor and it was my intention to sweep them up and
throw them all away. At night, when they will ask me where the toys have gone,
I’d make up elaborate stories: Wally the puffer fish stuffed animal grew gills
and took up religion. He’s under seas now, preaching to the unclean, their
unwashed bodies. James the Giraffe took up with the circus because they offered
a more competitive 403 B. They’d believe none of it of course. My children are
too damn smart. They are so smart that they’ve hidden the broom away,
anticipating even this gesture. I am sure that I ask them they’ll tell me quite
a story. The wicked witch of the West needed it for air travel. It grew a soul
and flew into the clouds. It was last seen over the center of town in a Middle
Eastern country, dropping bristles on the unwashed children below.
On Children
When the baby is crying, my wife will ask me to go upstairs
and soothe him. I am tired often, and lazy to boot. Instead of going upstairs,
I’ll tell her that the world will offer him no comfort, that this is a test of
his fortitude. She’ll say that he doesn’t even know how to spell or say
fortitude. In the kitchen, she’ll place the dishes in the sink and head
upstairs. “You’re spoiling him,” I’ll yell, “he’s going to turn out like old
milk” from the couch where I’m reading an article about fantasy football.
Architecture
I try to look for beauty in the small things: a flower
blooming in a sea of pavement, a stranger smiling from across the room. Often
though, I find that the small things in life are rather too small: the nucleus
of an atom, molecules colliding. Most of the world seems full of big ugly
things. I think that I must keep looking for small things: the smell of an old
perfume, filling certain moments of a day, a trickle of light passing through
thick darkness. Nothing is ever as good as it could be. I’m looking for an
hour, a minute, a second to go perfectly right, something around which I could
begin to construct my day.
It’s nice to finally be invited to the party. Honestly, I
never intended to watch Breaking Bad. However, I can’t go to Grantland, or
listen to music on Spotify without being inundated with images of a glowering
Walter White. Even my Stephen Colbert video this week included Bryan Cranston.
So, I figured it was time to start watching.
The strange thing about starting Breaking Bad now is that I
know the trajectory. I know that he becomes evil. Of course, we also know when
we start a Dickens novel that things are going to work out, even if it takes
some chicanery to get there. So, I suppose it isn’t ruined that much.
What struck me about the first episode, (and I realize that
to write about a show after watching one episode is hubristic, akin to reading
three chapters of Infinite Jest and making pronouncements about the novel. This
is the age of serialization, when we understand that television shows have
longs arcs. There was a time when each episode was supposed to be
self-contained and larger structures were near obsolete) is the dark side of
Walter White bubbling to the surface immediately. I read a piece by Chuck
Klosterman asserting that the first episode made you have to root for Walter
White. I don’t know if I buy that.
What troubles me about Walter, right off the bat, is the
thin line that he crosses almost immediately into being bad. The awakening that
he describes after receiving new of the inoperable lung cancer is precisely the
sort of awakening that most of the major religions shoot for. And yet, the
purpose of spiritual practice, one way or another, is generally to become a
better or more peaceful member of society. The “awakening” that occurs in Walter
is precisely the sort of thing that, full admission here, I hope never happens
to me. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t had moments where I wanted to assault
someone in public for being an asshole. Not the sort of thing with nuance,
accidentally being cut off or something, but someone behaving or saying things
that are patently unacceptable for general human conduct. Now, we’ve agreed as
a society that these sorts of slights or grievances are best left alone, or, if
very bad, settled in a court of law. And yet, I found my heart pounding with
perverse joy as Walt beat up the random teen in the store. Who hasn’t wanted to
do that? How refreshing! How troubling.
The same thing applies to Walt keeping the secret of his
cancer and meth cooking from his wife. Right off the bat we see a tacit
admission on his part that his actions are wrong and must be hidden. And yet,
who doesn’t want to hide the worst or less desirable parts of themselves? We do
it on a daily basis, all be it, I hope, to a lesser degree.
I suppose what I’m getting at is that this show seems to
affirm the darker parts of our nature. I’ve long claimed in numerous
discussions with S that art has no greater responsibility than to be true to
the story. Happy endings, sad endings, are pretty much immaterial. It’s whether
they honor the material. And yet, as I listen to proclamation after
proclamation of BB being the greatest show ever, I’m starting to wonder if
that’s true.
I’m willing to consider the fact that a large portion of the
population is just made up of people who are better than I am—more grounded,
fun loving, able to separate a good television show from the moral choices that
happen day to day. And, if that’s the case, perhaps BB is the best drama ever.
If I’m not the only one who harbors a secret self who wishes ill to every
person who cuts him off and wants to haul off and punch people on the sidewalk,
well then, I’m not quite sure what it would mean if BB is indeed the best drama
ever. I suppose all I’m saying here is that one episode in, my sincere hope is
that the answer is no.
Beauty, if we’re lucky, only runs skin deep. It is
dangerous, as you know, to delve any deeper. If I search for beauty any deeper,
swim through the arterials of your slender forearm to discover bits of gold, or
sit down after dark, over bourbon, while you talk about your childhood, we’ll
wind up in bed together again, the sweat cold against our bare skin, nothing left
to say, waiting for the light to separate us.
