Every once in a while I learn some little thing about the intuitive and illogical workings of my brain. Like how I think no one can recognize me if I'm wearing (or, these days, not wearing) my glasses. Or how I inherently trust dog owners and the prematurely balding. Or how, no matter how far from home I am, I feel more like I belong in a place if I'm wearing earrings or carrying an office supply item of some kind.
The first thing I learned about being an out-of-towner in New York is that all this knowledge of self gave me no sense of comfort at 8 a.m. on the subway platform, where I was doing a great job of looking frowsy yet overdressed. I might as well have plaited my hair and donned a gingham pinafore. No matter, I thought. I'm carrying a BINDER. I clearly have a PURPOSE here on the Island Nation of Manhattan. This as I surreptitiously removed my earrings.
CUNY's graduate center is right across the street (avenue?) from the Empire State Building. From the 8th floor cafeteria you can see just where King Kong clung. I spent the afternoon in the Museum of Modern Art with my new friend Jackson Pollock. I laughed out loud at the surrealists, which last I checked was a side effect they fully intended, and came as close as one comes to being shushed in NYC (evidently the Emperor still wears melting watches as far as MoMA patrons go).
I hearted NY from Friday til Monday. Dinner in Chinatown. Canolis and espresso in Little Italy. The Staten Island Ferry past the Big Green Lady and Ellis Island. Book-shopping the Strand. A miserable performance art, um, thing in a warehouse in Brooklyn. A giant hole, an absence made a presence, with a monument to the "heroes" who showed up to work on 9-11-2001. Eight year old Dominican girls with extensions. Subway breakdancers impervious to the shimmying of the trains. ATM instructions in sixteen languages. The smell of burning pretzels. Feeling honored someone would stop and ask ME for directions, then realizing it was because I was the only person who looked approachable. 30 seconds of ooh-shiny in Times Square before the shine wore off. A quiet sunny morning in Central Park and being ushered out of Rockefeller Center, then followed down the block to make sure we were really leaving. Mashed plantains with oxtail gravy in a bar where everybody sang drunken rumbas along with the stereo. Four days without seeing a single fat person. A citizenry both cosmopolitan and undeniably provincial (rumors of life beyond Manhattan do sneak in from time to time but are largely circumstancial).
And almost no shopping, I swear it. Instead I rekindled an old friendship in New Amsterdam. The kind that you pick up right where you left off no matter how much time, pain, joy and transformation has elapsed. Another thing I've learned is that no matter what people say, you don't pick your friends. You never know who's going to love you unconditionally and it's not always the people you'd expect or choose, but you learn to roll with it.
I wanted to visit my hero Eloise in the lobby of the Plaza Hotel and have my picture taken underneath her portrait picking my nose but alas, the Plaza was under construction. Rawther disappointing. So next time is crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, el Museo del Barrio and the Plaza Hotel.
Oooh, I absolutely love, love, love New York.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Sunday, March 18, 2007
all language is metaphor
If Katy were a color. If Trace were a sickness. If I were a vessel. If a chair were chairness. Keep it going. Decode, then:
Romance is a big black puppy, sleek and grinning, bursting with play.
94 is the static concrete number of the wire along which our kinetic impulses travel.
To execute each next, uncertain step in our chosen dance we must listen closely through one another. We learn to move like waves, doubling back on ourselves; a restrained, perpetual invitation.
Trust is a watchful toothbrush.
A promise is sometimes a balloon, tied with a string ring.
Romance is a big black puppy, sleek and grinning, bursting with play.
94 is the static concrete number of the wire along which our kinetic impulses travel.
To execute each next, uncertain step in our chosen dance we must listen closely through one another. We learn to move like waves, doubling back on ourselves; a restrained, perpetual invitation.
Trust is a watchful toothbrush.
A promise is sometimes a balloon, tied with a string ring.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
hello, my name is
Jessica.
