“Teacher, did you feel the earthquake,” one of them asks as they enter the room.
Yes, I think, that would be your first question. Yes, I felt my house and my bed trembling at 4:59 this morning as I was making love to my wife and something terrible happened. I felt it as I was having my cutomary breakfast of chicken broth, lemonade and a banana. No, I slept through it. I have a hangover and I thought it was happening inside my head. Five or six different scenarios race through my mind, but they all sound like excuses. This particular tremor is one that will stay with me forever.
“No, I didn’t feel it,” I say, “When was it?”
David, the one who had asked, says, “Huh?” He’s told me that sometimes I speak too rapidly in English. Three or four in the back who have heard my response start speaking.
“This morning at about five o’clock.”
“It was a strong one. Probably about four point five.”
“It was in Oaxaca, but we could feel it here in Chiapas.”
“I was sleeping,” I say, “I didn’t feel this one.” This was the third tremor I’ve experienced since I began my stay here in Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The first was on an afternoon while I was drinking with some friends in Chiapa de Corso. It was momentary and mild. We laughed about it and blamed it on the beer and bad botanas. The second occurred while I was at home alone sitting in front of my laptop and preparing exams for the second parcial. Aura was at the Secondaria teaching her history class. She called me on my cellphone while I was standing outside the house and smoking a cigarette. She said she tried calling me on the regular phone but I didn’t hear it ringing. I remembered she had told me the first thing to do when you feel the vibrations is to get out of the building and wait until it passes. But this morning’s tremor was the strongest.
“Oh, teacher,” David says, “You must have felt it in a dream.”
In my dream I was being entertained by my Three Fates. Tania, Ileana and Nathalie. They were not seventeen year old prepa students in this English class. They were women and they knew how to accommodate the ugly American so he didn’t feel like an interloper. The three of them always did everything together and so their actions fed off each other, but Nathalie was the one with the eyes, deep, penetrating soulful brown eyes.
The students are looking at me as if I am lost. They seem eager to help me find my way back to reality.
They notice I have the laptop with me. “Are we going to see a movie today, teacher?”
“No, not today,” I say, “We have to finish Unit Twelve.”
“Oh, teacher, no.” Groans.
It’s the end of the semester. Nobody wants to work.
Nathalie is filing her nails and she looks at me without moving her head so that those eyes are looking upward in a way that says she knows. She knows.
What am I going to do?
“Open your books to page one oh two.”
“Is that one or two?” somebody asks.
“One hundred and two,” I say.
“Teacher, you didn’t take the asistence.”
“I’m here,” David says, as he always does. “Presente.”
I’m losing them again.
Tania whispers something to Ileana. Nathalie still filing nails, nods agreement. She knows.
“Come on,” I say, “We’ve got a lot of things to do today. There’s more material to cover before the final exam.”
“We can study the last unit at home,” someone says and two of the students start mock-fighting.
“Hey, come on,” I say, but it’s hopeless. They’re on their own time now.
“Teacher,” Ileana asks, “Do they have earthquakes in New York? Did you ever feel the ground shaking?”
“There may have been,” I say, “But I never felt one.”
I think of still mornings in bed back home. Before coming to all this. Before Mexico. Before teaching. Before Aura. I lived alone but I was bored. It was noisy in the streets but tranquil inside my overpriced, underfurnished apartment. At times too tranquil. I longed for change. And now my situation is about as different as it could be.
I think about this morning when I woke, stiff from my dream, feeling guilty with Aura lying beside me. I kissed her and she responded. I entered her and she was ready. She almost pushed the Three Fates out of my mind as I made love to her, trying to see it as only to her and no other. I felt giddy with accomplishment and on the edge of satisfaction when the room and everything in it started to tremble just a little. Aura was about to cry out something and I put my hand over her mouth. I came into her and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I was trembling, eyes closed, in a torpid dream state for several moments after everything else had stopped moving. Including Aura. When I came to and rolled off her she lay motionless with a look of panic frozen on her face.
