Sunday, October 28, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Shake it, shake it, Cali.
So after my second trip to California in as many months, I have this verdict: the Bay Area is deceptively attractive in the fall. When you can see every building in San Francisco sharp against the horizon, and trees are changing to orange and yellow, and it's in the mid-60s with a pin-prick sky, you can't help but think: I want to live here.
Of course it's not practical. Or affordable. I would have to trade my little piece of heaven in Austin for some rented hovel in the Mission District for twice the price, where I would have to nudge bums and used needles out of the way to get in the front door. And then the whole thing would collapse in the Big One.
But no water bottles and no plastic bags, and health insurance for all city residents!
Strangely enough, I didn't even go to San Francisco while I was there. That's a lot of longing for not a lot of visiting. Instead: me, six friends from college, and three of their children went to my parents' cabin in Twain Harte, about an hour north of Yosemite. Beautiful, fun, haunted: all the things you want out of a vacation cabin.
Did I get haunted?
Yeah, I think I did. But please take this with a grain of salt, since reality can roll up and slide sideways when you really want something to happen. In fact, I was so riled up for something to go bump in the night that I eventually got too scared to get up in the dark and go to the bathroom. But for the record, I will say this: I think something touched the side of my shirt while I was sleeping the first night.
Also, the second night, I might have been sassing a ghost when I apparently said, very calmly, in my sleep, "I don't think so. Nice try, though."
On the way home yesterday, on my flight from Oakland to Los Angeles to El Paso to Austin (I like to stop at as many airports in the western U.S. as possible, apparently), we flew over several of the fires burning in Southern California. And even though the Santa Ana winds were well over 60 mph and were whipping the fires forward, from the air the plumes of smoke looked still, like someone had captured them on film and posted them in the airplane window. A terrible beauty.
Of course it's not practical. Or affordable. I would have to trade my little piece of heaven in Austin for some rented hovel in the Mission District for twice the price, where I would have to nudge bums and used needles out of the way to get in the front door. And then the whole thing would collapse in the Big One.
But no water bottles and no plastic bags, and health insurance for all city residents!
Strangely enough, I didn't even go to San Francisco while I was there. That's a lot of longing for not a lot of visiting. Instead: me, six friends from college, and three of their children went to my parents' cabin in Twain Harte, about an hour north of Yosemite. Beautiful, fun, haunted: all the things you want out of a vacation cabin.
Did I get haunted?
Yeah, I think I did. But please take this with a grain of salt, since reality can roll up and slide sideways when you really want something to happen. In fact, I was so riled up for something to go bump in the night that I eventually got too scared to get up in the dark and go to the bathroom. But for the record, I will say this: I think something touched the side of my shirt while I was sleeping the first night.
Also, the second night, I might have been sassing a ghost when I apparently said, very calmly, in my sleep, "I don't think so. Nice try, though."
On the way home yesterday, on my flight from Oakland to Los Angeles to El Paso to Austin (I like to stop at as many airports in the western U.S. as possible, apparently), we flew over several of the fires burning in Southern California. And even though the Santa Ana winds were well over 60 mph and were whipping the fires forward, from the air the plumes of smoke looked still, like someone had captured them on film and posted them in the airplane window. A terrible beauty.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Stock taking.
I stole this idea off someone else's blog, but I'm always evaluative around my birthday.
20 years ago
I was 10 years old and living in Mission Viejo, California. My proposed Halloween costume that year was Baby from Dirty Dancing. We both had perms; I thought that would be enough. My mom would not let me be her. (Put in a corner!) My 6th grade teacher was Mr. Schick, a smarmy single guy who drove a lime-green convertible and who hit on my mom. This was also the year that I drew my own birthday invitations (Garfield sitting in a pan of lasagna!), but only one person came to my party because a rival girl threw a party on the same night just to spite me. I'm sure it was totally fetch.