During graduate school, we all listened closely to the
stories to see if we appeared in them. At best, you’d get a secondary role,
recognizing an observation you’d made one night over dinner, or a particular
way you had of walking. When you know someone, you suspect, deep down, that at
least 25 percent of what they are writing is secretly about you. I want to
assure you that if say someone is beautiful or kind or funny that it was
written about you. If the person said something interesting or profound, it was
also probably about you. I want you to know that if I wrote about someone
acting terribly, then it was probably about me. The closest mirror is our own
conscience. If I said however, that someone was standing outside, gazing up at
bits of the moon in a velvety sky, the stars strung across the sky—a rope of
light, then I am talking about me. However, if I describe someone who has bad
breath and is domineering, I am probably remembering my teacher from
kindergarten. If I write about someone who loves music, I am writing about the
person that I wish I was. If I write about someone owning a pet, and
intentionally running over that pet, but then denying the fact to his family,
then I am also writing about the person, though in this case, merely the person
that I could possibly be. If I am writing about a trip to Europe, and someone
is riding on trains, I am writing about a movie that I saw when I was a
teenager. If I write about the ocean, and the stars, cold footprints in the
sand, then I am writing about CA. If I write about a bunny rabbit, or a cat, or
blackberries, then I am writing about childhood. If I write about the sea, then
I am writing about longing. If I write about someone being useful, then I am
again writing about a person I wish I could be. If I write about a man who
builds a time machine out of a pair of shoes to travel back in time to save his
family, lost in a world war 2 bombing, then I am writing about regret. If I
write about Missouri, Oklahoma, or the Resurrection, then I am writing about
religion. If I write about facebook or Twitter, then I am writing about
confusion. If I write about television, then I am writing out of the urgency to
connect. If I write about biking down to the water and skipping stones into the
creek, then I am writing about childhood, though I am also perhaps writing
about the inevitability of death. In fact, I may often be writing about the inevitability
of death. If I write about trees, I am writing about aesthetic, nature, and
perhaps the inevitability of death or change. If I write about the rain, I am writing
about school, childhood, and passivity. If I write a story in which an
astronomer believes that he sees people inhabiting the moon, then I am writing
about unrequited love. If I write about
anything else, then I am writing about regret or sex or failure. If I write
about the cold, I am writing about the inevitability of death. If I write about
time, I am writing about it passing. If I am writing about the wind, I am
merely writing about the wind. It signifies nothing. Sleep now. There are no
more stories to tell.
Sailing past the outer reaches of the Bay, it was easy to
forget the dead. We’d accomplished so much, mapped the rivers and valleys of a
once dark territory. Our names would live on mountain passes and lakes long
after we were passed from this life into the next. Out here, the wind whips up the sea, and the
salt stings. I think of my children, five and seven now, a year and a half
since I’ve seen them. I think of their small blond heads, like lanterns across
the water the night that I left. It was a mistake to think of them as now I’m remembering
the dead. At night I think of their bones, the small parts of them that we
could gather together that now lie in the hull of the ship. Their names will be
on no river valleys, no mountain tops, perhaps a clavicle or pinky toe will be
pressed into the red clay along the river. They can keep watch over the places
we’ve named after ourselves, these lost souls. For now we will bring back what’s
left of them to those other children who will be waiting upon the docks--those
children whose hair was just as pale the day that we left. Forgive me, I
whisper, to the uncaring wind.
Driving along a side road, strips of sunlight filtered
through yellowing leaves, in this way, the trees are creating there own
discontinuities.
It is unwise, it would seem, to drink a large cup of coffee too early in the
morning. From there the day becomes a simulacrum of the heart's increased beat,
a small, nameless bird sitting in the arches and hammocks of a green tree, red
berries of dubious edibility wreathing his movements--bird like I suppose is
how you'd describe them. Though perhaps it's not fair to describe, at least in
writing, a bird's movements as bird like. It is more akin to certain kinds of
hip hop dancing, popping and locking, each movement designed to be at once
dramatic and distinct, or an Ethiopian dance that sees the dancer
simultaneously nodding their head sharply and pushing their shoulders forward
in a sharp rhythm--a bird winging into flight.
I didn't intend to write about a bird at all.
Driving along a side road, strips of sunlight filtered through yellowing
leaves, in this way, the trees are creating there own discontinuities. I am
thinking of how my daughter, seated backwards in her toddler car seat, always
says, "forest," when we pass through this particular stretch of road,
and now I am thinking of her absence, the quiet in the car. I am simultaneously
composing a letter to a friend about my inability to see sentence structures
properly, as well as my own failed attempts at writing, which should probably
include laziness, as in the description of the dancers above that should by all
rights be longer and more attuned to the fine details of their movement instead
of the rough sketch I've offered. In particular because it's unfair to ask a
reader to make that sort of jump with you without providing them some sort of
scaffolding in the first place. But this sort of self-castigation could go on
almost indefinitely and would probably have been more useful as marginalia or
footnotes anyhow.
