This is our last day here. I got in last night very late, so I was exhausted, to say the least. We drove around the early part of the day, and had lunch at our son's favorite Korean restaurant. It all felt uneventful, another sunny day maneuvering through the traffic. We have left our temporary housing by the Grove, and are now at a hotel by the airport since we have an early flight out of the city for Boston, and then to Martha's Vineyard. It is funny how detached I am from the reality that until last week I lived here. Today, my nanny served as chauffeur since I was carless, my car on its way to Martha's Vineyard. My husband handed over his car to its new owner, who will hopefully enjoy the low gas mileage of that hybrid. We ate at our neighborhood Trattoria, one last time. We drove past our old house, saying our final farewell to our little Rose Cottage. I think I have spent all the emotional wattage during this month since all I felt was relief. I am looking forward to unpacking our many suitcases, unpacking boxes in our New York apartment, setting up our new life.
I'm certain this chapter of my life will feel meaningful, at some later date. I'm sure I will make references to LA, almost nostalgically, sentimentality wrapped up in each wistful remembrance. I know my next novel will be set in LA. With the distance, I will be able to write about his strange, dystopic city, so I can make sense of the myriad of emotions it has brought forth for me during my many years here.
My son, who is sad, but is being stoic about the rapid changes his life has undergone, is still the happy kid that he has always been. He said good-bye to his Tia without much fanfare. It was when his Tia and I hugged that each of us broke down and sobbed. I know I will miss her presence, her constant presence in my every day life. I know I am ready to forge ahead, but losing her is still immense.
From our window, we can see airplanes lifting off and touching down. It seems fitting my last memory of LA is with airplanes in its evening sky.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Workshop...The End
This festival has been reassuring for so many reasons. The writers around this particular table, for the most part, are good, accomplished. I've read a few things that I will remember. That is encouraging. By this point, the jockeying is over since we all know who is what, and more importantly, where you are in the pecking order. Each of us are a strange hybrid of ego and humility. It is something I find in all writers...and at this point in my life I know quite a few really talented writers. It's also refreshing to sit around and talk about writers, books, and have the other person a) have read what you are referring to, b) offer you books or writers you may not have read.
The most important element in a workshop of this caliber is the knowledge that each person is a writer. And not someone who has decided to be a writer because he/she is a proficient letter writer. Someone I know once said she could write a book, if she wanted. I didn't quite know how to respond to such a ridiculous notion. See, she assumed the book she would/could write would be good. Her point was that she was so capable in all the other areas of her life the jump to writing a book didn't seem ludicrous. You can just imagine how the eyes would have rolled to the back of my head, if I weren't raised to be so polite. Oh yes, she's also someone who has said she doesn't read fiction and claims to read nonfiction, which means she doesn't read much of anything.
My teacher will become another mentor for me. I'm so grateful to have had such good writers guiding me. Now, I just have to make sure nothing I publish is an embarrassment. I also reconnected with an author, who is here as a teacher. We had dinner many years ago with her mentor from Grad school, who had become my mentor during my time. We've promised to stay in touch, which is nice. I had read her second book with curiosity since she had made such a splash with her first book.
I realize how much I like those who do this thing I do. They are all individual, funny, smart, and sensitive. And as I look around my circle, I see how many are writers.
The most important element in a workshop of this caliber is the knowledge that each person is a writer. And not someone who has decided to be a writer because he/she is a proficient letter writer. Someone I know once said she could write a book, if she wanted. I didn't quite know how to respond to such a ridiculous notion. See, she assumed the book she would/could write would be good. Her point was that she was so capable in all the other areas of her life the jump to writing a book didn't seem ludicrous. You can just imagine how the eyes would have rolled to the back of my head, if I weren't raised to be so polite. Oh yes, she's also someone who has said she doesn't read fiction and claims to read nonfiction, which means she doesn't read much of anything.
My teacher will become another mentor for me. I'm so grateful to have had such good writers guiding me. Now, I just have to make sure nothing I publish is an embarrassment. I also reconnected with an author, who is here as a teacher. We had dinner many years ago with her mentor from Grad school, who had become my mentor during my time. We've promised to stay in touch, which is nice. I had read her second book with curiosity since she had made such a splash with her first book.
I realize how much I like those who do this thing I do. They are all individual, funny, smart, and sensitive. And as I look around my circle, I see how many are writers.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Wynton Marsalis-Ghanian Drummers-Aspen-Under a Starry Night
Wynton Marsalis unveiled his newest collaboration between the Lincoln Center Jazz and Yacub Addy, a master drummer from Ghana, last night in Aspen. The music was sublime, the evening perfect since I sat behind Wole Soyinka, whose hands and feet kept time with the Ghanian drummers. This seemingly odd combination of Africa and Jazz, the one true American art form, is not so surprising, really. Marsalis is showing us, for those who don't know, the connections between this "primal" art form of African Drumming and its legacy in this country, having crossed the Middle Passage, survived slavery, and benefited from the hodge podge of American life...Blues, Jazz, R&B, and good old Rock and Roll. Sitting there last night, I could see all the threads of influence that goes to the dusty villages of Africa that are in the voices and instruments of all the music that can make the dreariest day feel less so. I love Wynton Marsalis, who was getting it on that stage. I've never seen him so loose, enjoying himself, truly playing to this mostly white crowd. I admire not only his prodigious talents as a trumpeter and music conductor, but also for his music eggheadedness. He is someone who is inside his art form, continually seeking to make connections, to draw divergent threads together, the outcome better than the original discrete pieces. I suppose all artists do that--steep themselves inside their art form, whatever that form is. Writers will talk about writing, but spend half their time drawing the threads of their work to those who have come before.
I also remembered the History of Jazz Music Class I took in undergrad. The old woman, who taught the class, played music on a turntable, desperate for us to hear these musical connections across so many continents.
I missed my husband last night since this was the kind of evening he would enjoy, one we would share. How I had the foresight or insight about my craziness to have picked the man who would allow me to "be," is still something I find remarkable. I know some women need to feel needed, to feel the protectiveness of her spouse. For me, not so much. Yes, I do want to feel secure, but what I need is freedom to think, to be alone, to go when the urge overtakes, and to not feel hampered. And he is the man that has always allowed me to be. I know this book and every other one I write will be dedicated to him since he is the quiet current that helped make my sails billow, propelling me forward to do my own thang.
Robert Bausch brought me to tears during my workshop. It is one thing to have your peers tell you how beautiful they found your book, but quite another coming from the teacher. He read one sentence from my book. At the end, he said that was stunning. Yup, I almost wept, but held it together enough to get through the rest of the discussion.
This workshop was the very elixir I needed. I also think I have the idea for my next book, which is a huge, huge, deal for me. I've been so stuck, unsure what I would write next. Nothing I'd written made me want to spend the next two years working so diligently. But last night during the concert, I had a thought. A thought that could carry me to sit down for the next two years. Amen. I am also more focused about getting my finished novel sold, so I know my parents and my husband will be thrilled by this renewed focus. Amen to that, they are all saying, I'm sure.
I also remembered the History of Jazz Music Class I took in undergrad. The old woman, who taught the class, played music on a turntable, desperate for us to hear these musical connections across so many continents.
I missed my husband last night since this was the kind of evening he would enjoy, one we would share. How I had the foresight or insight about my craziness to have picked the man who would allow me to "be," is still something I find remarkable. I know some women need to feel needed, to feel the protectiveness of her spouse. For me, not so much. Yes, I do want to feel secure, but what I need is freedom to think, to be alone, to go when the urge overtakes, and to not feel hampered. And he is the man that has always allowed me to be. I know this book and every other one I write will be dedicated to him since he is the quiet current that helped make my sails billow, propelling me forward to do my own thang.
Robert Bausch brought me to tears during my workshop. It is one thing to have your peers tell you how beautiful they found your book, but quite another coming from the teacher. He read one sentence from my book. At the end, he said that was stunning. Yup, I almost wept, but held it together enough to get through the rest of the discussion.
This workshop was the very elixir I needed. I also think I have the idea for my next book, which is a huge, huge, deal for me. I've been so stuck, unsure what I would write next. Nothing I'd written made me want to spend the next two years working so diligently. But last night during the concert, I had a thought. A thought that could carry me to sit down for the next two years. Amen. I am also more focused about getting my finished novel sold, so I know my parents and my husband will be thrilled by this renewed focus. Amen to that, they are all saying, I'm sure.
Monday, June 25, 2007
The Workshop
The workshop, for the writer, is the one place where your work will get the serious attention that so few find in their every day lives. It is not because our friends, those people in our immediate circle, are stupid or ignorant. But rather, they are not versed in the process or processes that a writer goes through with one piece, one essay, one book. It is disheartening when your friend, who is not a writer, reads an essay and tells you how much they enjoyed your story. It is semantics, but an important distinction for a writer. It's like telling a sculptor you found his picture beautiful. So, the workshop becomes crucial to your understanding your process, and the validation that your process is not unique to a writer's life.
The first day is always full of anticipation and hope. It is much like the first day of school where everyone gathers with no history or baggage from the year before. Each encounter, this first day, is each of our attempts to assess the other person. It's just that in a workshop the usual measuring sticks are a tad different than in any other social environment. First, assume that all of us know we are odd, eccentric, and full of our own quirks--the very things that may set us apart in our "normal" lives. Here, these oddities are about as important as whether or not you're wearing tennis sneakers or sandals. The normal social niceties are cast aside as a way to judge since, again, we are all odd, in our own ways. Yes, there are those that are really odd, bordering on crazy, but they tend to crop up more among the poets than among fiction writers. I think this is because fiction writers are better at pretending to be "normal," since so much of what we do is observe our lives around us, which becomes impossible if we are drawing unwanted attention to ourselves. See my point? Poets, on the other hand, well, they are different for so many reasons.
Robert Bausch is our leader, the one who has published enough books to warrant the title of "teacher." And let me say, he is terrific. He is everything you would want in a workshop leader: funny, great stories, great writer, giving, and caring. He's not there for ego masturbation. He seems to like teaching, and therefore likes his students. During my MFA program, I was fortunate enough to work with great writers much like Bob Bausch. That must account for why I'm still plugging away, doing this thing that is economically so unrewarding. Anyway, he picked my chapter, the 1st chapter of my finished novel, as one of the first pieces to discuss. This is not a good sign, usually. See, the temperature of the room hasn't been taken, so you never know if the group is going to be constructive in their criticisms, or simply critical. And much like any other social milieu, well, chemistry is a big part of which rooms are constructive versus destructive.
Well, let me say I survived my workshop. And it was lovely to hear everyone say such complimentary things about my work. I've been doing this a long time, but I'm still waiting for that one person to tell me that I shouldn't be writing since I have zero talent, even if the slow progress of what I've accomplished, thus far, tells me otherwise. Yes, it has been tediously slow, my progress.
Now, in these rooms, each of us are jockeying for a place in this mental hierarchy of who is the really good writer versus a writer. See, this will determine who gets invited quickly to sit with a group at lunch, get invited out to dinner, etc. And much like high school, once everyone has read your work, the hierarchy quickly gets established. Those who reign are those with the most talent. It's funny how that happens. You can always tell where you stand by the comments on your manuscript. The writer that I found most promising wrote me a note telling me how much he loved my work and book, and how we should keep in touch to see how we are progressing. See how this works?
The rest of the day is filled with craft talks given by a panel of writers, who are here teaching. This conference has drawn some really great writers. You do understand that you are chosen to attend based on your work, not simply because you've applied. I love hearing how other writers do it--this thing that is so elusive, mysterious, vexing, and transcendent. It is more than half the reason why I come to these events. It's getting that affirmation that your process that can, sometimes, drive you witless is, in fact, quite common to every other writers' process whether you have one book or 20.
The day finished off with a panel of Pan African writers. This year's theme of The Aspen Writers' Conference was Africa. The highlight for me had to have been to hear Wole Soyinka, the Nobel Laureate, speak about his work and his activism. He looks like in his pictures, his hair a sculpture of shocking white. His voice had that lyrical lilt of someone, whose colonial power had been Great Britain. And he was passionate in a quiet, thoughtful way. The most striking thing he said was that the Africa of today, the Africa of beauty, poverty, disease, and genocide is not his Africa. His Africa has yet to materialize since everyone else in the world always has claims to Africa--its psyche, history, resources, people, and image.
His words made me reflect on this notion of how the world claims an entire continent and how complicit we are in all of this.
The first day is always full of anticipation and hope. It is much like the first day of school where everyone gathers with no history or baggage from the year before. Each encounter, this first day, is each of our attempts to assess the other person. It's just that in a workshop the usual measuring sticks are a tad different than in any other social environment. First, assume that all of us know we are odd, eccentric, and full of our own quirks--the very things that may set us apart in our "normal" lives. Here, these oddities are about as important as whether or not you're wearing tennis sneakers or sandals. The normal social niceties are cast aside as a way to judge since, again, we are all odd, in our own ways. Yes, there are those that are really odd, bordering on crazy, but they tend to crop up more among the poets than among fiction writers. I think this is because fiction writers are better at pretending to be "normal," since so much of what we do is observe our lives around us, which becomes impossible if we are drawing unwanted attention to ourselves. See my point? Poets, on the other hand, well, they are different for so many reasons.
Robert Bausch is our leader, the one who has published enough books to warrant the title of "teacher." And let me say, he is terrific. He is everything you would want in a workshop leader: funny, great stories, great writer, giving, and caring. He's not there for ego masturbation. He seems to like teaching, and therefore likes his students. During my MFA program, I was fortunate enough to work with great writers much like Bob Bausch. That must account for why I'm still plugging away, doing this thing that is economically so unrewarding. Anyway, he picked my chapter, the 1st chapter of my finished novel, as one of the first pieces to discuss. This is not a good sign, usually. See, the temperature of the room hasn't been taken, so you never know if the group is going to be constructive in their criticisms, or simply critical. And much like any other social milieu, well, chemistry is a big part of which rooms are constructive versus destructive.
Well, let me say I survived my workshop. And it was lovely to hear everyone say such complimentary things about my work. I've been doing this a long time, but I'm still waiting for that one person to tell me that I shouldn't be writing since I have zero talent, even if the slow progress of what I've accomplished, thus far, tells me otherwise. Yes, it has been tediously slow, my progress.
Now, in these rooms, each of us are jockeying for a place in this mental hierarchy of who is the really good writer versus a writer. See, this will determine who gets invited quickly to sit with a group at lunch, get invited out to dinner, etc. And much like high school, once everyone has read your work, the hierarchy quickly gets established. Those who reign are those with the most talent. It's funny how that happens. You can always tell where you stand by the comments on your manuscript. The writer that I found most promising wrote me a note telling me how much he loved my work and book, and how we should keep in touch to see how we are progressing. See how this works?