I didn’t know what to do.
I sat at our breakfast table for a half hour and smoked three cigarettes. Words like extranjero and interloper and coward and unfaithful were flashing unconnected through my mind.
Without realizing, I dressed and came to school this morning.
I am thinking about finding Aura's lifeless body still lying there when I leave the school this afternoon.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Doubtful
I doubted I could write without telling the stories of my family and having everyone angry with me for giving away secrets.
I doubted that I could succeed at anything to the degree where it would provide me a state of being comfortable and being able to retire at an early age. I always felt I would be working at some hum-drum job until the day I dropped over from exhaustion and they would have to carry me away from some conveyor belt or assembly line and that would be my ignominious end.
I doubted that my mother and father respected me as an adult when I became one. I thought, 'They will always see me as their little child and that is part of the reason I am unable to function the way I think I am supposed to at the stage I have reached.'
I doubted that my wife trusted me when I left three different jobs because I needed to try something fresh. Twice I took a hiatus and did temporary work while trying to write the Great American Novel. I have reams of typewritten sheets in desk drawers and can fully understand why my ex-wife does not respect me.
I doubted my son would want to follow in his father's footsteps, but as he did not survive past the age of thirteen that will not be a topic of discussion.
I doubted my daughter would be able to quit taking drugs and stay away from them once and for all. If she is anything like me she will have difficulty completing any kind of twelve-step program. She says she has been clean for the last four years but I know she drinks a bit. No amount of my speaking to her has any effect. She gets on better with her mother, but won't listen to her either.
I doubted my doctor when he advised me to get more exercise, when he told me I was too sedentary, that my cholesterol was too high, and I doubted my eye doctor when he told me that I was in danger of developing glaucoma. I figured he was in league with the optometrist who wanted to sell me glasses. I thought it was strange how once I started wearing them just for reading I seemed to need them more and more of the time. Now I have to wear them to the movies. But I don't go to the movies too often. My doctor says I need to walk more.
I am such a doubter that lately I am having doubts about my doubting. I am trying to use reverse psychology on myself. I figure if I question something it probably is good for me, but then if I think it is good for me I am sure the doctor will tell me it isn't and most of the things I have done in the past have led me to this ornery position I am currently in.
Now I live alone and I write most of the time in the evenings. On the weekends, I see a woman I work with. We go to dinner and maybe once a month, I stay at her place or she stays at mine for a night. Once in a while, the family photo I keep on the bookcase catches my eye. It was taken thirteen years ago. If I think about it, I miss my wife and daughter living here with me. I especially miss my son and sometimes I find myself crying before I realize I've made myself sad. I miss my Mom and Dad. When I get like that and it's not the weekend, not yet time to get together with Evelyn, I sit at the keyboard and try to put my feelings into words.
I'm still trying to write that novel, but I doubt it will ever be finished. All that I've read says you should write about what you know, but nothing exciting ever seems to happen to me.
I doubted that I could succeed at anything to the degree where it would provide me a state of being comfortable and being able to retire at an early age. I always felt I would be working at some hum-drum job until the day I dropped over from exhaustion and they would have to carry me away from some conveyor belt or assembly line and that would be my ignominious end.
I doubted that my mother and father respected me as an adult when I became one. I thought, 'They will always see me as their little child and that is part of the reason I am unable to function the way I think I am supposed to at the stage I have reached.'
I doubted that my wife trusted me when I left three different jobs because I needed to try something fresh. Twice I took a hiatus and did temporary work while trying to write the Great American Novel. I have reams of typewritten sheets in desk drawers and can fully understand why my ex-wife does not respect me.
I doubted my son would want to follow in his father's footsteps, but as he did not survive past the age of thirteen that will not be a topic of discussion.