I tend to think that naming your child is your first act in parenting and therefore, it's reasonable to expect people with a certain name to behave a certain way. There's a reason the movie "Heathers" is called "Heathers". I have never met a Tiffany whose neurons were firing properly or an Angel who didn't think she was the center of the universe, and I almost always get along with Toms. Kevins seem for the most part easy-going and all three Alyssas I've met have been very smart. I've had three crushes on Andys so far in my lifetime, and had I been born a boy, rumor has it that would have been my name (coincidence?). I don't know what Jessicas are like, I really don't, but would be interested to know what motivated my parents to call me that and what images my name conjures for others.
I can tell how I feel about someone the first time they call me Jess, sometimes before I have consciously considered how I feel about that person. I never invite people to call me that, though most people who know me well do. If you call me Jess and it creeps me out, there's a good chance I'll never trust you. If I like it, I realize you're my friend. Only people who knew me when I was three get to call me Jessie, and if they spell it Jesse that's a boy's name and that's the end of that.
Christine.
Again, I'm not sure what motivated my parents to name me this, since my family is not particularly Christian. My mom says that combined with Jessica it has lots of nice hard sounds which made it easy to sound angry when scolding me. Really I don't think of my middle name as part of me. When I meet a Christine, I don't go, hey, that's my name too. I'd like my kids to feel differently about their middle names one day, and will maybe even pick ones I'd call them by at home.
Lynam.
Growing up this was a pain in the ass name to have because nobody seemed to know how to pronounce it. It also always sounded really nasally to me. When I took a married name, though, I missed it, and whenever anything would come addressed to me as Lynam I'd get warm fuzzies. Not to mention my married name was Dutch and I got sick of Dutch people getting all excited and wanting to include me in this secret Dutch club or something (If you ain't Dutch, you ain't much).
Now that I have it back I know I will never trade it again, not even if I get married seven hundred fifty times over. I will happily endure spelling and pronunciation errors for the rest of my life. I'm still undecided about hyphenating, but Lynam I am and Lynam I shall stay. I like it when people call me by my last name only; it seems playful and unfeminine, and I like inventing new ways to help people remember how to spell and say it (line 'em up and knock 'em down). I also feel like it's a big step in getting back to the business of being the person I want to be. The girl with the other name did some things I didn't like. That girl both was and wasn't me. I don't believe in clean starts. I have to own my mistakes, under any name, and this isn't an attempt not to. It just feels like one more step in the right direction to have my name back.
I tend to think that naming your child is your first act in parenting and therefore, it's reasonable to expect people with a certain name to behave a certain way. There's a reason the movie "Heathers" is called "Heathers". I have never met a Tiffany whose neurons were firing properly or an Angel who didn't think she was the center of the universe, and I almost always get along with Toms. Kevins seem for the most part easy-going and all three Alyssas I've met have been very smart. I've had three crushes on Andys so far in my lifetime, and had I been born a boy, rumor has it that would have been my name (coincidence?). I don't know what Jessicas are like, I really don't, but would be interested to know what motivated my parents to call me that and what images my name conjures for others.
I can tell how I feel about someone the first time they call me Jess, sometimes before I have consciously considered how I feel about that person. I never invite people to call me that, though most people who know me well do. If you call me Jess and it creeps me out, there's a good chance I'll never trust you. If I like it, I realize you're my friend. Only people who knew me when I was three get to call me Jessie, and if they spell it Jesse that's a boy's name and that's the end of that.
Christine.
Again, I'm not sure what motivated my parents to name me this, since my family is not particularly Christian. My mom says that combined with Jessica it has lots of nice hard sounds which made it easy to sound angry when scolding me. Really I don't think of my middle name as part of me. When I meet a Christine, I don't go, hey, that's my name too. I'd like my kids to feel differently about their middle names one day, and will maybe even pick ones I'd call them by at home.
Lynam.