This is all happening as I'm listening to Someone Like You by
Adele, which reminds me both that I am more apt to cry when I am alone for a
day or two, that I am perhaps, a crier. And I am simultaneously aware that this
particular song has been spoofed, quite amazingly, by SNL for this very
quality, while also thinking of the NPR story about the same subject that
identified the arpeggios as the root cause of the tear inducing quality. The
quiet therefore wasn't, true quiet, but that of human silence. I am also kind
of singing along, poorly, which is the only way I know how to sing, and I am
aware that I wouldn't do it with anyone else in the car, and thinking about
what that means, man's relation to society etc. I am also aware of gender norms
and stereotypes, and vaguely wondering about whether I should be enjoying the
song at all.
These thoughts are all happening in roughly two to three seconds
time, a rapid sort of association that makes me realize how effectively mimetic
poetry can be. These brief meditations, a few seconds time only, remind me
immediately of other things. First, the wonderful short story, "Good Old
Neon," by David Foster Wallace, in which he attempts to describe the
brain's speed of light functioning. Secondly, that perhaps I should not drink
strong coffee so early in the morning.
Listen, Sadie's primary play list is Raffi. However, as I'm generally located in the same room and have to make do, we experiment with other music as well. Sometimes you just want one of the wheels on the bus to get a flat and for the driver to pull over, and all the dads and moms and babies go get on another bus, so the bus driver can go have a cigarette and talk with his friends about the Jets game over a cigarette.
With that in mind: Robin Thicke- Blurred Lines.
For the record, we listen to this music on Spotify. I'd not call the actual video a high point in male and female relations. Also, taking a queue from the wonderful, Vampire Weekend, I yell fish in lieu of the less generous term bit--. Also, she fell over while trying to get out the toy basket the first time she heard this song. And now, every time the song comes on she asks me if she can do her funny joke and repeats the accident. Note: It isn't as funny, but she's trying.
Secondarily, she doesn't get the line, "what rhymes with hug me." Instead, she hears, hug me and has said multiple times, "I like hugs too!" That, and I posted a video of her dancing to this song, which wound up being 1.5 minutes of her running in a circle. I can't take away her childish joy at listening to what she calls the "Hey, hey, hey" song. There is plenty of time in our lives for me to sit her down and deconstruct the sexist male overtones. For now, this song gets the party started, and we're okay with that.
Second: The Lumineers-Big Parade
She's liked this song for a while. She calls it the "lovely girl" song and who couldn't love the happy clapping and saying lovely girl.
Third: Macklemore and Ryan Lewis-Cowboy Boots
I would not have guessed, during that time we were listening to clean versions (not here, apologies for the two curse words) of "The Heist" that she'd have picked this song as her favorite. She calls it "Cowboy Boots," because she's a genius. Also the refrain is all about Cowboy Boots. I'm crediting her love of this song with the incredibly interpretation of line dancing that I do every time it comes on. Any little girl watching her dad do some faux kick as- line dancing is probably going to love that song.
Fourth: The Avett Brothers-I and Love and You
This is probably because I let her watch the video. She, like every child over the age of two days, pretty much wants to spend all day in front of a screen of some sorts. We're good modern parents, so we limit that screen time to twenty minutes a day. However, one day I let her watch the video for this song three times in a row. I didn't really vet it, but I'm pretty sure no murdering or nude girls dance around. If they do, please don't tell me as I'll have to apologize to S. It's also a great song, so I'm not at all sad that she wants to listen to "I and Love and You," genius, I'm telling you.
Fifth: Carly Rae Jepsen-Call me Maybe
She now calls this song "Call me Maybe." However, when she first heard it she called it the "crazy one." The first time I heard this song I was on a dance floor in Portland, Oregon with a group of guys that I've known forever and love like family. Anyhow, most of them were sitting, but I was up dancing, because you only live once. Anyhow, this song came on and the whole bar started singing along. I'd never heard the song before but after one round of the chorus I had developed hand gestures for giving out phone numbers and getting called, because sometimes the body just knows when you're hearing gold. Sadie was the same way. She just knew right away that you were probably supposed to dance when this song came on. Sometimes she wants to hear it twice in a row. You can't deny her. It's "Call me Maybe." P.S. I think she also saw the first second of the video once or twice and wanted to keep watching, mesmerized by the young muscly man taking off his shirt, so that video was definitely never shown again. Cliched jokes are cliched for a reason. I'm not ready for that mess.
It’s impractical to leave the house with such ominous clouds
overhead. I have no umbrella. I am forever mired in such failures of
imagination. I always assume that that when I step outside the rain will stop,
or pass right through me like a miracle of physics. I do not carry an umbrella
because I have a strange faith in the world. I constantly lie to myself saying,
it’s all going to turn out fine.
The metro ride is either beautiful or dirty. I vacillate
between the two. It’s often used at the beginning of films, the dirty window to
communicate anomie, distance, at times I find the graffiti and the light
piercing over rows and rows of wires and crumbled brick quite striking. I spot
a small plastic play set with a yellow slide between two warehouses, like a
fleck of gold in a pan of rock. Who built that? What could they have possibly
intended? Such beautiful failures, what minute gestures.
