So I finally met up with my dear friend Michael yesterday afternoon. I accompanied him on a business errand (he's always up to one of those) and then we sat around talking, eating, drinking for the better part of six hours. We discussed the plight of the Irish all over the world, globalization, the troubles, the riots . . . and he encouraged me to write a piece for one of the papers here. In fact, I think he'll hound me until I produce some copy. Everyone's a fucking editor.
But really, it was wonderful to reconnect with someone who knows me so well.
Then I picked up a newspaper and planted myself in an old haunt, The Foggy Dew, drank a beer, read the paper, wrote in my journal. Then I got chatted up by a mechanic from Galway who was born two weeks later than I. He had a tattoo of his childhood dog on his arm. After the pub shut down for the night, I managed to convince him and two of his friends (also Irish-speaking lads from Galway) to escort me to Ri-Ra, another of my old haunts, a fabulous club that plays the kind of funky music that makes my body want to move.
And so it did. Until 3 in the morning.
Being the fabulous Sagittarian born in the year of the Dragon that he is, Brian Duggan spun me around the dance floor like crazy. Great. Fun.
And I'll leave the rest to your imagination. Although keep in mind that Duggan is a family name on my mother's side, and I have no interest in risking any sort of inbreeding whatsoever.
So, as far as I'm concerned, I got into just enough trouble last night to keep my vibrant wildness well alive.
We'll see how I manage today. I've made contact with one of the old gang. His brother is like a drug to me. Said brother, I now know, is in town again after many years of living everywhere but here.
Playing it by ear, y'all. . . .
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
Red Carpet, Irish style
Last night Daniel Day Lewis and Rebecca Miller came out to the final event of the Dublin Film Festival, a showing of their film, "The Ballad of Jack and Rose." Who was there? You guessed it. Who managed to not see himself in all his beautiful aged glory (but it doesn't matter anyway because he will always be Tomas from "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" in my mind)? That's right. I also managed to miss him at the Irish premiere of "Gangs of New York" three years ago when I was here because of all the screaming girls after Leo. Bono was there that night, too. Missed him as well. I often wonder how many times I've passed him in the street and not even noticed him. I probably brushed up against Cillian Murphy and Colin Farrell, too. Or several of their look alikes. That kind of beauty isn't a rarity around here, folks. So, I'll enjoy the eye candy, famous or otherwise.
Yes, news does seem to come to me, or at least near me; however, my absolute resistance to pack journalism will always keep me on the periphery. And that's just fine with me. I'll pay attention and evaluate everything I take in, then write novels and screenplays down the road. Memoir, too. Although, everything is memoir as far as I'm concerned. . . .
So, I ended up seeing "Capote" last night since "Ballad" was sold out. I loitered as long as I could and managed to see a few famous (although not to me) folks saunter down the makeshift runway constructed outside the Savoy theatre on O'Connell Street. Then I got shooed away and I didn't feel like fighting or playing the journalist card, so I meandered up the steps to "Capote." Interesting film. My favorite part was the epitaph at the end Capote wrote for an unfinished manuscript: "There are more tears shed for answered prayers than unanswered ones."
I had to search for a quiet drink after the movie ended at 10:30. The city was still abuzz with Welsch lunatics after the rugby match. I wandered into the Octagon Bar inside Bono's Clarence Hotel in Temple Bar and ordered myself a grey goose martini. The bartender told me it would cost 24 euros. So I switched to Ketel One and paid 12.50. $30 for a fucking drink? Gives me new appreciation for my half-off martini high five thursday nights.
During the day yesterday I hung out with Aisling and Ben and then we went to her partner Michael's family's house--a house of artists, writers, students, thinkers, performers. Great fun. Lively discussion about the riots and the state of affairs in this country. Two of Michael's sisters are journalists whose bylines I've read. I got to ask them lots of questions about practicing the craft here. Great stuff.
So now it's almost half past two here, I've slept in, bathed, had some breakfast and am now considering wandering back into town to see what kind of trouble I can get into. I'm not as good at it as I once was--either I'm not trying hard enough, or I've just fucking wised up. Dublin appears to be a much more sinister place than it ever was to me before. I think this has something to do with the ways I learned to feel safe in dangerous situations, and the closer I get to myself, to honoring my body, the more perceptive I get about danger. Don't get me wrong, I'm not fearful; I think I'm just smarter.
But I miss the trouble a bit. Perhaps if I can get past that and find joy in the calm, in the tension of great conversation (which is everywhere in this city), in the beauty of a caring word, then I'll be able to move toward something greater than my destructive love of bad boys.
I might be on to something here. . . .
Yes, news does seem to come to me, or at least near me; however, my absolute resistance to pack journalism will always keep me on the periphery. And that's just fine with me. I'll pay attention and evaluate everything I take in, then write novels and screenplays down the road. Memoir, too. Although, everything is memoir as far as I'm concerned. . . .
So, I ended up seeing "Capote" last night since "Ballad" was sold out. I loitered as long as I could and managed to see a few famous (although not to me) folks saunter down the makeshift runway constructed outside the Savoy theatre on O'Connell Street. Then I got shooed away and I didn't feel like fighting or playing the journalist card, so I meandered up the steps to "Capote." Interesting film. My favorite part was the epitaph at the end Capote wrote for an unfinished manuscript: "There are more tears shed for answered prayers than unanswered ones."
I had to search for a quiet drink after the movie ended at 10:30. The city was still abuzz with Welsch lunatics after the rugby match. I wandered into the Octagon Bar inside Bono's Clarence Hotel in Temple Bar and ordered myself a grey goose martini. The bartender told me it would cost 24 euros. So I switched to Ketel One and paid 12.50. $30 for a fucking drink? Gives me new appreciation for my half-off martini high five thursday nights.
During the day yesterday I hung out with Aisling and Ben and then we went to her partner Michael's family's house--a house of artists, writers, students, thinkers, performers. Great fun. Lively discussion about the riots and the state of affairs in this country. Two of Michael's sisters are journalists whose bylines I've read. I got to ask them lots of questions about practicing the craft here. Great stuff.