The rest of the day is filled with craft talks given by a panel of writers, who are here teaching. This conference has drawn some really great writers. You do understand that you are chosen to attend based on your work, not simply because you've applied. I love hearing how other writers do it--this thing that is so elusive, mysterious, vexing, and transcendent. It is more than half the reason why I come to these events. It's getting that affirmation that your process that can, sometimes, drive you witless is, in fact, quite common to every other writers' process whether you have one book or 20.
The day finished off with a panel of Pan African writers. This year's theme of The Aspen Writers' Conference was Africa. The highlight for me had to have been to hear Wole Soyinka, the Nobel Laureate, speak about his work and his activism. He looks like in his pictures, his hair a sculpture of shocking white. His voice had that lyrical lilt of someone, whose colonial power had been Great Britain. And he was passionate in a quiet, thoughtful way. The most striking thing he said was that the Africa of today, the Africa of beauty, poverty, disease, and genocide is not his Africa. His Africa has yet to materialize since everyone else in the world always has claims to Africa--its psyche, history, resources, people, and image.
His words made me reflect on this notion of how the world claims an entire continent and how complicit we are in all of this.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Aspen--No John Denver Here
I left LA this morning at 4:00 AM, the hour of the day when the roads were eerily empty. I was too exhausted, physically and emotionally, to feel much of anything but just sheer fatigue. I am here in Aspen attending The Aspen Writer's Conference. The conference is being held at a large property called the Gant, which is a series of condominiums strung together around a common pool that is dirty with cottonwood flakes. The hotel, for some odd reason, had upgraded me into a large suite, one with a fireplace, kitchen, living and dining room. I was too tired to ask why, nor did I really care. It feels like I've spent the past month being shuttled from place to place, this place just another in a series of rooms, places where I've had to unpack my much used suitcase. I truly feel like a vagabond now.
Our temporary housing in LA now bears the mark of a life in transition. What few clothes remain, we've packed the few into awaiting suitcases. These past few weeks have been such a whirlwind, making it impossible to truly process the myriad of emotions I feel, and will feel in the coming months. We said our final good-byes last night to my adopted mom. As we drove away from her home, I found myself sobbing inconsolably. There is no way to delude ourselves into thinking that this move will not change each of these special relationships that are so specific to place, time, and now a part of our past.
Those that will fall away from the proximity to our lives are already fading into the background. It's a subtle thing that's happened, and will continue to happen as the months gather, where our relationship to life in LA becomes a part of, not just our immediate past, but our past altogether. There is a clearing of the bush, as some would say. Bush, debris, clutter, all of these words for things that gathers in places, taking up space, most unnecessarily.
This conference is the perfect bookend to this transition, something I've felt building for some time now...the prominence of my writing life and my work. I had found it difficult to focus in LA, the cacophony of life there consuming me to the point of inertia. I always understood why I busied myself with so much commitment to other things, causes, friends, lunches, outings. These diversions were the excuse to why I wasn't able to work, when in fact, the truth was much more complicated.
This blog has fueled me to write. None of it is brilliant, none of it original. Yet, it has refocused my attention to my writing, to write every day, to think about writing each day, and to allow the space in my head to think, to mull, to obsess over those things that eventually will help your book, essay, short story or poem along.
And all I can say is "amen," to a new surge of energy about my work. It has been too long of a dry period.
Our temporary housing in LA now bears the mark of a life in transition. What few clothes remain, we've packed the few into awaiting suitcases. These past few weeks have been such a whirlwind, making it impossible to truly process the myriad of emotions I feel, and will feel in the coming months. We said our final good-byes last night to my adopted mom. As we drove away from her home, I found myself sobbing inconsolably. There is no way to delude ourselves into thinking that this move will not change each of these special relationships that are so specific to place, time, and now a part of our past.
Those that will fall away from the proximity to our lives are already fading into the background. It's a subtle thing that's happened, and will continue to happen as the months gather, where our relationship to life in LA becomes a part of, not just our immediate past, but our past altogether. There is a clearing of the bush, as some would say. Bush, debris, clutter, all of these words for things that gathers in places, taking up space, most unnecessarily.
This conference is the perfect bookend to this transition, something I've felt building for some time now...the prominence of my writing life and my work. I had found it difficult to focus in LA, the cacophony of life there consuming me to the point of inertia. I always understood why I busied myself with so much commitment to other things, causes, friends, lunches, outings. These diversions were the excuse to why I wasn't able to work, when in fact, the truth was much more complicated.
This blog has fueled me to write. None of it is brilliant, none of it original. Yet, it has refocused my attention to my writing, to write every day, to think about writing each day, and to allow the space in my head to think, to mull, to obsess over those things that eventually will help your book, essay, short story or poem along.
And all I can say is "amen," to a new surge of energy about my work. It has been too long of a dry period.
Friday, June 22, 2007
2nd to the Last Day of Driving--Thank the Lord
Today marks the second the last day that I have to drive in Los Angeles. You have no idea how excited I am about this prospect. But if you've been reading my blogs, well, you know exactly how ecstatic this makes me. Today was also my son's preschool graduation--I know, such a ridiculous idea for someone so young. The director asked each child, "what they were to be when they were grown up," in her Croatian inflected English. There were a number of police officers, a few fire fighters, one or two princesses, two ballerinas, one doctor, one scientist, one military, one singer, and our son, who proclaimed to want to be a Master. All of it, the performances, which is nothing more than a bunch of children colliding into one another while the parent population coos, was a bit too much. I know I sound cranky, but I'm starting to feel like the guest who overstayed their welcome by one day too many. I know it's time for me to leave when the sight of three year olds dressed as surfers is irritating.
I feel like the endless 'farewell tour' is also starting to wear on me. How many times can you say 'goodbye' without is sounding hollow and meaningless? It's not fair to those who've spent time planning these evenings, but the weariness has settled into my body. It is all I can do to not want to just stay in bed for the next 18 hours until I get on the plane for Aspen. I know, such an immature way to deal with the stress of saying farewell.
I did find myself driving a bit aimlessly today. Hard to imagine, but there you have it. I shan't miss any of it, not the driving certainly. Or the turning right on red--a right as much as breathing for Angelenos. Or the drivers who believe themselves to be on the Autobahn, whizzing past me at ridiculous speeds on residential streets. Or those who seem to be chatting while driving. No, I feel like I age 10 years each time I get behind the wheel to go anywhere, and since you have to drive to get anywhere, you can imagine how old I must feel after so many miles driven here.
So, tomorrow, my last day of driving will be celebrated with me releasing a big sigh. I have often felt as if I were holding my breath whenever I was behind the wheel of any vehicle. And so now, I can sigh since I am bidding a hearty, thank the Lord, adieu to that necessity.
I feel like the endless 'farewell tour' is also starting to wear on me. How many times can you say 'goodbye' without is sounding hollow and meaningless? It's not fair to those who've spent time planning these evenings, but the weariness has settled into my body. It is all I can do to not want to just stay in bed for the next 18 hours until I get on the plane for Aspen. I know, such an immature way to deal with the stress of saying farewell.
I did find myself driving a bit aimlessly today. Hard to imagine, but there you have it. I shan't miss any of it, not the driving certainly. Or the turning right on red--a right as much as breathing for Angelenos. Or the drivers who believe themselves to be on the Autobahn, whizzing past me at ridiculous speeds on residential streets. Or those who seem to be chatting while driving. No, I feel like I age 10 years each time I get behind the wheel to go anywhere, and since you have to drive to get anywhere, you can imagine how old I must feel after so many miles driven here.
So, tomorrow, my last day of driving will be celebrated with me releasing a big sigh. I have often felt as if I were holding my breath whenever I was behind the wheel of any vehicle. And so now, I can sigh since I am bidding a hearty, thank the Lord, adieu to that necessity.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
The Corner Restaurant--Everchanging
It is a condition of life in LA that your reference to places is within the context of what its previous incarnation had been. On the corner of Beverly, near Gardner is a corner restaurant, now known as BLD. Many years ago, three or four incarnations ago, was a restaurant called Red, much like the color for which it was named, its walls crimson inside and out. It was a place frequented by people who brunched. And during those years, my husband and I were the latte sipping, newspaper reading, brunch eating couples, whose first half part of Sundays were spent waiting for tables where these activities were taken up as part of a weekly ritual.
But this ever-changing corner store heightens the transitoriness of life here amidst palm trees, and the ever present, sunshine. LA, unlike any other city, is almost diabolical in its erasure of its past. This young city has grown, gobbling up orchards, widening streets, and razing homes that should have, for this city, been deemed historical. It is a city that is ever looking ahead, which is fitting since it faces West, its gaze cast away from the historical legacies of this country and Europe. As a resident, when change is constant, it is hard to be sentimental about any place, corner, store since it will, surely, be replaced by something new. The something new being proposed as better, newer, and obviously, transitional. The changes are, I suppose, unremarkable since most cities experience change. What is remarkable is how little they effect us, Los Angelenos. None of us rarely expresses outrage about a certain establishment being replaced by a Starbucks, our affections and loyalties so easily replaced by that steaming cup of latte.
Life being so ungrounded affects every aspect of living here. Like our inability to become sentimental about restaurants, boutiques, or any shop that was intimate, this fickleness extends to all areas like how little we care about our sporting teams. There is no way to compare the religious fervor of the Red Sox fans--the Dodgers fans looking like dilettantes. Doesn't it make sense any eating establishment would have a shelf life that never extends beyond a few years since we, the restaurant goers, are constantly in search of something newer, and in our minds, better? What does it say about a city that points to a fabricated outdoor market, the Farmer's Market, established in the 1930's, as one of the old strong holds of this city? Doesn't this disconnection with its past have a profound impact on each of us? Doesn't it make sense that this city, more than any other, is obsessed with staying young, staying on top of trends?
Given how little affection or connection we have to our environment, it makes sense that the Grove, the strange amalgamation of shopping in a fabricated park-like setting, is the largest attraction for this city, rivaling the number of people visiting Disneyland. What's amazing is that none of us complain about why there are so little communal spaces like parks where people can gather, which we obviously crave, given the packed parking structure at the Grove on any Saturday or Sunday. Again, we can't care enough to ask the difficult questions about why an outdoor mall assuages all of these other needs we have. Instead, we simply go to the Grove, walking behind those walls, feeling protected from the rest of the city. And in a few years, when the Grove starts to show its age, people will, invariably, look for something newer, something better.
Perhaps the next mall Caruso develops, will not only have a fountain that sprays in sync to "Celebration," but will also have rides for those looking for a wee bit of excitement beyond purchasing that perfect pair of pumps. Can't you see it? Shopping, food, movie theater, grassy area for the kids to pretend is a park, and of course, that super roller coaster for those of us looking for a thrill along with running up our credit cards. It will become the one stop entertainment, shopping, dining, complex for the citizens, who are anesthetized to blindly accept the simulacrum of everything in their lives.
But this ever-changing corner store heightens the transitoriness of life here amidst palm trees, and the ever present, sunshine. LA, unlike any other city, is almost diabolical in its erasure of its past. This young city has grown, gobbling up orchards, widening streets, and razing homes that should have, for this city, been deemed historical. It is a city that is ever looking ahead, which is fitting since it faces West, its gaze cast away from the historical legacies of this country and Europe. As a resident, when change is constant, it is hard to be sentimental about any place, corner, store since it will, surely, be replaced by something new. The something new being proposed as better, newer, and obviously, transitional. The changes are, I suppose, unremarkable since most cities experience change. What is remarkable is how little they effect us, Los Angelenos. None of us rarely expresses outrage about a certain establishment being replaced by a Starbucks, our affections and loyalties so easily replaced by that steaming cup of latte.
Life being so ungrounded affects every aspect of living here. Like our inability to become sentimental about restaurants, boutiques, or any shop that was intimate, this fickleness extends to all areas like how little we care about our sporting teams. There is no way to compare the religious fervor of the Red Sox fans--the Dodgers fans looking like dilettantes. Doesn't it make sense any eating establishment would have a shelf life that never extends beyond a few years since we, the restaurant goers, are constantly in search of something newer, and in our minds, better? What does it say about a city that points to a fabricated outdoor market, the Farmer's Market, established in the 1930's, as one of the old strong holds of this city? Doesn't this disconnection with its past have a profound impact on each of us? Doesn't it make sense that this city, more than any other, is obsessed with staying young, staying on top of trends?
Given how little affection or connection we have to our environment, it makes sense that the Grove, the strange amalgamation of shopping in a fabricated park-like setting, is the largest attraction for this city, rivaling the number of people visiting Disneyland. What's amazing is that none of us complain about why there are so little communal spaces like parks where people can gather, which we obviously crave, given the packed parking structure at the Grove on any Saturday or Sunday. Again, we can't care enough to ask the difficult questions about why an outdoor mall assuages all of these other needs we have. Instead, we simply go to the Grove, walking behind those walls, feeling protected from the rest of the city. And in a few years, when the Grove starts to show its age, people will, invariably, look for something newer, something better.
Perhaps the next mall Caruso develops, will not only have a fountain that sprays in sync to "Celebration," but will also have rides for those looking for a wee bit of excitement beyond purchasing that perfect pair of pumps. Can't you see it? Shopping, food, movie theater, grassy area for the kids to pretend is a park, and of course, that super roller coaster for those of us looking for a thrill along with running up our credit cards. It will become the one stop entertainment, shopping, dining, complex for the citizens, who are anesthetized to blindly accept the simulacrum of everything in their lives.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
The Art of Friendship--Learned Behavior
The art of friendship is learned through your friend or friends--this I've learned these last few years. This behavior of conduct is not something natural, but learned through many years of being in friendships. From the earliest stages, you know that there is as much chemistry, kismet, attraction, and affection that draws two people to forge this bond that can be more intense, more intimate, and more honest than marriages, and certainly relationships with your siblings. Let's face it, some are better than others at the art of friendship. And then there are the masters, those who truly raise the bar when it comes to the commitment, empathy, love, and patience required in nurturing a long term friendship. I hope for everyone they are lucky enough to meet such a master once in their life because it will forever alter how you behave in friendships.
It has been my luck to have met my master, some seven years ago. Perhaps it was the timing of when we met--I was less adolescent, more ready for a relationship that was so equal in the giving and taking--or it was just one of those fated intersections. Whatever the reason, my master has continually shown me what it means to be a friend, and more importantly, how to be a friend. All of us behave in any relationship with some self service. Let's face it, we're all a bit selfish and narcissistic, some more than others. To truly give to another without strings attached is unique, if not an impossibility given our natures. Some of us like being needed--crisis mongers, they're so called--and swoop in when someone is in crisis, fueling their need to be in control. Some of us like to hear about other people's woes, not because we really care, but because it sometimes makes us feel better to know someone else's life is more f**ked than your own. Some like being given anything--attention, gifts, your time, your ear--with no ability to reciprocate in return. Some like being given a ready-made therapist. Some just need social outlets because they are incapable of being alone. Whatever the causes, most of us are guilty of some, if not each of these limitations, depending on the relationship. And each relationship serves the different selfish needs within us.