I doubted my daughter would be able to quit taking drugs and stay away from them once and for all. If she is anything like me she will have difficulty completing any kind of twelve-step program. She says she has been clean for the last four years but I know she drinks a bit. No amount of my speaking to her has any effect. She gets on better with her mother, but won't listen to her either.
I doubted my doctor when he advised me to get more exercise, when he told me I was too sedentary, that my cholesterol was too high, and I doubted my eye doctor when he told me that I was in danger of developing glaucoma. I figured he was in league with the optometrist who wanted to sell me glasses. I thought it was strange how once I started wearing them just for reading I seemed to need them more and more of the time. Now I have to wear them to the movies. But I don't go to the movies too often. My doctor says I need to walk more.
I am such a doubter that lately I am having doubts about my doubting. I am trying to use reverse psychology on myself. I figure if I question something it probably is good for me, but then if I think it is good for me I am sure the doctor will tell me it isn't and most of the things I have done in the past have led me to this ornery position I am currently in.
Now I live alone and I write most of the time in the evenings. On the weekends, I see a woman I work with. We go to dinner and maybe once a month, I stay at her place or she stays at mine for a night. Once in a while, the family photo I keep on the bookcase catches my eye. It was taken thirteen years ago. If I think about it, I miss my wife and daughter living here with me. I especially miss my son and sometimes I find myself crying before I realize I've made myself sad. I miss my Mom and Dad. When I get like that and it's not the weekend, not yet time to get together with Evelyn, I sit at the keyboard and try to put my feelings into words.
I'm still trying to write that novel, but I doubt it will ever be finished. All that I've read says you should write about what you know, but nothing exciting ever seems to happen to me.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
One Out of Thousands
One day you'll wake, he had said, and I'll be there. I will take your hand and bring you back with me. Until then you must wait here. You must take care of yourself now and things on this end. I will prepare a place for us there.
She was upset because she thought, he has no control over this. He will go and I will never see him again. This is what she thought at first. Then the dreams came and she lived for the day he would keep his promise.
Days tumbled down and she learned to exist without his physical presence though he was always in her heart. She had a photograph of the two of them at her home in Providence. She had the sketch a woman had made of him at Nantucket. She had a locket with a hank of his hair and she had his signature on a piece of paper. These were things she could touch. These were things to fuel her dreams.
As she aged, her hair turned white. Her skin grew slack and lost its elasticity. Her favorite chair seemed to grow larger. In the photo, they never changed. She worried for some time that if he did keep his promise and she woke one morning she would see the back of him as he realized certain ambitions were unattainable and a handsome young man left a withered old woman alone in her bed.
They'd traveled together to the top of the world. They swam in wonder-filled seas. Together they had mourned the loss of an unborn child. For a dozen years they were inseparable. Then a cancer grew inside him. It possessed him before they knew it existed. She thanked her God for the mercy He bestowed in taking him rapidly before his beauty was ruined. He did not believe in God, and the funny thing was, neither had she before they'd met.
After he was gone, she lit a candle for him once a week. Her fingers brushed the marble rail and she prayed he'd keep his promise.
For many months she woke believing she'd spent dreamless nights. Something must have passed her eyes but nothing came to mind. Then one night he came and spoke to her and reminded her of his intent. She asked him if he now believed in God. He told her he had seen Him. She must not stop believing. When she woke she felt the locket in her hand and looked over at the photograph. It takes a catalyst, she thought.
He came in dreams many times after that. Not every night. No one is so blessed to see their dear departed so frequently, but when the day had made her weary, or she had worried over her finances, or she met an acquaintance who related bad news at the market or on the road, when her arthritis flared or it rained for hours and the sun seemed not to rise, on those nights he came. Mornings after a visit she woke refreshed and thanked her God.
