esprit de l'escalier

Memories of the Perseids

August nights in Wisconsin. Campfires with cousins. Sleeping out under the stars and watching them fall across the sky. The Perseids hit their peak this Friday night. There will a full moon, so visibility will be low, but I'll be up on Lake Erie with friends, and I'm hopeful I'll see some of them this year.

From "One for Sorrow" by Jeffrey Foucault:

I was driving out on County N

With my high-beam headlights on

In the late night FM no man’s land

Looking for a Tom Petty song

The Perseids were falling

In that hothouse August night

I saw two come down together

And I thought it looked about right

"One for sorrow, two for joy" they say

I’ve had my fill of sorrow anyway

Thoughts on solo cooking

Last week I cooked in my new apartment for the first time. Yes, I realize that taking almost a month to use my new kitchen is ridiculous; that has been pointed out to me. I also realized that I had been avoiding cooking for myself, by myself, because I was afraid. Afraid of the loneliness that sometimes comes from cooking solo.

Since I moved, my dance card has been very full. I thought my social life would take a little while to get back up to speed, but apparently it’s been waiting for me to return to it. I’ve been busy and having fun with new and old friends, but my pocketbook has taken a hit. This past weekend, I bought a bunch of veggies and peaches at the farmer’s market and was determined to whip up a bunch of food for the week. But when Monday came around, I found myself pleading with several friends to come and join me for dinner. (There would be wine! And peach cobbler*!) I realized halfway through my bottle of wine that maybe my pleas had a whiff of desperation to them.

I realized that while I had spent time alone in my new place, that time has not been quality alone time. I am completely and totally in love with my new apartment, but I haven’t really been doing quality me time there. Cooking solo is quality me time, and I’ve been nervous about it. It means that I am truly living alone.

I have been slowly processing cooking alone for the past week or so. I have decided that I am going to make a Sunday dinner once a month and invite friends over. I like cooking for other people and I like having guests. I think it's a win-win situation. Let me know if you're interested in joining me.

*I actually made a peach crisp, but I like to say the word “cobbler” so much more.

Things I learned while using my stove and oven for the first time:

1. My largest burner is crooked.
2. I do not own any potholders. (Actually, scratch that, I found some in a bag with shoes in it the other morning. Random.)
3. I do not own any measuring cups or spoons. (My baking was only a crisp, so it was a winged sort of deal anyway.)
4. When I drink a bottle of wine while cooking alone, I end up drunk tweeting the entire experience, and drunk texting friends how much I love them. I suppose it could be worse. I could always be a mean drunk.

A self-indulgent post

Today I received a box with my purse that had been stolen then found in early November. After it was found, it was sent to the state for further lab testing, hoping for fingerprints. Unfortunately, none were obtained. I finally got my purse and what little remained in it back. Sadly, the three objects, my large white purse, my green leather wallet, and my red moleskine date book are all covered in a good film of black powder, and each of them have "12/28/10" written on them in permanent marker.

I'm calling this post self-indulgent, because while revolutions are fomenting in the mideast and people in my home, college, and birth states are all protesting the push to take away their rights as workers, I'm writing about my sadness about stuff getting stolen. But whatever, it's Friday night, I've taken home work and will be working tomorrow, and I'm going to be a little sad about my stupid situation. Getting some of my stuff back fairly ruined has only made me mourn the beloved crap that got stolen in the first place. It makes me remember my Grandpa's funeral and how it got tangled in my memory with broken car windows, which makes me angry. It also makes me regret not buying a wallet I admired in Chicago this weekend. My old wallet, after I cleaned what I could of the black stuff off, is perfectly usable, but it's really, really soiled.

I think that in my mind, there was always a chance that more of my stuff remained in my bag. Why did they want my blue felt business card holder? Or my library book? I was about a dozen pages away from being done with Paul Auster's New York Triology. I guess it's fitting that I lose a book that's all about abscence, people going missing, and detectives. Why did these two items remain in my purse? Why put my wallet back in and dump the rest?