Then there are those, who arrive to help, not because they need to feel better about their lives, but who know no other way to be. They arrive for both celebrations and those tragedies that befall all of us: death, divorce, health crisis, depression. My master was just one of those individuals. Not only in our relationship was she so present, but I watched her behave in the same manner with each of her friends. Her ability to give of herself seemed boundless. She was the type of friend, who would cancel a lunch with me because another friend had suffered the loss of her aged mother. She knew no other way than to go sit with her friend suffering such an immense grief, which really is so unappealing compared to an afternoon of gossip and good food. And when she called to tell me, I knew if the situation were reversed--I, the grieving friend, the other the lunch date--she would do exactly the same thing. I sometimes marveled at her accessibility for each of us, and let me say, all of us knew what a treasure she is, so there is quite a coterie of us, vying for her attention. No one got any more or less attention, care, affection than the next. That's not to say, she suffered from some pathology where she didn't distinguish, but rather her ability to give was as immense as the lusciousness of Versailles. Because of this first hand experience with my master, I've become a different kind of friend--the kind that is more present, giving, selfless, and patient, or rather, my efforts to be all of these things have reached a new level of consciousness in me.
Today was our last lunch together. Up till now, I have shed very few tears about leaving. If I cried each time I had a last dinner, coffee, or lunch with someone, well, I would have been a mess for an entire month. The tears came today. The thought of not seeing her, even if a couple times a month for our lunches, is a loss I will grieve for a long time. I know we will see one another again since we both love to travel. Yet the immediacy of being a mere twenty minutes apart is now gone forever. We will have to cram in a weekend, or a week long rendez vous, all that defines our friendship. We will now be friends, who live 3000 miles apart. Yet I know, if I called with a crisis, she is the one person who would make time for me, whether by sitting on the phone or arranging a visit. See, she's the master, and she simply knows no other way to be. I wish for each of you, just such a friend once in your lifetime.
It has been my luck to have met my master, some seven years ago. Perhaps it was the timing of when we met--I was less adolescent, more ready for a relationship that was so equal in the giving and taking--or it was just one of those fated intersections. Whatever the reason, my master has continually shown me what it means to be a friend, and more importantly, how to be a friend. All of us behave in any relationship with some self service. Let's face it, we're all a bit selfish and narcissistic, some more than others. To truly give to another without strings attached is unique, if not an impossibility given our natures. Some of us like being needed--crisis mongers, they're so called--and swoop in when someone is in crisis, fueling their need to be in control. Some of us like to hear about other people's woes, not because we really care, but because it sometimes makes us feel better to know someone else's life is more f**ked than your own. Some like being given anything--attention, gifts, your time, your ear--with no ability to reciprocate in return. Some like being given a ready-made therapist. Some just need social outlets because they are incapable of being alone. Whatever the causes, most of us are guilty of some, if not each of these limitations, depending on the relationship. And each relationship serves the different selfish needs within us.
Then there are those, who arrive to help, not because they need to feel better about their lives, but who know no other way to be. They arrive for both celebrations and those tragedies that befall all of us: death, divorce, health crisis, depression. My master was just one of those individuals. Not only in our relationship was she so present, but I watched her behave in the same manner with each of her friends. Her ability to give of herself seemed boundless. She was the type of friend, who would cancel a lunch with me because another friend had suffered the loss of her aged mother. She knew no other way than to go sit with her friend suffering such an immense grief, which really is so unappealing compared to an afternoon of gossip and good food. And when she called to tell me, I knew if the situation were reversed--I, the grieving friend, the other the lunch date--she would do exactly the same thing. I sometimes marveled at her accessibility for each of us, and let me say, all of us knew what a treasure she is, so there is quite a coterie of us, vying for her attention. No one got any more or less attention, care, affection than the next. That's not to say, she suffered from some pathology where she didn't distinguish, but rather her ability to give was as immense as the lusciousness of Versailles. Because of this first hand experience with my master, I've become a different kind of friend--the kind that is more present, giving, selfless, and patient, or rather, my efforts to be all of these things have reached a new level of consciousness in me.
Today was our last lunch together. Up till now, I have shed very few tears about leaving. If I cried each time I had a last dinner, coffee, or lunch with someone, well, I would have been a mess for an entire month. The tears came today. The thought of not seeing her, even if a couple times a month for our lunches, is a loss I will grieve for a long time. I know we will see one another again since we both love to travel. Yet the immediacy of being a mere twenty minutes apart is now gone forever. We will have to cram in a weekend, or a week long rendez vous, all that defines our friendship. We will now be friends, who live 3000 miles apart. Yet I know, if I called with a crisis, she is the one person who would make time for me, whether by sitting on the phone or arranging a visit. See, she's the master, and she simply knows no other way to be. I wish for each of you, just such a friend once in your lifetime.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Sun-filled Days
Whenever I tell people I'm moving to New York, they say something about the weather--that it is too cold, too snowy, too unlike LA. As someone who grew up with weather, the idea of going where we have weather and not climate is not something I spend any time worrying about. But I do think it is so fascinating how many people talk about "THE WEATHER," in capital letters. I have to admit when I first moved here the idea of sunbathing in November to be a novelty. I spent my first Thanksgiving at Newport Beach where I sat around all weekend in a bikini, barely covering up for Thanksgiving dinner. That sun-filled weekend was a far cry from the previous year in Maine where it snowed the entire weekend.
Despite the supposed mood-lifting properties of sunlight, I quickly tired of the blandness of so many sunny days pouring into the next. By October, I am starved for a bit of gloom. I also think this perpetual sunshine is what keeps the city, and its inhabitants, suffering from a delayed adolescence, or as I say, the Peter Pan Syndrome in perpetuity. It's easy to delude yourself into thinking you are younger than you actually are when you don't have the usual seasonal markers, alerting you to the fleeting quality of time. This Peter Pan Epidemic manifests in men dressing much younger than they should. And women trying too hard to dress like their teenage daughters. Shouldn't we give up the low slung jeans and t-shirts with cute, or worse, offensive sayings after reaching our thirties? Just because our bodies may look decent in pencil jeans doesn't mean we should still be wearing them. And if our wardrobe looks like a page ripped from US Weekly, perhaps we are not in tune with our own maturity, or our chronological age.
I always joked that LA is the one place where you could plan an outdoor party in June, a year from now, and be fairly confident that the day of the party would be sunny. This certainty of weather remaining unchanged does something to a person's psyche, I'm convinced. I think it creates an unhealthy detachment from your surroundings, in some strange way. And it helps to perpetuate life being lived inside a prefab-plastic bubble. There is nothing more life affirming as a good storm, whether it involves snow or rain. Life affirming, you ask? Well, it is since is lets you know how little control you actually have over such things as weather, so therefore life is affirmed in the certainty of the uncertainties. So, you acquiesce that you are one minute part of a much larger world. Life affirming, I say. This perpetual sunshine fills you with a sense of control, which is, so obviously, false. And I think, ultimately, depressing.
I won't go into how depressing it is when it does rain since this city, which is not pretty with sunlight, is downright distressing when it is wet and gray. Somehow the downpours feel punishing, as if we are paying for all those days of blandness. I won't go into how treacherous the roads become when it's rainy--all those idiotic, distracted drivers, who don't know how to drive in precipitation is terrifying enough for anyone to want to to barricade themselves indoors.
When I left LA to go to grad school in Boston, no less, I was a bit worried about weather, especially New England weather. Everyone, including my parents, was worried for me, fearing my blood had thinned during all of my years in Sunny LA. I have to say, yes, I watched the weather reports daily, a bit obsessively since I never knew whether that umbrella would be needed later in the day. But in actuality, I found the weather quite unremarkable. Yes, there were snow storms when I would stay indoors to watch the downy flakes come down, blanketing roof tops, cars, and the street. What I had forgotten from my childhood was how quiet the world becomes when covered in white. Yes, the snow becomes ugly after a day or two, and the icy patches are no fun when you're walking. Yet, I found each of the seasons, in all of their drama, quite glorious. There's nothing quite like putting on that sweater on a crisp fall day. Yes, the winter can be wearying, especially by late February. And I'm sure, I will be singing a different tune after a long, arduous winter when all I'll want is a bit of sunshine, the sunshine I had deemed as bland while here in LA. But again, I feel like the ever-changing days helps you to mark time much more realistically. The seasons are literal and metaphorical, no? Spring is birth, summer youth, winter death, and fall old age. Each time a new season announces itself, we are reminded of life's interior clock, ticking. I think these reminders essential to keeping you aware of life on a larger scale. When those dramatic gestures or reminders are no longer so readily apparent, you have to search much more assiduously for them. And thus, time feeling at a perpetual standstill, adding to a surreal quality to life here.
I also attribute the constant sunniness to why all the holidays seem to arrive with so little fanfare, feeling less celebratory, but more a requirement. Face it, there's nothing more depressing than seeing Santa Claus among Palm Trees. Or it was for me.
I suppose if I felt this landscape of mini malls was paradise then the weather would seem fitting. And I guess that's the conundrum of this city--suburban sprawl with all the urban problems of any other metropolis. Thus, the sun, ever present and shining, feels less like a veil of privilege, but more like Dante's Inferno, particularly in late July and August.
Despite the supposed mood-lifting properties of sunlight, I quickly tired of the blandness of so many sunny days pouring into the next. By October, I am starved for a bit of gloom. I also think this perpetual sunshine is what keeps the city, and its inhabitants, suffering from a delayed adolescence, or as I say, the Peter Pan Syndrome in perpetuity. It's easy to delude yourself into thinking you are younger than you actually are when you don't have the usual seasonal markers, alerting you to the fleeting quality of time. This Peter Pan Epidemic manifests in men dressing much younger than they should. And women trying too hard to dress like their teenage daughters. Shouldn't we give up the low slung jeans and t-shirts with cute, or worse, offensive sayings after reaching our thirties? Just because our bodies may look decent in pencil jeans doesn't mean we should still be wearing them. And if our wardrobe looks like a page ripped from US Weekly, perhaps we are not in tune with our own maturity, or our chronological age.
I always joked that LA is the one place where you could plan an outdoor party in June, a year from now, and be fairly confident that the day of the party would be sunny. This certainty of weather remaining unchanged does something to a person's psyche, I'm convinced. I think it creates an unhealthy detachment from your surroundings, in some strange way. And it helps to perpetuate life being lived inside a prefab-plastic bubble. There is nothing more life affirming as a good storm, whether it involves snow or rain. Life affirming, you ask? Well, it is since is lets you know how little control you actually have over such things as weather, so therefore life is affirmed in the certainty of the uncertainties. So, you acquiesce that you are one minute part of a much larger world. Life affirming, I say. This perpetual sunshine fills you with a sense of control, which is, so obviously, false. And I think, ultimately, depressing.
I won't go into how depressing it is when it does rain since this city, which is not pretty with sunlight, is downright distressing when it is wet and gray. Somehow the downpours feel punishing, as if we are paying for all those days of blandness. I won't go into how treacherous the roads become when it's rainy--all those idiotic, distracted drivers, who don't know how to drive in precipitation is terrifying enough for anyone to want to to barricade themselves indoors.
When I left LA to go to grad school in Boston, no less, I was a bit worried about weather, especially New England weather. Everyone, including my parents, was worried for me, fearing my blood had thinned during all of my years in Sunny LA. I have to say, yes, I watched the weather reports daily, a bit obsessively since I never knew whether that umbrella would be needed later in the day. But in actuality, I found the weather quite unremarkable. Yes, there were snow storms when I would stay indoors to watch the downy flakes come down, blanketing roof tops, cars, and the street. What I had forgotten from my childhood was how quiet the world becomes when covered in white. Yes, the snow becomes ugly after a day or two, and the icy patches are no fun when you're walking. Yet, I found each of the seasons, in all of their drama, quite glorious. There's nothing quite like putting on that sweater on a crisp fall day. Yes, the winter can be wearying, especially by late February. And I'm sure, I will be singing a different tune after a long, arduous winter when all I'll want is a bit of sunshine, the sunshine I had deemed as bland while here in LA. But again, I feel like the ever-changing days helps you to mark time much more realistically. The seasons are literal and metaphorical, no? Spring is birth, summer youth, winter death, and fall old age. Each time a new season announces itself, we are reminded of life's interior clock, ticking. I think these reminders essential to keeping you aware of life on a larger scale. When those dramatic gestures or reminders are no longer so readily apparent, you have to search much more assiduously for them. And thus, time feeling at a perpetual standstill, adding to a surreal quality to life here.
I also attribute the constant sunniness to why all the holidays seem to arrive with so little fanfare, feeling less celebratory, but more a requirement. Face it, there's nothing more depressing than seeing Santa Claus among Palm Trees. Or it was for me.
I suppose if I felt this landscape of mini malls was paradise then the weather would seem fitting. And I guess that's the conundrum of this city--suburban sprawl with all the urban problems of any other metropolis. Thus, the sun, ever present and shining, feels less like a veil of privilege, but more like Dante's Inferno, particularly in late July and August.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
La Quinceanera
La Quinceanera, the event in the Latino community to celebrate a young girl's entrance into womanhood, seems to occur all over the city each weekend. I usually noticed the ornately dressed young girls, their hair done up in curls, posing for pictures at the fountain on Riverside Drive, each Saturday as I headed over to Costco. Our Tia had taught us the importance this celebration is to her family, but community in general. During her time with us, we have attended two Quinceanera's for her various nieces. And each time we attend these parties, I marvel at how each culture figures out ways to overspend money, they don't usually have, to mark these milestones. The Latino community is not alone in parents going out of their way in satisfying some unspoken expectation of community, family, and friends. The Quinceanera rivals the outlandishness of Sweet Sixteens (the event that became the celebration for me), Cotillions, Debutante Coming out Balls, and the Bar/Bat Mitzvahs. The Jewish community is the only one where the event is really centered on a young boy, although girls do get their opportunity with the Bat Mitzvahs.
The Quinceanera, this past weekend, was significant for us because our son was the young boy, escorting the young girl down the church aisle, in a white Tuxedo. So, there we were at a church on south Normandie, not far from the infamous scenes of mayhem that ensued during the LA Riots. The church's exteriors were worn, the majesty of its former glory barely visible under the sun, and row upon row of dilapidated houses. I knew this church and neighborhood was, without question, much more menacing once darkness arrived, bringing out the true character of the car-lined streets.
As we walked up, I noticed the stretch limo and the girls, including my son, piling out and up the steps of the church. Let me explain that the young girl's father works in construction, is steadily employed, but not flush enough for such extravagances. But I knew some cousin, not blood related, had paid for this ridiculous transport for his daughter and her court of young girls. I knew that each family member had chipped in for the day, including us since we offered to pay for the cake.