10 years ago
I was in my senior year of college at Point Loma Nazarene College in San Diego. I was writing the back-page column in the student newspaper for the second year and was editor of the opinion section. I was living off campus with three girl who had already graduated. We lived close enough to the bay that we could hear the seals when our windows were open. We liked to smoke clove cigarettes with boys from our school who were in a band. I had no career aspirations and no future plans other than I never wanted my life to change from what it was that year.
5 years ago
I was "staying" with my parents in Walnut Creek, California. I had graduated with an MFA in May and couldn't find a job, so I had moved from Memphis to California with the idea that I would find a job in San Francisco and live my life on a fault line. It never happened. I went to the City at least once a month to see my poet friend Mark and his then-girlfriend Kim, a professor at Berkeley. They lived in Noe Valley and threw excellent parties with interesting people. I got a job temping at the local newspaper and spent my non-work time with my then-18-month-old niece. Within two months, I would fall down the stairs while carrying her to look at Christmas lights and break her leg. I stayed at my parents for nine months.
2 years ago
I was several years into my life in Austin and was working my dream job at what turned out to be a short-lived nightmare of a company. I was the editor of literary resource books, which meant lots of reading and writing and thinking about literature. Heaven. The company went under after 8 months. I had also just bought my condo and moved in; the only rooms that were painted this time 2 years ago were the kitchen and the guest room. It was an adjustment to be living in a place big enough that my bed wasn't in the same room as the front door (first time in 5 years).
1 year ago
I was 4 months into my current job and trying to figure out if I hated it enough to jump back into the job market. Turns out I didn't. At night, I was sleeping with my hands balled into fists to keep my new kitten from attacking my fingers--behavior I was assured would pass (still waiting). I was in the middle of sanding, priming, and painting my kitchen cabinets, the single worst home-improvement project I have ever undertaken. I was just back from my annual weekend in North Carolina, where I missed the fall foliage by about two weeks for the 3rd straight year.
Today
I emailed, talked on the phone, sent faxes, thought about commas. Then I bought new sheets and listened to Brandi Carlile. Tonight I will go to Movie Nite at the co-workers' house.
Tomorrow
I will email, talk on the phone, send faxes, and think about commas. I will start a class on Modern literature at UT with Chris, and then we'll go to dinner.
20 years ago
I was 10 years old and living in Mission Viejo, California. My proposed Halloween costume that year was Baby from Dirty Dancing. We both had perms; I thought that would be enough. My mom would not let me be her. (Put in a corner!) My 6th grade teacher was Mr. Schick, a smarmy single guy who drove a lime-green convertible and who hit on my mom. This was also the year that I drew my own birthday invitations (Garfield sitting in a pan of lasagna!), but only one person came to my party because a rival girl threw a party on the same night just to spite me. I'm sure it was totally fetch.
10 years ago
I was in my senior year of college at Point Loma Nazarene College in San Diego. I was writing the back-page column in the student newspaper for the second year and was editor of the opinion section. I was living off campus with three girl who had already graduated. We lived close enough to the bay that we could hear the seals when our windows were open. We liked to smoke clove cigarettes with boys from our school who were in a band. I had no career aspirations and no future plans other than I never wanted my life to change from what it was that year.
5 years ago
I was "staying" with my parents in Walnut Creek, California. I had graduated with an MFA in May and couldn't find a job, so I had moved from Memphis to California with the idea that I would find a job in San Francisco and live my life on a fault line. It never happened. I went to the City at least once a month to see my poet friend Mark and his then-girlfriend Kim, a professor at Berkeley. They lived in Noe Valley and threw excellent parties with interesting people. I got a job temping at the local newspaper and spent my non-work time with my then-18-month-old niece. Within two months, I would fall down the stairs while carrying her to look at Christmas lights and break her leg. I stayed at my parents for nine months.
2 years ago
I was several years into my life in Austin and was working my dream job at what turned out to be a short-lived nightmare of a company. I was the editor of literary resource books, which meant lots of reading and writing and thinking about literature. Heaven. The company went under after 8 months. I had also just bought my condo and moved in; the only rooms that were painted this time 2 years ago were the kitchen and the guest room. It was an adjustment to be living in a place big enough that my bed wasn't in the same room as the front door (first time in 5 years).