So now it's almost half past two here, I've slept in, bathed, had some breakfast and am now considering wandering back into town to see what kind of trouble I can get into. I'm not as good at it as I once was--either I'm not trying hard enough, or I've just fucking wised up. Dublin appears to be a much more sinister place than it ever was to me before. I think this has something to do with the ways I learned to feel safe in dangerous situations, and the closer I get to myself, to honoring my body, the more perceptive I get about danger. Don't get me wrong, I'm not fearful; I think I'm just smarter.
But I miss the trouble a bit. Perhaps if I can get past that and find joy in the calm, in the tension of great conversation (which is everywhere in this city), in the beauty of a caring word, then I'll be able to move toward something greater than my destructive love of bad boys.
I might be on to something here. . . .
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Ah, the Dub.
It's the morning after the day after a rough day in Dublin.
Yesterday the Ulster Unionists, aka Orangemen, were given permission to hold a pride parade in Dublin city--the first ever of its kind in the Republic. Their intention was to memorialize protestants who have been killed in the long-standing cultural clash here that is too complicated to try to explain here. Usually these folks march in the North and that's where most of the trouble has been in terms of violence and terrorism. But in the spirit of peace and in the hopes of proving that letting down the borders will result in unity, Dublin government, Fianna Fail, said, "Go ahead, come down here and march."
What you'll probably hear on television and read in the papers is that the Republicans, the IRA, had something else in mind yesterday. That it was the Republicans who organized the violence, the rioting, the looting that terrorized the city yesterday. That's what I heard in a report by a Northern Irish journalist on CNN.
It's bullshit.
That's not what I saw.
A small faction of IRA organized a peaceful demonstration before the march was set to begin. The march never happened.
O'Connell Street is under major construction and the bricks and barricades became weapons. Homemade bombs were thrown, five store fronts on O'Connell Street got bashed in, the mob moved up toward Grafton Street, bashed in a few more shop windows, and managed to shut down the city for a little while. I got locked into a cellphone shop while a mob of people went running past, Garda (police) chasing after them, Keystone Cops style.
3000 gards with riot gear showed up at the scene before any hint of violence broke out; about 20,000 people congregated in center city. When 100,000 people gathered for an anti-war demonstration last year, about 1000 gards went on duty.
As Michael, one of my friends' I'm staying with here, said, "The city is full of thieves and thugs, and they send the entire police force to one place. What did they expect would happen."
And that's the story folks. The rioting and looting was caused by the thugs and thieves of this fair city, many of whom were kids and foreign nationals--those who suffer from abject poverty amid a city and country of increasing wealth. You want to know what got stolen? Shoes. A couple of Lithuanians made off with boxes of sneakers after bashing in the Foot Locker on O'Connell Street. To say the IRA is responsible is like saying Al Qaeda is responsible.
Now riots have been set off in the north, a politician has resigned, and everyone's worried about how the riots in the middle of a football match weekend filled with tourists will affect the city's reputation.
Me? I still love the place for all the same reasons I always did. I'm saddened at what implications this has for the direction of the peace process in Ireland, and in a larger scale, on the ability to dismantle old, deep conflicts and wounds and move on to unity or at the very least tolerance. Anywhere in the world and on every scale.
When I realized what was going on, my first instict was to run right into the center of it, to start taking notes and taking pictures. Rumors were flying around like mad, and I wanted to see it for myself and tell other people what I saw as the truth. I guess no matter how I might fight it, I am a journalist at my core.
So, this is my piece. I'm not filing a story for the New York Times or anyone else, just for Divine Writes. My new digital cameral malfunctioned just as I was about to snap a shot of a garbage can on fire smoking up toward a statue of revolutionary Jim Larkin in front of the General Post Office on O'Connell Street, site of the famous 1916 Easter Rising's last stand. Oh well. The image will live on in my memory. And I fixed the camera.
***
In other news, I managed to stumble into a panel discussion of screenwriters and producers as part of the Dublin Film Festival on Friday. Learned me a thing or two. I haven't even been inside a pub, yet. I've been busy playing with Ben, my friend Aisling's beautiful little boy, and hanging out at home: drinking wine, eating well, sleeping in. . . . it's been grand, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'll head into town today and do my own wandering a bit, maybe meet up with some other friends. I got an Irish SIM card for my cell phone, so I can keep in touch easier with my people here. Y'all can still call my old number and leave messages; but I'm not checking very often.
I hope all is well with you--I'll update as I can.
Yesterday the Ulster Unionists, aka Orangemen, were given permission to hold a pride parade in Dublin city--the first ever of its kind in the Republic. Their intention was to memorialize protestants who have been killed in the long-standing cultural clash here that is too complicated to try to explain here. Usually these folks march in the North and that's where most of the trouble has been in terms of violence and terrorism. But in the spirit of peace and in the hopes of proving that letting down the borders will result in unity, Dublin government, Fianna Fail, said, "Go ahead, come down here and march."
What you'll probably hear on television and read in the papers is that the Republicans, the IRA, had something else in mind yesterday. That it was the Republicans who organized the violence, the rioting, the looting that terrorized the city yesterday. That's what I heard in a report by a Northern Irish journalist on CNN.
It's bullshit.
That's not what I saw.
A small faction of IRA organized a peaceful demonstration before the march was set to begin. The march never happened.
O'Connell Street is under major construction and the bricks and barricades became weapons. Homemade bombs were thrown, five store fronts on O'Connell Street got bashed in, the mob moved up toward Grafton Street, bashed in a few more shop windows, and managed to shut down the city for a little while. I got locked into a cellphone shop while a mob of people went running past, Garda (police) chasing after them, Keystone Cops style.
3000 gards with riot gear showed up at the scene before any hint of violence broke out; about 20,000 people congregated in center city. When 100,000 people gathered for an anti-war demonstration last year, about 1000 gards went on duty.
As Michael, one of my friends' I'm staying with here, said, "The city is full of thieves and thugs, and they send the entire police force to one place. What did they expect would happen."
