tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32335832225811611762024-03-12T18:26:20.691-05:00Angelica is a JinxAJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-44406450756776579442012-01-24T23:55:00.000-06:002012-01-24T23:55:40.756-06:00Oh, PuffYou never particularly liked being a child. It was such a clumsy period full of indignities and half-understood sentences.<br />
<br />
You were a melancholy child, a serious child. I know. I was there.<br />
<br />
But still, there are times you miss it in your bones. And once you look backward, you realize it truly was a long time ago. And far away. Remember how you made all of those promises to yourself that you wouldn't grow up. <i>I won't</i> you'd whisper under the covers at night with your stuffed animals. To the trees above the trail. <i>I won't. </i><br />
<br />
But you did. You had to. And, in the end, they make you <u>want</u> to. You tear it all down yourself.<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i>A dragon lives forever/</i><br />
<i>but not so little boys</i><br />
<i> </i><i></i><br />
You are still under there, aren't you? I can feel you sitting quietly. Whispering <i>I'm here. I'm still here.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Wik2uc69WbU" width="420"></iframe>AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-51916871481373821642011-09-11T21:56:00.000-05:002011-09-11T22:03:32.765-05:0010 Years<i>Last Thursday, I had the opportunity to read this piece as a featured reader at <a href="http://www.storyclubchicago.com/">Story Club</a>. Thanks <a href="http://buttered-noodles.blogspot.com/">JP</a> for working hard to get this story told right before the 9/11 anniversary. </i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some kids dream about being a baseball player when they grow
up. Or a fireman. Me? I wanted to be White House Press Secretary. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I declared myself a Democrat at age eight. As a teenager, I dreamed
of a life of briefing books and tough questions from hard-nosed reporters. Oh,
and saving the world, one liberal ideal at a time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By 29, I was getting close. I was a Press Secretary for the
Senate Democratic Leadership, which is how I came to be sitting at my desk in
the US Capitol the day that something went very wrong. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had just hung up the phone with a reporter when my
coworker Chris walked into the press office.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you know why they suddenly went into recess?” he asked
me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chris, you have to understand, was in charge of tracking the
business of the Senate floor for the entire Democratic caucus. It was his <i>job</i> to know why. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why are you asking me?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I followed his eyes over to the small TV on my desk just in
time to see the clerks and Parliamentarian quickly rising from their seats at
the front of the well and hustling out of the Chamber. Without warning,
everyone on the Senate floor had just vanished.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This can’t be good,” Chris said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My body already knew what to do. I kicked my heels off, ready to run, when the
yelling started in the hall outside. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I <i>ran.</i> Ran down the hall past the galleries, echoing
with everyone’s shoes pounding the ornate ceramic tiles. Down the marble staircase and past the Chief
of Capitol police who was using that loud, deep cop voice, commanding us to
“Move it out, move it out!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I neared the exit, my brain started pinging: I could die.
I could die right now. My entire <i>being </i>focused
on one goal – getting through that door, getting the hell out of the building
and running until I couldn’t run any more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is not my September 11<sup>th</sup> story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On May 11, 2005, a small Cessna 150 violated the restricted
airspace above the National Mall. Fighter
jets scrambled and forced the plane to land. The pilots were arrested,
questioned and then released without incident.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What <i>most</i> people
want to hear is my story of 9/11. About how my friends and I ran for our lives
as the Pentagon burned in the distance, believing that another hijacked plane
was still in the air, headed for the Capitol where we all worked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, if you want to know the truth, the dirty little secret,
about evacuating <i>that</i> day: it was
actually kind of…fun. In fact, it was one of the most exciting days of my
life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because we had no idea.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7muIaEs-4tTtFUUPs2ql0PmbEiVb1ujYEWMQC5W6Pkpgpks12gAuHmdaAb_WTRpzFatSQVU9xrTfKu_enHzR6th93-RgYS3jlsT3oBr6U9bAqi1xlIwAhyphenhyphenY827GZV0lEOdu222qilaVI/s1600/800px-US_Capitol_from_NW.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7muIaEs-4tTtFUUPs2ql0PmbEiVb1ujYEWMQC5W6Pkpgpks12gAuHmdaAb_WTRpzFatSQVU9xrTfKu_enHzR6th93-RgYS3jlsT3oBr6U9bAqi1xlIwAhyphenhyphenY827GZV0lEOdu222qilaVI/s320/800px-US_Capitol_from_NW.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><a class="external text" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/" rel="nofollow">CC-BY-SA-3.0</a>/<a class="external text" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/User:UpstateNYer" rel="nofollow">Matt H. Wade</a> at Wikipedia</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On September 11, 2001, my best friend Kelly picked me up for
work in the morning. The crushing heat and humidity of summer had finally
broken under a clear blue sky. We didn’t have the car radio on, instead singing
along to an old tape from high school: <i>With
my Naked Eye I saw /the falling rain/ coming down on me</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So we didn’t know what the hell Anne Marie was talking about
when she blitzed us as soon as we walked in the door of the office the three of
us shared. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have you seen the news?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was annoyed. “Anne Marie, we just got here.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What she was saying barely made sense. “A plane…crashed… right into a building” I
looked at the sky out the window, thinking she meant outside. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where?” I didn’t see anything.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“New York”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s what I did. I
went downstairs to the cafeteria for a bagel.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I got back to my desk, the second plane had already
hit. Live pictures had just started to come in of the Twin Towers bleeding
cement-colored smoke. I watched the coverage with a detached interest. New York
City had clearly been the victim of some kind of terrorist attack. But that was
more than 200 miles away. It wasn’t until a few minutes later, when Katie
Couric cut in with “We’re getting reports of a fire at the Pentagon,” that the
hair on the back of my neck stood up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I called my boyfriend back in the Midwest. He was watching
the news, too. “I’m thinking about going home.” “Yeah, maybe you should, just
to be safe,” he said as the TV went live to the Pentagon, belching black smoke
and scarred from the outside. “That’s
not just a fire.”<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchnW_AgSQKhDbWtGFDpmbn_H6rr49mYS4Y1pawMA3xvuHr3udxYoUqu8QxHwEKYlD6rjp1MSjV2T_Ax3Wl6QA1RJfuHqz40AyQlm5lgCQgDwaEVSLJsYjxdhda-NsYEHHf612AvNvCrM/s1600/pentagon_fire02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgchnW_AgSQKhDbWtGFDpmbn_H6rr49mYS4Y1pawMA3xvuHr3udxYoUqu8QxHwEKYlD6rjp1MSjV2T_Ax3Wl6QA1RJfuHqz40AyQlm5lgCQgDwaEVSLJsYjxdhda-NsYEHHf612AvNvCrM/s320/pentagon_fire02.jpg" width="320" /></a> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We could hear the sounds of shuffling feet in the hallway
toward the stairwell and voices shouting that we had to get out. Adrenaline
carried us down three flights of stairs and back out into the sunshine. I
wasn’t afraid for my life so much as I was curious. And, yes, excited. For the
first time in my 25 years, I felt like my life had taken on the urgency and
vitality of a Star Wars movie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Out in the parking lot, five of us packed into Kelly’s SUV,
but we couldn’t move. Her car was blocked in the parking chute by cars on each
end. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We should get an attendant.” I said, ever the rule
follower.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck that. We need to get out of here,” said Caleb from the
passenger seat. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What are we supposed to do, just move someone else’s car?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kelly unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed into the white
Camry standing between us and freedom. Using the keys left inside for the
valets, she drove it two spaces forward, came back to the driver’s seat and
peeled out of there. I’d never seen her so determined, it was pretty badass. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s hard to believe now, but not one of us in the car had a
cell phone. Remember, this was 2001 and everyone didn’t just have one. We were
going to have to get wherever we were going and make calls there. It was
quickly decided that would be Richard’s place, a house he shared with five
other roommates up by the zoo. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Traffic was slow, but steady, leaving Capitol Hill. Drivers
craned their heads to get a look at the yellow cloud curling over the Potomac.
Office workers spilled from federal buildings, carrying suit jackets and
walking up Massachusetts Avenue in droves. The cab of the SUV was our escape
pod. On ABC radio, Peter Jennings delivered increasingly unbelievable updates.
“Sources are reporting a possible car bomb at the State Department.” Jesus.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The South Tower of the World Trade Center has collapsed.”
Collapsed? I tried to picture it. “So there will just be one?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, sticking up like a big middle finger,” Caleb said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The radio voices kept going: the second tower fell to dust.
Two, maybe three other planes were missing. The rest of the world was watching
this unfold on TV, but that morning in the car, we were still a part of what
was happening. And what was that? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had no idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the corner of 16<sup>th</sup> and U Street, we had to
stop for gas. Waiting for Kelly to finish pumping, paying inside, getting back
in the car fed the agitation between our little group. Even after we’d started
driving again, Caleb grew increasingly restless. At the next stoplight, without
warning, he flung open the door and took off, running toward a street-corner
payphone. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just leave him!” I yelled at Kelly, pissed that his little
freak-out was holding up our entire group. But, on account of Kelly and Caleb
being on the upswing of an on again/off again relationship, she parked off the
curb and got out to coax him back in the car while I fumed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When they returned to the front seats, I hissed at him, “You
are so selfish!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My baby sister lives
in Lower Manhattan!” he said, defensive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We all have calls to
make!” At that moment, we could’ve been Han Solo and Princess Leia bickering in
the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon. It felt like we were saying movie lines,
not living our real life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eventually we made it to Richard’s, where we set up our base
camp. Everyone had a turn with the phone, with priority to those whose parents
were most likely to have had a heart attack in the last two hours. “Mom, mom,
it’s OK, we’re OK,” Jessica cooed into the phone, soothing her terrified family
in California. “No, I don’t think I can come home for awhile…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crowded on Richard’s ratty hand-me-down couch we watched
tape of the crashes and collapse – again and again on constant replay. We cracked
open beers and loudly booed Karen Hughes when she – not the president – made
the first official White House statement about the attacks. Caleb manned the
grill out back, bringing in trays of brats so we could maintain our vigil
around the TV and the always-ringing phone. Over and over again, we retold each
other the story of us racing from Capitol Hill, adding even more dramatic lines
and events as the day went on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It sounds weird, but we were 25 years old, single and away
from home with no kids or families. Hell, we <i>were</i> each other’s family, all present and accounted for and trying
to figure out what came next. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As night fell, we walked a few blocks down to a neighborhood
dive called the Zoo Bar and watched the President – <i>finally</i> – address the nation. <i>“America
has stood down enemies before,”</i> he said<i>.