1 year ago
I was 4 months into my current job and trying to figure out if I hated it enough to jump back into the job market. Turns out I didn't. At night, I was sleeping with my hands balled into fists to keep my new kitten from attacking my fingers--behavior I was assured would pass (still waiting). I was in the middle of sanding, priming, and painting my kitchen cabinets, the single worst home-improvement project I have ever undertaken. I was just back from my annual weekend in North Carolina, where I missed the fall foliage by about two weeks for the 3rd straight year.
Today
I emailed, talked on the phone, sent faxes, thought about commas. Then I bought new sheets and listened to Brandi Carlile. Tonight I will go to Movie Nite at the co-workers' house.
Tomorrow
I will email, talk on the phone, send faxes, and think about commas. I will start a class on Modern literature at UT with Chris, and then we'll go to dinner.
Monday, October 8, 2007
When the sky ain't the only thing falling.
I took my Little Sis out for pizza tonight. Originally we were going to have a picnic at the park, but then it rained in the morning and got steamy in the afternoon, so that no longer felt like a fun outing. Plan B = pizza, which I believe is a universal truth. It should always be Plan B; it always works.
Anyway, at the pizza joint I went to get a drink refill and to get some crackers for my LS. Walking back to the table, I tripped on the step. I stumbled forward and went down hard on one knee, but did not fall all the way to the floor and did not spill a drop of my drink. It was a loud fall, though. But none of that matters, because falling in public is A) deeply funny when it happens to someone else, and B) deeply embarrassing when it happens to you. My LS giggled a little, and I tried to play it off like it was no big deal (kinda like what I did when I slid head-first into someone's cube at work 2 months ago).
Me: At least I didn't spill my drink!
LS: [shaking her head] I thought you were going to fall and crack your head.
Like the person whose cube I tripped and fell into, LS reacted like I was constantly doing these things for attention and that she wished I would just cool it for a minute. I do love physical comedy, so.
My knee is killing me. Maybe it's time to hang of the vaudeville and move to dramatic monologues.
Anyway, at the pizza joint I went to get a drink refill and to get some crackers for my LS. Walking back to the table, I tripped on the step. I stumbled forward and went down hard on one knee, but did not fall all the way to the floor and did not spill a drop of my drink. It was a loud fall, though. But none of that matters, because falling in public is A) deeply funny when it happens to someone else, and B) deeply embarrassing when it happens to you. My LS giggled a little, and I tried to play it off like it was no big deal (kinda like what I did when I slid head-first into someone's cube at work 2 months ago).
Me: At least I didn't spill my drink!
LS: [shaking her head] I thought you were going to fall and crack your head.
Like the person whose cube I tripped and fell into, LS reacted like I was constantly doing these things for attention and that she wished I would just cool it for a minute. I do love physical comedy, so.
My knee is killing me. Maybe it's time to hang of the vaudeville and move to dramatic monologues.
Friday, October 5, 2007
It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new story
This time the story had to start with a specific line: Let it ring, I said.
Accident
“Let it ring,” I said. “Do not pick it up.”
“But it’s just going to ring forever if we don’t.”
“Then turn the ringer off. Or unplug it. You are not to speak to anyone about this, do you understand me?”
"What if it's Mom?"
"It won't be."
“But what if she needs us to—”
“Nathan, do you understand me.”
“Yes, Dad.”
The phone had been ringing off the hook since shortly after 4 o’clock that afternoon. I answered it the first couple times, but after that I stopped picking up. They wanted details I couldn't give. Next thing, three local news affiliates were parked out front, and the cameraman from channel 3 was trampling the snapdragons near the mailbox. Sue had somehow managed to keep the neighborhood dogs from peeing on them all spring, but the moment she was away they were dashed to bits.
She is going to be away for a while, I thought.