One night many years after he had gone, more lonely years than she could remember, she sat in her enormous chair and recalled a time when the two of them ran laughing on the beach, through the dunes at Provincetown. Bohemians and artists had been their friends. They had been to a party and wine had been served. The night sky was clear and ablaze with stars. He pointed and said, Do you see that one? The one that seems to grow and shrink? She said, Yes, and truly believed she knew which one he meant out of all the thousands to be seen. That one is where we will make our eternal home. Then a friend called them and told them to come back to the party. It was getting cold. They laughed and went behind a dune where he removed her blouse and the cool air made the hairs on her shoulders stand on end. Then she lay in the sand and he on top and inside her raised a fire that delivered her from the chill and over his shoulder she saw her home star beckoning. As she now sat in her chair, she recalled that night more vividly than any that had passed in all the intervening years.
Early next morning, before the sun rose, she woke to a smoky gray sky. She put on a robe and walked to the window. She was looking for a specific star but they were quickly disappearing as the sky began to lighten. She had hoped to see it. But it didn't matter. He knew the way.
She wondered if his hair would still be brown and how she'd look to him, remembering he had told her to take care of herself.
She was upset because she thought, he has no control over this. He will go and I will never see him again. This is what she thought at first. Then the dreams came and she lived for the day he would keep his promise.
Days tumbled down and she learned to exist without his physical presence though he was always in her heart. She had a photograph of the two of them at her home in Providence. She had the sketch a woman had made of him at Nantucket. She had a locket with a hank of his hair and she had his signature on a piece of paper. These were things she could touch. These were things to fuel her dreams.
As she aged, her hair turned white. Her skin grew slack and lost its elasticity. Her favorite chair seemed to grow larger. In the photo, they never changed. She worried for some time that if he did keep his promise and she woke one morning she would see the back of him as he realized certain ambitions were unattainable and a handsome young man left a withered old woman alone in her bed.
They'd traveled together to the top of the world. They swam in wonder-filled seas. Together they had mourned the loss of an unborn child. For a dozen years they were inseparable. Then a cancer grew inside him. It possessed him before they knew it existed. She thanked her God for the mercy He bestowed in taking him rapidly before his beauty was ruined. He did not believe in God, and the funny thing was, neither had she before they'd met.
After he was gone, she lit a candle for him once a week. Her fingers brushed the marble rail and she prayed he'd keep his promise.
For many months she woke believing she'd spent dreamless nights. Something must have passed her eyes but nothing came to mind. Then one night he came and spoke to her and reminded her of his intent. She asked him if he now believed in God. He told her he had seen Him. She must not stop believing. When she woke she felt the locket in her hand and looked over at the photograph. It takes a catalyst, she thought.
He came in dreams many times after that. Not every night. No one is so blessed to see their dear departed so frequently, but when the day had made her weary, or she had worried over her finances, or she met an acquaintance who related bad news at the market or on the road, when her arthritis flared or it rained for hours and the sun seemed not to rise, on those nights he came. Mornings after a visit she woke refreshed and thanked her God.
One night many years after he had gone, more lonely years than she could remember, she sat in her enormous chair and recalled a time when the two of them ran laughing on the beach, through the dunes at Provincetown. Bohemians and artists had been their friends. They had been to a party and wine had been served. The night sky was clear and ablaze with stars. He pointed and said, Do you see that one? The one that seems to grow and shrink? She said, Yes, and truly believed she knew which one he meant out of all the thousands to be seen. That one is where we will make our eternal home. Then a friend called them and told them to come back to the party. It was getting cold. They laughed and went behind a dune where he removed her blouse and the cool air made the hairs on her shoulders stand on end. Then she lay in the sand and he on top and inside her raised a fire that delivered her from the chill and over his shoulder she saw her home star beckoning. As she now sat in her chair, she recalled that night more vividly than any that had passed in all the intervening years.
Early next morning, before the sun rose, she woke to a smoky gray sky. She put on a robe and walked to the window. She was looking for a specific star but they were quickly disappearing as the sky began to lighten. She had hoped to see it. But it didn't matter. He knew the way.
She wondered if his hair would still be brown and how she'd look to him, remembering he had told her to take care of herself.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Rome Wasn't Built in a Day
Len says, I don't get it.