I watch a good looking couple sit on the bench. They are
both staring intently at their phones, texting people who are far away. I’m not
one of those zealots who sees the end of the world in the proliferation of
screens, but I want to walk over to the bench and shake them both awake. “You
are young and beautiful. Look at each other.” This too shall pass.
Of late I think the city that was passed over because of the
clouds. I wonder what game the children were playing that day in the street,
whether it was dusty or clean. I imagine the adults sitting down to tea, to
discuss the ongoing war. Who knows if they heard the buzz go by overhead. The
God of Death in the form of an American plane. I wonder again, what games they
were playing that particular day, who won that day that the plane passed over.
My favorite moment, on any good night, is the moment that you
realize everyone knows the song that is playing. The music is bouncing off the
walls and the bodies, the beautiful sweaty bodies are bouncing as well. At the
part of the song where everyone is supposed to put everyone’s hands in the air,
everyone’s hands go in the air because we are young and will live forever, Fuc-
the darkness. The sweat from everyone in the room is one large puddle. And then
the next song comes on, something strange, and everyone suddenly needs to go
outside to text, or use the bathroom, and I will understand that joy is
fleeting, that moments are born only to be lost.
I’ve been reading stories to friends of late. They all enjoy
the stories where someone is about to die. I suppose it makes sense this
fascination with our ephemerality. I too am fascinated by an ant or a spider in
the moment before I wipe them clean. The stories that I love now are more
mundane. I like to read stories about people standing in front of a dryer, waiting
for the clothes to dry and for another emergency to appear, perhaps a child
crying, the dishwasher finishing, or a sandwich that needs to be made.
Somewhere I’m needed.
I keep waiting for the bus to come. Nearby, law students are
passing the time by talking about job offers. They speak quickly and
articulately. I want to invite them back to my house for a drink. I think with
the proper amount of whiskey we could all forget about tort law and the
interning policies of the DOJ. Soon enough we’ll all be naked, and it would be
clear that underneath our clothes and patterns of speech, we are all very, very
different beings. It was the clothes that made us feel temporarily alike.
Divested of them, we stand awkwardly in the living room, wishing we were in
court, arguing for the right to be anywhere but here.
In a fit of whimsy I decide to call her. I tell her that I’m
sorry for the drawing that I’d done of her that had turned out so poor. “What
picture?” she asked, swishing a glass of Merlot around. Confirming,
once again some simple knowledge that you just know Socrates and Plato must
have had, that no one cares as much about you as you. It was no doubt pithier
when they said it, and I’m sure it sounds better in the original Greek. The sun
was shining, olives ripening, and various birds were flattering themselves in
song. Whoever it was, Archimedes or Plato, no matter how hard he tried, could
not have imagined me, sitting on this old bus, trying to remember the name of
the philosopher who swore that all was water in order to pass the time.
All of the buses say not in service. They are shells, empty
metaphors, one imagines them rolling through the city, picking up no one,
sufficient unto themselves, almost prayerful, these empty vessels. A nut hatch
flies above me, perching on the slender branch of a tree, turning his head and
thinking whatever it is that birds think before lifting off into the sky. These
empty buses are a waste, like young people who are not in love. Imagine them,
staring out windows at the coast or the slivers of slender light all caught up
in the branches of trees, with no one to write letters to. The only happy
people in this city are the bus drivers, winding their way through the streets
and grids, passing everyone on the corners and leaving behind them a trail of
disappointment. I followed them out last week into dusk. They made a line at the airport, all these empty buses
and the drivers all stepped out and stood in the warm evening air, smoking
cigarettes, talking of the women, the night clubs, the early morning, not
worrying about the lives they’d left behind, but the lives they are leading.
It's not always easy having the world's best baby. Okay, usually it is. But I want you all to remind me of this when I complain about him as a three year old who is sprinting down the street without pants on screaming no because I asked him to come inside. Once, long ago, he was a damn good baby.
I closed the library last night, which means I don't get to bed until just before one. Luckily, or not luckily, Julian slept in until 8:30. Did he though? Who knows? When I went in there he was sitting up with a happy look on his face playing with his stuffed bear. For all I know he'd been up for an hour just loving the crap out of that bear. He's a good boy that one.
We head downstairs and grab some breakfast. He eats fistfuls of Cheerios but only gums the toast. At this point I decided that I needed to work out. So I put him in the car, checked on the stroller and headed off to the park. He's just learned to crawl and is pretty in love with moving around. Plus, his nap time is 10 AM. However, he dutifully sat in his stroller, smiling down at me as I cranked out some push ups, pull ups, etc. He smiled, kicked his legs in the stroller, sometimes gazed off at the light coming through the branches of a large tree for roughly half an hour while I finished up. He's a good boy.
Knowing that it was nap time I started to head home. Then I realized that I needed to pick up sun glasses. On the way, I decided that I'd also go grocery shopping. This, despite the fact that he was starting to moan to himself, which is code for "I'm going to sleep in about five minutes." After we picked up some sunglasses I strapped him into the shopping cart and he sort of lolled over drunkenly. I held him up and asked him to stick with me during the shopping trip, so he could get a proper nap at home. Mid trip though, his little head pops up and he starts banging his hands on the shopping cart, happily mumbling to himself and patting my hand when I put it on the cart and smiling back at me when I lean in with his piercing little blue eyes. The rest of the shopping trip was a delight of getting my hand patted, giving him little pieces of a muffin, and watching him pound away at the cart.