Somewhere my beloved, dinged up water bottle sits with it's adorable Etsy sticker on its side, with its OSU carbiner dangling from its lid. Somewhere my green patterned pencil case, full of favorite pens, a mini ruler, eye drops, a good eraser, and a jump drive, is waiting for me to pick it up and rummage through it. No longer.

Mopey rant over. Now I need to wash my hands and get back to work. Have a good weekend folks.

My childhood escapes

When I was a kid, I loved unicorns. Really, really loved unicorns. My Dad was moving some furniture around this summer and found these two bookmarks of mine, from an elementary school book fair. NPR had a story today about why girls love unicorns (and horses and dolphins). I can't say I disagree with it. Unicorns made me feel connected to something magical and special; two things I wanted to be. I like what the article has to say, about how these creatures are connected to power and transformation. Unicorns perfectly fit with my young self's want to escape, which I usually accomplished through books.

Once, when we lived in Connecticut, we went on a ferry ride and my parents bought me two porcelain unicorns from the boat's gift shop. I was never very good at expressing what I wanted, and I must have made it clear that I wanted these figurines, because I got them. I loved them. Several years later, my brother and I got in a fight and he broke them. We were living in Columbus at that point. I took their broken pieces up to our treehouse and sobbed over them - I remember that clearly - that heartbreak. They were my most beloved objects. For years I kept their broken pieces in a special place.

Finding these bookmarks took me to another time, which I appreciated. I'd love to go back to those days spent in my imagination.

An imaginary place

I read this wonderful short piece by Michael Chabon in the Atlantic this week. I sent it on to my friend Natasha, who loves Chabon. It's a musing on where your hometown is. Is it where you grew up? Or where you make your home?

I loved this line from the final paragraph, "Maybe your hometown is always an imaginary place: the home of your imagination." I think that's true. We mythologize our childhoods and hometowns - they are suspended in amber in our memories. Preserved, but changed from what they were. I guess it comes back to Dickens to a certain degree. You can't go home again. Life moves forward, but we have our memories all the same.

Oh dear, I think I'll be told this took a bit too dark of a tone. I didn't mean it. Enjoy the photo above. It's from a hike outside of Yellow Springs, back in November. Have a lovely weekend!

Bon Voyage 2010

Happy New Year's Eve! I am currently propped up on the largest, tallest inflatible mattress I have ever seen or slept on, in Chicago at my friend Natasha's apartment. I was woken up by the chirping of my phone, letting me know I had email. (I am trying *not* to develop a Pavlovian response to it, but I think I need to turn off that function.) I saw that I had a note from a friend who is currently far away, thinking of me, wishing me a happy new year. Thank you friend.

For me, 2010 was a bifurcated year. The first half (or so), I was unemployed, babysitting, somewhat anxious about what the world had in store for me, with way too much time on my hands. The last half has been full of work, the inside of my car/rush hour traffic, and disappearing daylight. Or at least that's sort of how it felt. I'm hoping to deal with the second in that list soon, and nature has already started lengthening the days again. I'm hopeful to have more time to take photos and write up my adventures in the new year.

My dear friends Elaine and George always give a word to each year. 2010 was the year of growth for them, and 2011 is going to be the year of exploration. I'm not sure what 2011 will have in store for me, so maybe I'll co-opt "exploration" for me as well. Although I can anticipate some of the highlights already. I'm turning 30 at the end of April. I'm still scheming about my birthday adventure. (New York? Austin? Unfortunately, I probably do not have time for Paris, as I wanted to do.) My brother has a big art show in April, too. My sister is getting married at the end of June, which will be a fun week. (I am a little worried that I will be out of paid time off by mid year, though, but hopefully not out of yearly highlights.)

I am also trying to think of a new photo project for 2011. This year I took a photo of myself every week. I need to get some of those last photos developed, but I think I'll share some of my favorites from that project soon. I am thinking of tying my next photo project to my birthday. I'm trying to think of 30 things or events to photograph in my 30th year, like a photo scavenger hunt. I'd love to hear suggestions.