The ceremony is akin to a wedding in its elaborate rituals. The young girl walks down the aisle of the church escorted by a young male, also dressed in a white tuxedo. Our son and the little girl served a similar function as the flower girl and ring bearer, but without the rose petals and ring. Instead of the traditional white, the young girl worn a pink gown, the skirt dotted with clusters of sparkly stones. Her hair was done up in a swoop of curls and a fake rhinestone tiara was perched on top. Her court, the other younger girls, were dressed in ivory dresses, less ornate. Each of their dark hair was curled, the tiara the center piece. They each held a small bouquet of roses, pinks and reds.
The Mass, which is what the ceremony is, was performed in Spanish by the Irish priest. There was a guitar player and two other singers for the music. All of it was beautiful, as most Catholic ceremonies are, but a bit disturbing. From an anthropological standpoint, I felt like this young maiden was being sacrificed for a life to serve others: her parents, her husband, her children, her community, her church. And more disconcerting is how similar to a wedding this ceremony is in its incarnation, although I'm certain the ceremonial aspects haven't changed much since the days of the Mayans. My son was, of course, bored, pissed to be dressed in this, 'ridiculous--his word' outfit, and just plain cranky. But who could blame him? He kept insisting he had a sore throat all morning, hoping I'd fall for it and let him miss out on the big event. He is, if nothing else, resourceful.
After the ceremony, all of us lingered as the girl and her parents posed for photos with various family members. I knew they were expecting over a 100 people for the reception, so I was a bit surprised how many empty pews there had been inside the church. But like most Catholics, our nanny and her family are the twice a year Catholics-- Christmas and Easter.
The reception, which we didn't attend, but which I imagined was lively and celebratory was capped off with everyone dancing to Reggaetone. And for the young girl, her Quinceanera will be reduced to snapshots of her posed with family members--the significance of what this day marks for her not yet setting in. That, I imagine, will come once her days are dictated by tasks, most of them tedious, that keeps her shackled to responsibilities that seemed so far away on the day of her La Quinceanera.
The Quinceanera, this past weekend, was significant for us because our son was the young boy, escorting the young girl down the church aisle, in a white Tuxedo. So, there we were at a church on south Normandie, not far from the infamous scenes of mayhem that ensued during the LA Riots. The church's exteriors were worn, the majesty of its former glory barely visible under the sun, and row upon row of dilapidated houses. I knew this church and neighborhood was, without question, much more menacing once darkness arrived, bringing out the true character of the car-lined streets.
As we walked up, I noticed the stretch limo and the girls, including my son, piling out and up the steps of the church. Let me explain that the young girl's father works in construction, is steadily employed, but not flush enough for such extravagances. But I knew some cousin, not blood related, had paid for this ridiculous transport for his daughter and her court of young girls. I knew that each family member had chipped in for the day, including us since we offered to pay for the cake.
The ceremony is akin to a wedding in its elaborate rituals. The young girl walks down the aisle of the church escorted by a young male, also dressed in a white tuxedo. Our son and the little girl served a similar function as the flower girl and ring bearer, but without the rose petals and ring. Instead of the traditional white, the young girl worn a pink gown, the skirt dotted with clusters of sparkly stones. Her hair was done up in a swoop of curls and a fake rhinestone tiara was perched on top. Her court, the other younger girls, were dressed in ivory dresses, less ornate. Each of their dark hair was curled, the tiara the center piece. They each held a small bouquet of roses, pinks and reds.
The Mass, which is what the ceremony is, was performed in Spanish by the Irish priest. There was a guitar player and two other singers for the music. All of it was beautiful, as most Catholic ceremonies are, but a bit disturbing. From an anthropological standpoint, I felt like this young maiden was being sacrificed for a life to serve others: her parents, her husband, her children, her community, her church. And more disconcerting is how similar to a wedding this ceremony is in its incarnation, although I'm certain the ceremonial aspects haven't changed much since the days of the Mayans. My son was, of course, bored, pissed to be dressed in this, 'ridiculous--his word' outfit, and just plain cranky. But who could blame him? He kept insisting he had a sore throat all morning, hoping I'd fall for it and let him miss out on the big event. He is, if nothing else, resourceful.
After the ceremony, all of us lingered as the girl and her parents posed for photos with various family members. I knew they were expecting over a 100 people for the reception, so I was a bit surprised how many empty pews there had been inside the church. But like most Catholics, our nanny and her family are the twice a year Catholics-- Christmas and Easter.
The reception, which we didn't attend, but which I imagined was lively and celebratory was capped off with everyone dancing to Reggaetone. And for the young girl, her Quinceanera will be reduced to snapshots of her posed with family members--the significance of what this day marks for her not yet setting in. That, I imagine, will come once her days are dictated by tasks, most of them tedious, that keeps her shackled to responsibilities that seemed so far away on the day of her La Quinceanera.
Friday, June 15, 2007
The Ills of the Parent Visited Upon the Child, Oh My!
Our four and a half year old had been taking Tae Kwon Do, more to burn off his energy than for him to become a Karate Geek. You know the type, right? My uncle was, and is, a Tae Kwon Do Master, so I'm not ignorant about the benefits for anyone who undertakes the practice of this Korean Martial Arts. My son, we noticed after a month, made it a point to practice kicks, punches, and this strange twirling thing he did everywhere. And I mean everywhere. His obsessive--there is that word again--practice reminded me of my equally obsessive practice of grand jetes and pirouettes around my family room. I am not the usual parent that thinks anything my child does is perfect, and that he is headed for a destiny of brilliance. I think he is interesting, and will undoubtedly have a life like everyone else, full of promise where the realities set in much too quickly. This is probably taken from the Korean parenting book where you can't express too much pride in your offspring's talents, accomplishments, almost to the point of being pathological about it. For instance, if your son was Yo Yo Ma, and people gushed to you about what a prodigious talent he is, well, it is your duty to make sure you point out some shortcoming of his like he suffers from Halitosis or he's short. You can imagine how lovely all of this was for me as a child to hear my mom point out to others that my prettiness came at a cost of thousands in orthodontic bills.
His Tia kept telling me how good our child was in the class. I didn't discount her comments, but I chalked it up the rantings of an extremely proud Tia. So, you can imagine my dismay when I was told he would be testing for the yellow belt. OK. He's four and a half. I thought the teacher was being typically Korean in his ambitions. But since it seemed his entire class was testing, I signed him up. We told him he was testing, thinking he wouldn't really understand what all of this might mean. We did notice that his practicing took on new fevered concentration.
The morning of the test arrived with him announcing he had a tummy ache, and therefore couldn't take the test. This alarmed me just a bit, not because he was really sick, but because it signaled something far more troubling...performance anxiety and all that that implies. After so many years on the couch, I could only guess why my young child was already displaying such anxieties at the, oh so young, age of four. I mean, so what if he didn't pass, right? Which is what I asked him, trying to point out that the worst that could happen is what? He didn't pass. But that he could retake the test later, perhaps in a few months time when he would be five--this new age having taken on mythic proportions of the things he would be able to do, if not, master when he turned this number. Somehow he seemed to absorb what I said and the morning passed without any more mention of his tummy ache, or any other ache, for that matter.
His Tia and I dressed him into his uniform. Well, let's be honest, his Tia dressed him into the uniform. When she's around, I am relegated to background Mother. It is a funny thing that happens when she's here. So, his two Moms took him to the school, both of us just a bit anxious for him. The teacher, Master Lee, then assigned each child to his/her spot to take them through the test. Let me stress how I thought this test was merely an exercise for the kids to show their parents how well they do a few moves. But no, they are Korean, after all. Master Lee took the kids, most aged four to eight, through their entire repertoire of moves, and combinations.
My son, who was doing everything well enough, got just a bit confused walking backward while kicking. But really, I would have gotten a bit confused, what with all these adults watching, and the hawkish eyes of the Master's seated at the table up front. All of a sudden, my child burst into tears. When his Master asked what was wrong, he said he was sad. I, of course, rushed up to see if he had hurt himself, but instead realized he was crying from the stress of having to be PERFECT! He said, "I didn't go backwards well enough," or something in that vein. Can you imagine how the world stopped for me, at this moment? My mind flashed forward to his life where this need to be PERFECT would be the shackles around his ankles, driving him witless as he tries to tackle this terrible affliction, as well, as the task at hand. Yes, if there are afflictions to have, this might not be the most terrible. I have a friend, for instance, who, I like to say to others, suffers from the affliction to always be Right. Now, this is bad enough, but she also suffers from the affliction where she has to make sure the other person or persons knows she has been right. You can just imagine how many friends she has in her life. Oh, and she has absolutely no sense of humor about herself and her quirks. Yep, just a delight at cocktail parties, I'm telling you.
I sat with my son, trying to console him enough to finish this damn test. See, I knew that if he didn't finish, this failure with a capital F, would be something that he would think about for a long time. This much I realized since he is, unfortunately, more like me than I cared to admit. He did get up to finish the test. His little face scrunched up in ferocious fighting mode. I, unlike most of the other parents, found all of the kids spastic kicks and punches funny. Not cute funny, but just outright funny. I mean, come on. They are kids, some not so coordinated. I had to hide my face through most of the tortuously long test, trying to hide my unsympathetic mirth. I know, terrible, really. Sometimes I wonder why or who convinced me I could be a mother.
It's amazing how your child manifests all these qualities that may have haunted you, or worse, tortured you. There is something humbling to see your own ills in 3-D in this three foot person. I guess all I can do is try and convince him through his life, oh what a long life this will be, that the process, itself, is much more important than the end result. And that perfection is much too elusive, therefore the effort is all that matters. I said I would try, but I know how all of these rationales worked out for me, the women who suffers from so many afflictions to warrant an entire psychiatric ward named after her.
His Tia kept telling me how good our child was in the class. I didn't discount her comments, but I chalked it up the rantings of an extremely proud Tia. So, you can imagine my dismay when I was told he would be testing for the yellow belt. OK. He's four and a half. I thought the teacher was being typically Korean in his ambitions. But since it seemed his entire class was testing, I signed him up. We told him he was testing, thinking he wouldn't really understand what all of this might mean. We did notice that his practicing took on new fevered concentration.
The morning of the test arrived with him announcing he had a tummy ache, and therefore couldn't take the test. This alarmed me just a bit, not because he was really sick, but because it signaled something far more troubling...performance anxiety and all that that implies. After so many years on the couch, I could only guess why my young child was already displaying such anxieties at the, oh so young, age of four. I mean, so what if he didn't pass, right? Which is what I asked him, trying to point out that the worst that could happen is what? He didn't pass. But that he could retake the test later, perhaps in a few months time when he would be five--this new age having taken on mythic proportions of the things he would be able to do, if not, master when he turned this number. Somehow he seemed to absorb what I said and the morning passed without any more mention of his tummy ache, or any other ache, for that matter.
His Tia and I dressed him into his uniform. Well, let's be honest, his Tia dressed him into the uniform. When she's around, I am relegated to background Mother. It is a funny thing that happens when she's here. So, his two Moms took him to the school, both of us just a bit anxious for him. The teacher, Master Lee, then assigned each child to his/her spot to take them through the test. Let me stress how I thought this test was merely an exercise for the kids to show their parents how well they do a few moves. But no, they are Korean, after all. Master Lee took the kids, most aged four to eight, through their entire repertoire of moves, and combinations.
My son, who was doing everything well enough, got just a bit confused walking backward while kicking. But really, I would have gotten a bit confused, what with all these adults watching, and the hawkish eyes of the Master's seated at the table up front. All of a sudden, my child burst into tears. When his Master asked what was wrong, he said he was sad. I, of course, rushed up to see if he had hurt himself, but instead realized he was crying from the stress of having to be PERFECT! He said, "I didn't go backwards well enough," or something in that vein. Can you imagine how the world stopped for me, at this moment? My mind flashed forward to his life where this need to be PERFECT would be the shackles around his ankles, driving him witless as he tries to tackle this terrible affliction, as well, as the task at hand. Yes, if there are afflictions to have, this might not be the most terrible. I have a friend, for instance, who, I like to say to others, suffers from the affliction to always be Right. Now, this is bad enough, but she also suffers from the affliction where she has to make sure the other person or persons knows she has been right. You can just imagine how many friends she has in her life. Oh, and she has absolutely no sense of humor about herself and her quirks. Yep, just a delight at cocktail parties, I'm telling you.
I sat with my son, trying to console him enough to finish this damn test. See, I knew that if he didn't finish, this failure with a capital F, would be something that he would think about for a long time. This much I realized since he is, unfortunately, more like me than I cared to admit. He did get up to finish the test. His little face scrunched up in ferocious fighting mode. I, unlike most of the other parents, found all of the kids spastic kicks and punches funny. Not cute funny, but just outright funny. I mean, come on. They are kids, some not so coordinated. I had to hide my face through most of the tortuously long test, trying to hide my unsympathetic mirth. I know, terrible, really. Sometimes I wonder why or who convinced me I could be a mother.
It's amazing how your child manifests all these qualities that may have haunted you, or worse, tortured you. There is something humbling to see your own ills in 3-D in this three foot person. I guess all I can do is try and convince him through his life, oh what a long life this will be, that the process, itself, is much more important than the end result. And that perfection is much too elusive, therefore the effort is all that matters. I said I would try, but I know how all of these rationales worked out for me, the women who suffers from so many afflictions to warrant an entire psychiatric ward named after her.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
NunSense
I keep thinking about something my mother said a long time ago, one of those aphorisms that somehow stays with you. She said you should never come to God when you are on your knees, but instead come when you are in a state of grace. I've been contemplating this idea a great deal of late. This idea of coming to God, not begging for redemption, solace, or reprieve, but instead coming in a moment of exultation, is an idea that, despite my better efforts, has resonated with me. Not so long ago, when I was suffocating under the weight of my depression, disappointment, and sadness, it was impossible for me to call upon God to help me, to save me from myself and the negativity that was my armor. I couldn't have felt less in touch with my faith, my God, the foundation of my religious upbringing during this time. Not once, when the only constant seemed to be tears, did I think of going to church. Again, I could hear my mother's idea about one's relationship with God during these interminable days. And so I stayed away from church, from prayer, from meditation--let's face it, this is not the ideal form for someone who finds it so difficult to quiet her mind. I just shut that part of myself up, wrapping it up neatly, or not so neatly. Instead, I dealt with my life head on, relying on no one other than just facing all of the sadness, disappointment, guilt, and anger. Oh, so much anger. I also found I could barely write, managing one barely 200 word essay, which, thankfully, won a prize and did get published. I hadn't gone through such a dark forest of sadness, not since my adolescence when I read and reread Sylvia Plath.
