martes, marzo 25, 2008

Neither here nor there

I am sitting at Reagan National Airport, on a two hour layover, awaiting the third and final leg of my journey. My computer tells me it is 4:48 pm, but here it is 7:48 and the sun just set, in a less-than-spectacular display, as we taxied up the runway.

Unlike most trips, I have not slept, not even a wink, and I suppose that can owe to the fact that at 3:45 am, Pacific time, I forced myself to sleep, and I must have completed an entire REM cycle, because I awoke chipper and at peace. Sarita picked me up at 7:20, as I wanted a full two hours, even though it was SB airport. Note to self: after the crack of dawn rush, the airport is as sleepy as a tryptophan - stupified baby, just suckled…

So for the first time ever, I had over an hour to sit and contemplate the University, rising up on its little perch, from the interior of the restaurant balcony. It was a beautiful sight, but I didn’t feel sad, or happy. Just ready. I wanted to pull out my computer and write about that feeling, the not-unpleasant ambivalence, the twinkling of the ocean, the foggy parenthesis hugging the buildings that glistened in the early-morning sun.

I must say, there is a certain sense of satisfaction in leaving my house in absolute cleanliness and order. Trash removed, books neatly stowed on shelves, papers, trinkets and tchatchkes boxed and thrust into the far corners of my barren closets. I was patting myself on the back for such excellent calculation of food stores that not a single item was wasted or left behind. Save for the condiments, and really, who doesn’t need to inherit condiments from a friend?

I sailed through security, though it was with mild trepidation that I sealed certain sex-toys in a plastic bag, and hoped for the best. After minimal revision, I re-assembled myself with slight torpor from an all night grading/ cleaning fest, but the coffee really must have been high test stuff, because I crossed the entire continent and didn’t sleep a wink, nor did I talk, or think… not really, not in that dangerous, self-defeating way I normally have of thinking, at least. Or best.

It has been a mostly uneventful journey, well, if you don’t count the absurd Santa Barbara lady that opened the waiting room door, after passing through security, to chat with her friend who was outside the building. I am amazed that they didn’t tackle her to the ground and drag her by the hair out again. It was far less dramatic. They just whisked her back through security. Again. Two points for stupid.

I decided that I like the aisle seat better, after all, especially if I don’t intend to sleep, because I made about 7 trips to the bathroom and usually I have a whole interior monologue pitting guilt against bladder control. I sat on the toilet, looking at the duo-toned wavy lines in plastic, reminiscent of nothing at all, and wondered what design concept could have been invoked, and why that particular pattern would be chosen. I didn’t need to sit on the toilet for quite so long, but I thought, "I’ll just relax for a moment, and contemplate." I thought about writing a story that included such wavy-lined cream and grey walls, but decided against it, being an utterly isolated and mundane fact that instead of adding verisimilitude, would act as a noisy and irrelevant detail. Though there is sometimes a place for such details. I will meditate on this some more, perhaps.

Maybe I was influenced subliminally by the comment that even a seat in the loo would be nice, by the man whose seat my neighbors had co-opted after the hour-long re-check-in line, due to a downsizing of our aircraft. (I wonder, if an aircraft is downsized, does it get to collect unemployment?) There were scores of mildly annoyed people, 45 more were due to fly than the number that the plane could accommodate. Needless to say, I didn’t offer to be bumped. I. might have a conniption if I weren’t there, snuggled in next to her when she awakes tomorrow.

Earlier, there was a couple in the SB airport, she was thin and had a face that wasn’t ugly, but at the same time wasn’t particularly pretty. Nondescript wavy/ straight brown hair, light eyes. It was much like the face of a woman that haunts me, tight-lipped and proper. He was also nothing special to look at, with cold-blue eyes, but wtith smile crinkles in his prematurely stress-aged face. But they had a pretty post-bald baby girl in a pink sleeper that sat more angrily than coyly strapped to her car seat. And yet, there was something so wonderfully solid in that baby-body. I thought about how I wanted to hold one, remember what it was like when I. was that age, and holding her was like holding a solid grounding medicine-ball of affection. I can’t wait to kiss her round cheeks.