And that's the story folks. The rioting and looting was caused by the thugs and thieves of this fair city, many of whom were kids and foreign nationals--those who suffer from abject poverty amid a city and country of increasing wealth. You want to know what got stolen? Shoes. A couple of Lithuanians made off with boxes of sneakers after bashing in the Foot Locker on O'Connell Street. To say the IRA is responsible is like saying Al Qaeda is responsible.
Now riots have been set off in the north, a politician has resigned, and everyone's worried about how the riots in the middle of a football match weekend filled with tourists will affect the city's reputation.
Me? I still love the place for all the same reasons I always did. I'm saddened at what implications this has for the direction of the peace process in Ireland, and in a larger scale, on the ability to dismantle old, deep conflicts and wounds and move on to unity or at the very least tolerance. Anywhere in the world and on every scale.
When I realized what was going on, my first instict was to run right into the center of it, to start taking notes and taking pictures. Rumors were flying around like mad, and I wanted to see it for myself and tell other people what I saw as the truth. I guess no matter how I might fight it, I am a journalist at my core.
So, this is my piece. I'm not filing a story for the New York Times or anyone else, just for Divine Writes. My new digital cameral malfunctioned just as I was about to snap a shot of a garbage can on fire smoking up toward a statue of revolutionary Jim Larkin in front of the General Post Office on O'Connell Street, site of the famous 1916 Easter Rising's last stand. Oh well. The image will live on in my memory. And I fixed the camera.
***
In other news, I managed to stumble into a panel discussion of screenwriters and producers as part of the Dublin Film Festival on Friday. Learned me a thing or two. I haven't even been inside a pub, yet. I've been busy playing with Ben, my friend Aisling's beautiful little boy, and hanging out at home: drinking wine, eating well, sleeping in. . . . it's been grand, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'll head into town today and do my own wandering a bit, maybe meet up with some other friends. I got an Irish SIM card for my cell phone, so I can keep in touch easier with my people here. Y'all can still call my old number and leave messages; but I'm not checking very often.
I hope all is well with you--I'll update as I can.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Add another title to that resume . . .
Yes, yes it's true. You are now reading work from the non-fiction editor of a small but prestigious literary magazine.
Now, get off your duffs, write some magnificent creative non-fiction and send it my way so we can become stars together. . . .
Now, get off your duffs, write some magnificent creative non-fiction and send it my way so we can become stars together. . . .
Monday, February 20, 2006
Travel Uniform
Is it wrong for me to greet Dublin this way?
What?
No one ever said I'm not proactive. . . .
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Lookit!
I got a digital camera! Just in time for Dublin . . . but I decided to try it out first and lookee! Now you can look at the sweet, sweet faces of Kiki and MDog just like I did this evening as I fed them hot toddies, shrimp satay and peanut sauce (homemade, y'all) and red wine. We sat by the fire and talked like grownups until I played them the Wonder Woman theme song and then we, er, I, danced around like it was the '70s again. I was 4, yes, but a dancer then, too.
Speaking of dancing, I reviewed one hell of an irritating "modern dance" performance last night. Where do they get off calling that modern, much less, dance? Sheesh. Maybe I'll link you to the article tomorrow if I can. I've already gone off on my "modern dance" tirade three times today, so I'll spare you. For now.
Okay. Sleepy time now so I can be bright eyed for Sunday Morning and the NYT!
Friday, February 17, 2006
Mission Accomplished.
I fookin' finished the first 12 pages of my fookin' screenplay, The Boys of Dublin.
So far there's just one boy, one girl, a flight attendant, a customs agent, a bouncer and two mothers. My Dublish is rusty, though, and I'm not sure the character of the place comes out in the language yet. I read an interview that Colin Farrell conducted with Cillian Murphy in the Dec/Jan Interview magazine at the gym today. It inspired me, but I want to conduct live, in-the-flesh research.
A luxury that only living among the natives again wil afford me. One week from today, baby!
Oh happy day! I started my screenplay, and I think I got all the formatting right, and I think it doesn't suck. I'll find out what the class thinks Monday when it gets workshopped.
Oy. Vulnerability. Again.
But what the fuck do I care? I'll be in Dublin next week!
Did I mention I'm going to Dublin next week, for the first time in a long time?
Writing is weird, though. It's creating and then entering a world, part imagined, part real. I feel like I was just in Dublin for the four hours it took me to write the first pages of The Boys of Dublin.
This phenomenon is exactly writing the memoir is so intense. This week I finished writing parts of my life that happened 20 years ago. And I was right back there. No kidding. But talk about power! I'm going back to those places and in order to make sense of them, beautify them, I get to rewrite them, within the confines of my own truth. I am writing my life. And writing for my life.
I just wish I didn't have to earn a living and health benefits at the same time. Oh and deal with screwy ex-boyfriends and icy roads, and Consumers Energy bills. . . .
Nah, if I lived in a bubble, what the hell would I write about?
So far there's just one boy, one girl, a flight attendant, a customs agent, a bouncer and two mothers. My Dublish is rusty, though, and I'm not sure the character of the place comes out in the language yet. I read an interview that Colin Farrell conducted with Cillian Murphy in the Dec/Jan Interview magazine at the gym today. It inspired me, but I want to conduct live, in-the-flesh research.
A luxury that only living among the natives again wil afford me. One week from today, baby!
Oh happy day! I started my screenplay, and I think I got all the formatting right, and I think it doesn't suck. I'll find out what the class thinks Monday when it gets workshopped.
Oy. Vulnerability. Again.
But what the fuck do I care? I'll be in Dublin next week!
Did I mention I'm going to Dublin next week, for the first time in a long time?
Writing is weird, though. It's creating and then entering a world, part imagined, part real. I feel like I was just in Dublin for the four hours it took me to write the first pages of The Boys of Dublin.
This phenomenon is exactly writing the memoir is so intense. This week I finished writing parts of my life that happened 20 years ago. And I was right back there. No kidding. But talk about power! I'm going back to those places and in order to make sense of them, beautify them, I get to rewrite them, within the confines of my own truth. I am writing my life. And writing for my life.