For many years, after leaving,or some would say fleeing, the expectations of my parent's home, I struggled with what God meant to me--much like anyone experiencing this same existential question of one's existence and their faith. And yet, I was the child that had been convinced I had the "calling," and was meant to be a nun. Yes, in the 10th grade, no less. My parents, being used to the eccentricities of their child and their lives, didn't balk or become outraged by my newly realized goal. Instead, they promised I could enter the convent, with their blessing, if I felt the same way after a year, just one year, of university life. Yes, this devotion to a life of celibacy, servitude, and devotion didn't last very long. But my fascination with, curiosity, and respect for those who have devoted their lives to something greater than their material desires, is something that I have held closely to me. And like most of us, I ventured far from my Catholic upbringing, testing meditations--that 8 hour seminar was one of the worst experiences of my life--, yoga practices, and even chanting. All of these ventures felt foreign, none of it resonating within me.
For a time, I toyed with the idea of joining the Episcopal Church. It felt the most akin to Catholicism--Catholic Light--, but without the guilt and confessional. During this experimentation, we went and joined an Episcopal church, which didn't really become our religious home. But what I did get from my brief sojourn there was the discovery of an absolutely sublime, Benedictine monastery in Santa Barbara. My first trip there for a women's retreat was like the baby in the bath water. I took to it, yes, is an understatement. This spectacular property atop this mountain, overlooking all of Santa Barbara and the Pacific Ocean, was the place that offered refuge for me from the daily struggles of trying to make sense of a life that seemed to be a tug of war, where I was constantly on the losing end. Going there for a personal retreat became a yearly event. I communed with the Brothers, all incredibly learned men, all of their stories a testament to a life lived within the confines of one's faith, devotion, but also the struggles of being human. Underneath those robes, they were, usually, dressed in casual shorts, sandals, and t-shirts. Men, when in their own residences, sat around reading, watching Basketball games, and having a cocktail at the end of a long day of devotion. Or so, that is what I always imagined occurred in their private residences. You can imagine me, the nosy one, dying to go behind those closed doors, just to sneak a look.
Over the years, I developed a bond with one Brother in particular. He and I shared moments of utter honesty, laughter, and a common respect for why we were there, him as a Monk, me as a wannabe. It was always my intention to go this year, but the year got away from me as usual. I received news that Brother Alan, my friend, had passed away. Perhaps it is knowing that I wouldn't see him lumber into the chapel on his cane, which has kept me away. And now, I leave LA without having had an opportunity to go to this very special place, my refuge, one last time to bid it farewell.
I struggle with the insistent pull of a life ordered by prayer and devotion--all such a far cry from a life where all of your worth is measured by where we live, what we drive, and what we wear. I guess that is why I have always sought out, even driving up the 101 Freeway, to get to this place that is so removed from the inconsequential things that we are consumed by and with. I am grateful to have a few friends, who do not consider themselves secular, but who do practice their faith whether by attending church, temple, or mosque. They are, like all of us, struggling with what it means to lead a faithful life. And since religion, faith, or belief in God are all off limits as far as polite conversation is concerned, we practice our faith quietly. Revealing that I attend church is as uncomfortable as revealing that you don't wash your hands after going to the bathroom. And definitely, displaying any connection to religion or God was a big no-no at graduate school, where every one of us seemed to be philosophical Marxists, French De constructionists, Post-Colonialists. In fact, to admit one was a Humanist was somehow admitting you were less intellectually rigorous as the others.
My mother, whose eccentricities can be charming and disturbing, is so right about this idea about God, who would receive you whether you were in crisis or a state of grace. But rather, it is this idea that we, or rather I, should always remember what it means to be grateful for all that I have, which is hard to see with any clarity when we are under constant siege about what we should have. And so, I go to church now to express my profound gratitude for all of it: my health, my husband, my son, my parents, my intellect, my friends, my sense of humor, my goofiness, my sensitivity, my craziness, my neuroses, all of it. Whenever I go back to church after an absence, I am always moved to tears when the choir sings. I don't know why this is. But I also always tear up whenever I hear "The Star Spangled Banner," being sung at sporting events. So, in these remaining days, I try to maintain my state of grace as I attend lunches, coffees, dinners with friends, all of them wishing us well on this new beginning of our lives.
For many years, after leaving,or some would say fleeing, the expectations of my parent's home, I struggled with what God meant to me--much like anyone experiencing this same existential question of one's existence and their faith. And yet, I was the child that had been convinced I had the "calling," and was meant to be a nun. Yes, in the 10th grade, no less. My parents, being used to the eccentricities of their child and their lives, didn't balk or become outraged by my newly realized goal. Instead, they promised I could enter the convent, with their blessing, if I felt the same way after a year, just one year, of university life. Yes, this devotion to a life of celibacy, servitude, and devotion didn't last very long. But my fascination with, curiosity, and respect for those who have devoted their lives to something greater than their material desires, is something that I have held closely to me. And like most of us, I ventured far from my Catholic upbringing, testing meditations--that 8 hour seminar was one of the worst experiences of my life--, yoga practices, and even chanting. All of these ventures felt foreign, none of it resonating within me.
For a time, I toyed with the idea of joining the Episcopal Church. It felt the most akin to Catholicism--Catholic Light--, but without the guilt and confessional. During this experimentation, we went and joined an Episcopal church, which didn't really become our religious home. But what I did get from my brief sojourn there was the discovery of an absolutely sublime, Benedictine monastery in Santa Barbara. My first trip there for a women's retreat was like the baby in the bath water. I took to it, yes, is an understatement. This spectacular property atop this mountain, overlooking all of Santa Barbara and the Pacific Ocean, was the place that offered refuge for me from the daily struggles of trying to make sense of a life that seemed to be a tug of war, where I was constantly on the losing end. Going there for a personal retreat became a yearly event. I communed with the Brothers, all incredibly learned men, all of their stories a testament to a life lived within the confines of one's faith, devotion, but also the struggles of being human. Underneath those robes, they were, usually, dressed in casual shorts, sandals, and t-shirts. Men, when in their own residences, sat around reading, watching Basketball games, and having a cocktail at the end of a long day of devotion. Or so, that is what I always imagined occurred in their private residences. You can imagine me, the nosy one, dying to go behind those closed doors, just to sneak a look.
Over the years, I developed a bond with one Brother in particular. He and I shared moments of utter honesty, laughter, and a common respect for why we were there, him as a Monk, me as a wannabe. It was always my intention to go this year, but the year got away from me as usual. I received news that Brother Alan, my friend, had passed away. Perhaps it is knowing that I wouldn't see him lumber into the chapel on his cane, which has kept me away. And now, I leave LA without having had an opportunity to go to this very special place, my refuge, one last time to bid it farewell.
I struggle with the insistent pull of a life ordered by prayer and devotion--all such a far cry from a life where all of your worth is measured by where we live, what we drive, and what we wear. I guess that is why I have always sought out, even driving up the 101 Freeway, to get to this place that is so removed from the inconsequential things that we are consumed by and with. I am grateful to have a few friends, who do not consider themselves secular, but who do practice their faith whether by attending church, temple, or mosque. They are, like all of us, struggling with what it means to lead a faithful life. And since religion, faith, or belief in God are all off limits as far as polite conversation is concerned, we practice our faith quietly. Revealing that I attend church is as uncomfortable as revealing that you don't wash your hands after going to the bathroom. And definitely, displaying any connection to religion or God was a big no-no at graduate school, where every one of us seemed to be philosophical Marxists, French De constructionists, Post-Colonialists. In fact, to admit one was a Humanist was somehow admitting you were less intellectually rigorous as the others.
My mother, whose eccentricities can be charming and disturbing, is so right about this idea about God, who would receive you whether you were in crisis or a state of grace. But rather, it is this idea that we, or rather I, should always remember what it means to be grateful for all that I have, which is hard to see with any clarity when we are under constant siege about what we should have. And so, I go to church now to express my profound gratitude for all of it: my health, my husband, my son, my parents, my intellect, my friends, my sense of humor, my goofiness, my sensitivity, my craziness, my neuroses, all of it. Whenever I go back to church after an absence, I am always moved to tears when the choir sings. I don't know why this is. But I also always tear up whenever I hear "The Star Spangled Banner," being sung at sporting events. So, in these remaining days, I try to maintain my state of grace as I attend lunches, coffees, dinners with friends, all of them wishing us well on this new beginning of our lives.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
The Wahoo Girls
The Wahoo Girls, three of us, are the kinds of friends where the cliche, 'letting our hair down,' is a mild understatement for what happens when we get together. Yes, we're somewhere between Carrie Bradshaw and crew from, "Sex in the City," and the old broads on the "Golden Years," and certainly not "Desperate Housewives." There's lots of wine when we get together, as well as, honest, funny conversations. And since we need so little excuse to eat, drink, and enjoy one another, we used my impending departure as the excuse for yesterday's get together. What's so reassuring about these friendships is how each of us has not forgotten who we had been before becoming mothers. We don't get together to sit around talking about our kids, but instead talk about life and all of the complexities that we encounter. We also don't sit around discussing or dissecting our marriages, not that we couldn't discuss any of our concerns if we had to. It's funny how unspoken this is, our time together extending beyond the parameters of our every day lives. Whenever I leave one of our gatherings, I marvel at how much fun it had been, and how intimate we are with one another. I feel fortunate to have friends where there is so little artifice since artifice, especially in a city like LA, is worn daily, constantly.
Our conversations don't so much as end, but is merely suspended, to be picked up when we get together again. I revel in the fact that we, each of us, recognized in the other, the potential to be a Wahoo Girl. Yes, when we were younger, more adolescent, we were the fun-loving girls, who could always be counted on to liven up any gathering. And believe me, we, collectively, celebrate this aspect of the other. It's rare to meet someone, particularly among women, who is confident enough in themselves to just let it all hang out, as they say. And that is what I love about my Wahoo Girls, the ones I would call in a heartbeat to say, 'hey, get your ass on that plane because I'm bored without my Girls!' Each gathering now is one away from that day when I leave. So, each time we toast our glasses, we don't say it's a toast for my departure, but rather our friendship.
Our conversations don't so much as end, but is merely suspended, to be picked up when we get together again. I revel in the fact that we, each of us, recognized in the other, the potential to be a Wahoo Girl. Yes, when we were younger, more adolescent, we were the fun-loving girls, who could always be counted on to liven up any gathering. And believe me, we, collectively, celebrate this aspect of the other. It's rare to meet someone, particularly among women, who is confident enough in themselves to just let it all hang out, as they say. And that is what I love about my Wahoo Girls, the ones I would call in a heartbeat to say, 'hey, get your ass on that plane because I'm bored without my Girls!' Each gathering now is one away from that day when I leave. So, each time we toast our glasses, we don't say it's a toast for my departure, but rather our friendship.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Book Club...Goodbye
Last night, my book club attended a reading given by Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of, "Eat, Pray, Love," at Vroman's Books in Pasadena. I know, you can imagine how long it took me to get there from my new location sans freeways. Once there, my club was there along with 50 other women (a huge, huge, number for any reading), and one lone man. It seemed all the women belonged to some book club, and I don't know why this is, but so many of them looked so familiar to me. Actually, I did spot two men among the hordes (an exaggeration) of women. The talk, rather than reading from the book, was reassuring to me because she was so human, much like her book. She doesn't profess or pretend to know anything other than what her experience has been. And like the rest of us, she has nary a clue as to what is coming around the bend. After the talk, we convened at a Thai restaurant in Pasadena. And there, we fell into a familiar pattern of discussing a multitude of topics, our thoughts and opinions shared so freely, weaving our way, finally, to the book.
I started this book club, some 7 years ago, after coming back to LA after finishing my graduate school. I started this club, selfishly, to gather with smart, book-loving, women to discuss "literature." And during these last 7 years, the club, its members, have morphed, all of it rather fluidly. I remember when I started it, I was a bit chagrined to tell people I had started a 'book club' since the idea of it seemed, and still does, a bit suburban housewifely--an association which, you all know, can make me apoplectic.
What I didn't realize 7 years ago, since my head was still at graduate school where thorough, and I mean, thorough discussions were required, was that this club, this sorority of women would provide a much needed foundation to my life. This club of smart, sympathetic women, helped me, individually, but collectively through some of my bleakest days. When my son was born, one member, who is a dear friend, hosted the evening at her place since I lived very close by, thereby insuring my participation. This gesture was like being handed a buoy after barely staying afloat for endless hours. These women, some mothers, some not, some married, some not, some white, some not, some older, some not, are some of the most interesting people I've met in my life. Yes, I did invite each of them, with the exception of one, but I take no credit for the chemistry of this club, the culmination of which ended up with the book club road tripping this past January. Each one, unique and individual, with a life experience that is as complicated as any of the books we've read, have held me up. And so, in my doggedness for intellectual stimulation, I got something far greater...friendship, empathy, sympathy, security. See, no matter how hard a month it had been, no matter how pissed-off I had been, no matter how sad I had been, this monthly meeting was the one constant where I knew I could go in my fragile, pissed-off, sad state, and be met with a calm understanding by each. Never did I feel the need to wear a mask of invincibility--yes, we all know I'm incapable of such a thing. I know I just posted that piece about chatter...this group was incapable of such pettiness. Not once, did I ever feel any of their judgment about the vicissitudes of a life that felt so awry to me, some of my complaints, I'm sure, ridiculous, the rantings of a spoiled brat.
Like most book clubs, this gathering of women was so rarely about the book, the book merely a backdrop for something far greater. It was at the various tables, where we sat together, that each of us learned something about ourselves, each other, but sometimes life itself. There was lots of wine consumed, so that my husband referred to the book club as the wino club. We, the club that is, never did come up with a clever moniker for our group. I'm relieved that we never did--nothing so cute as the Jane Austen Club or the Sylvia Plath Club, if we were a group of depressives--because it spoke to the diversity of our group being not so easily categorized.
We didn't really discuss that last night was my last with the club. It was too heartbreaking for me to say much beyond encouraging them to carry on, even if I was no longer here to drive the oxcart forward, as they say. Our table closed the restaurant, not a hard thing to do in LA, much less rocking Pasadena. Each of us hugged one another quickly, some saying that dreaded word, 'goodbye,' to me. Some merely hugging me. I woke up this morning with the weight of this loss on my chest. I sent them an email, again, encouraging them to continue reading together. I'm hoping they read this post, so they can understand what a heartbreak this is for me, and how much they have meant to my life here these last 7 years. Why I can't say that to them...well, writing for me is way I work out my stuff, where I feel the safest to lay myself bare, something I can't do in my every day life.
So, this post is a loving tribute to a group of 6 women, who have been the other pillar in this precarious house of mine. They were the graceful columns holding up the ramshackle, much spackled box, that was the place where I held my fears, hopes, dreams, whimsical craziness, the very essence of me, sheltered inside.