So it was an uneventful journey, though there were a few minutes where the success of this endeavor seemed in jeopardy. I sat comfortably, in jeans! and watched the world go buy. Somewhere towards the 2/3 point of the journey an octogenarian, clearly traveling alone (I say this only because I saw him wheeled past me 15 minutes ago, chatting with a paid wheelchair pusher, and accompanied by no others. At the time I kept wondering if there was anyone to take care of him. I did the best I could) was forced to lean over my seat, muscles trembling, for far too long as the bathroom line accrued in anxious wait. I recall noticing his smell, not quite nausea-provoking, but disquieting in that slightly putrid smell of aging. I smiled at him and wondered if I should offer to help in some way, but given the tight space of the aisle, my presence would have in no way ameliorated the situation, and holding him up would have been an impossibility. Plus my entire upper body aches from the deep-tissue massage Erin gave me last night. Totally useless was I. Until…

Several minutes later, the gentlemen staggers in a wobbling sway, bracing against the more robust of the cabin attendants, neither of whom seemed openly gay. I watch him in this detached way, like the wandering eye of the camera, with a low mid-angle shot, that pans in slow motion on a limited arc. There is blood on his arm. Quite a lot! And it is fresh. Perhaps he banged himself in the bathroom? It looked like he was trying to hide the injury. I mouthed the words to the attendant who then examined the dorsal side of his left arm. The attendant visibly paled and there was a look of sheer panic in his eyes, a fear, I imagine of his inability to follow protocol (he couldn’t put on latex gloves because the man was sustaining all the elder’s weight) and of in-air crisis aversion. There were many low key movements of crew-members, both on and off duty, gloves procured, ice-bags applied, and for a moment I felt selflessly purposeful. It was a good feeling.
So now I wait, it is almost an hour later. The flight appears to be on-time, which means that I need to board in about 20 minutes. Travelers seem to meander at a leisurely pace to and fro. I should probably eat some sort of meal in order to withstand the rest of my evening’s activities, and I suppose I shall do just that.


Final Update: I am sipping a complimentary Cabernet Sauvignon, chatting with a charming divorced father, Mark, from London. They say that we will be leaving shortly, as soon as they fix the mechanical problem but I am dubious. It is 10:45, we were supposed be in Manchester by now. My entire body aches, and my neck is sore from turning my head to face him, so I shall unbuckle myself and spend some time on my knees instead.

domingo, marzo 23, 2008

Rituals of self-removal

As I prepare for another leg of this big journey which is this year, I am compelled to think about why I do this to myself when travel inevitably causes me separation anxiety.

Nico and I, middle of the afternoon, lobbing tennis balls that are not ours (the court was full so we tried some I had brought, and they were useless... at times like this, I wish I had a dog-friend to whom I could re-gift them). We are speaking our strange interlanguage mix... I learn words in Italian, Portuguese, he learns them in Spanish, English... sometimes we just realize what we have forgotten, or never known, in one of our languages, which is generally amusing. The sun is bright and hot, and we are not any better than usual, but I might, in fact, be worse having little to no wrist control. So we decide to check out the jacuzzi.

As we walk around the side of the Rec Cen, and come to the edge of campus, we are struck by an immense and all-encompassing SILENCE. I don't know that I have ever heard campus so quiet, or seen so few bikes, but there is practically no one, and I take great pleasure in this fact. And as we are sitting in the hot water, telling stories, I confess to him that I don't really want to go.
I mean, I want to be with my girl, and even with my family in NH, but I wish that to do that, it didn't imply leaving. I look up. Bye, bye Santa Barbara, I want to wave and cry. Bye bye warm lovely perfect weather, installations that I rarely make use of, friends...

The weeks before I make a big trip that implies great change, I always have certain rituals. One is having a "last" encounter with friends. I had lunch with Robert last week, just in case when I come back he has gone to Spain for good. Nico and I, of course, have been having last minute visits repeatedly, but today he has left for Las Vegas, a trip that I had planned on taking with him and Ellen, but bailed in lieu of being in loving arms sooner. I feel this need to set things right, and I pack up my house even before my work is done.