I just wish I didn't have to earn a living and health benefits at the same time. Oh and deal with screwy ex-boyfriends and icy roads, and Consumers Energy bills. . . .
Nah, if I lived in a bubble, what the hell would I write about?
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
2 p.m. Tuesday
I step out of the locker room shower wrapped in a towel. I hear my cell phone ringing. I check the caller id and see a number with an area code I don't recognize. I think, "This is probably one of my students with a cell phone from some suburb of Detroit. I'm not talking to any student of mine while I'm naked."
Later I listen to the message.
"Oh. Hi. This is HB. It's a little awkward--it's Valentine's Day. I just wanted to call and wish you a happy Valentine's Day. So, happy Valentine's Day. Talk to you later."
???!?!?!?!?
When I ask Sid what she thinks is going on, she says, "Oh, you mean he's 47, sad, lonely, has 8 jobs and no one to spend his time with?"
Right.
Fef, a woman in my lit class said, "Well, I don't know anything about any of this, but that seems terribly selfish of him."
Mmm. I like Fef.
Later that night, I got a text message--not even a voicemail--from yet another unavailable man. "Happy Valentine's Day!" he wrote.
How does this make me feel? A little loved, strangely. But a little loved. Haven't I already mentioned that reciprocity is what I'm after? When I love, I love huge. Shit, when I do anything, I do it huge. And I want huge love back.
Little love distracts me; it leaves me hungry, doesn't fill me up.
Maybe that's why I ate four sandwiches for lunch and still haven't finished my screenplay.
I'm also starting to feel a little sick, so I made sure to sleep 8 hours last night.
I need a break. Thank God for Dublin. . . .
But don't get me wrong, I'm getting some good love, too. I treated myself to a fine pasta primavera dinner at home with wine, candlelight and chocolate for dessert; I got a couple of lovely valentines (thanks da, thanks Gram); I even got jewelry (thanks for the bracelet, mama); I also got unselfish phone calls (thanks Sid, Kiki, Murder Pig, aka BFF).
It is possible to be grateful and hungry.
Later I listen to the message.
"Oh. Hi. This is HB. It's a little awkward--it's Valentine's Day. I just wanted to call and wish you a happy Valentine's Day. So, happy Valentine's Day. Talk to you later."
???!?!?!?!?
When I ask Sid what she thinks is going on, she says, "Oh, you mean he's 47, sad, lonely, has 8 jobs and no one to spend his time with?"
Right.
Fef, a woman in my lit class said, "Well, I don't know anything about any of this, but that seems terribly selfish of him."
Mmm. I like Fef.
Later that night, I got a text message--not even a voicemail--from yet another unavailable man. "Happy Valentine's Day!" he wrote.
How does this make me feel? A little loved, strangely. But a little loved. Haven't I already mentioned that reciprocity is what I'm after? When I love, I love huge. Shit, when I do anything, I do it huge. And I want huge love back.
Little love distracts me; it leaves me hungry, doesn't fill me up.
Maybe that's why I ate four sandwiches for lunch and still haven't finished my screenplay.
I'm also starting to feel a little sick, so I made sure to sleep 8 hours last night.
I need a break. Thank God for Dublin. . . .
But don't get me wrong, I'm getting some good love, too. I treated myself to a fine pasta primavera dinner at home with wine, candlelight and chocolate for dessert; I got a couple of lovely valentines (thanks da, thanks Gram); I even got jewelry (thanks for the bracelet, mama); I also got unselfish phone calls (thanks Sid, Kiki, Murder Pig, aka BFF).
It is possible to be grateful and hungry.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
To hell with love
. . . and Valentine's Day.
I've got much bigger problems.
Last week felt like a pretty heavy load, and now that I think about it, it makes sense. In addition to teaching and prepping my usual two college writing courses, prepping and attending the three grad classes I take every week, supervising 25 student workers, working out at the gym four times, I: prepped for and did a public reading of my very personal writing, attended two plays and wrote reviews of them for the newspaper, defended and proposed reconfiguring my administrative job to a select group of senior faculty members, came down from the mad buzz that was Chicago. I also got a massage and bought myself some nice things for my trip to Dublin. Minus stress points for that last bit.
This week, it's more of the same, except bigger stakes. Think: almost all of the above, plus write a screenplay, produce another chapter of memoir, throw a dinner party, teach a new book, write a profile and another stinkin' review for the newspaper, shop and pack for trip to Dublin.
Now do you understand why I listened to the theme songs from Mission Impossible and Wonder Woman, on repeat, all the way home from work today?
Don't get me wrong, I ain't complaining. No use complainin' 'bout what you bring on your own damn self. Right?
I've got much bigger problems.
Last week felt like a pretty heavy load, and now that I think about it, it makes sense. In addition to teaching and prepping my usual two college writing courses, prepping and attending the three grad classes I take every week, supervising 25 student workers, working out at the gym four times, I: prepped for and did a public reading of my very personal writing, attended two plays and wrote reviews of them for the newspaper, defended and proposed reconfiguring my administrative job to a select group of senior faculty members, came down from the mad buzz that was Chicago. I also got a massage and bought myself some nice things for my trip to Dublin. Minus stress points for that last bit.
This week, it's more of the same, except bigger stakes. Think: almost all of the above, plus write a screenplay, produce another chapter of memoir, throw a dinner party, teach a new book, write a profile and another stinkin' review for the newspaper, shop and pack for trip to Dublin.
Now do you understand why I listened to the theme songs from Mission Impossible and Wonder Woman, on repeat, all the way home from work today?
Don't get me wrong, I ain't complaining. No use complainin' 'bout what you bring on your own damn self. Right?
Sunday, February 12, 2006
I think I’d like to join the circus.
Oh wait. I’ve already done that by creating a circus out of my life. Maybe I just want to hook up with a lion tamer or a tight-rope walker. Oh wait. I’ve done that, too.