Here is one of the strange things about my son. He's not even a year old, but he's already just fun to be around. He's not a crazily happy baby. He's just always riding along on a wave of contentment, and he's a baby, so he's cute. He's just a joy to hang out with. On the way out of the store, after he finished munching on his muffin, I put him down in his car seat, and I was reflecting, as writing types do, sometimes leaving the moment to construct a past moment, thinking of how exactly I'd frame the day and how good he was, well, he reached his little hand up with sleepy eyes looking right at me and ran it very gently across my cheek. And, if I was the sort who cried at the occasional cinematic nature of life, I would have. Within seconds, he'd fallen into a deep sleep. I kissed his fingers and told him that I loved him.
This was going to be a photo essay. I took pictures on the way from the seat in the metro, the window of a plane and the windshield of a car. Somewhere along the line I lost the camera. It had gone dead anyway and was no longer of use to me. I am irresponsible about things like cameras. I lose them. I lose everything.
The first picture:
On the metro at 6 AM, I take a picture of the sun, looking like an orange ball of fire rising up between the telephone lines. When I'm riding on the metro, I can never decide if the collection of wires, bricks, graffiti and burned out buildings are hideously ugly or transiently beautiful, a sort of monument to human failure that is almost touching. On the way, behind the back of a large dilapidated warehouse is a large plastic play set, tucked behind another two story building that is either apartments or abandoned. Who put that playground set there in the middle of this dirty city? What were they hoping to do?
Normally when I travel I like to look presentable. On that day, I looked like someone who had been run through the wash on the hot cycle for an hour. I barely remember the airport, the people. We were all asleep on the plane ride. Every one of us. Who knows if any of us were flying? One hopes that pilot at least was awake, keeping alive the dream of the living. I fear planes. I hope if I ever crash that I'm sleeping like a baby. I don't remember my dreams. In them, I suspect that I have learned to fly.
The second picture:
I take a picture out the window, trying to capture the strangeness of being above the tops of clouds. Somehow, I wait too long and as the plane descends I get a picture of us inside the cloud, which turns out to look like nothing. Why aren't we amazed by flight? I suppose a plane is just too much like a van. I suspect that's why people fly small planes, to feel a bit more like Icarus. Later, I take a picture of the topography around Kansas City, the long beige strip that signifies a freeway. From up on high, the land makes a different kind of sense than it does from below, you can see how everything is just grids. You can understand how from that height, even an all loving God could have conceived of a flood. It's just a collection of rises and depressions.
At the rental car place a nice lady named Andrea recommends several neighborhoods, and we exchange some banter about whether I want the insurance or the upgrade. She says, "I can tell you want too." And she was right. I did want to say yes to an SUV, but I didn't. I told her instead about the bachelor party. She said, "Which one of you is from Kansas City?" "None of us," I told her and she looked back at me like I was crazy. Perhaps that should have been a sign.
The third picture
I don't know if it's a good idea to take pictures while you're driving. I do know that it's hard to hold the camera steady. Luckily, I learned from my father-in-law just to hold it steady against the wheel. I take pictures of the Kansas City skyline, of oncoming traffic, of a train, nestled in the foreground, the only mode of transportation that I felt like I was missing. The airport in Kansas City is forty five minutes from the actual downtown, though drive past another, downtown airport, that makes you feel like you could have done better, though you just know the flights out of there cost thousands of dollars.
The skyline is impressive, though my directions take me right past it. I've heard wonderful things about the BBQ, but when you've slept four hours all you care about is finding a place to sleep. I drove down Main Street, waiting for things to get cute. You see signs that say historic, and then point in a different direction, and you just know cute things are happening in historic Westport. You know that people are getting tattoos and making artisan beers and selling jewelry and eating at pubs. Somewhere, there has got to be a reference to the Dust Bowl.
I eventually arrive in a neighborhood with nice, big houses, of the sort that you figure people own in a place like Kansas City because you can actually afford to. The house we're staying in has tomato plants and other veggies growing in the planter box. Before I even step in the door I tell the owner that he has a beautiful home, though, I haven't really seen it. It seemed like a good guess though I immediately regretted the stupidity of the remark. Sadly, it turns out he's cleaning the house, so I'll be unable to get a badly needed second nap of the day.
I program the old GPS and head down to a local park. I take my camera, now lost, and a back pack to the park to continue my photo essay. The fourth photo was going to be of that is massive tree, the sort with nob like arms and offshoots that are just begging to be climbed. Sadly, the camera, now gone, is out of batteries. This was the end of my photo essay at Kansas City. I'm at Loose or Loop or something of that nature park, watching everyone jog around on this ninety degree weather looking kind of miserable doing it. I try and sleep underneath the tree with a backpack as my pillow, but it turns out that I would never cut it as a homeless person, because I'm allergic to grass, and hardship, and beards.