But the most interesting of these rituals is that I always have to discover something new about the place I am in before I leave as if to create some sort of suspense for my required return. It is like sowing seeds in the hope that when I return I will find some sort of wild and mysterious, previously unsuspected plant. Last night, as it turns out, was such an experience. David had us over to his house for dinner. Finally. I say finally because it has been almost a year since we have been talking about having a dinner party and for one reason, or another, it hasn't happened until now. As Daniel noted, in Santa Barbara life is deferred. I hadn't associated this phenomenon to this place, but I find it an accurate assessment, in part due to the fact that the city is beholden to the quarter schedule of the university, and thusly, so are we all.

David went to France last week, he claims solely for the procurement of a crepe pan... and the crepes were spectacular: St. Jacques, Jambon et fromage, Pomme et chantilly... we had a multi-hour meal in which I was finally able to divest myself of the last remnants of my kitchen, a lovely bottle of Mumm champagne that I got over Christmas and has been chilling ever since, but because K. and I were not feeling great on New Year's was deferrred... I also regifted the flowers that I bought for myself and which had decorated my bedside table and kitchen for the last few weeks. Better they continue to be enjoyed, I thought. So we decided to go out dancing, but we decided to check out what we hoped/ thought was a Mexican tranny bar on Milpas: La Pachanga. It was Mexican all right, but there was not a tranny to be found.

I tried not to stare, but when one is the object of staring, it is hard not to stare back. David danced with me, asked if it was alright to touch me... he felt the need for a hetero-guard, but in the opposite sense. Daniel and Krista were bouncing along, and Kik was mildly annoyed at being man-handled on the way in. I guess my tolerance for it is higher? I haven't had to turn down quite so many dance-partners in a five-minute span, perhaps ever, and we ultimately jumped ship out the back door. What a strange, strange place that was. People would fill the floor for one song and then file out in a wooshing exodus, abandoning the dance floor after the song was over, sit back down and watch us. Or others. There were a whole lot of cowboy hats, and boots. Nylon dresses that barely contained exploding flesh, vaqueros and t-shirts... There was probably an 8:1 ration of men to women, but that didn't seem to be a problem.

After that the girls staggered home, David went to bed and Daniel and I went back out, this time to Muddy Waters where there was a bass-beat every minute and a white? rapper or something performing spoken word, people trancing out, and wiggling their bodies like monkeys on acid, or worms on a hot frying pan. It was a vastly different visual experience, but to my chagrin, one I was at least more socially comfortable in. I don't know that I will be returning to either of those places, but it was exciting to discover a world outside my limited sphere, if only for a moment before I flee. Tonight we'll go for tried and true, I hope, and actually find some music we can dance to.

sábado, marzo 08, 2008

Saturday night

So I find if I keep myself insanely busy I forget to notice this gnawing emptiness that starts in the pit of my stomach and pervades my entire being. This has been the case this last week, at least.

More lunches and dinners and conferences and simultaneous interpreting and elbow rubbing than my poor little brain can handle. This was evidenced in my decided lack of wit upon being pulled over by a barely post-pubescent official for, supposedly, failing to fully stop a stop sign. It was dark. I stopped, as far as I knew. There were certainly no cars, bikes or pedestrians in the vicinity. But heck, just goes to show you that when one is due for some bad luck, one is due.