I tell him, You don't have to get it. Just enjoy it for what it is. When I first met you there was something about your eyes that drew me in. I couldn't say for sure what it was but the longer I looked, the less I wanted to leave.
As a matter of fact, I think it was specifically because we didn't hit it off that first time that I knew it was a thing. I frequently place myself in situations like that.
You make me question my own esthetics, he says.
That's not a bad thing, I say. He nods but I think he is annoyed.
Do you think you should always trust your first reaction, I ask. Now he appears baffled.
How do you take step two, if the first one isn't on firm ground?
Interesting people continue to reveal themselves over years.
Are you trying to Gaslight me? Don't try it, he says. I'm not stupid.
I don't think you're stupid at all. At all. Charming was my thought. It's in the sincerity of your smile when you are truly amused. I didn't believe you were aware of how appealing your smile is. Of course, now that I've mentioned it...
Oh, yes, he says, I'm very charming.
A child looking at the sculpture in front of us brings his hand to his lips and giggles. He touches the cool marble as I have done many times. Then he looks at Len and me and he stops giggling but continues to smile.
How charming is this little guy, Len asks and reaches to pat his head but the child walks away and stops with his back to us in front of another sculpture, one of a nude woman.
Touch it, I suggest. It feels cold and yet sensual at the same time. He puts his hand on the nodule shape close to the plinth but his eyes are on the nude in front of the child. If he can "get it" he appreciates it. Some things just take a little time. Years ago I was the same way.
Len smiles and I feel an irresistible urge to plant my lips on his.
Let's go look at some paintings, he says.
I tell him, You don't have to get it. Just enjoy it for what it is. When I first met you there was something about your eyes that drew me in. I couldn't say for sure what it was but the longer I looked, the less I wanted to leave.
As a matter of fact, I think it was specifically because we didn't hit it off that first time that I knew it was a thing. I frequently place myself in situations like that.
You make me question my own esthetics, he says.
That's not a bad thing, I say. He nods but I think he is annoyed.
Do you think you should always trust your first reaction, I ask. Now he appears baffled.
How do you take step two, if the first one isn't on firm ground?
Interesting people continue to reveal themselves over years.
Are you trying to Gaslight me? Don't try it, he says. I'm not stupid.
I don't think you're stupid at all. At all. Charming was my thought. It's in the sincerity of your smile when you are truly amused. I didn't believe you were aware of how appealing your smile is. Of course, now that I've mentioned it...
Oh, yes, he says, I'm very charming.
A child looking at the sculpture in front of us brings his hand to his lips and giggles. He touches the cool marble as I have done many times. Then he looks at Len and me and he stops giggling but continues to smile.
How charming is this little guy, Len asks and reaches to pat his head but the child walks away and stops with his back to us in front of another sculpture, one of a nude woman.
Touch it, I suggest. It feels cold and yet sensual at the same time. He puts his hand on the nodule shape close to the plinth but his eyes are on the nude in front of the child. If he can "get it" he appreciates it. Some things just take a little time. Years ago I was the same way.
Len smiles and I feel an irresistible urge to plant my lips on his.
Let's go look at some paintings, he says.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
HP has me furious
All those complaints, and they do little or nothing about making things right with their customers. Compaq always had a reputation for problems with their products, but they were also known to respond very quickly with solutions or replacements.
Ever since HP took over, they've been cutting corners and offering cheaper machines. What savings occur when you run into problems and are ignored by the company you trusted.
Things change, but not always for the better.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
A Thousand Things You Don't Really Have to Do
How many books and/or stories and/or articles can the well-educated person read in a lifetime? How many films and/or television shows can s/he watch? How many popular songs can one listen to, and appreciate? How many works of art can be viewed? In each case, there must be many thousands, no? But to truly appreciate each piece, to get something from it that you can take away with you, that you want to share with others; how many, really? Every year lists are produced by pundits advising us of the ten best novels or non-fiction titles of the year, the ten best films, the best songs, the best albums, and so forth. Every once in a while, especially at year's end, we get the 100 all-time best. And Dr. Robert Boxall has come up with a book listing the "1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die."
