miércoles, febrero 28, 2007

Silly song

I. and I, on the way to eat Japanese (she reads now over my shoulder, oh! the danger, my child can now read... I better make sure she doesn't find this!) are in the car, talking about her day. She says, "Can I sing you a song?" I assent.

"My mother gave me a nickel, my father gave me a dime
my sister gave me a boyfriend, we named him Frankenstein.

He made me wash the dishes, he made me wash the floor,
he made me wash his underpants, so I kicked him out the door!"

Ahem. Childhood wonder of wonders, this is just another model of the incipient feminism... well, at least someone in this family isn't utterly submissive :)

lunes, febrero 26, 2007

If Puns hide pain...

Or at least mask it, then I should be 100% pain free by... oh wait, they were talking about mental anguish... not raw physical nerve endings...

So rarely is it that you get to have such an open and honest relationship with your colleagues that you can make a joke like:

"Exeter? I hardly know her..."

and not be banished from the Academe forever, and yet there I was, unable to control my tongue that slips out with the most highly inappropriate of thoughts, well, that's my brain, but my tongue is its partner in crime. I really should learn to filter, to not go those places, to not take that extra step... ah yes, but then I would not be such a fabulously flawed and broken individual. Then where would we be?

GCI, and his pornographic punning as(s)ide, though, and I can fully understand why people with chronic pain opt for suicide. The easy way out seems so much easier (why am I not allowed to take the easy way out, ever? why do I always have to take the hard way? the past of most resistance? what good does it do? I still always end up with myself in the end)
I have only been experiencing 35 hours of constant and applied pain, and here the self-anhilating thoughts creep in. (someone should really put me out of my misery). I sleep fitfully for a few minutes, miss my chance for any sort of meaninful interaction with hands, and sit in the darkness and cry about everything that is lost. And there is so much.

In the darkness, in my darkness, there is a parade of images, black and white police cruisers, flashing lights. There are nights of dreams in which strange players bring together people who will never break bread together, not in this lifetime, not under these circumstances, and I wish that I could have met myself back then, you know, back when I could have been different, and it could have been different. Back when the world was filled with some sort of tremulous possibility, not foreclosed upon, not condemmed, the way it is in this no-time and no-space.

"Why didn't I meet you 10 years ago, woman?" the question, asked again and again, by a kaleidoscopic array of interlocutors. What is wrong with me now? I wonder, why is it always then? I am eternally late for the boat, no matter how early I think I am, how prescient my thoughts, how prematurely optimistic my acts and actions. And I want to curl up inside myself, find that fetal whole inside my own womb, nurse myself back to health, stretch my arms wide, not on this quartering rack that threatens to rip me limb from limb, not in the ways that I was told that my flexibility would someday make "some man very happy" and the eyebrows raised, and the quirky foreign accent. Why some day? and not now? Why always, some other time and some other place, and some other man, than the one that utters the affirmation? And why, when my body twists itself up into deformed knots, not the gems that I claim should be the essence of a good essay, strung on a delicate silver chain, to lay flat on the skin, to adorn, in crystaline perfection, can't I make the noise just go away? There is no protection from any of it, not for me, not by me. I cannot shield even myself, no mask to hide behind anymore, just naked want and pain, whose only recourse is self-liquidation.

And little by little I will lose everything that I love, as it goes, one ounce dripping away, one set of shutters closed, packed up, dispersed. The need to move, constantly move, derives, perhaps, from just such a fear: always be the one leaving never to be the one left behind. A rolling stone never grows moss, or was it mold? well, a rolling stone can't grow much of anything, not even itself, just beat itself into some sort of smooth, innocuous form, something that will seem perfect, or beautiful, or shiny, and utterly banal when lining the shores of another ocean, just one more pebble worn down to nothing, to turn under our feet. My feet, their feet, your feet. I can't feel emotional pain if I don't slow down to perceive it, but the physical imposes itself, and makes me take the time to see everything that I am not, that I was and no longer am, that I want to be and am unable, that to which I will be forever denied access. And it seems an excercise, one more in a long and glorious line, in futility, and I wish I could close up shoppe, with a "ppe" in the obnoxious Brittish way, or the pseudo-Brittish way, the way we envision the other, and prefer the exotic over the home-grown: Ye olde liquor shoppe, the one where we are forced to buy from the government, that appropriates a right over our vices, while underhandedly moralizing, funded by the dollars it collects.