I'm forced to walk back to the car to take a hot nap. The car is roughly 115 degrees, but I lean the seat all the way back. Sadly, people keep walking by, as I'm keeping the windows down to keep down the heat, and I keep popping up when I hear them and scaring the shi- out of them, as they scare me. Eventually I move to the back of the car and get a short nap in, though I also occasionally pop up when I hear voices, and in my current state I overhear someone saying, "Some of them are in the area," and I assume they mean cops because they think I'm just some crazy person sleeping in a car playing a game of peek a boo.
At one, a hot, sweaty mess, I drive into the Kansas City neighborhoods.
I was riding the train through the darkness, reading a
portion of Swann’s Way. A teacher once told me that you only needed to read a
few pages to understand what Proust was getting at. And yet, here I was riding
on a train in the darkness away from a woman that I’d loved. In the dark, the countryside
all looks the same. The hedges, trees and mountains are all imaginary. As, I
see now, were you. All the women I have loved look the same in the dark. The
train rolls through the mountains, taking me farther or further away. I never
know which one I’m supposed to use. I never know when things have reached an
end. I suspect that the dark, and the cold window pressed against my cheek are
telling me something profound. I suspect they are telling me that you are gone.
End
You said something funny about birding to a friend, threw
back your head and laughed. I was watching the children play a game of freeze
tag in the park, three and four. My oldest was cheating, randomly unfreezing
whenever it suited her. The day was warm, and the recycled tires on the playground
were hot. I was watching them play, and watching you, remembering what it was
like to be young. It always looks so exhausting, all that laughter and joy.
End
I would like to go fishing this morning. Rise before dawn,
put on galoshes and drive to the nearest gas station for bait. I want to drive
up to the dam and fish where it’s the easiest, on a small boat, with one of my
best friends. I want to tie a blue bottle to the edge of a line and flip it
expertly into the water. I do not have an aptitude for such things. So instead,
I am sitting on the couch, just after dawn, watching other people fish on the
television. They do not look peaceful. Someone is weighing a fish and shaking his head. I suspect, as
with many other things in my life, much is being lost in translation.
End
The word that I failed on was encyclopedia. And I’ve dwelled
on it for years since, e n c y c l o p e d I a. I was seven or so, and I, silly
person that I am, have never forgotten the failure of that day. What silliness
to pretend that there weren’t a thousand other words on which I would have
failed:onomonopea, interstices, hypertrophied. The next year the word was
column, which has always stung less. Who decided to place that “n” there, as if
the word needed any other help standing up?
End
On the evening after the storm all of the clocks in our
offices and homes were out. And yet, we ate breakfast in the same silence.
Kissed our kids on the forehead between 7:53 and 7:57 and drove to work in the
same flows of traffic. We worked well into the afternoon, taking breaks at noon
or one as planned. Nothing changed the day the clocks went out in our city. We,
in some nightmare of technicity, had become the machines. We were happy to be
in such regular places.
End
Some nights, all I want is someone to stand over me in bed
and whisper that everything is going to be all right. Mind you, I don’t expect
that to change anything. The world will never be all right. I just want someone
to stand over me, and tell me that it will be so.
End
We had the chance to play one last game of chess before the
cold took us. Earlier in the evening the captain had stepped outside for a
smoke and disappeared. It was an intense game, played slowly, because our hands
were frostbitten and our minds slowed by lack of food and water. In the
distance, you could hear the dogs calling, or the moon howling. We’d already
eaten the dogs. It must have been the moon. I lost my rooks rather easily, to a
pair of knights, and my bishops were practically left for dead. By the time you’d
crossed the board and placed your pawn on my side, saying, “long live the
queen.” I’d been dead for twenty minutes, watching you study the board and
waiting for you to join me on the other side.
End
At the end of the semester, after I’d moved out of my host
parent’s home, I slept in the street. In the morning, a woman came by, sweeping
the streets, sweeping the last cob webs of darkness from the sky. She was
brisk. I was lying there, cold and alone, trying to stitch together the series
of moments I’d had into something coherent, something that resembled a life
rather than a collage. She spoke to me, and I could have sworn that she said
that she loved me that the universe put her on the earth to appear at this very
moment, in the guise of a street cleaning woman to preach the doctrine of love.
I did not speak her language. Later, when I am telling the story to my friends,
I realize that I did understand her. She was asking me to move. The advice was
still just as sound.