“And we will do so this time. None of us will ever forget this day, yet we go
forward to defend freedom and all that is good and just in our world.” </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My stomach twisted a bit, thinking of my younger brother
enrolled in his university’s ROTC program. ”Please let the war be quick.” I
thought. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Connecticut Avenue was empty of traffic, except for a big
red pickup that kept driving past. It had a huge American flag mounted on the
back, rippling in the wind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
“Well, that’s a little much” I said to Richard across the table. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We had no idea.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It wasn’t until the next day, until the days and weeks after
that a clear picture of the horror we ran from developed in our minds. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But here’s all I know about the day after – my <i>one </i>memory. I walked to the Metro in the
morning and along the way, caught a glimpse of the newspaper for sale in a blue
steel box. On the front page was a large
picture of a man falling head-first from the World Trade Center, arms at his
sides and one knee bent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I that’s the moment it became real. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s the knowing that makes it worse. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is why, four years later, I am running on May 11<sup>th</sup>.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some people’s instinct is to carefully exit through the
doors marked for that purpose. I have internalized that these people die. I push, physically push people who hesitate
or slow down between me and the open air.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Outside at last, barefoot, the pavement stings the soles of
my feet amidst the shaking and rattling of the incongruous items people have
grabbed on the way out of the Capitol – gym bags, car keys, coffee mugs. But
this time, instead of being with my little band of friends in the middle of an
adventure, it’s just me and my fear, eying the sky. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a false alarm, of course. They give the “All Clear” announcement and
that’s the end of that. At this point, it’s almost a badge of honor, how
quickly you get back to your desk. How
thoroughly you don’t “let the terrorists win” by altering a bit of your routine
beyond the temporary inconvenience of the evacuation. One more nerd contest to win, along with how
many hours you work and how little sleep you get. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But later that night in my apartment, I stare out the window
for awhile. The North Portico of the
White House – the one with the triangle roof – shines bathed in gold light below
me as if nothing ever happened.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And nothing did, really. 5/11/05 isn’t going down in
history. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it was scary. I
was scared I was going to die. I’m 29
years old and I’m tired of fearing for my life at work, of being just a bit
part in a bad TV movie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thinking back to that September morning four years ago, so
much has changed. At the Capitol there has been anthrax and ricin and snipers
on the loose. My promotion and the inevitable scattering of my friends has left
me feeling isolated. The boyfriend’s gone, too – a casualty of a career that’s stealing
increasingly more of my time, youth and sanity. And for what? Not only am <i>not </i>saving the world, my days are spent helping Democrats play
mediocre defense against a reckless, bloodthirsty President and his creepy
henchmen. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My baby brother is a veteran of two wars at the age of 25. I
fear for his life every day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What have I gained in these four years except the knowledge
of when it’s time to run? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe that’s enough.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-46601550549109607962011-08-23T22:30:00.002-05:002011-08-23T22:34:48.358-05:00August and Everything AfterIt's the tail end of August, but today it was cool enough in Chicago to wear a sweater over my short sleeves. Tonight, after much wriggling, resistance and gnashing of teeth, I did some writing and began to make a plan in my mind.<br />
<br />
I can't help but think back to last year at this time. I started the <a href="http://angelicaisajinx.blogspot.com/2010/09/september-blog-challenge.html">September Blog Challenge</a>, began a class on novel writing that helped kick my book in gear. I even outlined the entire book in one feverish session on a caffeinated Saturday. So much was coming together.<br />
<br />
And then my Dad's death slammed into it like a car through a plate-glass window. <br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Three months of regular grief. Followed by February with its blizzards and influenza. Then three stolen months in the bleak. Right now, it feels like it's been longer than a year. It feels like so much waste. Like I'll never get it back. <br />
<br />
I've never been particularly good at finishing what I've started. "Isn't working to her potential" was a frequent comment on my report card. "You have terrible study habits," my mom used to snarl.<br />
<br />
But tonight, I'm trying to get past all of that and be brave. I'm going to keep writing through August and come up with some strategies for the fall and whatever follows. Get out that black-Sharpied novel outline from last September and see if I can pick up a thread somewhere. Anywhere, please. AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-5306215344654319992011-05-28T18:47:00.001-05:002011-06-08T23:09:56.087-05:00OK, then...It has been a wretched couple of months.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
I don't know when the slide started. Maybe I never fully recovered from the death flu I had in February. All I know is that as of April, I was exhausted, bone-deep exhausted without end. I would sleep 12 hours at night, only to need a nap by early afternoon, sometimes two. Nights were spent bent over the keyboard Googling "chronic fatigue syndrome" and "sleep cancer" and "dreadful sleeping curse" without success. Entire days were lost to the bed, where I'd lay, hungry, filthy and with tears running down my face, the muscles in my limbs feeling as heavy as rock. Even Odin knew something was wrong, curling up near my shoulders and using his fur paws to stroke my face.<br />
<br />
It's depression, of course, that had flared up and took over in the middle of this raw, cold spring. Knowing that doesn't make it simpler, unfortunately. It's so easy to believe the lie that it's never going to feel better, this is the way life is from now on. <br />
<br />
Finally, in May's closing days, I'm feeling better. Maybe even good. There are three major reasons for this:<br />
<br />
<b>1. Medication Voodoo</b><br />
Went to the doctor, told him what was up and he immediately added some Wellbutrin to my good old Lexapro regime. "We can fix this," he said to me, and I wanted to kiss him and weep with relief. Could be placebo effect, but at this point I really do not give a shit. <br />
<br />
<b>2. Door County, Wisconsin</b><br />
<a href="http://buttered-noodles.blogspot.com/">JP</a> and I took off last weekend for a 5-day writing and hiking trip. I feel like I'm cheating on my beloved Michigan when I say this, but it was one of the most beautiful, peaceful places I've been. <br />
<br />
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I mean, seriously.<br />
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Surrounded by Lake Michigan and Green Bay, dotted with yellow dandelion blossoms, Trillium and bowing Trout Lilies, I could feel myself growing stronger. Door County has a major Scandinavian population, and it was comforting to know I was covering ground that my grandparents and my father had before me. <br />
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<b>3. This Book </b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRSAGIXik52mo18WXAnAWSYHw9XM_qdhOxEU8FonEkYk8CGGCsnOO4kHLqQZIf79xEa7nVc0ntWR_-WorOwpVu5M0sE_-FnFh-RmXKN9HR4i4VeqBCAubJRL_ei4hm_ShLUcsE_WJr5Q/s1600/LongGoodbye_book.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNRSAGIXik52mo18WXAnAWSYHw9XM_qdhOxEU8FonEkYk8CGGCsnOO4kHLqQZIf79xEa7nVc0ntWR_-WorOwpVu5M0sE_-FnFh-RmXKN9HR4i4VeqBCAubJRL_ei4hm_ShLUcsE_WJr5Q/s320/LongGoodbye_book.png" width="218" /></a></div><br />
<a href="http://meghanorourke.net/">http://meghanorourke.net/</a><br />
<br />
Turns out a lot of that depression was also grief and her more dramatic cousin, bereavement. My dad died. I miss him. This is the hardest loss I've ever had to bear and there's no way to know how to navigate it. <br />
<br />
Meghan O'Rourke's mother died after a long bout with cancer, so our circumstances are different. But I can't even begin to say how helpful it was to read another daughter's experience with losing a parent. How disruptive and awful it is for months on end. <br />
<br />
<blockquote>"In the months that followed my mother's death, I managed to look like a normal person. I walked down the street; I answered my phone; I brushed my teeth, most of the time. But I was not OK. I was in grief. Nothing seemed important. Daily tasks were exhausting. Dishes piled in the sink, knives crusted with strawberry jam. At one point I did not wash my hair or ten days. I felt that I had abruptly arrived at a terrible, insistent truth about the impermanence of the everyday. Restless and heavily sad, I would walk through my quiet Brooklyn neighborhood at night, looking in the windows of houses decorated with Christmas lights and menorahs, and think I could more easily imagine myself floating up into the darkness of the night sky than living in one of those rooms like one of those people. <i>I am a transient in the universe</i> I thought. Why had I not known that this was what life really amounted to?"</blockquote><br />
So, I'm grateful to her. For putting words to the hell I've been battling and pulling back the curtain a bit on what feels like a lonely and desperate new reality.<br />
<br />
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Here's to these three things, and to warm summer days that MUST be just around the corner.AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-56965155961287675822011-03-17T16:25:00.001-05:002011-03-17T16:26:57.621-05:00Kiss Me, I'm IrishI'm not saying I'm into geneology or anything, but where my ancestors came from has always been fairly important to me.<br />
<br />
My dad's father was Swedish -- straight up -- from an immigrant father and first-generation Swedish-American mother. Grandpa spoke Swedish until grade school. Even though he grew up to marry a Norwegian-American, my grandmother, our family holidays were a swirl of <a href="http://www.dalahorse.com/">Dala Horses</a>, fruit soup and Swedish smorgasbords. I like to refer to my brother and myself as Vikings and look forward to seeing "the home country" for myself someday.<br />
<br />
Just as sure as I have been about my Scandinavian side, I always believed my mother's side of the family to be Scottish. I was a little less fervent about it, but when I visited <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aberdeen">Aberdeen</a> the summer after my senior year of college, I made sure to chat up the Scots we met in pubs with the fact that my ancestors were MacCleods from the<a href="http://www.skye.co.uk/"> Isle of Skye</a>. Skye had been "settled" (more like invaded) by Vikings centuries ago, which I assume is what makes my brother and me look like we wandered off a ski slope in search of a sauna.<br />
<br />
I've also always had this little thing about the Irish. Specifically, Irish-American culture and its overbearing insistence on boisterous St. Patrick's Day celebrations and ear-splitting live Irish music that pops up out of nowhere on what was supposed to be a quiet night out with friends. <br />
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"You don't get a whole month!" I insisted to my (half Irish) friend J as we sat in a neighborhood pub underneath a promotional poster laying out the events for the "Month of St. Patrick." I also dragged her up to <a href="http://www.andersonville.org/andersonville-chicago/history">Andersonville</a> the first chance I got for some <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/svea-restaurant-chicago">Swedish pancakes</a> and a little spin around Swedetown. When March 17th rolls around each year and people ask me why I'm not wearing green, I cooly respond "I'm not Irish."<br />
<br />
Except, it turns out that I am.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br />