You see, I’m drawn to risk takers, to chaos managers. I happen to fall into both categories. But the problem for me is I choose these weirdos and entrust them with my emotional vulnerability. This is a gift I give very few. But why do I choose to give this gift to people who don’t return the favor? This is the question.
And I am pondering this question—by no accident—shortly before Valentine’s Day. Because, you see, I have come to the conclusion—with a little help from my friends, and especially my therapist—that my true heart’s desire is reciprocity, something I’ve never received (or perhaps demanded) from a beloved.
I’ma change this tout suite. In the interest of “write it down, make it happen,” I’ll essay (yes, I’m making this a verb) here past and future Valentine’s Days of mine.
As a child, Valentine’s Days were filled with fear and delight. I remember special sweet breakfasts (a rarity in my childhood) with surprise packages wrapped lovingly in pink and red paper and ribbon. Inside I’d find jewelry, clothing, little tokens and reminders of my parents’ love and affection—often everlasting things: rings, bracelets, coin purses, things I have managed to keep with me as I’ve moved time and time again.
But the fear came as I meandered off to school, nervously expecting the popularity contest come to life with the exchange of paper valentines and candy to come. Weeks ahead of time we would begin creating our personal “mailboxes” in art class. Mine would always stand out among the generic shoeboxes covered in red construction paper, mottled with crayon hearts. One year I created a giant, rainbow fish out of posterboard, stapled at the seams. Its open mouth patiently awaited the valentines from my secret admirers. But what if no one remembered me, or liked me enough to sign their name to a store-bought Snoopy, Garfield or Strawberry Shortcake valentine? Everyone knew by the end of the day who the most popular kid in school was, and that kid was never me, no matter how many valentines and sweet tarts I stuffed into everybody else’s valentine boxes.
Fast forward to Valentine’s Day with my most recent beloved, heretoforth referred to as Hairless Beast, HB for short. We considered ourselves a couple across five February 14ths, but only the first and last really stand out in my memory.
On our first Valentine’s Day together, he forgot what day it was. I reminded him at 4 p.m. and he managed to make a 10 p.m. reservation at one of the finer dining establishments in town. I spent hours gussying myself up, donning my most sensual fragrance, a black, silk, cut-on-the bias dress and a red silk Chinese jacket. I looked fine, and I knew it. As we entered the restaurant, we passed a party of 8 who shyly acknowledged HB by name as they exited the building. The maitre d’ seated HB and me, but HB was distracted. Those 8 were members of his department at work; they’d intentionally excluded him from a dinner meeting. He knew he was on his way out of the job that had brought him to a new country.
Goodbye romance.
We ate whatever we ate without much conversation, him scowling, me feeling flushed with embarrassment for him, my shoulders hunched up around my ears. We stopped at a dive bar on the way home, drank a few beers, and HB shot pool with a couple of laborers from the neighborhood. As he stepped up to take a critical shot, he gently pushed me out of his way. But at the end of a bad night of too much drink and not enough laughter, I practically slipped off my suede high-heeled shoes as my dearest dress caught the ragged edge of the table and snagged.
I cried.
This Valentine’s Day set the tone for my years of “romance” with HB.
For the next two Februaries, he and I lived in different places. He sent cards; I sent chocolate and pieces of art I had made for him to remember me by.
Valentine’s number four, we lived together again. He left work later than planned, we got stuck in a terrible maze of Boston’s downtown traffic (it was during the thick of the Big Dig), missed our dinner reservation in the North End, and ended up eating pizza around the corner from our apartment.
V number five, I made the reservation, got us there in time, the food and wine were lovely. But my inability to avoid the truth coupled with my lousy timing inspired me to bring up the question, “Why is it that this is our fifth Valentine’s Day together and we live in separate places with no real plans to live in the same place again anytime soon?”
He had neither an answer nor an apology to satisfy me or give me hope. I cried all over my Cornish game hen and continued through to dessert.
Last year, I spent Valentine’s Day alone. Darling Sid sent me the care package to end all care packages. Inside the giant box from NYC I tore open two packages wrapped in heart-covered paper and red, fabric ribbon with little heart shapes cut out of it. The woman sent me shoes. Two pairs of stilettos: one strappy, black patent leather pair, and one round toed number in red satin with rhinestone buckles. I spent the evening drinking wine, talking to Sid on the phone and dancing around on my hard wood floors in my new, sexy shoes.
If there is a better way to signify a new life of independence, I don’t even need to know about it.
This Valentine’s Day I don’t know what I’ll get up to. KiKi and I might go for wine and dessert after we get out of class if his boyfriend has to work. Maybe I’ll take myself dancing. Perhaps I’ll go to bed early. It really doesn’t matter, because I’m just fine. I’m glad I’m not the most popular girl in school, and I’m happy that I’m taking care of me, not the lion tamer or the tight-rope walker or the fat lady.
This year, I don’t want to join the circus; hell, I don’t even want to sit in the audience.
You see, I’m drawn to risk takers, to chaos managers. I happen to fall into both categories. But the problem for me is I choose these weirdos and entrust them with my emotional vulnerability. This is a gift I give very few. But why do I choose to give this gift to people who don’t return the favor? This is the question.
And I am pondering this question—by no accident—shortly before Valentine’s Day. Because, you see, I have come to the conclusion—with a little help from my friends, and especially my therapist—that my true heart’s desire is reciprocity, something I’ve never received (or perhaps demanded) from a beloved.
I’ma change this tout suite. In the interest of “write it down, make it happen,” I’ll essay (yes, I’m making this a verb) here past and future Valentine’s Days of mine.
As a child, Valentine’s Days were filled with fear and delight. I remember special sweet breakfasts (a rarity in my childhood) with surprise packages wrapped lovingly in pink and red paper and ribbon. Inside I’d find jewelry, clothing, little tokens and reminders of my parents’ love and affection—often everlasting things: rings, bracelets, coin purses, things I have managed to keep with me as I’ve moved time and time again.