I have also decided to start journalling again. When I lived in Chicago, I carried a notebook around with me, where all of my notes, lists, thoughts, doodles went. I stopped when I started OSU, and I miss it. (It was also a great breeding ground for blog posts, and we all know I need a little kick start here.) My sister gave me a beautiful and perfect journal LAST year for Christmas. I just found it again, and I think some inspiration to go along with it. (Thanks Alix.)

2011 still seems a bit of a mystery to me. I just was reading my yearly horoscope via Yahoo. It was ridiculously optimistic. Ever the cautious optimist, I am a little wary of its positivity. But maybe I should take it as a sign and believe from the get-go that 2011 will be good. Mind over matter, as my grandmother used to tell me. Regardless of what this year may have in store for me, I hope you all, my dear and dwindling set of readers, have marvelous years. Hugs to you.

On adolescence and friendships

I spent this past Saturday, like I've done on many other bright Saturdays, curled in a sunny spot and finished a book. This go round the book in question was Skippy Dies by Paul Murray, which had been recommended to me by a flickr friend. It's a tale set in an all-boys Dublin boarding school, and it's irreverent, funny, and sad, about friendship, fitting-in, love, sex, drugs, divorce, death, molestation, history, expectations (yours and other people's of you), lies and all the ways these things screw with the minds and lives of adolescents. I loved it.

The book focuses mainly on a rag-tag group of friends, who are about fourteen, and their history teacher, and how their lives implode over the course of a couple of months. The book shifts perspective, from the eponymous Skippy, who is a sweet, shy boy who falls in love with the beautiful Lori from the neighboring girls school, to Lori, to Carl, the deeply, deeply troubled boy who starts dealing drugs and spiralling out of control, to Howard, their sad sack History teacher who is plagued by the events of one night, when he was a student at the same school. (I promise you it's also hilariously funny.)

What really struck home with me is the group of friends that surround Skippy. He is the quiet glue that holds them together, and when he dies (not a spoiler, but in fact the title of the book, and the action in the first chapter), his group falls apart. But they were going to fall apart. That's what happens as you get further into adolescence, your group of friends change. Part of the sadness of the book is seeing it happen, partly, I think, because I was remembering my own rag-tag group of friends from middle school and how it fell away by the second year of high school.

I have thought before about how as you age, you get to choose your friends more than you did when you were a kid. When you were a kid, you were sort of stuck with the other kids in your class, and how you fall into the weird hierarchy that schools always have. When you get to college you're in a bigger pot of people and it's easier to find friends that share interests and reflect you better than just proximity.

Since I moved back to the city where I grew up, I've had some contact with my middle school friends. Last summer I reconnected with a good friend from middle and high school (though we were much closer in middle school). We lost touch when we went to college, not because of any negative feelings, just because that's what happens sometimes. It was so great to see her. I think that in Stand By Me, the narrator says something about how the people who knew you at 12 will know you for life. I think that is true, even if those are the friends we lose as we grow up.

Old, lost friends have also been on my mind the last couple of weeks, because I have a lunch date to meet up with my best friend from high school, with whom I've been estranged since we were 19 (a decade ago). Besides some emails over the last 7 years, we have not seen nor spoken since a ridiculous, dramatic break-up. (Are friend break-ups ever not dramatic?) I keep thinking about the specific catalyst for this, and the more I do, the stupider I realize it all was. (Though, for the record, I never understood it. I was the dumped friend, not the dumper.) But the writing had been on the wall for a couple of years. I can see the trajectory of the story now, but I still remember the shock at how I was suddenly being treated. Being dumped is not fun, but being dumped by a dear friend is just awful.

Anyway, I don't want to wallow in the past. It's not really what I'm interested in. I think about all the friendships that I've made since I was 19 and I know how truly lucky I am. I am curious to see her and hear about her life. She knows bits of me, and I of her, that other people just don't know. They can't know. They weren't there when we were sharing our secrets, or talking about boys, or getting blind-man's-bluff banished from my house. I hope to find an old friend.

To get back to my main point, if you want a good read about the thrill and pains of being an adolescent, of figuring out who you are, that is funny, sad, and smart, pick up Skippy Dies. Sorry for the extended navel gazing on my part.