And there is no hope, I think, no way to avoid the inevitable, but I don't know how to proceed from here, when I have given up fear for lent, even though I am no Catholic, and there are no chiming bells to tell me what next to perform. I want to dissipate into the whiteness of the sky, the ceiling, the blank page, to wear a cloak of invisibility, because to be visible, and physical and never be invoked or provoked, or required when one is fully extant, and foolishly manifest, is perhaps a pain too great to endure. To be always in some other time, and some other place, on some other plate, in a foreign land.

martes, febrero 20, 2007

My weekend in shoes (or how a girl like me can contradict herself so quickly)

I am a terrible decision-maker. That is, when offered multiple options, as at a restaurant with which I am not familiar, I hem and haw and generally second-guess myself in every way possible. It is like this with other more major life decisions, too.

And then, there are these moments of clarity or opacity (one can only imagine) in which decisions are made with little to no hesitation. Well, ok, maybe just a little, and mostly in the last case, economic pause.

So wasn't I just rambling on about not succumbing to crass comercialism? Yes? I failed to mention that particular caveat about cute shoes... Now wait, I know, I am alligning myself with gender stereotypes and being, as I have been accused in the past, of being a "bad feminist". Ha. Third-wave pro-sex baby. Ahem. But that is not where I was going.

So, we were a bit more lethargic in our departure, or rather, we stopped in at the University, which is like its own vortex, and eats time, like no other place I know, and so, our meeting point shifted from Berkeley directly to downtown San Francisco. We pull off and park at the exploratorium, K. meets us at the door, and while we failed to arrive in time for the tickets to the tactile dome (next time, we'll make more time) we did manage to see such interesting things as chicken embryos with hearts beating. (I. was sad for the poor baby chicks) and pendulums that transfer energy, and magnetic levitation.

So we are booted, for the second time, I believe, from the exploratorium which closes way too early, and find ourselves among the pillars of the 1900's World's Fair Colliseum - Palace of Fine Arts. The sunlight is perfect, the sky a deep azure, highlighting in a warm reflection the red, muses dancing in semi-nude poses, with concrete fabric draped about their bodies.

K. looks over and laughing says, "I have a girl request, which you are free to reject..."
I look back, I. begins to whine, and she continues, "I want you to come with me to buy a pair of shoes on Haight."
"Shoes!" the glow returns to the squirming child.
"Now why would we reject such an offer?!" and so it is agreed, away we go to the pseudo-hippie, post-revolutionary, ---gentrified in that way that only previously hard-core underculture enclaves can do, and somehow disappoint at the same time they dazzle, like South Street in Philly or Newbury Street in Boston--- part of town. John Fluevog shoes.

Let it be known for the record that I have not bought for myself or received (excluding sandals, of varying species) shoes in over two years, and for the last 6 months have been desperately scouring (ok, not really, but every time I remember I try to look) Santa Barbara for shoes that are both a) functional (meaning, I can use my orthotics, and my toes will not be crushed in the metaphoric practice of crushing female wills that is the pointy-tipped spike heel) and b) aesthetically pleasing (again, none of this shoe as an ice-pick business, it just looks bad. Sorry to all those Brazilians, French and Italians that I will be offending by stating this). To no avail. So when I walk into this store my eyes bulge in fascination. The smell of the leather permeates my nostrils. I inhale deeply. Exhale, slowly. Breath in, breath out. Ok. The queeny salesman is adorable and we manage to find two pairs of shoes that fit all previously stated characteristics. What is the damage? both on sale 99$ each. What a bahhhgain! So, before we proceed, I hedge in pseudo-guilt, and I make a phone call to shore up some patronage,
"yes mommy, this is what I want for my Valentines Day present" (Let's for a moment, ignore that I wasn't nor do I ever, expect such a present nor receive one). She agrees to enable my shoe habit. And so I proceed. K. has procured a luscious pair of high heels that are indeed stable, and sexy all at once, and I eye them enviously... So does I. who is pouting in the corner that she hasn't gotten shoes today and this is where I make a sidebar and explain to her the distinction between envy and jealousy. She admits to suffering shoe-envy.
I circle the pedestal once again, the mirrors are flattering (good sales technique- I am self-aware and still unable to defend myself against such wiles) and I say, "well, I'll try these too. Red or black? What do you think?"
"Oh darling... Red, of course. Just to try."
So I buy my first pair of non-executive, non-wedding, non-dowdy high heels, and the crimson leather criss-crosses in enticing ways across my ankle bones. And for a moment, the sting of the red economy is mitigated by the glow of the red shoes, perfect, we are in agreement for accompanying black. I won't need to re-do my wardrobe. Phew.