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I recently stumbled upon indisputable proof on the Internet (yes, I was Googling myself -- so what?). One of my mother's cousins has been doing quite a bit of research on the family and my name popped up there on the old family tree. So I started clicking backward, starting with my Grandpa McClure's mother because, unlike his father's side, I never knew where she had come from. Back and back I traveled through Ohio, then Connecticut, then England. OK, English. Boring, but good to know. <br />
<br />
Then I wanted to see the paternal lineage, just for kicks. Backwards I wound through Ohio and Kentucky. Then it looks like one of the great-greats had arrived in North Carolina from...Donal County...Ireland. <br />
<br />
What. Are. You. Saying?<br />
<br />
There it was. Several instances of my ancestors born and dying in Northern Ireland, not Scotland. Irish-born men marrying Irish-born women. Oh, I'm Irish alright.<br />
<br />
So what?<br />
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I mean, why do I care about any of this? When I was in Europe, people there were perplexed when my friend KC and I talked about being Irish (her) and Swedish (me). "You're American," one guy said during a break in the pub quiz. "You shouldn't call yourself Swedish."<br />
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I guess it freaks me out that a mere three generations can pass and you leave very little behind to show who you were or what you were like. Besides DNA, I can't point to one thing I have in common with my great-grandmothers, let alone more distant relations. Did they like to read, too? Who is responsible for this crazy chin dimple? How did they spend their days, their years? <br />
<br />
When my Grandma Shirley caught wind of my identity crisis, she sent me a card in the mail with this short note: "The family came from Scotland to Ireland. You're Nordic, not Celtic." But just as I'm American with Swedish genes, those Scots-Irish at some point became a part of their host country, especially having settled there for almost a hundred years before shipping off to the New World. <br />
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Grandma Shirley was adopted at birth in the late 1920s, back in the days when 16-year old pregnant girls were sent away and adoption arrangements were loose and secretive. It wasn't until Grandma was pregnant with her own child, my mother, when the doctor let it slip that she was adopted. And it wasn't long after that when she put two and two together about her mysterious "Aunt V." When confronted, Grandma Shirley's birth mother disappeared from her life, leaving more questions than answers about identity and origins. <br />
<br />
Is it easier or harder for Grandma Shirley? Is not knowing who you are or where you came from liberating in a way? At some point, if you go back far enough, don't we all just mush together?<br />
<br />
In that case, <i>Erin go Braugh</i>AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-61091919613122665012011-03-11T15:44:00.000-06:002011-03-11T15:44:52.048-06:00Bush vs. Gore<i>Last night, I tackled my second open mic at <a href="http://www.storyclubchicago.com/">Story Club</a>. It was a bit of a different vibe than the one I did in January -- lots of friends and loved ones in the audience this time, including my sister Ariel, visiting from Michigan. My good friends <a href="http://www.buttered-noodles.blogspot.com/">JH Palmer</a> and <a href="http://www.jojostein.com/Site/Home_please.html">Johanna Stein</a> were this month's featured readers and they were amazing, as always. </i><br />
<br />
<i>The theme was "Religion" and I like to think this touches a bit on the notion of losing it:</i><br />
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">There are some things you just <i>know</i> at a very early age.<span> </span>Some people become Cubs fans, falling asleep beneath Blue and Red pennants and dreaming of the World Series.<span> </span>Some people are Catholics, lulled by the incense and hymns and Hail Marys.<span> </span>Some people are outlaws – pilfering gum and Girl Scout dues before they learn long division.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me – I knew from the time I hit second grade that I was a Democrat.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span><a name='more'></a> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the 1984 primaries heated up, I learned that Jesse Jackson was running for president.<span> </span>This sounded awesome.<span> </span>Not only would we get rid of Ronald Reagan, who my dad cursed out nightly during the TV news, our president would have the same last name as my newfound obsession – Michael Jackson and the Jackson Five.<span> </span>I saw all kinds of crossover opportunity for the pop supergroup and national politics, which in my 8 year old opinion, needed to seriously revamp its economic priorities and up its sparkle factor. <span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">During recess one morning, I began canvassing the playground of my Northern Michigan elementary school.<span> </span>“Who would you vote for – Jackson or Reagan?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My second grade teacher practiced “student-directed learning,” so when Mrs. Schultz got wind of my polling project, she armed me with a clipboard for the next recess to better keep track of the breakdown.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Over the next several weeks, seeing a genuine learning opportunity, she taught our whole class about all of the candidates running for the chance to unseat Ronnie.<span> </span>Besides Reverend Jackson (love) there was John Glenn (spaceman), George McGovern (boring), Walter Mondle (extra boring) and Gary Hart, who if you squinted a little, kind of looked like a cross between Han Solo and Luke Skywalker…only old.<span> </span><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After a few weeks of polling and bar graphing the results, and learning about the issues with my fellow second graders, I switched my allegiance.<span> </span>To this day I have in my house a campaign poster I made with Mr. Sketch markers and manila paper – “Vote for Hart” it says.<span> </span>“He’ll have Nuclear Freeze….plus more great things.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, I didn’t have the time or the room on the paper to go into all of those other things, but you had to trust me…they were going to be GREAT.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, not only did Reagan sweep Gladwin Elementary School, he swept the floor of the Electoral College with the Mondale/Ferraro ticket, shattering my dreams temporarily but strengthening my resolve.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember the exact moment my junior year in high school when I thought to myself, “hey – I’ll major in political science when I get to college.” And just like that, my future was all taken care of.<span> </span>I’d graduate, move to DC and start spreading liberal justice throughout the land.<span> </span>Luckily, I was just deluded and stubborn enough not to notice that I had no real contacts or credentials, and landed a job right out of college in the United States Senate.<span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>As Election Day 2000 drew closer, I could hardly wait.<span> </span>It would be the first time I could actually vote for president. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Election Day on Capitol Hill had the feel of an elementary school holiday party. The staffers who voted in Virginia (rednecks) or Maryland (hippies) or DC (taxation without representation) came in to work wearing “I Voted!” stickers, all patriotic.<span> </span>The rest of us vote back in the home state, having mailed in our absentee ballots weeks ago, which is totally anticlimactic. I made sure to recite the Nineteenth Amendment in my head as I dropped the envelope into the mailbox, just to give the moment the gravity it deserved.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Getting through the work day was squirmy, itchy torture. <span> </span>There were phone calls and whispers and sympathetic hallway eye contact with staff whose bosses were in danger of losing.<span> </span>By the afternoon hours, we were trading exit poll numbers like teenage boys swap porn magazines.<span> </span>“Our Chief of Staff says Ohio’s not even close.<span> </span>Gore’s up 8 points in Florida – 8 points!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We had no idea what we were in for.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After work, my friend Nina came by my apartment to pick me up for David’s party.<span> </span>This was the time before cell phones, before free wi-fi and Twitter and texts.<span> </span>Before any wars had started.<span> </span>Americans were congratulating ourselves for beating the recession of the 90s with catchy commercials starring sock puppets and yodeling cowboys.<span> </span><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we got to David’s I found a place on the couch in the front room among my other coworkers, watching CNN color states red and blue with the anticipation of a well-matched Superbowl.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Within about an hour, the networks were calling Florida for Gore.<span> </span>David and I looked at each other, grinning with amazement and relief.<span> </span>“That’s it, then.<span> </span>Gore wins, right?<span> </span>Florida plus California means he wins.<span> </span>It’s so early!”<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The TV showed the Bush family all going to dinner together in Texas, the former president, George Sr. waving grimly at the cameras.<span> </span>I actually felt a pang of hurt for them.<span> </span>They had to know it was all over.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But… it was taking them forever to call any other states.<span> </span>Too long.<span> </span><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can still hear Bernard Shaw matter-of-factly explaining that they weren’t going to call Florida after all.<span> </span>They were taking it back.<span> </span>Taking it back?<span> </span>Too close to call, Bernie said.<span> </span>That’s ridiculous, we said.<span> </span>“They’re still going to call it for Gore, they just need to be sure.<span> </span>Those exit polls wouldn’t be that far off.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No”, David said.<span> </span>“This is bad.”<span> </span>I wasn’t sure he was right, but that’s when I left the living room, because I couldn’t stand the suspense. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">David’s house had a kitchen with a butcher block island.<span> </span>Nina and Joel were flirting over it.<span> </span>Joel had a beer and I mixed Nina a vodka cocktail.<span> </span>We began proposing toasts and drinking to various concepts and candidates – </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“To Debbie Stabenow!” running for Senate in my home state of Michigan. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“To the lockbox!”<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“To Fucking Florida!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After each, we’d drink.<span> </span>Joel from his beer, Nina from her cup and me, straight from the vodka handle.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Many toasts later, I could feel everything spiraling out of control with each minute it took for them to make up their goddamn minds on Florida.<span> </span>“Give back Florida” I chanted intermittently between gallows jokes and vodka swigs.<span> </span>My head and ears buzzed with the shots and anxiety.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eventually there were shouts and jeers from the living room.<span> </span>They called Florida – for Bush.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We ran to the TV. <span> </span>I began eating baby carrots out of a bowl bowl on the coffee table compulsively, chewing them down to mossy bits. It had to be wrong, it had to be cancelled out by Ohio or Pennsylvania or something.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eventually, unbelievably, all of the networks had called the entire election for Bush.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Damn Bill Clinton and his stupid blow jobs!!<span> </span>I sputtered.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I started to cry – long streaming tears.<span> </span>My friends will tell you this was kind of funny, kind of excessive.<span> </span>Nina came over and hugged my shoulders and I wept.<span> </span>But I don’t think it was the alcohol.<span> </span>It was a deep, unsettling doom.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then I remember quoting Hamlet, “The king, the king’s to blame.”<span> </span>That <i>was</i> the alcohol. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nina and Joel let me cry a little bit longer on the living room floor among the shattered pretzels.<span> </span>But there was really only one thing they wanted to do – get us out of David’s party (now a wake) and back to my apartment.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One thing you need to keep in mind about DC.<span> </span>If, as they say, all of the prom queens go to LA after high school then all of the student council presidents go to DC.<span> </span>We were a bunch of straightlaced, law-abiding nerds.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because of my long-distance boyfriend’s employment on a Midwestern college campus, I had…in my apartment….a small amount of….marijuana.<span> </span>For DC, this was like saying I had round-the-clock access to hookers and blow.<span> </span>I might as well be filming rap videos in my off hours. <span> </span><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Back in my 7<sup>th</sup> floor apartment late in the night, we didn’t turn on the TV, we smoked and we laughed and we cursed huddled around my bare wood Ikea table, the color of matchsticks.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Paranoia crept in.<span> </span>It was late, we were being loud.<span> </span>I became convinced that my next door neighbors were going to turn me in to the building’s front desk, who would send a security guard, who would smell marijuana when they came to tell us to keep it down and inevitably call the police, who would arrest us and get us fired from our Senate jobs.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We have to get out of here,” I told them.<span> </span>“I’m staying right here.<span> </span>I’m going to sleep.” Joel insisted, stretched out on his back on the beige carpeting.<span> </span>It was nearly 2 in the morning. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>“No, seriously, we have to go.”<span> </span>I was hiding the evidence – stashing the bag of weed in a used Poli Sci textbook on my bookcase, the rolling papers in another.<span> </span>I even hid the lighter behind the TV – convinced that my cleverness would foil building management and the ATF agents when they keyed in to search the apartment.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What ultimately worked in my favor was Nina’s desire to get Joel back to her house and into her bed.<span> </span>Nina was renting a floor in the house of a divorced ex-diplomat who traveled constantly and had super expensive art on the walls.<span> </span>As soon as we arrived, I hit the first floor bathroom and threw up baby carrots, bright orange against the 1980s black porcelain toilet bowl.<span> </span>I left Joel and Nina making out in the kitchen, climbed the stairs and landed face-first in the guest bed.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We hadn’t seen the news.<span> </span>We hadn’t heard that Gore hadn’t conceded after all.<span> </span>We had no idea what we were in for.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I woke up in my clothes, in the strange bed with strange light coming through the windows.<span> </span>Dizzy and dehydrated, I dragged myself out the door so I could change for work. It wasn’t until I walked home and saw the headlines for sale in the Washington Post paper boxes that I learned that things weren’t what they seemed last night.<span> </span>That there was still hope. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After a foggy, hungover few hours at the office, a group of us walked over to McDonalds.<span> </span>The country is about to go crazy, we marveled to each other between bites of salty french fries.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We had no idea what we were in for.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What if we had?<span> </span>Should we have rioted in the streets instead of politely acquiescing to the Sore Loserman signs and the khaki-clad double-chinned young republicans charging the office of the election commissioner in Palm Beach County?<span> </span>Should we have fought like they did?<span> </span>They brought flamethrowers.<span> </span>We brought Warren Christopher. <span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And sometimes I wonder…what questions would that idealistic 8 year old have for me?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why did you do nothing but sniffle and share a joint and throw up in a black toilet?<span> </span>Did you enjoy that McChicken sandwich the next day?<span> </span>When there may have still been a chance to fix it? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe I should have done more.<span> </span>But I guess I was not born for marches and Molotov cocktails and courage. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sorry, kid. <span> </span></div>AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-9095003488212884552011-01-21T01:09:00.001-06:002011-01-21T01:10:40.408-06:00Greetings from Griefland<i>I read this piece last night at the very first <a href="http://storylabchicago.com/?p=25">Story Lab Chicago</a>. It was such a great night and I had a fantastic experience doing a live show for the first time. It's a little tough posting this here, because I wrote it to be read out loud and I think a lot is lost without hearing it live, but for my friends and family who couldn't make it to the<a href="http://www.blackrockbar.com/"> Black Rock</a>, here's what I did:</i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">“Grandpa died.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have wandered into my brother’s dining room late Thanksgiving morning, blinking against the sunlight into the middle of an earnest conversation between my little nieces:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Grandpa B died!” says Claire, age three and a half . She takes a scoop of oatmeal and lets this fact settle over her younger cousin Evie. When you’re three and a half, there are few opportunities to be the authority on things…Claire is taking this opportunity and rolling with it full speed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><a name='more'></a>“ I know!” says Evie, smacking her lips on the last spoonful of her breakfast.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Claire milks it a little harder. “He <i>died</i>! We aren’t going to see him anymore.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah,” Evie says. “I <i>know. </i> Now he live in my belly”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Claire isn’t sure what to do with this information. She glances up at me nervously.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">My brother’s wife has a deep Catholic faith that neither my brother or I share. In the close rose-scented air of the small-town funeral home, I heard her tell the kids “Grandpa B died…but he still lives in your hearts. Anytime you want to talk to him, just put your hand on your heart and you can talk to him, he will hear you.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Grandpa B. lives…in my heart” Claire asserts, but with less conviction than before. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">“He live in my belly!” insists Evie, pushing her chair away from the table, grabbing her pajama clad toddler tummy and calling down to it in a misguided greeting, “Hi, Grandpa B.!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Claire and Evie spent the rest of the holiday weekend arguing about who works in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “It’s Boompa Boompas!” “NO! It Doompa Doompa!” “NO!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Guess what?! You’re both wrong!” They ignore me…because what the hell do I know? I’m not married, I don’t have kids. They think I’m eight years old – ten max.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It has been two weeks. Two weeks since my dad – “Grandpa B.” died suddenly and randomly in a hotel room that he’d stopped in for the night on his way to visit my brother and his young family. I was driving back to the City from Melrose Park after a work event when I got the call. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ang – where are you?” my brother was using his Army voice. The one I imagine him using when he has to call a wife or a mother from Afghanistan to tell them about an injury, an accident. A roadside explosion. I can tell immediately what I need to do. “I’m in a car….I’ll pull over.” A month ago, when Eric was still deployed, this call would have sent me spiraling into terror. But he’s home now, he’s the one on the phone, so I’m not really sure what I’m in for. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once I’ve pulled to a stop outside a toll plaza, I look up through the rearview mirror at the clear fall sky and the EZ-pass lanes as Eric drops the bomb out of nowhere. “Dad died last night.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With that, drivers speeding by me on the ramp to the Eisenhower, middle fingers blazing, I was plunged into the state that I have named “Griefland.” Because it’s just as real as any place I’ve ever visited.</div><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">In Griefland, everything I look at has a gauzed-out sheen, like it’s wearing a halo or an aura. “I think there’s something wrong with my eyes!” I tell my sister, who informs me that the trippy haze is the effect of eye-swelling crying on contact lenses. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> The official food of Grielfland is vanilla milkshakes, which is the only thing I can even imagine putting into my mouth. I rejected the idea of everything else in the kitchen – crackers? Too pointy. Leftover chicken? Too much chewing. Baby carrots? No fucking way. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After about three days, it shifts over into pies, which my entire hometown has apparently decided to bake and bring over to the Capital of Griefland – my mom’s house. And pounds of Swedish Meatballs. “What do they think we’re gonna do? Eat him back to life?” my brother asks. Whatever, these cinnamon rolls are awesome. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Griefland demands many meetings. My brother’s wife is still nursing their four month old baby, so he’s been to the church, the cemetery and now, the funeral home with all of us, adding a sweet but surreal element to a somber situation. Everyone finds themselves making faces at the baby who watches us with drooly, open mouthed grins. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now we’re down to the brass tacks of the funeral, picking out the casket, the vault and working out the details of the service at the funeral home. My Dad happened to be a morbid bastard, so we have the benefit of his personal, handwritten instructions about exactly which music to play, which verses to read all laid out on yellow legal paper. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One thing I discover is that I really enjoy having a funeral director that looks like a badass. Kris Kokotovich is Northern-Michigan beefy. He has a dark, close cropped beard and a cut-to-the-chase manner that I find comforting. At the cemetery, he will wear a black trench coat, black leather gloves and a look that would melt a mobster. At first, I’m a little put off by his tendency to keep bringing up “Dad” as in “now, did Dad have a cemetery plot reserved?” and “On the day of the visitation, we’ll have Dad right in the big room here,” and “We’ll take dad right down the aisle of the church, through the front door and just start the procession from the West.” But I get used to it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Do you want to see Dad?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My first thought was Yes! Do you know where he is? Until I realized what he meant was “Do you want to see your dad’s body?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh. Right. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here is the first question I ask: “Will he be wearing clothes?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No,” Kris says gently. “What we’ll do is have him covered in a sheet up to his neck, you'll just be able to see his face.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh. Well then no thank you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My brother speaks up from the other side of the table. “I kind of…do…want to see him.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I do, too.” Says my sister Erin. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s not like I’m not prepared to deal with the reality of death. I mean, I inherited brooding morbidity straight from Dad himself. I can clearly recall being about three years old and asking my mom what it meant when you felt homesick when you were already home…so desperate to put a feeling on the existential angst that was bubbling up between Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I was seven, I remember being on the phone with my best friend Erika who had just told me her worst fear. She’d seen the story of Adam Walsh on the news, a chubby-cheeked Florida kid our age who had been kidnapped from a toy store and had his head cut off by Stranger Danger. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “You know what scares me the most? I said in my most practiced, church- serious voice…”Eternity. Because you may be dead, but there’s NO end. And then what? Where do you go?” “I have to go, my mom’s calling me.” said Erika, and slammed down the phone as my spine prickled at the thought of the abyss. Of an infinity of nothingness. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s not the nothingness. It’s the indignity. Dad was a larger-than-life figure in our small town. Sort of a cross between Clint Eastwood and Robin Williams’ character in Dead Poets Society. He didn’t suffer idiots and was loved for it as a teacher, coach and play director. We were going to have to have two funerals – one at the church and a larger, all out Kennedy funeral production at the high school. Going out to lunch with him at home was an ordeal on the scale of having dinner with Mayor Daley at Gibson’s on a Saturday night. He basked in the attention.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But just as I don’t like the idea of seeing my dad clad in only a sheet, laying still and unnatural on a table in the next room, I don’t like the idea of my siblings going in to see Dad without me. </div><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">The six of us follow Kris down a small hallway and into a brightly lit room: my brother and his wife with baby in tow. My sister, her husband and me. I’m the last one in. And we gather in a circle around the semi-shrouded body of my father. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Kris had prepared us for the purple bruises on the bridge of his nose from his fall to the bathroom floor – reassuring us that the lack of swelling meant that he died almost immediately from the undetected blood clot that shook loose from his leg to his lung. For the autopsy scar that curled up from the base of his neck. He doesn’t look like he’s sleeping. He doesn’t look particularly peaceful. He looks like what he is. Dead. <span style="color: red;"> </span>My brother puts his arm around his wife’s back , Erin leans into her husband’s shoulder, tears streaming down her cheeks. And I stand there staring. Alone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The last year of my Dad’s life was a tough one. He and my stepmom divorced after more than 20 years of marriage, leaving him bewildered and vulnerable. One of the toughest parts for him was attempting to weather the little outrages of life – unexpected credit card fees, spotty Internet service – things that my stepmother used to just deal with for the both of them. “Dad, this kind of stuff happens to everybody.” I found myself saying. “Don’t take it so personally, you’ll figure it out.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was hard on us both. “It’s like I’m married to my dad.” I used to complain to my friends. But in the weeks before his death, I was trying to figure out how to convince him to move to Chicago. Maybe rent a place in the neighborhood. I’m cooking for myself every night anyway, maybe it would be nice to have him over for dinner a few times a week. I imagined him texting me from Simon’s on Clark Street, urging me to come have a drink. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It doesn’t seem possible that none of it will come true. That he never will figure it out. This is how it ends. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>“Dad, where are you?”</i><i> </i> I find myself repeating it over and over again. Out loud even. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">I wish I believed that he lived in my heart. That whenever I want to talk to him, I just talk to my heart and he’ll hear me. Hell, I’d even settle for him living in my belly. All I know is, he’s gone. </div>AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-37758574575810007292011-01-07T15:10:00.003-06:002011-01-20T17:22:35.940-06:00Camping Alone<i>Last night, I read this during the open mic at <a href="http://www.storyclubchicago.com/Home_Page.html">Story Club Chicago</a>. It was the very first time I've ever done a live performance of something I wrote that wasn't part of a class. It went really well and I'm excited to make my billed-reader debut at <a href="http://storylabchicago.com/">Story Lab</a> at <a href="http://www.blackrockbar.com/">Black Rock Pub</a> on January 19th.</i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">“Looks like its going pretty good now. I was worried for a minute there.”<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She is talking about my campfire. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I smile through the firelight at my neighbor as she cuts though my site on the way from the water station in a blatant violation of campground etiquette. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I asked my husband, aren’t you going to go over there and help her? But he said ‘no, it wouldn’t be any fun for her if I did that.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have been at<a href="http://www.dnr.state.mi.us/parksandtrails/Details.aspx?id=480&type=SPRK"> Orchard Beach State Park</a> for approximately 5 hours. I pulled into my campsite featuring a view of Lake Michigan and set up my tent, despite a moment of panic when the instructions said “have one person gently lift the roof of the tent while the other flexes the pole into the canvas pocket…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m here by myself, which has caused nothing but interest and consternation since my arrival. Before I even began wrestling with the tent poles, an athletic, tan woman from the next site came over and introduced herself as Kari. “Are you by yourself, too?” she asked. “I thought I was the only person crazy enough to come out here alone.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Out here” is a state park campground. It’s the height of the summer season in Michigan, and there are fellow campers set up in tents and elaborate recreational vehicles within ten feet of us in every direction. Huge motor homes with names like Daybreak and<i> </i>Big Country and Sport Hornet <i>by Keystone</i>. We’re not talking back country roughing it – more like a hotel, only outdoors and with 100% less privacy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because I was being polite, I don’t point any of this out to Kari before she returned to her own campsite to chat with her boyfriend on her cellphone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once the tent is up, I get going on dinner. I have opted for a charcoal grill and the flame is like a beacon to the kids from the site to my west. Three or four of them plop down unbidden on my picnic table. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Whatcha cooking?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sweet corn and brats” I answer</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Cool. We’re roasting hot dogs”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Cool” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Are you here by yourself?” asks the oldest girl.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thankfully, their mom, a sweet faced blonde woman in khaki Capri pants who could be anywhere between 26 and 45 comes through in a few minutes and tells them to “Go help your dad.. I say hello to her and expect to return to my business, but it’s clear that the kids were really just on a scouting mission. She’s got follow up questions for me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So you’re here by yourself?” she asks brightly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yep. It’s just me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I told my husband, no, she’s too cute to be here by herself. But then you only had the one chair so…” she trails off.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel compelled to provide more details. “Well, I’m a writer. So I thought I’d come here, get away for a few days and do some writing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, have you had anything published?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Not yet!” I chirp, with the creeping feeling that I’m coming off as pathetic, delusional and possibly a danger to myself and others. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What did you do before?” she asks. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I was in public relations.” Her face remains blank. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then I feel it coming…I shouldn’t say it. The back of my brain is chanting don’t say it, just leave it at that…</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But before that I used to work in politics.” I blurt out, like a sneeze. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">God damn it. I have to learn to quit telling people that. Because, A) who cares? And B) it leads to her next question.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Are you a Republican or a Democrat?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">See? I have already lost. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I fess up, she starts the inevitable monologue. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I used to be a Democrat, when I taught in Detroit for a few years, but now I’m a Republican. My husband’s a Republican and I’ve been a Republican, too, for the past few elections. Because now I teach in Muskegon? And I see all of these kids who don’t have anything to eat because their parents sell their TVs and washing machines for drugs. I believe in giving a person a fishing pole, you know? Instead of just handing them a fish, you need to, like, take them fishing. And I’m not so sure Obama should be cutting back on our nuclear weapons? Especially since North Korea has all kinds of nuclear weapons and their leader is so crazy. We should be able to defend ourselves, I think.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know I hang on to it because I want to prove to this woman I don’t even know that I had an interesting life and a demanding career. So it’s OK I’m out here camping by myself. It’s OK that I’ve been collecting unemployment and sleeping late and trying to scratch out some stories in my notebook. I’ve earned it. I’m special.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, I think it’s just great that you’re out here on your own,” she says in a tone usually reserved for my aunts and grandmothers. It’s so adventurous! I wish I were that independent.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Thanks.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Well, I’ll let you get back to your supper,” she says, releasing me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After washing my dinner dishes with hot water from the kettle on the grill, I tackle the issue of the campfire. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But at the fire pit, I realize I have a problem.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have built a little teepee out of the firewood, with dry sticks and some of the paper trash from dinner in the center. What I have forgotten to do is bring along a pile of newspapers to ignite the kindling, starting the campfire chain reaction. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first three matches light up a few of the skinnier sticks. But it’s not enough fuel to reach the top and catch the small logs that will eventually feed their bigger brothers piled at my feet. As the flames lose their enthusiasm, I bend over to encourage them with heavy puffs. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s sort of working when I hear the husband of my good friend Capri Pants, offering commentary. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“…she doesn’t have enough dry kindling…” I hear him say to her, knowingly.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Fuck off!</i> I want to yell. I have enough dry kindling! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I grind my teeth with the certain knowledge that not only is Mr. Capri Pants over there watching me smugly, but everyone who has a view is probably checking my progress. If I can’t build this fire, it just proves that no woman camping alone can build a fire. And everyone will go home to Grand Rapids or Fruitport or wherever they’re from secure in their place in the world and the choices they have made.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For a second, I consider the lighter fluid sitting on top of the picnic table. But just as quickly, I vow to never go down that road. It’s sacrilegious. Like pulling out a hand grenade at a fishing trip – it’ll do the job, but it’s not worth losing your humanity over. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What saves me from the ultimate campground humiliation is a remembered roll of paper towels in the back seat of my car. I saunter over very casually, pull off a hefty wad, and return to feed the beast. A couple more matches, and my fire goes from puny to substantial. I feel like the Queen of the Forest. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As the dark sky squeezes out the very last of the sunset, I’m sitting in my canvas chair, sipping sharp Pinot Grigio out of a blue tin cup as Capri Pants returns from the camp bathroom with her scrubbed up kids. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yeah, that’s a good one!” she salutes me from her own camp chair. “My husband never lets me touch the fire.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The night air is chilly and the fire hypnotic. I start to think about the campers that must have been here hundreds, even thousands of years ago, following big fish around the big lake, tending to cookfires and children. I wonder what those women thought about as they stared into the flames, their fears, their plans. I listen for the waves lapping the shore that would have carried their canoes, carried the lives of their loved ones away. I listen….</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is that AC/DC? <i>Jesus Christ</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Strains of classic rock blare out from the site across the dirt road from me. I can’t see their faces, but it appears that a father and son have decided the serene wilderness needs to be jazzed up a bit with the musical praises of an American sex goddess who is not unlike a motorcycle. I desperately look for a ranger. We are well within the campgound’s stated quiet hours and they are violators. I shouldn’t have to say something – I’m a child of divorce, I hate confrontation. Mr. Capri pants, who was soooo interested in my fire’s progress seems oblivious to the aural assault. He should step up and say something. Why isn’t he saying something? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Three electric guitar-heavy songs later, there is no ranger to be found. Steeling myself with a shot of Pinot, I leave the comfort of my fire. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hey! I try to sound firm but non-threatening. “It’s after quiet hours.” I point at the radio. “Do you think you could turn that down? ” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The man shifts his weight on the picnic bench, belly straining against his flannel coat and turns the knob with barely a grunt of acknowledgement. But I’ll take it as a victory that he didn’t refuse or call me a bitch or force me to march to the ranger station. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“OK, thanks!!” I smile so hard it hurts my face and turn back to my campsite, heart pounding and praying that he doesn’t throw rocks at me as I walk away or come murder me in my tent as I sleep. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I hope he hasn’t noticed that I’m here by myself.</span>AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-71247274748630727162011-01-02T13:51:00.000-06:002011-01-02T13:51:50.977-06:00These Sudden Ends in Time Must Give Us PauseSomewhere between three and five hours after writing my last post, my dad died suddenly.<br />
<br />
In the bizarre grief world that followed, my words haunted me. The fact that as I was blithely typing away about the little time we have on this Earth and reassuring a former classmate that all was well, my father was living his last hours, alone and far from home. <br />
<br />
Even though he had no reason to know his time was short, my dad was a morbid bastard. My brothers, sister and I planned his funeral services from handwritten instructions on paper from his familiar and favored yellow legal pads. A teacher of literature, he had chosen poems for my brother and I to read. For me, it was Year's End by Richard Wilbur, which I post here in memory of him and in honor of all of the students he touched. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171797">Year’s End by Richard Wilbur : The Poetry Foundation [poem] : Find Poems and Poets. Discover Poetry.</a>AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-73332648154646113532010-10-28T23:16:00.002-05:002011-01-20T17:23:13.525-06:00Don't Wait Too LongI tore out this picture of Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan from last week's New Yorker and tacked it up above my desk. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IkDt1gsGbKOLAfxc5M806RSdPHq_d0dt4UmcR_iAN4B4EhO4rY6SbKj3q-hWXbl3G6xRiJxfN4dZUB_qpgekPK0xnt4l60-hPYkMkgUEG-9rYIL1cfP8sYVwZ5zOnCcVpVHCijsDg7M/s1600/SenatorMoynihan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nx="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7IkDt1gsGbKOLAfxc5M806RSdPHq_d0dt4UmcR_iAN4B4EhO4rY6SbKj3q-hWXbl3G6xRiJxfN4dZUB_qpgekPK0xnt4l60-hPYkMkgUEG-9rYIL1cfP8sYVwZ5zOnCcVpVHCijsDg7M/s320/SenatorMoynihan.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>I did this for two reasons. <br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
One -- as a kick in the ass to WRITE. From <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/hendrikhertzberg/">Hendrik Hertzberg</a>'s book review <i>Politcs and Prose, The Letters of Daniel Patrick Moynihan</i>: <br />
<br />
"Nevertheless, Pat Moynihan was first, last, and always a writer. 'When I was five years old, I asked my mother, what does Dad do?' his daughter, Maura recalls in a charming afterword to a splendid new book. 'She replied, he's a writer. And he was: he wrote every day -- even Christmas -- articles, books, speeches, and, in great abundance, letters.'" <br />
<br />
And two -- if I may be so bold as to appropriate a theme from my friend <a href="http://www.jojostein.com/Site/Blog/Entries/2009/7/8_Unconventional_Wisdom.html">Johanna</a> -- to remind myself that I'm going to die someday and I need to stop wasting so much goddamn time. <br />
<br />
When I started working in the Russell Senate Office Building in the mid-nineties, Senator Moynihan was still roaming the halls. In fact, I interviewed for a job as one of his Finance Committee staff assistants when I first moved to Washington. During the interview, I learned some key tidbits about the then-Senior Senator from New York. Mainly, that all of his sign pens had to be green ink and all of his papers were to be clipped together with green clips. And that he was prone to making random phone calls to the main Committee line, startling the young staffers answering the phones, "Hellooo, it's Senator <i>MOY</i>nihan" the woman interviewing me demonstrated. <br />
<br />
It doesn't seem like so long ago. But Senator Moynihan has been dead for seven years. By the time he was my age, he already had his PhD in sociology, had studied at the London School of Economics and was serving under President Kennedy as an Assistant Secretary of Labor for policy. I'm reasonably certain he wasn't <a href="http://angelicaisajinx.blogspot.com/2009/11/depression-lethargy.html">sleeping more than 11 hours a day</a>.<br />
<br />
All day, I have been at my computer, which I've moved to the dining room table so that I can work with the <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/meryddian/2492391952/">cemetery</a> right out the window over my shoulder. I have made coffee. I have made dinner. I have pulled at my hair and cried. But I still haven't started re-writing the story that needs to be re-written from first to third person. It seems stupid now. I'm sick of it.<br />
<br />
Just as I began writing this post, my latest Facebook "friend" from high school sent me an instant message, asking about her former teacher, my dad. I probably haven't spoken to her in a good seventeen years. Talk turned to the present.<br />
<br />
"Do you have kids?" she asked. <br />
<br />
"No. Not yet. I've never been married." I typed back. <br />
<br />
"Well, don't wait too long" she replied from her computer in my hometown.AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-17338840776173412532010-10-24T18:40:00.000-05:002010-10-24T18:40:39.269-05:00Then/NowOctober in Chicago has been sunshine and honeycrisp apples in oatmeal and a slow easing into the weather change, like wading into a lake. <br />
<br />
That girl running on the lake path today, singing this under her breath? That was me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
I follow <a href="http://www.thestylerookie.com/">Tavi's style blog</a>. I get this weird pleasure from her posts extolling the virtues of <a href="http://www.thestylerookie.com/2010/04/are-you-tired-of-sassy-yet-answer-is-no.html">Sassy Magazine</a>, Hole and the movie <em><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LkFNZauk90&feature=related">Heathers</a></em>. I was her age when all of that stuff was breaking, and one part of me is freaking out, feeling old and bewildered at how much time has passed. The other part of me is vowing not to miss out on Doc Martins this time around.AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-66152603428803090452010-10-08T21:51:00.001-05:002010-10-08T22:11:32.290-05:00DreamlifeI need to quit sleeping so much. <br />
<br />
I wigged myself out this morning with a two-part dream in which a little girl, about 7 years old, killed the Pope (oddly, JP II, not Benedict) and all of the cardinals and nuns standing nearby. She walked up to him wearing a grey schoolgirl uniform and a beret, gave him a sweet hug and when she pulled away, he was a dried up, shrunken corpse. All of his attendants dropped dead simultaneously. They were laid out, their skins like a blackened banana all around the outdoor altar we were gathered around.<br />
<br />
The second part of the dream took place in a mansion or a compound. I was trapped there with several other people, who decided to start eating the pets when the food got low. I rescued Andromeda, Odin and a gray Burmese that was almost hairless. All three of them went into the same cat carrier, and I walked through the streets with them, promising them that I'd never let anyone kill them. The new cat could talk, she told me she was scared.<br />
<br />
Sleep is my drug of choice. I didn't want to wake up this morning and deal with the logistics of attending a wedding in the suburbs tomorrow with only enough money to either rent a car OR spend the night...not both. So I kept going back to sleep and to the creepier, more desperate choices of the dream world. AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-24630483966382912832010-09-30T22:04:00.000-05:002010-09-30T22:04:10.779-05:00September, je t'aimeToday was one of those weird days where you can see the moon in broad daylight. Staring at it, I felt like an alien who had landed here, taking in the skyscrapers against the clear sky and wondering where it all ends up.<br />
<br />
September's over. I'm back at my desk in my treehouse (or, as I sometimes call it, the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5RF-AFJ5VFs">Kit Kat Club</a>) The computer situation is partially...<i>mostly</i> solved. I've been ripping out recipes for braised pork shoulder and spiced cakes and pasta dishes heavy on mushrooms and red wine. Looking forward to October, to writing my damn book and to hot apple cider with whipped cream.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://angelicaisajinx.blogspot.com/2010/09/knots-to-untangle.html">Technical glitch</a> aside, writing here every day has been great, great fun and good practice for me. I may not be back every day, but if a week goes by without a post, by all means -- give me the business. Sitting down and forcing myself to write something, <i>anything</i> before midnight comes has been a better exercise than I anticipated.<br />
<br />
Big shout-out to JP at <a href="http://www.buttered-noodles.blogspot.com/">Buttered Noodles</a> for hitting the big 3-0 (posts) today, too.AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-30670489867704255672010-09-29T19:58:00.000-05:002010-09-29T19:58:59.655-05:00Knots to UntangleOK, it's not the <i>absolute </i>worst time for my computer to go tits up, but it's far from ideal. <br />
<br />
I'm back at Winston's on the shared machine, the only one of the two that doesn't have the same virus as my laptop. Looks like I'll be dropping some unexpected cash on a new computer sooner than I'd hoped. <br />
<br />
My dad and stepmom recently divorced after more than two decades of marriage. One of the hardest parts has been counseling my dad through the random shit that happens in life -- things that my stepmother used to just deal with for the both of them. He gets so upset when an unexpected credit card fee pops up or when the Internet service he ordered and paid for turns out to be spotty at the river cottage he moved into this spring. He takes it personally, and spins into rages at these little indignities. "Dad, this is<i> life,</i> these kind of things happen all the time and they happen to <i>everybody</i>," my brother and I found ourselves saying over and over.<br />