The phone was suddenly quiet. Nathan must have unplugged it, or maybe they got wise and saw that we weren’t the story here. I mean, we were, by default, by terrible default, but they must have turned their attention to the mother. What could we have said, anyway?
It. Was. An. Accident.
She didn’t run on purpose. Shock, maybe. Or she didn’t even know what had happened. She kept going, but there was a reason. My wife would not do such a thing.
So I stood in the doorway and watched through the peephole. The reporters were talking to Roberta from across the street. She would be talking knowingly, as if she and Sue had coffee together every weekend. And she would be loving every minute of it.
There was nothing for me to do until the morning. The lawyer had been called. Sue’s father—in no condition for news like this, but better that he heard it from me than the TV—knew. Nathan was upstairs. And they wouldn’t let me see her until the next day.
It was an accident. Could have happened to anyone. But it happened to us. My wife was in custody, people were shaking their heads, and I was left with an entire night to wait, impotently. To say nothing of what had happened and was happening outside of our strangely silent house.
“Dad.” Nathan ducked his head down the stairs. “Can I go with you tomorrow to see her?”
I sighed. I had no idea if that was a suitable place for a 15-year-old boy. “We’ll see.”
“Please.” His lower lip trembled a little. I could see it from across the room.
“You know she’s going to be fine, right?”
He nodded stiffly.
“She is. It was an accident. And accidents happen, right? It just needs to be sorted out, that’s all.”
“What happened to the kid?”
No reason to tell him. “I don’t know.”
He burst into tears.
I walked toward him. He was crouched now on the stairs, looking like a small child.
Accident
“Let it ring,” I said. “Do not pick it up.”
“But it’s just going to ring forever if we don’t.”
“Then turn the ringer off. Or unplug it. You are not to speak to anyone about this, do you understand me?”
"What if it's Mom?"
"It won't be."
“But what if she needs us to—”
“Nathan, do you understand me.”
“Yes, Dad.”
The phone had been ringing off the hook since shortly after 4 o’clock that afternoon. I answered it the first couple times, but after that I stopped picking up. They wanted details I couldn't give. Next thing, three local news affiliates were parked out front, and the cameraman from channel 3 was trampling the snapdragons near the mailbox. Sue had somehow managed to keep the neighborhood dogs from peeing on them all spring, but the moment she was away they were dashed to bits.
She is going to be away for a while, I thought.
The phone was suddenly quiet. Nathan must have unplugged it, or maybe they got wise and saw that we weren’t the story here. I mean, we were, by default, by terrible default, but they must have turned their attention to the mother. What could we have said, anyway?
It. Was. An. Accident.
She didn’t run on purpose. Shock, maybe. Or she didn’t even know what had happened. She kept going, but there was a reason. My wife would not do such a thing.
So I stood in the doorway and watched through the peephole. The reporters were talking to Roberta from across the street. She would be talking knowingly, as if she and Sue had coffee together every weekend. And she would be loving every minute of it.
There was nothing for me to do until the morning. The lawyer had been called. Sue’s father—in no condition for news like this, but better that he heard it from me than the TV—knew. Nathan was upstairs. And they wouldn’t let me see her until the next day.
It was an accident. Could have happened to anyone. But it happened to us. My wife was in custody, people were shaking their heads, and I was left with an entire night to wait, impotently. To say nothing of what had happened and was happening outside of our strangely silent house.
“Dad.” Nathan ducked his head down the stairs. “Can I go with you tomorrow to see her?”
I sighed. I had no idea if that was a suitable place for a 15-year-old boy. “We’ll see.”
“Please.” His lower lip trembled a little. I could see it from across the room.
“You know she’s going to be fine, right?”
He nodded stiffly.
“She is. It was an accident. And accidents happen, right? It just needs to be sorted out, that’s all.”
“What happened to the kid?”
No reason to tell him. “I don’t know.”
He burst into tears.
I walked toward him. He was crouched now on the stairs, looking like a small child.
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