Reading 1001 books of an average of 250 pages per book at an average reading speed of 50 pages per hour would take 625 8 hour days (almost two years of reading 8 hours a day!). That's about five days per book, and many of the books on this list are much longer than 250 pages, but I suppose if it holds your interest, you could finish a four hundred plus page book in a week. I did read the highly anticipated last Harry Potter in two and a half days, but, of course, there are no titles like that on a must-read list. The book 1001 Books… would take 2.4 days to read. Seeing the same amount of films of 90 minutes would likely take a third of the time.
So, depending on the medium chosen, it should not be impossible to set yourself a list to follow to edify your cultural cravings. So many of us enjoy looking at these lists and arguing for inclusion of our favorites. The arguing probably arises from the fact that we have all gone "off-list" and do not want to feel we have wasted time on our path towards enlightenment. However, such guilty pleasures as reading the latest popular bestseller, classified by critics as "no-brow", or getting sidetracked by working one's way through a particular author's oeuvre, or watching campy B-movies, when there are still so many must-sees on our list cannot be avoided unless we approach a project like this in robotic fashion, from which, surely, we will derive little appreciation. More than likely, we will give up or put our list aside "to be worked on during vacation," or when we have more time (?).
Nowadays, with the Internet and its trove of (mis)information available on myriad subjects, there is even more to distract us from such an endeavor than merely fleeting time itself. Still, I buy and store, and dip into, many, many sources for entertainment and edification, and I suppose to discover more about myself. With two bookcases overflowing with unread material, an mp3 player stocked with 1500 songs, thousands more archived on CDs, and more still on my hard drive, five or six year's worth of stories from the New Yorker, and other sources stored electronically along with hundreds of novels, articles culled and categorized in my own precisely detailed filing system from all over the world, and let's not even discuss the two or more films I see every week, thereby missing out on some while consoling myself with, "I'll see it when it comes to DVD," as I look for the latest uploads to YouTube, I think what I've discovered about myself is that I'm an uncultured slob with an overreaching desire to know all. What made me this way? And why does it seem, lately, that time is mocking me?
As a teacher, I've always professed the idea that it is not necessary to memorize everything. It's enough to know how to delve into an information source and find what you need when you need it. I suppose that is behind my collecting habit. But I admit that nothing beats that moment of epiphany when reading, actually reading, a good book, that connection that occurs between your mind and that of the author. This cannot be gleaned through scanning or skimming, nor does it reside in the perusal of a list or a summary. Those epiphanies are necessary to life and learning.
This started out to be a calculation of how many cultural artifacts one could absorb and still have time for actual living, but I was sidetracked. I couldn't remember the name of the author of 1001 Books… and went to look it up. A search led me to Listology, where a link led me to A Vocabulary of Culture, which I discovered is no longer being maintained. So, of course, I had to check out Jahsonic's blog, but not before I looked at one of the articles on dance music and Paradise Garage, where another link led me to Disco-Disco.com, and I felt compelled to reread a comment I had left there two years ago.
All this sidetracking had me reformulating my aim here. I think now it's just a matter of focus. Nobody can learn or know everything. It's just impossible. We can only dip into the well and come up with a handful at a time, and hope it contains a treasure that we can write home about.
Reading 1001 books of an average of 250 pages per book at an average reading speed of 50 pages per hour would take 625 8 hour days (almost two years of reading 8 hours a day!). That's about five days per book, and many of the books on this list are much longer than 250 pages, but I suppose if it holds your interest, you could finish a four hundred plus page book in a week. I did read the highly anticipated last Harry Potter in two and a half days, but, of course, there are no titles like that on a must-read list. The book 1001 Books… would take 2.4 days to read. Seeing the same amount of films of 90 minutes would likely take a third of the time.