But the fear came as I meandered off to school, nervously expecting the popularity contest come to life with the exchange of paper valentines and candy to come. Weeks ahead of time we would begin creating our personal “mailboxes” in art class. Mine would always stand out among the generic shoeboxes covered in red construction paper, mottled with crayon hearts. One year I created a giant, rainbow fish out of posterboard, stapled at the seams. Its open mouth patiently awaited the valentines from my secret admirers. But what if no one remembered me, or liked me enough to sign their name to a store-bought Snoopy, Garfield or Strawberry Shortcake valentine? Everyone knew by the end of the day who the most popular kid in school was, and that kid was never me, no matter how many valentines and sweet tarts I stuffed into everybody else’s valentine boxes.
Fast forward to Valentine’s Day with my most recent beloved, heretoforth referred to as Hairless Beast, HB for short. We considered ourselves a couple across five February 14ths, but only the first and last really stand out in my memory.
On our first Valentine’s Day together, he forgot what day it was. I reminded him at 4 p.m. and he managed to make a 10 p.m. reservation at one of the finer dining establishments in town. I spent hours gussying myself up, donning my most sensual fragrance, a black, silk, cut-on-the bias dress and a red silk Chinese jacket. I looked fine, and I knew it. As we entered the restaurant, we passed a party of 8 who shyly acknowledged HB by name as they exited the building. The maitre d’ seated HB and me, but HB was distracted. Those 8 were members of his department at work; they’d intentionally excluded him from a dinner meeting. He knew he was on his way out of the job that had brought him to a new country.
Goodbye romance.
We ate whatever we ate without much conversation, him scowling, me feeling flushed with embarrassment for him, my shoulders hunched up around my ears. We stopped at a dive bar on the way home, drank a few beers, and HB shot pool with a couple of laborers from the neighborhood. As he stepped up to take a critical shot, he gently pushed me out of his way. But at the end of a bad night of too much drink and not enough laughter, I practically slipped off my suede high-heeled shoes as my dearest dress caught the ragged edge of the table and snagged.
I cried.
This Valentine’s Day set the tone for my years of “romance” with HB.
For the next two Februaries, he and I lived in different places. He sent cards; I sent chocolate and pieces of art I had made for him to remember me by.
Valentine’s number four, we lived together again. He left work later than planned, we got stuck in a terrible maze of Boston’s downtown traffic (it was during the thick of the Big Dig), missed our dinner reservation in the North End, and ended up eating pizza around the corner from our apartment.
V number five, I made the reservation, got us there in time, the food and wine were lovely. But my inability to avoid the truth coupled with my lousy timing inspired me to bring up the question, “Why is it that this is our fifth Valentine’s Day together and we live in separate places with no real plans to live in the same place again anytime soon?”
He had neither an answer nor an apology to satisfy me or give me hope. I cried all over my Cornish game hen and continued through to dessert.
Last year, I spent Valentine’s Day alone. Darling Sid sent me the care package to end all care packages. Inside the giant box from NYC I tore open two packages wrapped in heart-covered paper and red, fabric ribbon with little heart shapes cut out of it. The woman sent me shoes. Two pairs of stilettos: one strappy, black patent leather pair, and one round toed number in red satin with rhinestone buckles. I spent the evening drinking wine, talking to Sid on the phone and dancing around on my hard wood floors in my new, sexy shoes.
If there is a better way to signify a new life of independence, I don’t even need to know about it.
This Valentine’s Day I don’t know what I’ll get up to. KiKi and I might go for wine and dessert after we get out of class if his boyfriend has to work. Maybe I’ll take myself dancing. Perhaps I’ll go to bed early. It really doesn’t matter, because I’m just fine. I’m glad I’m not the most popular girl in school, and I’m happy that I’m taking care of me, not the lion tamer or the tight-rope walker or the fat lady.
This year, I don’t want to join the circus; hell, I don’t even want to sit in the audience.
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Rock Star, pt II --or-- Bono haters beware
People notice that I have become a rock star. Some respond by saying, "Hey, Rock Star!" Others step onto a elevator with me and pretend I do not exist, even though we know each other from past acquaintance. But since I am a Rock Star, I act as if don't give a shit whether people love me, hate me or feel indifferent toward me. I shake my hair a little, keep my sunglasses on, and look straight ahead. Of course, because I am a Rock Star, I care very much that people love me and show affection in all their unique ways. But the people who bad mouth me behind my back or to my friends and acquaintances? They are dead to me. But I almost have a little compassion because I know they're just jealous of the parts of me they can't touch. My new hairdo, for example.
* * *
The saddest part about yesterday is that I didn't get to see Bono sing "One" with Mary J. Blige live on the Grammy Awards. Despite my students' begging, I continued to teach class instead of break to go watch the show. I figured I can catch it somewhere on the innanets (Sid, 2005) today.
But the mere mention of that fine, little Irish Rock Star with the heart of gold inspires venom in academia that flies through the air. I shut it down tout suite. But as I've been exposed to more snooty McHipster snooty snoot punk snobs who are academics or wanna be academics, I am witnessing more and more hating of the BonoMan. And we all know how much hatred of any sort interests me.
But once again, the man is teaching me. The man who has been singing in my ear since 1985, providing me with insights into my life as it unfolds in his lyrics, giving me regular religious experiences at U2 concerts, showing me that anyone can change the world if she's willing to work at it and perhaps most importantly, it's cool to be hot, to crack open your breastbone and bleed all over the floor when the people who are trying so hard to be punk rock indifferent want to throw stones into your wide open chest . . . well, he now shows me that when you're living your truth and being present in your own largesse, some people won't like it. And all you have to do to say Fuck You to those bitches is keep on being who you are and doing what you have to do. They'll hate you no matter what, because they really just hate themselves.
Now, I know people take issue with Bono for all kinds of reasons. One example: for using his celebrity for charity--a move people view as self serving. But in this I ask, "Can his self be served anymore?" Can he and the band get any more exposure, sell out any more shows, win any more Grammies? They've always been ambitious, that's true, and low achievers and high achievers alike hate ambition, especially when it leads to great success for someone else. But aren't I proving my point here?
Jealous bitches go home.