I started this book club, some 7 years ago, after coming back to LA after finishing my graduate school. I started this club, selfishly, to gather with smart, book-loving, women to discuss "literature." And during these last 7 years, the club, its members, have morphed, all of it rather fluidly. I remember when I started it, I was a bit chagrined to tell people I had started a 'book club' since the idea of it seemed, and still does, a bit suburban housewifely--an association which, you all know, can make me apoplectic.
What I didn't realize 7 years ago, since my head was still at graduate school where thorough, and I mean, thorough discussions were required, was that this club, this sorority of women would provide a much needed foundation to my life. This club of smart, sympathetic women, helped me, individually, but collectively through some of my bleakest days. When my son was born, one member, who is a dear friend, hosted the evening at her place since I lived very close by, thereby insuring my participation. This gesture was like being handed a buoy after barely staying afloat for endless hours. These women, some mothers, some not, some married, some not, some white, some not, some older, some not, are some of the most interesting people I've met in my life. Yes, I did invite each of them, with the exception of one, but I take no credit for the chemistry of this club, the culmination of which ended up with the book club road tripping this past January. Each one, unique and individual, with a life experience that is as complicated as any of the books we've read, have held me up. And so, in my doggedness for intellectual stimulation, I got something far greater...friendship, empathy, sympathy, security. See, no matter how hard a month it had been, no matter how pissed-off I had been, no matter how sad I had been, this monthly meeting was the one constant where I knew I could go in my fragile, pissed-off, sad state, and be met with a calm understanding by each. Never did I feel the need to wear a mask of invincibility--yes, we all know I'm incapable of such a thing. I know I just posted that piece about chatter...this group was incapable of such pettiness. Not once, did I ever feel any of their judgment about the vicissitudes of a life that felt so awry to me, some of my complaints, I'm sure, ridiculous, the rantings of a spoiled brat.
Like most book clubs, this gathering of women was so rarely about the book, the book merely a backdrop for something far greater. It was at the various tables, where we sat together, that each of us learned something about ourselves, each other, but sometimes life itself. There was lots of wine consumed, so that my husband referred to the book club as the wino club. We, the club that is, never did come up with a clever moniker for our group. I'm relieved that we never did--nothing so cute as the Jane Austen Club or the Sylvia Plath Club, if we were a group of depressives--because it spoke to the diversity of our group being not so easily categorized.
We didn't really discuss that last night was my last with the club. It was too heartbreaking for me to say much beyond encouraging them to carry on, even if I was no longer here to drive the oxcart forward, as they say. Our table closed the restaurant, not a hard thing to do in LA, much less rocking Pasadena. Each of us hugged one another quickly, some saying that dreaded word, 'goodbye,' to me. Some merely hugging me. I woke up this morning with the weight of this loss on my chest. I sent them an email, again, encouraging them to continue reading together. I'm hoping they read this post, so they can understand what a heartbreak this is for me, and how much they have meant to my life here these last 7 years. Why I can't say that to them...well, writing for me is way I work out my stuff, where I feel the safest to lay myself bare, something I can't do in my every day life.
So, this post is a loving tribute to a group of 6 women, who have been the other pillar in this precarious house of mine. They were the graceful columns holding up the ramshackle, much spackled box, that was the place where I held my fears, hopes, dreams, whimsical craziness, the very essence of me, sheltered inside.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Does anyone work?
My son and I went to the pool in this apartment complex, which feels more like a hotel in Vegas than a family residence in the middle of LA. The water was appropriately azure in color, inviting my little boy to get in despite the cool temperature. There's nothing significant about any of this except the fact that the pool was crowded at 3:00 in the afternoon on a Thursday. Each lounge chair was occupied, a female or male form splayed out, their bodies turned toward the receding afternoon sun. The only thing I could think as I looked around was, 'what are they all doing here in the middle of the day. And why don't they have jobs?' It's a thought I've had often as I drove past a Starbucks, the outside tables full of able bodied men and women sitting, drinking, conversing, all quite leisurely, none of them dressed as if they were coming or going to work. This culture of leisure manifests in movie theaters being nearly full for an 11:00 AM showing, middle level executives going to work dressed as if playing a round of golf instead of conducting business, and men and women going to work dressed much like a twenty year old in designer jeans (purposely faded by the Designer) and a t-shirt emblazoned with some rock band's logos.
My book club has been reading the memoir by Elizabeth Gilbert, "Eat, Pray, Love." The book is a good romp, but the interesting thing that has given me something to contemplate is how she asserts that every city can be summed up in one word. For instance, Rome's word, one of the cities that she visits, is Sex. We can surmise that the word for Washington, DC is Power. Gilbert asserts that the word for New York City, where she lives, is Achieve, whereas the word for LA is Succeed. I thought about the differentiation of these two words: achieve and succeed. The dictionary defines achieve as: to perform or carry out with success; to accomplish something desired or intended. It also defines succeed as: to come next in time or succession; to follow after another; replace another in an office or a position. These two words chosen by Gilbert is so appropriate for the two cities, both places obsessed with success, with winning. Yet, how different the tempos, the drives behind each to reach this desired result.
In New York, everyone has the appearance, real or a pretension, of being busy, of moving quickly toward the next spot on their board game. When one thinks about New York, I see people walking, moving, all in constant motion toward their destination. In LA, it is the opposite since this sense of leisure, of time being elastic, is the epitome of success, where the appearance of doing very little--even if a pretense--is the measure of how successful you are. Hence, the ease with which all of the residents of the Palazzo can sit, or rather, lounge around in the middle of the day without any anxiety about missing some opportunity to get to the next rung on whatever ladder they are trying to climb.
The dictionary definition for both words also signifies how one word is about moving forward toward a desired goal, whereas the other word is about waiting for that succession to be awarded to you for merely being next in line. The difference is significant, and manifests in many interesting paradoxes in both cities. I'm not passing judgment here, but I will say that my uber-Preppy, East Coast upbringing makes this idea of sitting around for "success," to be bestowed upon me by divine intervention, incredibly anxious. What? No drops of salty perspiration? No tears from complete exhaustion? How can that be? And if one is lucky enough, fortunate enough to be have reached your desired level of success...with so little effort, or so it appears, does that mean the success can just as easily be taken away?
I realized with this move to New York, I will have lived in all of the four major East Coast cities: Boston, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., and New York City. And since I've lived in London, well, the only other place left for me dream about would be Paris. Isn't that part of the East Coast person's plight, if Achieve is our word, to always be looking ahead? So, I have yet to get to New York, but I'm already setting sights on a beautiful, small apartment on the Left Bank. I know, I know, it is insane and irrational. But then, well, we know sanity, rationality are not words easily associated with me.
My book club has been reading the memoir by Elizabeth Gilbert, "Eat, Pray, Love." The book is a good romp, but the interesting thing that has given me something to contemplate is how she asserts that every city can be summed up in one word. For instance, Rome's word, one of the cities that she visits, is Sex. We can surmise that the word for Washington, DC is Power. Gilbert asserts that the word for New York City, where she lives, is Achieve, whereas the word for LA is Succeed. I thought about the differentiation of these two words: achieve and succeed. The dictionary defines achieve as: to perform or carry out with success; to accomplish something desired or intended. It also defines succeed as: to come next in time or succession; to follow after another; replace another in an office or a position. These two words chosen by Gilbert is so appropriate for the two cities, both places obsessed with success, with winning. Yet, how different the tempos, the drives behind each to reach this desired result.
In New York, everyone has the appearance, real or a pretension, of being busy, of moving quickly toward the next spot on their board game. When one thinks about New York, I see people walking, moving, all in constant motion toward their destination. In LA, it is the opposite since this sense of leisure, of time being elastic, is the epitome of success, where the appearance of doing very little--even if a pretense--is the measure of how successful you are. Hence, the ease with which all of the residents of the Palazzo can sit, or rather, lounge around in the middle of the day without any anxiety about missing some opportunity to get to the next rung on whatever ladder they are trying to climb.
The dictionary definition for both words also signifies how one word is about moving forward toward a desired goal, whereas the other word is about waiting for that succession to be awarded to you for merely being next in line. The difference is significant, and manifests in many interesting paradoxes in both cities. I'm not passing judgment here, but I will say that my uber-Preppy, East Coast upbringing makes this idea of sitting around for "success," to be bestowed upon me by divine intervention, incredibly anxious. What? No drops of salty perspiration? No tears from complete exhaustion? How can that be? And if one is lucky enough, fortunate enough to be have reached your desired level of success...with so little effort, or so it appears, does that mean the success can just as easily be taken away?
I realized with this move to New York, I will have lived in all of the four major East Coast cities: Boston, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., and New York City. And since I've lived in London, well, the only other place left for me dream about would be Paris. Isn't that part of the East Coast person's plight, if Achieve is our word, to always be looking ahead? So, I have yet to get to New York, but I'm already setting sights on a beautiful, small apartment on the Left Bank. I know, I know, it is insane and irrational. But then, well, we know sanity, rationality are not words easily associated with me.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Chatter,Chatter, Chatter
Chatter is what the chattering class does, and does rather exhaustively and extensively. Chatter is what I hear, none of it scintillating, none of it original, but most of it incredibly gossipy and, at times, a bit mean-spirited. Yes, I'm talking about adults, and not those that are under four feet. It's fascinating to me how so many conversations are centered around others and not ideas-- no never ideas. Why is it that people with leisure time spend so much of their time obsessed about others? What I find so endlessly amusing is how all of this talk is, in the end, so circuitous. X is doing so and so, said by Y. Then X will discuss how Y is doing so and so to T. T will then tell Y how X is doing so and so. You can see what I'm saying, right? It's a bit like the algebraic equations that made my life a living hell in 8th grade. And in the end, each person will get discussed by the other to one of the other in the group, thereby making a perfect circle if one could diagram the talk. I suppose this is more geometry than algebra, both of which made my life absolute hell. I won't get into what Calculus did to me or that ridiculous AP Physics class. It is a bit Dorothy Parkeresque, if only any of them had ever read Dorothy Parker.
Anyway, I'm not claiming to be above the fray since I'm usually X or Y, depending on the circle. But rather, I'm just alarmed and dismayed that this circle of talk seems to occur more often than not. This chatter doesn't occur with all my girlfriends. I do have a few, those that are keepers on the friendship shelf, that can, and do have conversations about so many other topics other than people, or people we know in common. This chattering seems to reach a crescendo pitch in certain communities like churches, schools, sororities, secretarial pool (is there such a thing anymore since all secretaries are now referred to as assistants), English departments, any place where people spend an inordinate amount of time working, believing, supporting, and socializing. And with my penchant for joining groups, I find myself involved in lots of chatter.
I'm not a poet by training, although that is a secretly held dream of mine. Yes, my husband would surely be upset now since we know how much money poets make in this world. I mean, everyone reveres John Ashbery, well, language poets do anyway, but how many people actually buy his collections, right? Or know who John Ashbery is for that matter? And like I had said about chatter in English Departments, albeit a rather eloquent chatter, poetry workshops were notoriously contentious and mean-spirited. I heard from many poets that the rooms would divide between language poets versus narrative poets, all in the fight to death about which form is the valid form. All funny stuff, really, but very serious to the participants.
Nonetheless, I have started to write a poem or two. Nothing grand, nothing publishable. But this chatter to which I was referring was something that was the genesis of a poem I was recently working on.
I will share here...please bear with me as it is many drafts away from being ready.
Whispers, secret glances, flowing hair huddled together.
Why do we pretend we are all friends?
Why do we keep up social graces?
Keeping up the charade all is perfect.
As whispers gather, each utterance about someone we know
The cumulus of deceit darkening our pristine houses.
Whispers, secret glances, shoulder blades jutting together.
Invitations extended and rescinded.
Words now louder
Gusts of gossip, careening through our sedate streets
Overturning sedans, uprooting the ficus tree.
Whispers, secret glances, hands clasped together.
Competition to be Queen Bee
Now a thundering stampede
The ground quivering under the weight of such busyness
Toxins seeping into our water.
And so we say we are all friends.
Glasses clinked in celebration.
As one more heart is savaged.
Another Queen Bee's coronation attended.
Anyway, I'm not claiming to be above the fray since I'm usually X or Y, depending on the circle. But rather, I'm just alarmed and dismayed that this circle of talk seems to occur more often than not. This chatter doesn't occur with all my girlfriends. I do have a few, those that are keepers on the friendship shelf, that can, and do have conversations about so many other topics other than people, or people we know in common. This chattering seems to reach a crescendo pitch in certain communities like churches, schools, sororities, secretarial pool (is there such a thing anymore since all secretaries are now referred to as assistants), English departments, any place where people spend an inordinate amount of time working, believing, supporting, and socializing. And with my penchant for joining groups, I find myself involved in lots of chatter.
I'm not a poet by training, although that is a secretly held dream of mine. Yes, my husband would surely be upset now since we know how much money poets make in this world. I mean, everyone reveres John Ashbery, well, language poets do anyway, but how many people actually buy his collections, right? Or know who John Ashbery is for that matter? And like I had said about chatter in English Departments, albeit a rather eloquent chatter, poetry workshops were notoriously contentious and mean-spirited. I heard from many poets that the rooms would divide between language poets versus narrative poets, all in the fight to death about which form is the valid form. All funny stuff, really, but very serious to the participants.
Nonetheless, I have started to write a poem or two. Nothing grand, nothing publishable. But this chatter to which I was referring was something that was the genesis of a poem I was recently working on.
I will share here...please bear with me as it is many drafts away from being ready.
Whispers, secret glances, flowing hair huddled together.
Why do we pretend we are all friends?
Why do we keep up social graces?
Keeping up the charade all is perfect.
As whispers gather, each utterance about someone we know
The cumulus of deceit darkening our pristine houses.
Whispers, secret glances, shoulder blades jutting together.
Invitations extended and rescinded.
Words now louder
Gusts of gossip, careening through our sedate streets
Overturning sedans, uprooting the ficus tree.
Whispers, secret glances, hands clasped together.
Competition to be Queen Bee
Now a thundering stampede
The ground quivering under the weight of such busyness
Toxins seeping into our water.
And so we say we are all friends.
Glasses clinked in celebration.
As one more heart is savaged.
Another Queen Bee's coronation attended.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Slow The F**K Down!
Those four words are on homemade placards placed along 6th Street, not far from my son's preschool. Although, today, I noticed that F**K has been taken down, so that the three remaining placards read, "Slow The Down." This bit of 6th street, east of LaBrea and West of Western, a road where 35 miles per hour is the speed limit, is a bit like a freeway. Some poor homeowner, most likely with young kids, has taken the matter into their own hands by placing these signs along the roadside. I can understand their outrage.