<br />
And tonight, I'm having to say it to myself. Over and over. <br />
<br />
grrrr. AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-69779580538871697872010-09-28T22:20:00.002-05:002010-09-28T22:25:36.791-05:00Bloggus InterruptusI did not forget to post yesterday. I wrote very dutifully about <a href="http://angelicaisajinx.blogspot.com/2010/09/september-27-visitor.html">Little Ed and my crazy upstairs neighbor</a> last night. But posting was thwarted because my computer is infected with a virus or some type of malware (which is a very badass word). <br />
<br />
My five year old computer has been dying without dignity since January. I'm taking her in the shop again tomorrow, but I fear the end is near. I am posting this tonight from the free public computer at <a href="http://chicago.timeout.com/articles/gay/80434/winstons-cafe">Winston's</a> -- the leather-bar-turned-24-hour coffee-shop a couple of blocks down. I may be the first patron in the establishment's history to use this computer for something other than cruising "HoTT BuTTs" or "Sinagaporean Sloppy Sluts." Or, you know, Facebook. <br />
<br />
Anyway. I will be back on track through Thursday, either on this borrowed machine or on my own computer now living on borrowed time. Say a few Hail Marys for us, won't you?AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-91209028618363357372010-09-28T22:09:00.000-05:002010-09-28T22:09:18.713-05:00September 27: The VisitorI have just gotten back to sleep after a breaking up the 6am cat war that is fought in or around my bed every day when the sun starts to rise. Someone is banging on my door. That can’t be right. I don’t know a single person who would be banging on my door at 7:30am on a Friday. <br />
“<em>Hello</em>??” Bang bang bang. <br />
I recognize my upstairs neighbor’s baritone with its dramatic flourish, “<em>Hel-OOO??!”</em><br />
Here’s what I know about my upstairs neighbor: he writes poetry, he has a pet bird that he frequently shouts at to “<em>Shut up! Shut UP!</em>!” He spends a great deal of time out on his back porch, directly above mine. He appears to be about 70 years old, with an entirely bald head and dresses in sandals and button down shirts from the <a href="http://www.seinfeldscripts.com/TheRaincoats.html">Frank Costanza cabana wear collection</a>. I sometimes wonder if my cats and I are going to get contact high from the clouds of earthy pot smoke that waft in through my open windows and from the hallway. His musical tastes run from The Little Mermaid soundtrack to Donna Summer. <br />
<br />
I open the door a crack, trying to keep Odin and Andromeda from darting out into the hallway and leading me on a chase up and down stairs to retrieve them. <br />
<br />
“Oh,<em> hi</em>!,” he drags out key words like he’s doing an impression of Joan Collins. “Listen, I just wanted to let you know that I’m going to be <em>banging around</em> upstairs for a bit because there is a <em>squirrel </em>in my <em>apartment</em>.”<br />
“A squirrel?” I wonder for a minute if I’m still dreaming.<br />
<br />
“<em>Yes</em>, I had my screen door <em>open</em> yesterday and this <em>squirrel </em>just <em>ran </em>right into my <em>dining room</em> from <em>outside</em>! Well, I <em>tried</em> calling the City and they <em>said </em>they’d send someone but that was <em>yesterday </em>and of course they haven’t done a <em>goddamn thing</em>. So I called our management company and <em>they</em> sent someone over, and I thought I heard it run out the door so I sent him away. Well then <em>this morning</em>, I walked into the dining room and I heard this grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.” he makes a low growl that I’ve never in my life heard come out of a squirrel. “So, he’s <em>still in there</em>!”<br />
<br />
I think I get it now. “OK”, I say as cheerily as one can when one has been roused from sleep by cats and strange neighbors. “No problem, thanks – “<br />
But now he’s launched into scolding. “Do <em>not</em> keep <em>food </em>on your back porch. If you keep <em>any food</em> out there it attracts <em>animals</em>. That’s why I had this <em>squirrel</em> run into my <em>apartment</em>."<br />
<br />
This kind of pisses me off. I don’t keep food out on my porch – why would I? “OK, I don’t keep food out there, but thanks.”<br />
<br />
“You <em>shouldn’t</em> because it attracts<em> all kinds</em> of <em>critters</em>.”<br />
<br />
“OK, I won’t,” I say, guiltily remembering the night I put out a dish for a sweet stray cat that followed me up from the laundry room and the 2-3 times I’ve put my trash bag out on the porch overnight so it won’t fester in my kitchen overnight. <br />
<br />
I have never seen evidence of squirrels in the garbage. I’ve never even seen a squirrel on the back porches. Not that it would be surprising, we live right at tree level on a street lined with old sugar maples and oaks. <br />
<br />
This also isn’t the first time I’ve gotten a dubious lecture from Mr. Upstairs. He came down one day after I lit my charcoal grill and claimed that the smoke was <em>flooding </em>into his <em>apartment </em>and that if I followed his <em>technique </em>where you light <em>just four coals</em>, let them get ashy and<em> then</em> pile up the rest of the coals around them, there will be no smoke at <em>all.</em> <br />
<br />
I didn’t point out to him that what he was proposing would make twice the ignition smoke and take twice as long, just like I don’t point out to him now that the reason the squirrel ran into his apartment is because he had his back door wide open. <br />
I agree through clenched teeth, and my neighbor, satisfied by my promise, goes upstairs and bangs around. Presumably the squirrel gets the message, I didn’t hear anything else about it all weekend. <br />
Tonight, I came home from the office, and pulled the trash out of the can. I put it outside on the porch quietly, remembering the dire warnings I received last week. “Whatever, dude.” I think to myself. <br />
<br />
Shutting the back door, I notice that one of the<a href="http://angelicaisajinx.blogspot.com/2010/09/occasionally-i-become-paranoid-that-im.html"> jars</a> on my kitchen windowsill has been pushed almost to the edge. Cats must have been up here. I move it back into place, and come face to face with a black, eager little eye. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJLCXcmeNWhpBs4XBIfvfppdFWFvJPJLegsGqnCaSa-Ny1N918kEYvpx8iWNHhtbpxo3gTDo9Tsei8KuLtqISf53ljuKcJoHQe2DgqVk285VVM7Ct1rsnRzom2t6c_xljJw6VyeIKf4VU/s1600/squirrel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJLCXcmeNWhpBs4XBIfvfppdFWFvJPJLegsGqnCaSa-Ny1N918kEYvpx8iWNHhtbpxo3gTDo9Tsei8KuLtqISf53ljuKcJoHQe2DgqVk285VVM7Ct1rsnRzom2t6c_xljJw6VyeIKf4VU/s320/squirrel.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This isn't THE squirrel, just A squirrel. A cute squirrel.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It’s the goddamn squirrel! He sits on my windowsill, looking straight at me then scurries halfway up the side of the drainpipe toward the upstairs deck. <br />
Laughing, I retrieve the trash bag from my porch. Point: upstairs neighbor. <br />
<br />
The little squirrel comes right back. Even now, he’s curled up, sleeping adorably on the outside ledge of my kitchen window with his tail wrapped around the top of his body. Part of me wonders if he has rabies. Part of me wonders if he was a pet or something – am I just imagining the longing on his face as he peers into my kitchen? Part of me wonders if maybe…he’s a little hungry. I think of the almonds in my cupboard. <br />
Anthromorphizing animals and other objects is an old, old habit of mine. When I was in Kindergarten, I wrote and illustrated my first book, “Little Ed Under the Bed” about a little girl who brings all of her stuffed animals into the bed to sleep with her, but forgets all about Little Ed under the bed. She’s wracked with guilt when she finds him the next morning and promises to never leave him down there again.<br />
<br />
And so I keep checking on little Ed out there on the window. Wondering if he’ll be gone in the morning.AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-66340893676783183532010-09-26T22:13:00.000-05:002010-09-26T22:13:34.256-05:00In the HouseHe could still hear her wailing in the other room, as wretched and insane as a barn cat. AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-37951078710345938962010-09-25T22:29:00.001-05:002010-09-25T22:30:54.160-05:00CoffeeFixing my coffee feels like preparing a baby's bottle. Sugar, lots of cream, get a spoon from the drawer or a thin wood strip from the bin and stir until it's toffee tan. Don't skip a step. Can't drink it if it's too hot -- I like to take big, bitter gulps to get it through the oblong hole and into my bloodstream as quickly as possible.<br />
<br />
When someone tells me they don't drink coffee because they don't like the taste, I always say "tastes bad, feels good." I get my personality from a bean. It makes my words flow, unsticks them from the tired places. It makes my heart go and my pee smell. Always keep my bag stocked with Listerine strips to wipe off the tongue filth it leaves behind, so I can speak to the bus driver or the man at Borders without broadcasting my preferences or my afternoon whereabouts. <br />
<br />
I used to call bad days at work "40-ouncers." Two Starbucks ventis from the Senate Chef: morning and afternoon. They were days I couldn't afford to go without the fight-or-flight feeling to carry me through the news cycle and into the night. <br />
<br />
Sitting in the coffee shop, music piped in and a cup on my table, I feel like an artist, a visionary. It drags me out of my own brain. It feels like a reason to live.AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-15459544563855314612010-09-24T21:54:00.000-05:002010-09-24T21:54:40.537-05:002006 July<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://www.blogger.comhttp://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">I am sitting in an outdoor café waiting for a car to hit me.<span> </span>Or: a bomb to explode right now, incinerating newspapers, cigarette butts and the stray page from some organization’s strategic plan that’s been blowing between the sidewalk cracks.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m out this Saturday afternoon looking like a cancer patient – all dark undereye circles and unwashed hair.<span> </span>I’ve stopped caring that these jeans are a little too short for flip flops and the zit on my right cheekbone isn’t adequately concealed.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At least I walked out of the apartment building, down N Street to this corner Starbucks which is full of <span></span>Europeans hanging around the flat screen TV cheering loudly for Germany, now battling Portugal for third place.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At least I bought a newspaper and new sunglasses to replace my beloved Target pair from the beginning of the summer.<span> </span>I must have left them behind on a shelf of the dressing room at Banana Republic.<span> </span><i>Stupid</i>, I call myself.<span> </span>But then, more gently – <i>this is what life is all about</i>.<i><span> </span>We get things, we lose things</i>.<span> </span>And so I make an unscheduled stop at Filene’s for a subpar substitute pair.<span> </span>They don’t block my eyes as much as the lost ones.<span> </span>I don’t feel as fashionably distant.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had planned to walk up 16<sup>th</sup> Street to Meridian Hill Park to read, drink iced coffee and maybe meditate a little.<span> </span>Even though I don’t technically know <i>how</i> to meditate.<span> </span>I was thinking I’d just sit on some grass and close my eyes or something.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But after the sunglasses selection and purchase, I felt exhausted, almost defeated, a<span></span>nd in great danger of going home and getting back into bed.<span> </span>After all of my getting out of the house struggle earlier today – the fight to get my feet moving toward downtown and a bra on my chest in the first place – I can’t let that happen.<span> </span>So it’s here, outside.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Reading the Style section – <i>“former Governor Mark Warner dined Friday night with some friends at Oya downtown.<span> </span>They shared appetizers, entrees and bottles of wine.”</i> Oh god.<span> </span>Something about this fills me with dreadful sadness.<span> </span>Dinner with friends.<span> </span>Bottles of wine.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I put my head down on the table.<span> </span><i>OK, now this looks a little crazy</i>, I tell myself.<span> </span><i>Why do you have your head down like a sleepy Kindergartener?