But I guess people with power--personal, political, cultural, whatever--will always inspire envy and hatred in those who feel powerless. To those people, I say take back your power! And glean what you can from those people in the world who live and achieve more than their wildest dreams. God love the dreamers and the Big Thinkers. Oh, that's right. Why yes,yes He does.
* * *
The saddest part about yesterday is that I didn't get to see Bono sing "One" with Mary J. Blige live on the Grammy Awards. Despite my students' begging, I continued to teach class instead of break to go watch the show. I figured I can catch it somewhere on the innanets (Sid, 2005) today.
But the mere mention of that fine, little Irish Rock Star with the heart of gold inspires venom in academia that flies through the air. I shut it down tout suite. But as I've been exposed to more snooty McHipster snooty snoot punk snobs who are academics or wanna be academics, I am witnessing more and more hating of the BonoMan. And we all know how much hatred of any sort interests me.
But once again, the man is teaching me. The man who has been singing in my ear since 1985, providing me with insights into my life as it unfolds in his lyrics, giving me regular religious experiences at U2 concerts, showing me that anyone can change the world if she's willing to work at it and perhaps most importantly, it's cool to be hot, to crack open your breastbone and bleed all over the floor when the people who are trying so hard to be punk rock indifferent want to throw stones into your wide open chest . . . well, he now shows me that when you're living your truth and being present in your own largesse, some people won't like it. And all you have to do to say Fuck You to those bitches is keep on being who you are and doing what you have to do. They'll hate you no matter what, because they really just hate themselves.
Now, I know people take issue with Bono for all kinds of reasons. One example: for using his celebrity for charity--a move people view as self serving. But in this I ask, "Can his self be served anymore?" Can he and the band get any more exposure, sell out any more shows, win any more Grammies? They've always been ambitious, that's true, and low achievers and high achievers alike hate ambition, especially when it leads to great success for someone else. But aren't I proving my point here?
Jealous bitches go home.
But I guess people with power--personal, political, cultural, whatever--will always inspire envy and hatred in those who feel powerless. To those people, I say take back your power! And glean what you can from those people in the world who live and achieve more than their wildest dreams. God love the dreamers and the Big Thinkers. Oh, that's right. Why yes,yes He does.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Rock star.
I got a new hairdo yesterday. I told T, esteemed hairdressing member of my personal team, that I needed something more rock-n-roll. Oh baby, did he deliver.
As soon as I get a digital camera I'll show you. Until then, think: blondier, choppier, layerier, just as long, flat-ironed straight, sleek, '70's rock chick chic. When I let it go wavy, T promises it'll have more height. Cuz I told him where I'm from there's no such thing as hair that's too big or too blonde. He can jive with that.
So, in honor of my rock star hairdo, I'm wearing black from head to toe with a bejeweled, metallic belt. All marathon Wednesday long. I'll let you know how it goes.
Reinventing yourself is fun. Try it.
As soon as I get a digital camera I'll show you. Until then, think: blondier, choppier, layerier, just as long, flat-ironed straight, sleek, '70's rock chick chic. When I let it go wavy, T promises it'll have more height. Cuz I told him where I'm from there's no such thing as hair that's too big or too blonde. He can jive with that.
So, in honor of my rock star hairdo, I'm wearing black from head to toe with a bejeweled, metallic belt. All marathon Wednesday long. I'll let you know how it goes.
Reinventing yourself is fun. Try it.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Reading.
That went well. People laughed in the right places and it felt like the audience was with me from start to finish. You know, I like getting up in front of people and making them listen to what I have to say. Oh! That's right. Must be why I'm a teacher.
Great big thanks to KiKi and my mama for coming out on a cold, dark night. It was important to me that you were there and thanks for the positive feedback. You just don't know until somebody tells you.
Great big thanks to KiKi and my mama for coming out on a cold, dark night. It was important to me that you were there and thanks for the positive feedback. You just don't know until somebody tells you.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Hi y'all.
I'm back from a fabaluss weekend in Chicago.
Highlights:
Dinner at Alinea.
Dinner at Cafe Bernard.
Sid's birthday lunch at Tiffin.
Brunch at Ann Sather's.
Brunch at Angelina's.(Bloody Mary with a beer back for breakfast, you say? Genius, I say, particularly because beverage numero uno was garnished with a flower-shaped slice of saucisson and two olives, and it was served in the heart of boy's town amid the fabulousness that neighborhood has to offer in terms of humanity.)
Drankin' at all hours at Johnny O'Hagan's.
Notice a pattern in the highlights? Good things down the gullet+good company=good times. Always.
Of course, we (and by we, I mean: Sid, Shasta, Carlos, CG and I) almost got ourselves booted out of Alinea for having such a raucous good time. With 12 impeccable courses paired with 12 different wines, we never hit a lull or a point in which we didn't laugh our heads off at something. And of course the more wine they brought, the louder we became. In fact, I'm pretty sure we got our sommelier in trouble (he was encouraging us). Sometimes our kind of fun doesn't mesh with other folks' version of fancy. Although in my book, we're fancy and fun damn near all the time. And a great, big, loving thank you to the ever-astoundingly-generous Carlos for treating us all to Sid's swankfest of a birthday dinner!
I also scored three pairs of earrings, a red leather wallet and a black, scoopneck, rhinestone-buttoned, Sophia Loren style top for a grand total of $45 at Lord and Taylor. God bless them and their email coupons and second take winter clearances.
Sid booked into the Hard Rock Hotel and managed to sweet talk her way into a corner room overlooking the river and I got to stay there, too! More good times, despite the sad excuse for a bartender in the downstairs bar. Lemon drop, you say? What's in that?
It's great to reconnect with delightful friends you just don't see often enough. And sometimes it's really important to surround yourself with like-minded people, just to remember who you are.
I heart Chicago and I heart my friends in Chicago.
'Course I didn't see all my friends in Chicago--this was Sid's trip, so I didn't manage to meet up with Woog and Oog. Oh dear, guess I'll have to start planning another trip!