Like I've written, which feels exhaustively here, driving here, where it is a bit like being a defensive tackle for a football team, is something that brings out the worst in me. Today, I found myself so irate about a poorly parked car that I wrote a nasty note on an envelope, which I left on the offending car's windshield. The note, I'm chagrined to admit, said something along the lines of, "Learn to fu**ing park the car A**HOLE!" I know, I know. There is the issue of the split infinitive, but I was enraged by this person parking their car, effectively blocking me in. And why, oh why, have we not passed a hands-free cell phone use only law? Why do we have to wait till 2008 for this law to go into effect? It's bad enough people talk on their phones, but what's terrifying for me is when I see women--I hate to cast a bad light on my own sex, but it's mostly women I've witnessed doing this particular thing--with their cell phone tucked under their chin, driving, if you can call it that. Whenever I see this, I usually pull over till they pass me because I don't want to be rear ended. This culture of cars has turned what is supposed to be a vehicle for transport into a transportable living room, merely another extension of one's living spaces. Really, the things I observe driving around this city is enough to make me never want to step behind the wheel, if only that were possible here.
So, my nervous-nelly driving is compounded by the fact that I'm always on the defensive. And let's get this off my chest: I have a particular opinion for those who like to drive the flashy Penis cars--the Porsche, the Ferrari, the Lamborghini. Really, these fine machines are meant to be driven on stretches of road where reaching speeds of triple digits is the norm. They are not meant to be driven by insecure people--my judgment again about those who feel empowered behind the wheel of these cars--who become aggressive in these machines. Actually, I witness lots of people behaving badly when behind the wheel, behavior that would get their asses kicked if they behaved that way anywhere else. If they walked around the streets, cursing at, yelling at, throwing their hands up at, anyone, particularly another man, they would, more than likely, end up in some altercation where a visit to the hospital would be the end result. But no, behind the wheel of whatever car they drive, they exhibit all sorts of such unacceptable behavior. Yes, I don't drive fast, or rather, I drive observing the speed limit, which really are signs posted to suggest a speed, not the actual speed itself. And I am always looking in the rear view mirror where some driver is tailing me, finally darting around me, shooting me a look meant to convey their outrage at my observance of the law. Now, the speeding issue wouldn't be an issue if we had enough police here to man the roads. But since that's a wish rather than a necessity for a functioning society, the roads, to me, feel like anarchy.
And each section of the city has its own driving hazards. When in Beverly Hills, where cell phones seem to be plastered to every driver, one has to watch really expensive cars being driven badly by people too focused on what their friend, business associate, is saying on the other end. When in Koreatown, well, there is the adage, "Driving While Korean," which seems to apply to every ethnic group. And since Koreatown is really Koreans and Central Americans, well, driving here takes special rules, which really means there are no rules at all. And since we are east of LaBrea, there are the buses to contend with, which is another problem entirely. Anywhere in Hollywood means you have to be cautious around those with the hyphenate careers: actor-receptionist, writer-delivery person, director-Border's desk clerk, and so on.
I don't know if it's the new surge in gas prices, but I have noticed more bikers on the road. When I see them, I actually marvel at their courage. Really, to don clothes with a backpack strapped to one's back, biking to work seems like a risk not worth taking. What's a few more carbon emissions when everyone else is participating, right? Can you imagine the amount of aggression people feel entitled to dish out on to these poor schmucks? I mean, really. There is only so far one has to go for a political, environmental conviction.
I know it seems there is nothing about driving that I could possibly miss. But, there are some aspects of driving, not the actual act of driving itself, but what happens when you're cocooned inside this vehicle, the sense of invisibility and privacy, that I will miss. I know, one shouldn't pick one's nose or perform any other bodily functions since this sense of invisibility is really an illusion. But this sense of privacy gets heightened when you listen to the radio. It feels as if the announcer (for those NPR Devotees) is speaking to you, and only you, as they relate a story about a life far away. Or that pop song that would sound tinny and cotton-candy syrupy anywhere else seems to be talking about your life in the cliched lyrics. I've been known to sit inside my car, parked in my garage, waiting to get out as I finish listening to some story on NPR. Listening to the radio is something I associate entirely with the car. I rarely come home to switch on NPR on any number of radios in the house. Funny, why that is for us, this generation raised with the car and television. I know for my father-in-law and his generation, listening to the radio is something you did as a family, not this solitary act that it has become for so many of us.
Well, I am sitting outside on a patio of the huge bookstore across the street from our temporary apartment, which I will have to admit seems to be a stopping place for divorcees and others whose lives are in transition. When I glance north, I see houses precariously built into the hillside, the surrounding landscape now more brown than green. Well, now that I have cataloged all of my books, and they are all in boxes, I will go browse the bookstore shelves in search of some poetry. Our handsome mayor--the New Yorker did a great profile on him--has pleaded with the citizenry to conserve water. I guess those half hour showers are now going to have to be a thing of the past, well, at least for the remainder of my time here.
Like I've written, which feels exhaustively here, driving here, where it is a bit like being a defensive tackle for a football team, is something that brings out the worst in me. Today, I found myself so irate about a poorly parked car that I wrote a nasty note on an envelope, which I left on the offending car's windshield. The note, I'm chagrined to admit, said something along the lines of, "Learn to fu**ing park the car A**HOLE!" I know, I know. There is the issue of the split infinitive, but I was enraged by this person parking their car, effectively blocking me in. And why, oh why, have we not passed a hands-free cell phone use only law? Why do we have to wait till 2008 for this law to go into effect? It's bad enough people talk on their phones, but what's terrifying for me is when I see women--I hate to cast a bad light on my own sex, but it's mostly women I've witnessed doing this particular thing--with their cell phone tucked under their chin, driving, if you can call it that. Whenever I see this, I usually pull over till they pass me because I don't want to be rear ended. This culture of cars has turned what is supposed to be a vehicle for transport into a transportable living room, merely another extension of one's living spaces. Really, the things I observe driving around this city is enough to make me never want to step behind the wheel, if only that were possible here.
So, my nervous-nelly driving is compounded by the fact that I'm always on the defensive. And let's get this off my chest: I have a particular opinion for those who like to drive the flashy Penis cars--the Porsche, the Ferrari, the Lamborghini. Really, these fine machines are meant to be driven on stretches of road where reaching speeds of triple digits is the norm. They are not meant to be driven by insecure people--my judgment again about those who feel empowered behind the wheel of these cars--who become aggressive in these machines. Actually, I witness lots of people behaving badly when behind the wheel, behavior that would get their asses kicked if they behaved that way anywhere else. If they walked around the streets, cursing at, yelling at, throwing their hands up at, anyone, particularly another man, they would, more than likely, end up in some altercation where a visit to the hospital would be the end result. But no, behind the wheel of whatever car they drive, they exhibit all sorts of such unacceptable behavior. Yes, I don't drive fast, or rather, I drive observing the speed limit, which really are signs posted to suggest a speed, not the actual speed itself. And I am always looking in the rear view mirror where some driver is tailing me, finally darting around me, shooting me a look meant to convey their outrage at my observance of the law. Now, the speeding issue wouldn't be an issue if we had enough police here to man the roads. But since that's a wish rather than a necessity for a functioning society, the roads, to me, feel like anarchy.
And each section of the city has its own driving hazards. When in Beverly Hills, where cell phones seem to be plastered to every driver, one has to watch really expensive cars being driven badly by people too focused on what their friend, business associate, is saying on the other end. When in Koreatown, well, there is the adage, "Driving While Korean," which seems to apply to every ethnic group. And since Koreatown is really Koreans and Central Americans, well, driving here takes special rules, which really means there are no rules at all. And since we are east of LaBrea, there are the buses to contend with, which is another problem entirely. Anywhere in Hollywood means you have to be cautious around those with the hyphenate careers: actor-receptionist, writer-delivery person, director-Border's desk clerk, and so on.
I don't know if it's the new surge in gas prices, but I have noticed more bikers on the road. When I see them, I actually marvel at their courage. Really, to don clothes with a backpack strapped to one's back, biking to work seems like a risk not worth taking. What's a few more carbon emissions when everyone else is participating, right? Can you imagine the amount of aggression people feel entitled to dish out on to these poor schmucks? I mean, really. There is only so far one has to go for a political, environmental conviction.
I know it seems there is nothing about driving that I could possibly miss. But, there are some aspects of driving, not the actual act of driving itself, but what happens when you're cocooned inside this vehicle, the sense of invisibility and privacy, that I will miss. I know, one shouldn't pick one's nose or perform any other bodily functions since this sense of invisibility is really an illusion. But this sense of privacy gets heightened when you listen to the radio. It feels as if the announcer (for those NPR Devotees) is speaking to you, and only you, as they relate a story about a life far away. Or that pop song that would sound tinny and cotton-candy syrupy anywhere else seems to be talking about your life in the cliched lyrics. I've been known to sit inside my car, parked in my garage, waiting to get out as I finish listening to some story on NPR. Listening to the radio is something I associate entirely with the car. I rarely come home to switch on NPR on any number of radios in the house. Funny, why that is for us, this generation raised with the car and television. I know for my father-in-law and his generation, listening to the radio is something you did as a family, not this solitary act that it has become for so many of us.
Well, I am sitting outside on a patio of the huge bookstore across the street from our temporary apartment, which I will have to admit seems to be a stopping place for divorcees and others whose lives are in transition. When I glance north, I see houses precariously built into the hillside, the surrounding landscape now more brown than green. Well, now that I have cataloged all of my books, and they are all in boxes, I will go browse the bookstore shelves in search of some poetry. Our handsome mayor--the New Yorker did a great profile on him--has pleaded with the citizenry to conserve water. I guess those half hour showers are now going to have to be a thing of the past, well, at least for the remainder of my time here.
The Life of the Gypsy
Were it not for the husband and child, I am finally living the life of the peripatetic--the gypsy. But now that I have the permanence of marriage and a child, well, my my new life living out of suitcases feels less like freedom than marking time. I know the 'farewells,' will really start in full throttle now. Five years ago, my husband had demanded what is was I wanted from our life--to come up with a five year plan. This loaded question would, for the normal person, have been ignored as the frustrations of a spouse tired of his wife badgering him about why we had to live here, of all places. And yes, five years ago, Chicago was sounding like paradise to me, so you can imagine how desperate I was for us to move. Well, I took in his question, really a demand for me to assess where and what the hell I was doing, and sat down and wrote him a letter, which he's kept all of these years. The letter, remember I am the writer, was a thoughtful picture of the ideal life, including places we would live and jobs we would have.
The irony of this letter is that my husband has, as of this writing, done all the things that I had hoped for him. And now it is my turn to actualize my part of this ideal life: get my book published and write more. Someone recently suggested I volunteer in New York with the New York branch of an organization I had worked with in Los Angeles. I didn't want to be rude, but I know the pressure for me to 'get on with it' is going to be so much more immense once my feet step on to that island of 8 million people. There will be no excuse for me to not get busy, to shop my book more assiduously, but more importantly, to start my next project, most likely another novel. And my time, which I spent here--most of my grad school peers and mentors would accuse as being frivolously--will not, can not be repeated in New York. This life of working quietly, unacknowledged my most, or understood, is difficult, to say the least. When your life is dictated by something other than the normal validations of a work life--money, advancement, titles--the internal drive becomes the only thing that can afford you some measure of peace and sense of fulfillment.
My therapist has said that she needs me to focus once in New York, to not let myself get distracted. I've thought about her concerns for me as I embark on this new life, how I'm now being given this opportunity to make my life something so different from what has been. And how I may not be given this chance again in my life. For any writer, these middle years become a time of real serious work. So the big question is for me to find my way to this next project. I've stopped badgering myself about why I haven't done so already because, as you are by now well aware, this badgering could consume all of my time and energy, thereby preventing me from getting on with it.
Sometimes I feel like the needed isolation, quiet for what I do is, in many ways, a very anti-social way to live. Also, when I am in the throes of any project, it is impossible for my brain to stop living in it, even after the computer has been turned off. It becomes this other life, sometimes so much more appealing than reality. All of this is fine if you didn't have people that depended on you to be present, to be available. And perhaps that is what has prevented me from diving headlong into another project. After the birth of my son, it somehow felt selfish, to divert my attention away from his needs to seek solace in this impossible thing of putting together words to paint a picture of feelings, emotions. But now, after years of being miserable because I haven't been working, I realize that I need to do it regardless of how present I am or not. Ultimately, our son, poor child, will seek the couch in his life, I'm certain. I'd rather he sit there moaning about what a distracted crazy mother I was instead of complaining about what a miserable, unhappy, and crazy mother I had been. Yes, I realize no matter what I do or don't do, he will always consider me a bit insane. That criticism I can live with because there are so few people I meet that are truly sane. But the other stuff, well, those would devastate me.
The sun, thankfully, has come out today. This city is unsuited for gloomy days. There are certain cities where fog or gray adds ambiance to its character, but not LA. This place is at its best when the sun blankets every bit of the expansive landscape in that brilliant iridescence, absolutely indescribable. And so, I now spend my time pondering this loaded question of what I will work on now. My last novel, the genesis for the idea, hit me, literally, as I was cooking dinner. It was this one moment of realization that set me on my way to sit down over the course of two plus years and write this book. I guess I'm waiting for this same thing to happen again. Although I'm now thinking that I may be waiting the rest of my life for such a moment, so again, I must simply get on with it, plant my ass for more than the time it takes me to write this blog, and work. Plain and simple, if only it were so.
The irony of this letter is that my husband has, as of this writing, done all the things that I had hoped for him. And now it is my turn to actualize my part of this ideal life: get my book published and write more. Someone recently suggested I volunteer in New York with the New York branch of an organization I had worked with in Los Angeles. I didn't want to be rude, but I know the pressure for me to 'get on with it' is going to be so much more immense once my feet step on to that island of 8 million people. There will be no excuse for me to not get busy, to shop my book more assiduously, but more importantly, to start my next project, most likely another novel. And my time, which I spent here--most of my grad school peers and mentors would accuse as being frivolously--will not, can not be repeated in New York. This life of working quietly, unacknowledged my most, or understood, is difficult, to say the least. When your life is dictated by something other than the normal validations of a work life--money, advancement, titles--the internal drive becomes the only thing that can afford you some measure of peace and sense of fulfillment.
My therapist has said that she needs me to focus once in New York, to not let myself get distracted. I've thought about her concerns for me as I embark on this new life, how I'm now being given this opportunity to make my life something so different from what has been. And how I may not be given this chance again in my life. For any writer, these middle years become a time of real serious work. So the big question is for me to find my way to this next project. I've stopped badgering myself about why I haven't done so already because, as you are by now well aware, this badgering could consume all of my time and energy, thereby preventing me from getting on with it.