I've not watched Woody Allen's entire oeuvre. Quite frankly, I'm just excited about the ability to use oeuvre, though I had to check the spelling Relatedly, watching all of Allen would require the sort of time commitment that I'm not prepared to offer. I've only watched a few of his movies, but I'm entirely sure that he has some hits and misses. You can't create significant pieces of art without having some duds. In fact, that's why I'm averse to blogging. Simply churning things out and expecting them to be of quality is a recipe for disaster. This review is not primarly about Woody Allen the filmmker. If you've seen the movie, and sat down to think or write about it, the review can really only be about one thing, Cate Blanchett. I don't want to say Cate Blanchett was a revelation, because she's already been confirmed as a great actress. However, the strength of her performance in the movie is striking. She's playing a mentally cracked up rich woman, who's come down rather quickly in the world after discovering that her husband has been cheating on her, and, more importantly, cooking the books. The (spoiler alert) key revelation in the movie is that she has been pretending to turn a blind eye to his financial double dealings, though it's when she discovers his infidelity that she calls the SEC. When I was getting my graduate degree in creative writing, we talked about the few options that you have in a story. The things is, I don't really remember them, ad I think the concept is partially bullshi-. However, the idea is that either you can have a moment of change, or a moment of change that is turned on so that things continue on as they have. Of course, we were talking about short stories. The novel, something that is movie length provides a variety of opportunities for things beyond those simple rubrics. Luckily, the movie fits the conventions of my Master's program. The movie begins with an inside joke. Blanchett is riding across the country on a plane to stay with her sister, and, on the way, she's found another passenger who's ear she is talking off, telling her of her problems and how she and her husband met etc. When the older woman who's been listening to Blanchett arrives at the baggage claim, she quickly excuses herself and is greeted by her husband. "Do you know her?" he asks. "No," the woman replies. "She just kept talking and talking and talking about her life" That quote may not be direct, but the gist is there. This is the most recognizable Allen character, a person who will not shut up. And yet, it's also the post-modern, (cringing at the word) academic that people recognize in themselves. The obsessive conversations that we have with ourselves, about people, ourselves, our failings, etc. externalized in Allen movies. And though we often want them to shut up and just deal with them It's fair to say that it is often a case of the pot calling the kettle black. We hate them because they remind us of ourselves, our minds at their neurotic games. Blanchett's sister, played by Sally Hawkins, provides the counterpoint to the perfect life that Blanchett was living. She was married briefly, though it broke up after she and her husband entrusted money to Blanchet''s husband, played by Alec Baldwin. Thus, we get to watch the very sweet, and not quite privileged, Hawkins, support her sister in her time of need despite the monetary betrayal that ultimately lead to her divorce. Hawkins' performance in the movie is strong and believable. Familial bonds are one of the few ways in which we can believe that someone would overlook rather obvious character flaws that Blanchett displays throughout the movie. The subplot in the movie involves Hawkins briefly trading in her imperfect boyfriend, played by Andrew Dice Clay, for Louis CK. (Who, as an aside, has been pretty damn boring in his role on Parks and Recreation and in this movie. I've seen his stand up, it's funny, and I should probably just watch his show, which must be great, but it is not so much translating to the big screen thus far). The tenor of the relationship break up is that Blanchett has poisoned her sister against the Dice Clay boyfriend, telling her she could do better. This is true, and yet, in an intelligent piece of movie making, the Dice Clay character is one part brute and one part decent lover. He's given a bit of nuance, and a movie viewer can easily see how Hawkins might both benefit from moving on, or staying with him. Not every choice is black and white. All this talk of other plot elments, including the excellent Alec Baldwin turn as a rich white male. Okay, he's a bbit typecast. But he's pretty much killig it as that type. However, he's not exactly stretching his acting muscles, and so not much more will be spent on his character. THe fascinating character is all Blanchett. From the very beginning she is a woman playing just enough off kilter for us to believe that she's recovering from a mental crack up. As the revelations pile up, via flashback, it becomes clear that her life has been lived in a delusion. She's ignored certain things about her husband's business practices to benefit herself. She's sold her sister down the river. And yet, she'a also maintained the illusion that everything was going on swimmingly. The movie then becomes about her dealing with the shattering of that illusion. And, as she drinks with her sister, and almost romances a perfect seeming man, you have the feeling that she could almost get back to normal. And yet, her need for a certain kind of perfect picture eventually sabotages her relationship with the new man, whom she's not told about her ex-husband or son. Eventually she is close to the brink and tracks down her son only to have him turn his back on her as well, blaming her for his father's death, suicide in prison after the exposure of his fraudulent schemes. And so, this woman who's primary crime was wanting to have a perfect life is left wandering the streets at the end of the movie as she apparently began it. Unhinged yet again. And this write up didn't really give her near the credit she deserves. The performance is amazing and relatble. It's easy to see amidst the numerous, and often plain boring challenges that life puts in our way how a person might want to gloss over details to make things easier, and having doen that, it's easy to understand why they might not ever find their way back. It's a brilliantly played mental crack up. Not a bit of it seemed over the top. Rather, the unhinging that eventually takes place winds up making sense, though it's sad, terrifically sad. The movie begisn with movement, with the prospect of change, and it ends where it began, with a woman muttering to herself as a stranger listes, only this time, the stranger walks away.
I've not watched Woody Allen's entire oeuvre. Quite frankly, I'm just excited about the ability to use oeuvre, though I had to check the spelling Relatedly, watching all of Allen would require the sort of time commitment that I'm not prepared to offer. I've only watched a few of his movies, but I'm entirely sure that he has some hits and misses. You can't create significant pieces of art without having some duds. In fact, that's why I'm averse to blogging. Simply churning things out and expecting them to be of quality is a recipe for disaster. This review is not primarly about Woody Allen the filmmker. If you've seen the movie, and sat down to think or write about it, the review can really only be about one thing, Cate Blanchett.