So the rest of the weekend was a whirlwind of fun, Peruvian cevichería, post shoe frenzy. And in the morning, another three hours northeast to Arnold, where B.'s mom so generously opened up her "cabin" to us. There were strange lawn ornaments to be ogled in the supermarket parking lot, snowshoes to be rented, and snowwomen to be generated. In an act of defiance, I curved breasts onto our balls of snow, and out of such bold formations sprung a fully formed, dickensian beauty, with pleated and flowing skirt, auburn curls and a pouting mouth, and her very own dog, for company.

I. was in heaven running in her snow shoes and getting her jeans soaked as she rolled down little hills of frozen water. A light hail fell as we were snapping shots for posterity, a perfect close for the winter wonderland scene. There were blue goudas and truffle cheeses, chevre and havarti to be shared, there was sangria with oranges picked from K.'s garden, and bra-dancing to music that spanned the last 50 years. R-E-S-P-E-C-T.... and my child whirls around the living room, shirtless too, and when B. (my hero!) lays me on the massage table and smooths the oil across my aching back, she plays Parcheesi, and gets a taste for competition. Before we return she says, "I don't want to go back, can we stay here forever?"
I wish we could, but then I think about what is missing, and I feel this warm feeling inside of me, and I want to go back, perhaps I'll always want to go back for that missing piece.

group shot

miércoles, febrero 14, 2007

My funny valentine

While I am not the sort of person to focus on commercial and conventional holidays designed only to extract money from people don't have it, or who should be spending it on more useful things, there are small people whose worlds would crumble if such notable festivities were not marked in their own particular parenthesis.

So, Mongolian BBQ, while not a traditional feast on such an evening, was where we found ourselves, and thankfully, unlike last year, no one asked me if I was divorced, the only lamentable thing in all this is that there were no scallion pancakes, only on Sundays it would seem.

The best part of the buffet, beyond the crab rangoon (which must be an east coast name because here they are fried wontons), in her eyes, is the dessert. She has jello, which she never likes, but always tries, canned peaches and frozen yogurt. The jello is sampled and then played with, as she squirms uncomfortably in her wet underwear. (She had an aiming accident in the bathroom, but my shoes were spared). She happily cuts the peach with the side of her spoon.

"You know those snack cups that come with fruit?"
"Yeah."
"I haven't had one in a long time."
"huhm."
"I know your not the type of person to buy that kind of snack, but they're good."
I burst out laughing. This is how my child classifies me: not the type of person to buy canned peaches. Goddamn, I don't know if I have done right or done wrong. She giggles when I tell her I love her, and she blows me kisses from across the table. The man who is bussing comes over to the table. "Cómo está?!" he smiles and I smile back... "I knew I knew you! I saw you come in and I thought, I know that woman from somewhere..." He offers us cold water, apologizes that he can't attend to us in the manner that we deserve as he is the only busser and the joint is packed. I smile to myself. We so rarely go out, but we get special attention when we do. At the indian place it is always a free dessert for I. At the other Chinese place the owner came out after we left to give us both a hug and a kiss.

Perhaps, we are more inclined to places in which customers are treated with local warmth. Maybe we just make an impression wherever we go. (Given my experience with the back-massaging Brazilian waiter in Coimbra at the Paki-Indian restaurant, I may be inclined to believe that warmth is often just the tip of the iceberg.) So. My child forgives me for not being the "kind of person" to fall for crass comercialism, even if I did take her to TJ's to buy each other flowering plants (I bought myself my favorite flower of all time, hyacinth, just budding and soon to flourish), I forgive myself for not striking in tomorrow's general strike. I believe in supporting the anti-war movement, I believe in the right to strike and the need for collectivity. I just don't happen to be one of those people that can stomach the herd mentality, even when the herd is being driven in the "right" direction. I had my students discuss, in Spanish, the reasons behind the strike and had them debate amongst themselves whether they thought it an effective strategy or worthwhile cause. At the end, I asked for a show of hands for people who planned to participate in the strike. I told them that there would be no penalty for missing tomorrow's class, but because half of the class was planning on coming, I would be there for them. I try my best to be just, and weigh the needs of everyone not based just on my personal ideology, but on a model of equity.