Growing up this was a pain in the ass name to have because nobody seemed to know how to pronounce it. It also always sounded really nasally to me. When I took a married name, though, I missed it, and whenever anything would come addressed to me as Lynam I'd get warm fuzzies. Not to mention my married name was Dutch and I got sick of Dutch people getting all excited and wanting to include me in this secret Dutch club or something (If you ain't Dutch, you ain't much).
Now that I have it back I know I will never trade it again, not even if I get married seven hundred fifty times over. I will happily endure spelling and pronunciation errors for the rest of my life. I'm still undecided about hyphenating, but Lynam I am and Lynam I shall stay. I like it when people call me by my last name only; it seems playful and unfeminine, and I like inventing new ways to help people remember how to spell and say it (line 'em up and knock 'em down). I also feel like it's a big step in getting back to the business of being the person I want to be. The girl with the other name did some things I didn't like. That girl both was and wasn't me. I don't believe in clean starts. I have to own my mistakes, under any name, and this isn't an attempt not to. It just feels like one more step in the right direction to have my name back.
Friday, March 2, 2007
death to the weather
It's March now, thank the maker. Most people seem to think February has fewer days than any other month, but that's rubbish. February is the longest month of the year. It always finds a way to kick your ass. I can't explain it, but every February I think, this is the year February isn't going to be awful, and then it proves me wrong. So yay, March.
However, something still troubles me. I demand to know where all these weather proverbs come from. If the groundhog sees its shadow, six more weeks of winter. March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. April showers bring May flowers. This is a crock. I live in Michigan. None of these weather proverbs applies to me or anyone in my zip code. Nonetheless I hear people say these things, their voices quaking with desperate hope.
I don't know where whoever said those things the first time lived, but it wasn't here. News flash: whether or not the groundhog sees its shadow, Michigan is in for six more weeks of winter, maybe even six more months. March comes in like a lion and goes out much the same way. Any showers in April are more likely to bring about snowmen in May than flowers. Anyone who tells you different is a filthy liar and a jerk for trying to instill you with a false sense of spring being just around the corner and deserves to have his lights punched out.
According to some people, we're headed for the next ice age. So this might be the year spring never comes. I'm certainly not getting my hopes up and I recommend that you don't either, at least not yet, because you're only setting yourself up for the inevitable disappointment of several more months of crappy weather which, trust me, awaits us all.
This is the time of year I love to go to Meijer Gardens in Grand Rapids to soak up the ozony, greenhouse air, watch the first butterflies hatch and try not to step on the baby quails -- quite possibly nature's cutest edible -- breathe deeply, take my coat off, and listen to the almost-forgotten rustling of air moving through leaves. Any takers?
However, something still troubles me. I demand to know where all these weather proverbs come from. If the groundhog sees its shadow, six more weeks of winter. March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. April showers bring May flowers. This is a crock. I live in Michigan. None of these weather proverbs applies to me or anyone in my zip code. Nonetheless I hear people say these things, their voices quaking with desperate hope.
I don't know where whoever said those things the first time lived, but it wasn't here. News flash: whether or not the groundhog sees its shadow, Michigan is in for six more weeks of winter, maybe even six more months. March comes in like a lion and goes out much the same way. Any showers in April are more likely to bring about snowmen in May than flowers. Anyone who tells you different is a filthy liar and a jerk for trying to instill you with a false sense of spring being just around the corner and deserves to have his lights punched out.
According to some people, we're headed for the next ice age. So this might be the year spring never comes. I'm certainly not getting my hopes up and I recommend that you don't either, at least not yet, because you're only setting yourself up for the inevitable disappointment of several more months of crappy weather which, trust me, awaits us all.
This is the time of year I love to go to Meijer Gardens in Grand Rapids to soak up the ozony, greenhouse air, watch the first butterflies hatch and try not to step on the baby quails -- quite possibly nature's cutest edible -- breathe deeply, take my coat off, and listen to the almost-forgotten rustling of air moving through leaves. Any takers?
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