I don't want to say Cate Blanchett was a revelation, because she's already been confirmed as a great actress. However, the strength of her performance in the movie is striking. She's playing a mentally cracked up rich woman, who's come down rather quickly in the world after discovering that her husband has been cheating on her, and, more importantly, cooking the books. The (spoiler alert) key revelation in the movie is that she has been pretending to turn a blind eye to his financial double dealings, though it's when she discovers his infidelity that she calls the SEC.
When I was getting my graduate degree in creative writing, we talked about the few options that you have in a story. The things is, I don't really remember them, ad I think the concept is partially bullshi-. However, the idea is that either you can have a moment of change, or a moment of change that is turned on so that things continue on as they have. Of course, we were talking about short stories. The novel, something that is movie length provides a variety of opportunities for things beyond those simple rubrics. Luckily, the movie fits the conventions of my Master's program.
The movie begins with an inside joke. Blanchett is riding across the country on a plane to stay with her sister, and, on the way, she's found another passenger who's ear she is talking off, telling her of her problems and how she and her husband met etc. When the older woman who's been listening to Blanchett arrives at the baggage claim, she quickly excuses herself and is greeted by her husband. "Do you know her?" he asks. "No," the woman replies. "She just kept talking and talking and talking about her life" That quote may not be direct, but the gist is there. This is the most recognizable Allen character, a person who will not shut up. And yet, it's also the post-modern, (cringing at the word) academic that people recognize in themselves. The obsessive conversations that we have with ourselves, about people, ourselves, our failings, etc. externalized in Allen movies. And though we often want them to shut up and just deal with them It's fair to say that it is often a case of the pot calling the kettle black. We hate them because they remind us of ourselves, our minds at their neurotic games.
Blanchett's sister, played by Sally Hawkins, provides the counterpoint to the perfect life that Blanchett was living. She was married briefly, though it broke up after she and her husband entrusted money to Blanchet''s husband, played by Alec Baldwin. Thus, we get to watch the very sweet, and not quite privileged, Hawkins, support her sister in her time of need despite the monetary betrayal that ultimately lead to her divorce. Hawkins' performance in the movie is strong and believable. Familial bonds are one of the few ways in which we can believe that someone would overlook rather obvious character flaws that Blanchett displays throughout the movie.
The subplot in the movie involves Hawkins briefly trading in her imperfect boyfriend, played by Andrew Dice Clay, for Louis CK. (Who, as an aside, has been pretty damn boring in his role on Parks and Recreation and in this movie. I've seen his stand up, it's funny, and I should probably just watch his show, which must be great, but it is not so much translating to the big screen thus far). The tenor of the relationship break up is that Blanchett has poisoned her sister against the Dice Clay boyfriend, telling her she could do better. This is true, and yet, in an intelligent piece of movie making, the Dice Clay character is one part brute and one part decent lover. He's given a bit of nuance, and a movie viewer can easily see how Hawkins might both benefit from moving on, or staying with him. Not every choice is black and white.
All this talk of other plot elments, including the excellent Alec Baldwin turn as a rich white male. Okay, he's a bbit typecast. But he's pretty much killig it as that type. However, he's not exactly stretching his acting muscles, and so not much more will be spent on his character. THe fascinating character is all Blanchett. From the very beginning she is a woman playing just enough off kilter for us to believe that she's recovering from a mental crack up. As the revelations pile up, via flashback, it becomes clear that her life has been lived in a delusion. She's ignored certain things about her husband's business practices to benefit herself. She's sold her sister down the river. And yet, she'a also maintained the illusion that everything was going on swimmingly. The movie then becomes about her dealing with the shattering of that illusion. And, as she drinks with her sister, and almost romances a perfect seeming man, you have the feeling that she could almost get back to normal. And yet, her need for a certain kind of perfect picture eventually sabotages her relationship with the new man, whom she's not told about her ex-husband or son. Eventually she is close to the brink and tracks down her son only to have him turn his back on her as well, blaming her for his father's death, suicide in prison after the exposure of his fraudulent schemes. And so, this woman who's primary crime was wanting to have a perfect life is left wandering the streets at the end of the movie as she apparently began it. Unhinged yet again. And this write up didn't really give her near the credit she deserves. The performance is amazing and relatble. It's easy to see amidst the numerous, and often plain boring challenges that life puts in our way how a person might want to gloss over details to make things easier, and having doen that, it's easy to understand why they might not ever find their way back. It's a brilliantly played mental crack up. Not a bit of it seemed over the top. Rather, the unhinging that eventually takes place winds up making sense, though it's sad, terrifically sad. The movie begisn with movement, with the prospect of change, and it ends where it began, with a woman muttering to herself as a stranger listes, only this time, the stranger walks away.
Other things:
This movie makes me feel Silent all these Years by Tori Amos. Key line: Yes, I know what you think of me, you never shut up. Though I reserve the right to feel Silent all these years about Amor when I finally get around to seeing it.
I also feel kind of Herzog by Saul Belllow about this movie. I know no one reads Bellow anymore, but he's a great writer and also a great deal of fun to read. And yeah, it's a book about someone in their mid-forties sort of losing their mind. Time named it one of the top 100 books of the 20th century.
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