Thoughts on Thanksgiving

Last night I went through some old family albums to try and find some Thanksgiving photos from days gone by. I found some, but not as many as I thought I would. Looking through the albums made me a little sentimental, the word "maudlin" keeps coming to mind and I keep ignoring it. I realized that we have never really had set Thanksgiving traditions. It was a holiday that, dependent on the year, we were in different places.

We spent many years stuck in traffic on I-71N the Wednesday before, en route to a big dinner with my Dad's family. We often met up with my Dad's family in different locations, too. We went to lodges in state parks, and occasionally they came to us. Just as often, we had smaller Thanksgivings, with some family friends and my Mom's mother at our house.

This year we're spending it at home, with my aunt and uncle, one cousin and her husband. It's going to be pretty quiet. I prefer my Thanksgivings sprawling. I'm going to miss my little cousins running around, my brother entertaining us at the kids' table, and my sister being told by everyone what she can eat as a vegetarian (she HATES that). It's easier to hide out in a crowd, to sit on the sidelines and listen to everyone's conversations. I'm actually going to miss the kids' table at my grandparents' house. We always had way more fun there than the adults had.

I hope you all have a lovely day. I'm excited for the meal; it's my favorite.

Some thoughts about narrative

Narrative was ever present in my upbringing. My mother would (and still does) fill time with stories of her youth, our youth, her parents, grandparents, pets, friends, acquaintances. Her mother told us stories. Many of these stories have become mythologized through their repetition. I love these stories. Even the ones that have been embroidered by my mother. They make me me and my family my family. They tell who we are. I can hear them again and again, and tell them myself.

I found kindred spirit in stories in my friend Libby. We met our freshman year of college. Sometime between now and then she explained to me our similarity - how telling stories is how we introduce ourselves to the world. Sometimes I worry when I tell stories about myself or friends, or heaven forbid repeat myself, thinking that perhaps I'm monopolizing the conversation, or perhaps I'm a wee bit self-centered, but I get over it. This is how I get to know people. I offer pieces of myself in the hopes that you will reciprocate.

Libby likes to ask people, when she meets them or if there is a lull in conversation, "Tell me a story." It flummoxes many, but I've found that if give some parameters, they come up with a tale to tell. Which reminds me of the greatest lesson I learned from high school journalism, but one that was deeply ingrained in me already, which is: everyone has a story. (Some people are just better at telling them.)

This is a very long-winded introduction to what happened to me this weekend. I drove up to Fort Wayne, IN to go to a college roommate's wedding. Senior year of college I lived in a house with the bride, Libby, and two other friends. The bride, Libby, and one of those girls moved to DC together and lived together for a couple of years (more or less). The three of them have a very good friend from DC who, previously to this weekend, I met briefly once and have never spent time with. She and I spent a lot of time together and every time I tried to tell her a story about myself, she stopped me to let me know she'd heard it before. It really threw me off my game. While I am capable of asking people questions with little set-up, in situations with friends of friends, and where I've been drinking and feel loquacious, I want to tell a story first. That gets me warmed up. I got past it, but it threw me for a loop. At least let me tell it again.

The evening, from a park bench

Tonight I find myself with twenty minutes to myself, before meeting some friends for dinner. I sit on a bench in the park down the street from my childhood home, with a book and a wandering mind, enjoying the warmth of this late summer evening. From where I sit, I can see a group of girls do exercises with hand weights, lunging backwards, a couple toss a frisbee on the long lawn the park, and an older man walk his large black lab past my seat. I hear the metallic pop of a little boy practicing t-ball with his dad, a pair of girls gossip, and the distant sounds of pee-wee soccer practice.

The golden light gives way to longer shadows. I remember the time before the paths were paved, and a sense memory of riding my bike over the gravel rises in my mind. The pool, where I spent so many hours as a kid, looks the same and absurdly small. I remember the previous times I have sat in this spot, or near it, with friends, alone with a book, watching the fireworks on the Fourth of July. So many childhood memories are locked in this block, between the elementary school, the library, and the park. All those little moments that created who I am today.