So, depending on the medium chosen, it should not be impossible to set yourself a list to follow to edify your cultural cravings. So many of us enjoy looking at these lists and arguing for inclusion of our favorites. The arguing probably arises from the fact that we have all gone "off-list" and do not want to feel we have wasted time on our path towards enlightenment. However, such guilty pleasures as reading the latest popular bestseller, classified by critics as "no-brow", or getting sidetracked by working one's way through a particular author's oeuvre, or watching campy B-movies, when there are still so many must-sees on our list cannot be avoided unless we approach a project like this in robotic fashion, from which, surely, we will derive little appreciation. More than likely, we will give up or put our list aside "to be worked on during vacation," or when we have more time (?).
Nowadays, with the Internet and its trove of (mis)information available on myriad subjects, there is even more to distract us from such an endeavor than merely fleeting time itself. Still, I buy and store, and dip into, many, many sources for entertainment and edification, and I suppose to discover more about myself. With two bookcases overflowing with unread material, an mp3 player stocked with 1500 songs, thousands more archived on CDs, and more still on my hard drive, five or six year's worth of stories from the New Yorker, and other sources stored electronically along with hundreds of novels, articles culled and categorized in my own precisely detailed filing system from all over the world, and let's not even discuss the two or more films I see every week, thereby missing out on some while consoling myself with, "I'll see it when it comes to DVD," as I look for the latest uploads to YouTube, I think what I've discovered about myself is that I'm an uncultured slob with an overreaching desire to know all. What made me this way? And why does it seem, lately, that time is mocking me?
As a teacher, I've always professed the idea that it is not necessary to memorize everything. It's enough to know how to delve into an information source and find what you need when you need it. I suppose that is behind my collecting habit. But I admit that nothing beats that moment of epiphany when reading, actually reading, a good book, that connection that occurs between your mind and that of the author. This cannot be gleaned through scanning or skimming, nor does it reside in the perusal of a list or a summary. Those epiphanies are necessary to life and learning.
This started out to be a calculation of how many cultural artifacts one could absorb and still have time for actual living, but I was sidetracked. I couldn't remember the name of the author of 1001 Books… and went to look it up. A search led me to Listology, where a link led me to A Vocabulary of Culture, which I discovered is no longer being maintained. So, of course, I had to check out Jahsonic's blog, but not before I looked at one of the articles on dance music and Paradise Garage, where another link led me to Disco-Disco.com, and I felt compelled to reread a comment I had left there two years ago.
All this sidetracking had me reformulating my aim here. I think now it's just a matter of focus. Nobody can learn or know everything. It's just impossible. We can only dip into the well and come up with a handful at a time, and hope it contains a treasure that we can write home about.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Independence Day
Yes, we're going up on Marco's roof later to watch the fireworks, she was shouting. We're by the marina now, waiting for the big boats to pass. Yeah, it's packed. I think they opened it to the general public just a little while ago.
When we came down this morning, oh, that's a lie, we actually got up around noon, but when we came down around two, I said to Freddy we were lucky to have these tickets. When they let us through, there were only about twenty people on the plaza. We had the place all to ourselves.
Okay, I'll bring the beer and some chips. I gotta stop off and get an anniversary gift for Anna and Bob first then I'm gonna hop on a train and we'll be up.
Wait for us and we'll all go to Marco's together, okay? 'Kay, see ya. By-ee.
She clicked off.
Okay, now that was Marco and Anna and Kieron. Who else was there?
Oh, right. My dad. Hold on Freddy, let me call my dad. I'll just be another few minutes.
I made a low vertical gesture as if to say, yeah, it's all right take your time, but also hoping she might take it as a subtle hint to lower her voice.
She dialed and started hollering to her dad.