Sometimes I feel like the needed isolation, quiet for what I do is, in many ways, a very anti-social way to live. Also, when I am in the throes of any project, it is impossible for my brain to stop living in it, even after the computer has been turned off. It becomes this other life, sometimes so much more appealing than reality. All of this is fine if you didn't have people that depended on you to be present, to be available. And perhaps that is what has prevented me from diving headlong into another project. After the birth of my son, it somehow felt selfish, to divert my attention away from his needs to seek solace in this impossible thing of putting together words to paint a picture of feelings, emotions. But now, after years of being miserable because I haven't been working, I realize that I need to do it regardless of how present I am or not. Ultimately, our son, poor child, will seek the couch in his life, I'm certain. I'd rather he sit there moaning about what a distracted crazy mother I was instead of complaining about what a miserable, unhappy, and crazy mother I had been. Yes, I realize no matter what I do or don't do, he will always consider me a bit insane. That criticism I can live with because there are so few people I meet that are truly sane. But the other stuff, well, those would devastate me.
The sun, thankfully, has come out today. This city is unsuited for gloomy days. There are certain cities where fog or gray adds ambiance to its character, but not LA. This place is at its best when the sun blankets every bit of the expansive landscape in that brilliant iridescence, absolutely indescribable. And so, I now spend my time pondering this loaded question of what I will work on now. My last novel, the genesis for the idea, hit me, literally, as I was cooking dinner. It was this one moment of realization that set me on my way to sit down over the course of two plus years and write this book. I guess I'm waiting for this same thing to happen again. Although I'm now thinking that I may be waiting the rest of my life for such a moment, so again, I must simply get on with it, plant my ass for more than the time it takes me to write this blog, and work. Plain and simple, if only it were so.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Moving Day a Deux
It is day two of the moving extravaganza. I am now truly a high-tech geek, having purchased a portable wireless card for the lap top. Our entire lives are in boxes marked NY1, NY2, or MVY. We have decamped to one of those horrendously bland, corporate apartments across the street from the Grove for the remainder of our time here. All of our nostalgia about our lovely cottage, really a euphemism for a large box with lots of character, has waned with each box being loaded on to the back of the semi-diesel truck. The worst of our sadness was during the last night we slept in our house amid the piles of our belongings all marked for an intended destination. When the packers arrived the next day--I was nursing a bad hangover from the party I attended the night before--we were just insuring our belongings that we would need the first year was going to arrive timely to our apartment, and not be sitting in some warehouse on Long Island. The house, this place that holds the secrets of any house where lives been lived, where tears have been shed, now looks nondescript; its character, really the character of the inhabitants all removed in one clean sweep. It is now ready for its new owners, to make this place their home, to allow these walls to hold their secrets, fears, dreams, and the sadness of any life.
Neighbors have stopped by to say a last farewell, each one promising to call for drinks, which none of us expect to take place. I drove away from this house without a glance back. I don't know if that's what I'm feeling entirely...I will most likely sneak by and peak at it surreptitiously, allowing myself to be sentimental about it all.
We finished this long day, really the culmination of so much work of all these weeks, at our friends for dinner. I've been thinking about how friendships are, in their own way, an issue of timing really, much like any relationship that is about chemistry, attraction, affection, and intimacy. There are some people that you may have crossed paths with at some earlier point in one's life, yet found them wanting in some way--perhaps not exciting, perhaps too exciting, intellectual, too intellectual, too alcoholic, not alcoholic enough, superficial, not superficial enough. The point is, friendships, like any relationship, is as much about when you meet someone as the individual. I only bring this up because in these last two years, I have have met a few women who are the ideal friends--each sassy, funny, smart, accomplished, and tough--for me. And for me at this point in my life. I think about how ironic this is since I've complained about how so few people, namely women, I've met here are truly friends material. Yes, I have ridiculously high standards, but I'm always seeking the types of friendships that you see on TV shows and in the movies. You know what I'm talking about. It's the foursome, threesome or twosome where they get together for coffee, drinks, or a meal and have an ease about sharing of themselves and their lives. And yes, I've had most of that, but I guess I'm always seeking that posse of girlfriends to see you through husbands, kids, divorces, deaths, and face lifts--if one is so inclined. Of course, just as my life was to take such a dramatic turn...I meet a couple of women, who would be the ideal friends for the long haul. In fact, one friend, really such an ideal mate, is someone I just met a few months before my life was to take such a turn.
Anyway, these friends of ours, had us to dinner, all serving to remind me of the loss of leaving. There is sadness, which seems to linger with each conversation, each meal, yet, I can't help but look forward. Again, I am in that place of looking ahead, yet the tug to turn around overshadows any excitement.
I am no longer a true Angeleno with no address or phone number, other than my cell. Yet, I'm not a true 'visitor' since I still live here, have connections here, my doctors, friends, hairdresser, and all those people who help maintain you or your life all here. But like the packing up of the house, each of these relationships, no matter how tangential or relevant, is coming to an end. When I went to my dry cleaners for the last time, I, of course, brought a home baked pound cake. The Korean owner, one inclined to complain about the weather, asked, "This it?" To which I answered, "Yes, this is it." She went on about how the weather in New York is so bad, her concern written all over her pale face. In that one exchange, so oddly intimate, there was a twinge of sadness for me and for her. I'm certain she and her husband had endless discussions about me--how much stuff I seemed to bring in each week--and my 'black' husband, biracial child, etc. But during these five years, we had built a bond. I'm certain my dry cleaner in NY will be Korean, and we will establish the same strange familial cordiality that I had with this one. I'm sure this new one will find my life as fascinating as this one did--for all the obvious and not so obvious reasons. But again, it was the last time I would pick up my clothes at a place so close to the infamous Hollywood sign, the one image synonymous with dreams being made and dreams being shattered.
Neighbors have stopped by to say a last farewell, each one promising to call for drinks, which none of us expect to take place. I drove away from this house without a glance back. I don't know if that's what I'm feeling entirely...I will most likely sneak by and peak at it surreptitiously, allowing myself to be sentimental about it all.
We finished this long day, really the culmination of so much work of all these weeks, at our friends for dinner. I've been thinking about how friendships are, in their own way, an issue of timing really, much like any relationship that is about chemistry, attraction, affection, and intimacy. There are some people that you may have crossed paths with at some earlier point in one's life, yet found them wanting in some way--perhaps not exciting, perhaps too exciting, intellectual, too intellectual, too alcoholic, not alcoholic enough, superficial, not superficial enough. The point is, friendships, like any relationship, is as much about when you meet someone as the individual. I only bring this up because in these last two years, I have have met a few women who are the ideal friends--each sassy, funny, smart, accomplished, and tough--for me. And for me at this point in my life. I think about how ironic this is since I've complained about how so few people, namely women, I've met here are truly friends material. Yes, I have ridiculously high standards, but I'm always seeking the types of friendships that you see on TV shows and in the movies. You know what I'm talking about. It's the foursome, threesome or twosome where they get together for coffee, drinks, or a meal and have an ease about sharing of themselves and their lives. And yes, I've had most of that, but I guess I'm always seeking that posse of girlfriends to see you through husbands, kids, divorces, deaths, and face lifts--if one is so inclined. Of course, just as my life was to take such a dramatic turn...I meet a couple of women, who would be the ideal friends for the long haul. In fact, one friend, really such an ideal mate, is someone I just met a few months before my life was to take such a turn.
Anyway, these friends of ours, had us to dinner, all serving to remind me of the loss of leaving. There is sadness, which seems to linger with each conversation, each meal, yet, I can't help but look forward. Again, I am in that place of looking ahead, yet the tug to turn around overshadows any excitement.
I am no longer a true Angeleno with no address or phone number, other than my cell. Yet, I'm not a true 'visitor' since I still live here, have connections here, my doctors, friends, hairdresser, and all those people who help maintain you or your life all here. But like the packing up of the house, each of these relationships, no matter how tangential or relevant, is coming to an end. When I went to my dry cleaners for the last time, I, of course, brought a home baked pound cake. The Korean owner, one inclined to complain about the weather, asked, "This it?" To which I answered, "Yes, this is it." She went on about how the weather in New York is so bad, her concern written all over her pale face. In that one exchange, so oddly intimate, there was a twinge of sadness for me and for her. I'm certain she and her husband had endless discussions about me--how much stuff I seemed to bring in each week--and my 'black' husband, biracial child, etc. But during these five years, we had built a bond. I'm certain my dry cleaner in NY will be Korean, and we will establish the same strange familial cordiality that I had with this one. I'm sure this new one will find my life as fascinating as this one did--for all the obvious and not so obvious reasons. But again, it was the last time I would pick up my clothes at a place so close to the infamous Hollywood sign, the one image synonymous with dreams being made and dreams being shattered.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
Spanglish no more, Spangkorean anyone?
In today's Wall Street Journal there was an article about the phenomenon of Koreans learning Spanish to better communicate with their employees. And the Spanish workers learning Korean before English since Korean is the second language they hear and speak next to their native Spanish. For us Koreatown devotees, this is not news. I have always marveled at having my Korean groceries bagged by a Latino bagger, who could speak more Korean than I--a slight exaggeration since I can speak as much Korean as a kid in Kindergarten. This cultural intersection is so wholly LA. Nowhere else can you have the concentrations of immigrants that form these pockets of communities where new boundaries, new rules, and possibly a new language--Spangkorean, are created. Buenos dias, ajuhshee! This cultural intersection goes beyond language, and into food, the next universal unifier. There are as many Latinos, who live and work in Koreatown, who eat as much kimchee as a Korean. And on the food shelves of the Korean grocery markets, Korean items like kim sit alongside tortillas, tofu next to Mexican cheese. It is the new world order. Yet, this world of East meeting West, namely the Southwest, is another hidden secret of life in this city. I'm sure until this article came out, very few people, particularly those who have never ventured farther east of LaBrea or east of Van Ness, would have known that this new cultural fusion was occurring blocks from their manicured lawns and gated homes. Yet, this is the LA that is the LA of the future. I predict that this new fusion will result in some savvy chef opening a restaurant of Korean and haute Mexican--kimchee served with chicken in a mole sauce.
These intersections, crashes of two binary forces is what I find fascinating about Los Angeles. This is the heart of the city. It is not in the Entertainment Industry, despite its attempts to appear as if it is the bloodline of the city. It is the unnoticed lives of people, getting up each day to manifest their dream of what it means to live in America, but more importantly, Los Angeles.
Our house is ready for the movers to arrive early Monday morning. All of my pictures have been sorted, organized into photo albums--our memories of life here tucked behind cellophane covers. The strange hollow echo of empty spaces have not set in yet, but I assume this will happen all too quickly as furniture gets carted out of our Rose Cottage and on to the back of a truck.
Excitement and anticipation is settling into my chest, alleviating the empty space of so many good-byes and so many last times. This push and pull of the past and the future is the main emotion now. After today's post, I am going to spend the remainder of my time in LA, documenting my LA with pictures of places that I associate with this city. It will be my pictorial farewell of those favorite restaurants in an ugly strip mall that serve the best shabu shabu or kalbi, those places that rarely get written up in the food section of the Times. Again, when I think about how I'm going to spend the rest of my time here...food is all I think about.
These intersections, crashes of two binary forces is what I find fascinating about Los Angeles. This is the heart of the city. It is not in the Entertainment Industry, despite its attempts to appear as if it is the bloodline of the city. It is the unnoticed lives of people, getting up each day to manifest their dream of what it means to live in America, but more importantly, Los Angeles.
Our house is ready for the movers to arrive early Monday morning. All of my pictures have been sorted, organized into photo albums--our memories of life here tucked behind cellophane covers. The strange hollow echo of empty spaces have not set in yet, but I assume this will happen all too quickly as furniture gets carted out of our Rose Cottage and on to the back of a truck.
Excitement and anticipation is settling into my chest, alleviating the empty space of so many good-byes and so many last times. This push and pull of the past and the future is the main emotion now. After today's post, I am going to spend the remainder of my time in LA, documenting my LA with pictures of places that I associate with this city. It will be my pictorial farewell of those favorite restaurants in an ugly strip mall that serve the best shabu shabu or kalbi, those places that rarely get written up in the food section of the Times. Again, when I think about how I'm going to spend the rest of my time here...food is all I think about.
Friday, June 1, 2007
NY1, NY2, MVY
There are a plethora of white papers taped to various piles around the house marked either NY1, NY2, or MVY--Martha's Vineyard. Drawers are being emptied, streamlined, and marked for either of the three eventualities. As of this writing, we will have three nights left in this house. The weather here is fittingly gloomy with the marine layer that keeps the sun from appearing, the closest thing to weather we experience in the spring and summer months. Everything in our lives is being overhauled to fit into boxes, reduced to absolute necessities. And what I'm discovering is that there is a certain liberation in compacting your life to fit inside something easily transported. That four drawer filing cabinet, each drawer begging to be filled with useless, worthless papers, is now in two portable file boxes. Imagine, four large drawers reduced to two! All of this work to reduce has gotten me thinking about the way we live today in our culture of hyper-consumption. Do we really need, not just one, but two garlic presses? Or four sets of measuring spoons? What compels us to surround ourselves with so much stuff, sh**t, crap? Is it to stave off the emotional voids, as if the purchase of that label maker will somehow make the isolation, loneliness go away, even if briefly?
Yes, I own a label maker, although I've never gotten beyond typing in four letter expletives, printing them out, which I found endlessly amusing. Quickly, I had a neat pile of these labels on my desk until I realized how insane this would look to anyone other people, so my half hour amusement ended up buried in the bottom of my trash can. The label maker went the way of most things meant to make our lives easier, getting tucked into some drawer never to be fully utilized. As a writer, I have no shortage of writing tools, all meant to help in my work. I've uncovered a desk drawer of pens, unopened; endless notebooks of varying sizes with half-filled pages of ideas or lines. Again, how does one accumulate so much? I suppose that's a quandary worth contemplating versus so many other disasters that could befall a person.
I did bake a few more goodies yesterday. The idea of not baking in this kitchen propelled me to churn out some coconut cakes and a chocolate Bundt cake. Now, I will spend the rest of the day distributing my goodies and bid 'adieu' to my neighbors.
Yes, I own a label maker, although I've never gotten beyond typing in four letter expletives, printing them out, which I found endlessly amusing. Quickly, I had a neat pile of these labels on my desk until I realized how insane this would look to anyone other people, so my half hour amusement ended up buried in the bottom of my trash can. The label maker went the way of most things meant to make our lives easier, getting tucked into some drawer never to be fully utilized. As a writer, I have no shortage of writing tools, all meant to help in my work. I've uncovered a desk drawer of pens, unopened; endless notebooks of varying sizes with half-filled pages of ideas or lines. Again, how does one accumulate so much? I suppose that's a quandary worth contemplating versus so many other disasters that could befall a person.
I did bake a few more goodies yesterday. The idea of not baking in this kitchen propelled me to churn out some coconut cakes and a chocolate Bundt cake. Now, I will spend the rest of the day distributing my goodies and bid 'adieu' to my neighbors.
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