</i><span> </span>This makes my eyes well up.<span> </span><i>Well for fuck’s sake.<span> </span>Crying?<span> </span>Crying outside at the Starbucks?<span> </span>There is a car stopped at the stoplight <u>right</u> next to you.</i><span> </span>I can hear the car stereo through the open windows.<span> </span><i>Why can’t you put your head up so those people know you’re ok?<span> </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Crying at Starbucks.<span> </span><i>Well this is pretty low, isn’t it?</i><span><i> </i> </span>I finally sit up and my whole spine aches like I have finished some impressive workout.<span> </span>The lifting up makes the tears actually squeeze out of my eyes like slippery puppies – down my cheeks before I can restrain them.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Great.<span> </span>Now it’s not that I’m tired or dizzy, I’m the girl crying in public.<span> </span>Again.<span> </span>There is one man at a table behind me.<span> </span>What if he asks me if I’m OK?<span> </span>What will I tell him?<span> </span> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I start rubbing my temple and the third eye spot as soon as I’ve got the teariness under control.<span> </span><i>Headache.<span> </span>You know these migraines – how they jump out at you from nowhere.</i><span> </span>That’s what I’m telling the people who may or may not be staring at me from the Starbucks inside.<span> <i> </i></span><i>Carry on.<span> </span>Nothing to see here. </i></span>AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-41414628076787766442010-09-23T21:26:00.002-05:002010-09-23T23:51:56.069-05:00SweatyDays like this, I want to take off my skin and leave it piled on the closet floor for the cats to nap on. I want to peel off my muscles and shake out my organs, then run -- all bones-- lightly through the streets.AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-49187737265254580632010-09-22T23:17:00.001-05:002010-09-22T23:17:53.180-05:00Chicago vs. DCThe budget reconciliation bill is not an acceptable topic of conversation in Chicago. In DC, it is a vehicle for Saturday Night Live-caliber comedy riffs.<br />
<br />
I think Chicago men are more attractive as a whole. Wrigleyville has it's share of frat-daddy types, but they're so much less menacing, less sinister than the ones on the east coast. They don't have that creepy core of entitlement, so they resemble Golden Retrievers next to DC's sharp-toothed wolves.<br />
<br />
It's harder to make friends at work in Chicago. Everyone goes home to their family/friends/whatever, even after grabbing a drink at happy hour. Coworkers make polite office conversation about weekend bachelor parties, Bears games and trips to the Empty Bottle, but rarely is there a real attempt to bring one's worlds together. In DC, by virtue of the intensity of the work I suppose, your work friends ARE your friends. Any pre-existing friends, college roommates, sisters, whathaveyou get co-opted into your office-based tribe. I miss that.<br />
<br />
In the Metro -- you stand Right walk Left or deal with the wrath of the mob. You are free/encouraged/pretty much obligated to enforce this by growling, cursing or shouting at any violators. On the L: "c'mon and get on this train, it's freezing out there! Have a nice day!" <br />
<br />
In Chicago, I don't see other people out alone as often. I like to go out to dinner, to a movie or to a bar by myself from time to time. I'm almost always the only solo person in the establishment. It felt less conspicuous to be out in public alone in DC. <br />
<br />
Chicago people actually read In Touch and Us Weekly and stuff like that <i>on the bus and in public. </i>I wouldn't even read Harry Potter on the Metro, keeping it on my nightstand only to be enjoyed in the privacy of my room. Junk reading felt as embarrassing as porn in Washington.<br />
<br />
I felt at home in DC. Chicago <i>is</i> home.AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-31877809525971216162010-09-21T22:35:00.000-05:002010-09-21T22:35:41.829-05:00Electric EelI find myself sucking at the dregs of my old life. Slurping and lurking in the corners of it, like a barbed and whiskered fish lip-suctioned to a dirty glass tank. AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-21356997959908370672010-09-20T23:28:00.001-05:002010-09-22T23:18:36.074-05:00This Was Just Like That<div class="MsoNormal">I was still sitting on the couch, laughing with David when They took back Florida. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Took it back? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">"Too close to call," Wolf Blitzer said. That’s ridiculous, we said. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">"They’re still going to call it for Gore", I said, "They just need to be sure. Those exit polls wouldn’t be <i>that</i> far off." </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">" No", David said. "This is bad." I didn't totally believe him, but that’s when I left the living room – I couldn’t stand it, the suspense. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Like the time in high school Cross Country practice when Amber Herlihy had a seizure in the country club pool we'd borrowed for the afternoon. She wasn’t breathing and it had been too long since Coach G had pulled her out, started mouth to mouth. Nothing was happening, she wasn’t breathing. She wasn’t dead, was she? Some of the girls on the team were crying, some were still in the water, lined up clutching the pool side, watching. I had climbed out, dripping and watching from a distance for awhile. Finally, I went into the locker room and waited in there alone. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I couldn’t stand out by the pool waiting to find out if Amber was alive or dead. We were so far out in the country, it would take the ambulance at least 15 minutes to get to her. She was definitely going to die, I decided. Pacing the locker room, I tried to get used to the idea of her dead. The scene at school. At the funeral home, the air close with the smell of roses and too many people in a small space. The hysterical, hugging teenage girls and the stone-jawed teachers in gray suits who had seen this before but had never grown used to it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stayed in there, digging my fingernails into the surface of my palms and watching the clock in the orange-tiled changing space. I stayed long enough that I knew by the time I came out, there would be an answer: alive or dead. I needed to know which so I’d know what to do next. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I finally came out and saw Amber splayed out on the pool deck where I’d left her, my throat contracted. I thought “OK, dead.” But the coach was still pumping her chest, and it seemed like only seconds before she seized and foamed orange vomit and fluttered her eyes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Alive, as it turns out. And now it’s just a story, instead of a <i>story</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, I left CNN and went to the kitchen because I couldn’t watch Florida dangle between “won” and “lost” anymore than I could watch Amber laying down between life and death. I needed to distract myself before the final call, to perform my prayers and incantations at a distance from Wolf and the Balance of Power Desk and real time. </div>AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-24602594558018107932010-09-19T20:28:00.001-05:002010-09-21T00:28:06.133-05:00Phantom Limbs<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT7ZqnaIWrIZMEJIXOV1z-BrL7WwDmEGEGz8ghIFNJzWN1Rid5zl1Iq-86xyFcR5YJsVHm8oseMDD2cj7LnMEy4YifNShmzjGofRmILd01XUGCW5KV13OZ1Y7w2mrKyNF90ne_ct739qU/s1600/McMullan+Drawing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT7ZqnaIWrIZMEJIXOV1z-BrL7WwDmEGEGz8ghIFNJzWN1Rid5zl1Iq-86xyFcR5YJsVHm8oseMDD2cj7LnMEy4YifNShmzjGofRmILd01XUGCW5KV13OZ1Y7w2mrKyNF90ne_ct739qU/s320/McMullan+Drawing.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">By James McMullan </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Somewhere between the ages of 18 and 19, right around my freshman year of college, I stopped devoting time and energy to things that required practice in favor of things that came more naturally. Activities that had previously been important to me -- dancing, acting, singing (in secret) and art -- were pushed aside for writing and debating, things that I thought would serve me well in a political career.<br />
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In one sense, it's a smart calculation. I was not going to be a professional actress or a Broadway dancer. So why not focus talents and time into pursuits that were likely to pay off in the future?<br />
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Now that I'm cresting my 30s, I have been actively longing for some of those more artistic pursuits that were so abruptly abandoned.<br />
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That's why I'm so excited about <a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/category/line-by-line/">LINE BY LINE</a> on NYT online. <a href="http://jamesmcmullan.com/">James McMullan</a> is an artist who is going to be teaching weekly drawing lessons through this column.<br />
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From the first installment, "<a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/09/16/getting-back-to-the-phantom-skill/#more-60755">Getting Back the Phantom Skill</a>":<br />
<blockquote><i>Drawing, for many people, is that phantom skill they remember having in elementary school, when they drew with great relish and abandon. Crayon and colored pencil drawings of fancy princesses poured out onto the sketchbooks of the girls, while planes and ships, usually aflame, battled it out in the boys’ drawings. Occasionally boys drew princesses and girls drew gunboats, but whatever the subject matter, this robust period of drawing tended to wither in most students’ lives and, by high school, drawing became the specialized province of those one or two art geeks who provided the cartoons for the yearbook and made the posters for the prom. </i></blockquote><br />
This is sort of embarrassing to admit, but I drew brides. But also the <a href="http://www.826seattle.org/wp-content/uploads/Pluto%20Protest.pdf">9 planets of the solar system</a>, palm trees, detailed scientific drawings of grasshoppers and the human heart for science class, and characters from <a href="http://shakespeare.mit.edu/midsummer/full.html">A Midsummer Night's Dream</a>.<br />
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I'm going to try to spend some time with James McMullan each week. <br />
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</blockquote>AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3233583222581161176.post-50868319750879028272010-09-18T22:41:00.000-05:002010-09-18T22:41:56.556-05:00Two-thirdsToday was a good day because I met up for a writing date with <a href="http://www.buttered-noodles.blogspot.com/">JP</a> at <a href="http://www.bookcellarinc.com/">The Book Cellar</a> and actually banged out a story start-to-finish before we were both fried for the day. <br />
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I have this terrible habit, in writing and, I guess in life, of powering through the first two-thirds of something and then dragging.......to.....a.....stop.<br />
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I've been kicking an <a href="http://www.ancient-greece.org/history/delphi.html">idea for a graphic novel</a> around in my head for more than a year. One night this summer, after a long walk on the lake path, I came home and outlined it on page after page with a black Sharpie. But then, weirdly, I stopped at a point a little more than halfway through the story. I have 2/3 of a short story done. The whole thing is outlined, I have read it multiple times for my writing partners, but I just can't sit down and finish it. <br />
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What I wrote today needs a ton of work. But, I'm clear on the beginning-middle-end. That's a big deal for me. <br />
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To celebrate, JP and I pretended we were in France and had a delicious dinner of <a href="http://www.bistrocampagne.com/">wine, cheese and chocolate</a>. Just for fun, I've been asking myself this question every day: "If someone came and said, 'you can go anywhere in the world right now -- money, obligations and reality are not a factor' where would I go?" Recent popular answers have been Maine (in a cottage by the sea, eating lobster and writing) Alaska (watching grizzlies...from a safe distance) and Thailand (laying on the beach). <br />
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Today it was France. How can I make it happen? AJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06982297689446428961noreply@blogger.com0