The last time I was pulled over I had a panic attack. This time I was cool, calm and collected. -Have you had anything to drink this evening?
-Yes, one glass of wine, with dinner.
-Are you sure it was only one?
-Quite
-So, where did you go out drinking.
-I did not go out drinking. I went out to dinner, and had a glass of wine with my meal. (You fucking lousy American, conservative, snot-nosed, blond crew-cut, sporting punk-ass shithead. thought, not said)
So he makes my eyes follow a pen without moving my head, but my eyes hurt so much from being pulled past the edges of comfort and I want to cry, but, no, not really, I just want to go home because I am tired, and I don't need this shit. That's why ultimately, when I am refusing to sign the ticket in a legitimate act of resistance, because it states in very clear legal language something to the contrary of what I know to be true, and they are threatening with throwing me in jail, I only make them stand there for an extra 5 minutes while I read the entire ticket, front and back, and resignedly purger myself due to their coercion.
And mysteriously my proof of insurance had evaporated from my registration envelope.
He thinks I should be grateful or something just because he didn't add lack of insurance to my ticket. Fucker. He admits to having seen my brakelights, but then says I blasted through the stop sign at 10-15 mph. Highly unlikely, as I take the same path home every night, past the university. I'll have to change my routine though that may be difficult. He tells me that everything was recorded on sound and video, and I say, "good." still hostile, but in that icy pleasant way. One could even say I was "cross" but it may have more to do with being accosted by the crazy movie watcher who was verbally attacking me and calling me a "little fascist" the day before, because I got reserved seats at the front of the auditorium before going on stage for the Q&A, than any other rebellious inkling. Who knows.

But Mario Bellatin and I are later laughing about this, post-Thai food haze. Before I give him a kiss and send him scuttling off, such a beautiful liar, before I am alone again, we are cruising in my car, desperately trying to get him to the Airbus and I am lost, lost! of course I am lost. Santa Barbara, only the city, has this treacherous habit of demagnetizing me, and I drive in frantic, stupid circles down dead-end cul-de-sacs... heart beating and with us both laughing to the point of near tears, I skid into the stop at the MarMonte behind a Cy-Borg trash removal truck that is blocking the path to the bus which is about to leave, on time! even though we called and said we were on our way, even though the other day, leaving LAX my bus was supposed to leave at 6 and it was 6:58 and the cheery bus driver, the one who talks far more than any human should be allowed to address a captive audience was still babbling on about something or other, and I was waiting for the phone call that didn't come.

Tonight it came, but only briefly, and after, I just felt lonelier. That is the problem with hyper-activity. I taxed my poor little head to the most extreme end of its capacities and then I wonder why everything in my body feels like it has been twisted up in knots and yanked in seventeen directions. So. Fernando Solanas was incredible, and inspiring, and I might even buy myself another video-camera and start filming things again, even though I probably shouldn't spend money I don't have for hobbies that I don't intend to develop properly. It matters very little. So I can't complain, because I have laughed and laughed, almost to the point of tears, probably had more intense and extended engagement with others than I have had in months, but... as soon as it is over, and I am back in my own home, my own shell? I just feel isolated, pathetic, lonely. I know, I know, soon enough I will have all the attention I can ask for and more. But I can't help thinking that it will end too, and then I'll be alone again, and I don't really want to live in this country any more, but living anywhere else doesn't make a whole lot of sense either, because being a single parent in a place whose rules don't make complete or even partial sense to me seems like an overwhelming task.

Breath. This is what I do. I feel lonely and so I fill up the empty space with fruitless conjecture, speculation about theoretical realities, possible denouments. There isn't much fun left in the world, I say this, but even as I say it I know it isn't true. These are the low moments, I've had them for as long as I have memory, but I don't really believe that they are true. I just wish that I didn't need other people in order to feel like I had some sort of purpose. Or that their inclement, permanent, persistent lack didn't destabilize me with the mere invocation of their spectral presences.

So I went to the movies alone last night, and I went again tonight, and I like the space of the theater, I don't care what anyone says about their obsolescence, for me, there will always be a different experience to be had in the theater as opposed to watching on some lame shiny computer screen, much like the one that is staring me in the face right now, as I lamely try to talk away my loneliness for no one in particular, or no one at all, to be more precise.

But I do it, again. I will likely always be compelled, and this ridiculously facile format presents itself as some pseudo-salve for the dry cracking aching aloneness that permeates our modern existences. Shit. I am sounding more and more apocalyptic, and my underwire bra is about to pierce my sternum, so if no one minds, I'll just stop to get undressed now, and distract myself with other activities, equally lonely.