Until then, I must return to the seriousness of my life. Meaning: I'm presenting new work at a faculty reading tonight and it scares the living life out of me. Yikes! Hard enough putting myself on the page, but then reading it aloud to a big group of family, friends, colleagues, students, professors? Jeebus. I might have to have a glass of wine ahead of time. . . .
The thing is, as a writer--or artist of damn near any sort--you toil away alone, quietly in your room and come out with . . . who knows? You don't know--the puzzle isn't complete until the audience enters the picture. So, we'll see. The piece I'm going to read is brand new--it comes from some of the stuff I've been working on for the book. It's still a little raw.
Wish me luck and courage!
Highlights:
Dinner at Alinea.
Dinner at Cafe Bernard.
Sid's birthday lunch at Tiffin.
Brunch at Ann Sather's.
Brunch at Angelina's.(Bloody Mary with a beer back for breakfast, you say? Genius, I say, particularly because beverage numero uno was garnished with a flower-shaped slice of saucisson and two olives, and it was served in the heart of boy's town amid the fabulousness that neighborhood has to offer in terms of humanity.)
Drankin' at all hours at Johnny O'Hagan's.
Notice a pattern in the highlights? Good things down the gullet+good company=good times. Always.
Of course, we (and by we, I mean: Sid, Shasta, Carlos, CG and I) almost got ourselves booted out of Alinea for having such a raucous good time. With 12 impeccable courses paired with 12 different wines, we never hit a lull or a point in which we didn't laugh our heads off at something. And of course the more wine they brought, the louder we became. In fact, I'm pretty sure we got our sommelier in trouble (he was encouraging us). Sometimes our kind of fun doesn't mesh with other folks' version of fancy. Although in my book, we're fancy and fun damn near all the time. And a great, big, loving thank you to the ever-astoundingly-generous Carlos for treating us all to Sid's swankfest of a birthday dinner!
I also scored three pairs of earrings, a red leather wallet and a black, scoopneck, rhinestone-buttoned, Sophia Loren style top for a grand total of $45 at Lord and Taylor. God bless them and their email coupons and second take winter clearances.
Sid booked into the Hard Rock Hotel and managed to sweet talk her way into a corner room overlooking the river and I got to stay there, too! More good times, despite the sad excuse for a bartender in the downstairs bar. Lemon drop, you say? What's in that?
It's great to reconnect with delightful friends you just don't see often enough. And sometimes it's really important to surround yourself with like-minded people, just to remember who you are.
I heart Chicago and I heart my friends in Chicago.
'Course I didn't see all my friends in Chicago--this was Sid's trip, so I didn't manage to meet up with Woog and Oog. Oh dear, guess I'll have to start planning another trip!
Until then, I must return to the seriousness of my life. Meaning: I'm presenting new work at a faculty reading tonight and it scares the living life out of me. Yikes! Hard enough putting myself on the page, but then reading it aloud to a big group of family, friends, colleagues, students, professors? Jeebus. I might have to have a glass of wine ahead of time. . . .
The thing is, as a writer--or artist of damn near any sort--you toil away alone, quietly in your room and come out with . . . who knows? You don't know--the puzzle isn't complete until the audience enters the picture. So, we'll see. The piece I'm going to read is brand new--it comes from some of the stuff I've been working on for the book. It's still a little raw.
Wish me luck and courage!
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Love After Love
By Derek Walcott
The time will come
When, with elation,
You will greet yourself arriving
At your own door, in your own mirror,
And each will smile at the other's welcome,
And say, sit here, Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
To itself, to the stranger who has loved you
All your life, whom you ignored
For another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
The photographs, the desperate notes,
Peel your image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
The time will come
When, with elation,
You will greet yourself arriving
At your own door, in your own mirror,
And each will smile at the other's welcome,
And say, sit here, Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
To itself, to the stranger who has loved you
All your life, whom you ignored
For another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
The photographs, the desperate notes,
Peel your image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Exhausted.
Thank God it's almost Thursday. I'm wrecked from another Wednesday and teaching is starting to feel impossible. Burnout feels imminent.
My last set of papers was so bad I didn't even assign grades. I told them to write out their theses and outlines and I'll grade that. Make those bitches think and quit typing out their lousy, pretentious, convoluted drivel. No bullshit and don't bore me--those are my bottom line rules for my student writers, regardless of genre. Same rules apply for news, reviews, features, fiction, poetry, whatevers.
Thank Jesus I'm skipping town. Off to Chicago for the weekend--happy bday to Siddity. And then on to the Dub. Did I tell you my darling friend invited me to stay at her house while I'm there? Delighted, I am.
But oh so tired.
I also have the framework for my book just about set. I can see it, folks. I've never really been able to say that before. I'll be doing a reading on Monday night. I need to take some time to rework some of my new stuff and debut the work in progress. I'm coming out. Watch out.
I'll also be doing a reading on Paddy's Day. Kiki will be doing part of a play in which I'll be an actor and I'll read something new and Irish themed. We also decided we'll write and read dirty limericks for the occasion and do shots of whiskey before we take the podium. Do we know fun or what?
My last set of papers was so bad I didn't even assign grades. I told them to write out their theses and outlines and I'll grade that. Make those bitches think and quit typing out their lousy, pretentious, convoluted drivel. No bullshit and don't bore me--those are my bottom line rules for my student writers, regardless of genre. Same rules apply for news, reviews, features, fiction, poetry, whatevers.
Thank Jesus I'm skipping town. Off to Chicago for the weekend--happy bday to Siddity. And then on to the Dub. Did I tell you my darling friend invited me to stay at her house while I'm there? Delighted, I am.
But oh so tired.
I also have the framework for my book just about set. I can see it, folks. I've never really been able to say that before. I'll be doing a reading on Monday night. I need to take some time to rework some of my new stuff and debut the work in progress. I'm coming out. Watch out.
I'll also be doing a reading on Paddy's Day. Kiki will be doing part of a play in which I'll be an actor and I'll read something new and Irish themed. We also decided we'll write and read dirty limericks for the occasion and do shots of whiskey before we take the podium. Do we know fun or what?
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