I wanted to smack her off side the head and say to her, Why are you speaking so loudly? There aren't that many people right here near us. You've been on the phone for the last half hour. I thought we came here first because we wanted some time alone together before joining the others. I thought you agreed watching tall ships would be a romantic thing to do. I thought you would be quiet for a little while, or at least speak to me if your lips must be flapping.
I waved and indicated I was going to get a drink. I motioned Do you want something to drink? She waved as if to dismiss me. Words were directed electronically toward others. And they were all hers. We were reduced to communicating in a sort of pidgin signing.
I left her on the plaza, talking to her dad. I walked towards the restaurant with the outdoor tables, went into the restaurant, used the men's room then left through a different door. I walked about four blocks up along the river and found a place by the railing where I could stand and quietly watch the ships as they passed. I thought, let her find her own way to Marco's. Maybe I would see her there later. Or maybe I wouldn't. I hadn't made up my mind.
She was speaking so loudly on that new cell phone.
Fourth of July. I was feeling very independent. I thought now I'll do what I feel like doing, but I couldn't really make a firm decision. It was very quiet. I stood and waited for the tall ships for what seemed like hours.
When we came down this morning, oh, that's a lie, we actually got up around noon, but when we came down around two, I said to Freddy we were lucky to have these tickets. When they let us through, there were only about twenty people on the plaza. We had the place all to ourselves.
Okay, I'll bring the beer and some chips. I gotta stop off and get an anniversary gift for Anna and Bob first then I'm gonna hop on a train and we'll be up.
Wait for us and we'll all go to Marco's together, okay? 'Kay, see ya. By-ee.
She clicked off.
Okay, now that was Marco and Anna and Kieron. Who else was there?
Oh, right. My dad. Hold on Freddy, let me call my dad. I'll just be another few minutes.
I made a low vertical gesture as if to say, yeah, it's all right take your time, but also hoping she might take it as a subtle hint to lower her voice.
She dialed and started hollering to her dad.
I wanted to smack her off side the head and say to her, Why are you speaking so loudly? There aren't that many people right here near us. You've been on the phone for the last half hour. I thought we came here first because we wanted some time alone together before joining the others. I thought you agreed watching tall ships would be a romantic thing to do. I thought you would be quiet for a little while, or at least speak to me if your lips must be flapping.
I waved and indicated I was going to get a drink. I motioned Do you want something to drink? She waved as if to dismiss me. Words were directed electronically toward others. And they were all hers. We were reduced to communicating in a sort of pidgin signing.
I left her on the plaza, talking to her dad. I walked towards the restaurant with the outdoor tables, went into the restaurant, used the men's room then left through a different door. I walked about four blocks up along the river and found a place by the railing where I could stand and quietly watch the ships as they passed. I thought, let her find her own way to Marco's. Maybe I would see her there later. Or maybe I wouldn't. I hadn't made up my mind.
She was speaking so loudly on that new cell phone.
Fourth of July. I was feeling very independent. I thought now I'll do what I feel like doing, but I couldn't really make a firm decision. It was very quiet. I stood and waited for the tall ships for what seemed like hours.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Summer Eases In
The teachers' course went well. It's all over except for the final exam on Monday. This time I made up a lot of Powerpoint presentations and realized how much time it saves in not having to write things out on the board. But in order not to have the slide all plain and vanilla flavored, it takes quite a bit of time to put together a little show that moves and zings.
No plans yet for my break in July. Would really like to travel, but it's currently out of the budget. In lieu of something exotic, perhaps I can get some time by a pool and finish the Bolaño book.
Have seen quite a few movies, some awful - like M. Night Shamylan's The Happening, some okay - like Get Smart, and a really enjoyable one with Audrey Tatou. Been listening to Israeli pop music, and watching Madonna age. Gathering resources for next semester. Getting bored and tired doing very little.
Missing things and people. Some people especially.
It feels the way it feels during the Christmas season, or like a constant string of Sunday nights. Where's this summer I keep hearing about?
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