So I. tells me, "I don't know if I am old enough to go live with my Bobie." And I ask her about her feelings, she is still weighing her options, like I am, hashing it out with our respective therapists. --God, I am becoming a fucking caricature, I think, and the doctor prescribed me Attavan, for nausea, with the added bonus that it calms anxiety attacks, and I envision myself, bent in premature mysery, popping Attavan or Zanex, with a red wine chaser, and I laugh, because, well... I'm not that sort of person either. So, we come home and she talks on the phone, and I grade papers, hunched over in weird ways, remembering why my back hurts so much, because I lifted her, sleeping like a 69 pound sack of potatoes, over my shoulder last week to carry her out of campbell hall.-- I begin to wonder who I am, what sort of person would I be, after all, without her?

lunes, febrero 12, 2007

cubanalidad (or Lanibel is alive and well and living in par(ad)is(e))

I am in the throes of yet another monograph, steeped in close readings and swimming in words. What to do? What to do, when the silence seeps in. GCI, as his own translator, unbridled, unhinged, tinged with a sadness that only years can bring. I have been listening to Silvio non-stop. Each time I get into the car. I start it again. There is the fear of disappearing, into a "mute or moot point" and then there is the eternal flow, pulsing, spreading, sharing, moving... words whose meaning resurges, outward, upward. Borges' Homeric versions telling us that every reading is a translation, experience changes us, I wonder what, if anything, it does for our fears.





Con diez años de menos
Letra y música: Silvio Rodríguez

Si fuera diez años más joven, qué feliz
y qué descaminado el tono de decir:
cada palabra desatando un temporal
y enloqueciendo la etiqueta ocasional.

Los años son, pues, mi mordaza, oh mujer;
sé demasiado, me convierto en mi saber.
Quisiera haberte conocido años atrás
para sacar chispas del agua que me das,
para empuñar la alevosía y el candor
y saber olvidar mejor.

Esta mujer propone que salte y me estrelle
contra un muro de piedras que alza en el cielo
y como combustible me llena de anhelos,
de besos sin promesa y sentencias sin leyes.

Esta mujer propone un pacto que selle
la tierra con el viento, la luz con la sombra;
invoca los misterios del tiempo y me nombra.
Esta mujer propone que salte y me estrelle
sólo para verle,
sólo para amarle,
sólo para serle,
sólo y no olvidarle.

Con diez años de menos, no habría esperado
por sus proposiciones y hubiera corrido
como una fiera al lecho en que nos conocimos,
impúdico y sangriento, divino y alado.

Con diez años de menos, habría blasfemado
con savia de su cuerpo quemaría los templos
para que los cobardes tomaran ejemplo.
Con diez años de menos, hubiera matado.
sólo para verle,
sólo para amarle,
sólo para serle,
sólo y no olvidarle.


And while we are in this nostalgic melancholic mood, might as well just dig the fingers a bit deeper into the wound (this was yet another of those strange encounters with something I had no intention of finding), and yes, we might as well confess that there have been more minutes than we care to discuss lost in fruitless searches for some sort of meaning, or divinig rod by which to measure the absurdity of our quotidian drama... Went looking for Serge Gainsbourg, or was it Joaquín Sabina (Yo quiero ser una chica Almodovar)? And found instead, this quaint little blog, on the Sound of Musique... among other rarities.




La chanson des vieux amants
par Jacques Brel

Bien sûr, nous eûmes des orages
Vingt ans d'amour, c'est l'amour fol
Mille fois tu pris ton bagage
Mille fois je pris mon envol
Et chaque meuble se souvient
Dans cette chambre sans berceau
Des éclats des vieilles tempêtes
Plus rien ne ressemblait à rien
Tu avais perdu le goût de l'eau
Et moi celui de la conquête

Mais mon amour
Mon doux mon tendre mon merveilleux amour
De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour
Je t'aime encore tu sais je t'aime

Moi, je sais tous tes sortilèges
Tu sais tous mes envoûtements
Tu m'as gardé de pièges en pièges
Je t'ai perdue de temps en temps
Bien sûr tu pris quelques amants
Il fallait bien passer le temps
Il faut bien que le corps exulte
Finalement finalement
Il nous fallut bien du talent
Pour être vieux sans être adultes

Oh, mon amour
Mon doux mon tendre mon merveilleux amour
De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour
Je t'aime encore, tu sais, je t'aime

Et plus le temps nous fait cortège
Et plus le temps nous fait tourment
Mais n'est-ce pas le pire piège
Que vivre en paix pour des amants
Bien sûr tu pleures un peu moins tôt
Je me déchire un peu plus tard
Nous protégeons moins nos mystères
On laisse moins faire le hasard
On se méfie du fil de l'eau
Mais c'est toujours la tendre guerre


Oh, mon amour...
Mon doux mon tendre mon merveilleux amour
De l'aube claire jusqu'à la fin du jour
Je t'aime encore tu sais je t'aime.

Thought for the week?

It just occurred to me yesterday:

women connect over shared trauma and men over shared conquest