Yes, the Mission is hip. It's where the young people live. The artist types and pseudo artist types and lots of other people too. And still very Latino, though Gentrification's got a pretty good grip on the neck of this neighborhood.
I enjoy being spoken to in Spanish, assumed to be Latina, and I can keep the pretense of my faux racial identity by conducting a short grocery store conversation. At the cashier, the woman will tell me what I owe in Spanish, I process it as quickly as possible in my head, hand the bills over; I can say "no bulsa" and "gracias" and "adios" and feel like my gentrification footprint is a little smaller, or at least, a little less visible.
Of course, anyone who's even lived in this country for five minutes, or watched a Taco Bell commercial for that matter, probably knows "adios" and "gracias" but the key is- using them in conversation, and being in the US and participating in the framework where Spanish is the first language, the language of choice, the assumed language-- makes me feel like I am still traveling a little bit. And I enjoy that.
Neighborhood buildings are covered in amazing, vibrant murals. Neighborhood sidewalks are covered in pigeon shit.
In terms of having a "San Francisco Experience" I am happy I get to live here, and with such cheap rent at that. But if I ever ease my way into being a legitimate resident, with both feet in the door (a rare, rare thing for me), I am kinda looking forward to moving to a new hood.
Well, I'm looking forward to being by the water. I want to hide a little bit when I say it, but to be completely honest, I think I'm a SoCal girl at heart. Venice....I'll get to you, eventually. There. Written in the dotmatrix ink of cyberspace, perhaps it will one day become a reality.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Down with Potato Power
Oh, did I need to clarify? I wrote the below post, the review of the Scent Opera, which premiered at the Guggenheim earlier in the summer, in June.
It was published on a blog about NYC.
So, what else is new.
I no longer eat potatoes. Furthermore, I have a personal vendetta against them.
When I first found out I'd have to give up potatoes, I grieved. The doctor/nutritionist had drawn a prick of blood from my ear lobe, and did an allergy test. He determined I had an intolerance for potatoes- my favorite food. Aware that all things need to be kept in perspective, I allowed myself to be mildly devastated.
Of course, I questioned his credentials. But as he was very expensive, I decided to at least try out his advice. I told myself I would not eat potatoes for two weeks and see what that was like.
Anyone that has lived with me knows (boarding school roomies, college roomies, post-college flatmates) that I always keep a big box of instant Potato Buds at the ready. If I've had a long, hard or bad day, I can be found at the kitchen counter pouring a heaping mound of those dehydrated potato flakes into the deepest bowl the cabinet holds. Maybe I'm exhausted, maybe I'm fighting tears, but autopilot guides me. I boil some water, grab the milk from the fridge, the butter too, some cheddar cheese, and position the salt and pepper. I wait for the water to boil, and imagine taking my first creamy bite, and know the tension will already be falling from my shoulders.
The water boils. I pour it atop the mound of flakes, until they are three quarters submerged. Next, a few splashes of milk. Then the butter, slices of cheese, two pinches of salt, and many grinds of fresh black pepper-- stir it all together-- make sure it's evenly mixed-- and then, as I almost cannot stop the drooling saliva from streaming out of my mouth, I fork as much as the utensil will hold, into my mouth. My mouth rejoices at the familiar flavors and comforting, creamy texture.
If the day has really sucked, I will eat another bowl, and then another. I don't drown my sorrows with ice cream, pot, or booze. It's all about the instant mashed potatoes.
So when the doctor told me it was a No Go on the potato, I began to panic.
Quitting potatoes, cold turkey, even for the first two weeks, when I promised myself it was just an experiment, was not easy. At brunch I'd stare longingly at someone else's homefries, hashed browns (the most painful for me, I truly love hashed browns, the greasier the better, like McD's breakfast ones and Waffle House franchises scattered across the south). It was the worst if the person I was eating brunch with didn't finish their potatoes and left them on the plate, and I had to watch them until the waitress finally would whisk them away. Going out to eat- all the things I would jump on- soup of the day is Potato Leek (YES!) now meant salad instead. Because I cannot bring myself to say "hold the potatoes" if the chicken or steak entree comes with roasted potatoes, or scalloped potatoes (another favorite), or mashed potatoes, I sigh and resign myself to the fish.
But before I knew it, I felt amazing. I had so much more energy than I used to- and my head felt clear. The usual battle against lethargy I had long waged, seemed to have struck a truce. My brain fog dissipated. And forgoing the potato was the only thing in my life that I had changed. The rest of my eating habits, sleep, or exercise regimens (lack thereof) had not changed.
I realized, all those years, when I had been so devoted and loving toward potatoes, they had been doing me wrong. Interestingly, or maybe not, the thing that was helping me cope, was making me feel like crap in the first place. I had been eating them up, and they had been keeping me down. I was furious! Ungrateful tubers! I vowed never to reach out to them again.
And so, to this day, my Potato Buds box sits unfinished, atop the fridge. My roommates have no interest in them, they cope with their bad days in other ways. I keep the box there to remind myself of not only my willpower, but the added determination I feel when giving the box the evil eye.
It was published on a blog about NYC.
So, what else is new.
I no longer eat potatoes. Furthermore, I have a personal vendetta against them.
When I first found out I'd have to give up potatoes, I grieved. The doctor/nutritionist had drawn a prick of blood from my ear lobe, and did an allergy test. He determined I had an intolerance for potatoes- my favorite food. Aware that all things need to be kept in perspective, I allowed myself to be mildly devastated.
Of course, I questioned his credentials. But as he was very expensive, I decided to at least try out his advice. I told myself I would not eat potatoes for two weeks and see what that was like.
Anyone that has lived with me knows (boarding school roomies, college roomies, post-college flatmates) that I always keep a big box of instant Potato Buds at the ready. If I've had a long, hard or bad day, I can be found at the kitchen counter pouring a heaping mound of those dehydrated potato flakes into the deepest bowl the cabinet holds. Maybe I'm exhausted, maybe I'm fighting tears, but autopilot guides me. I boil some water, grab the milk from the fridge, the butter too, some cheddar cheese, and position the salt and pepper. I wait for the water to boil, and imagine taking my first creamy bite, and know the tension will already be falling from my shoulders.
The water boils. I pour it atop the mound of flakes, until they are three quarters submerged. Next, a few splashes of milk. Then the butter, slices of cheese, two pinches of salt, and many grinds of fresh black pepper-- stir it all together-- make sure it's evenly mixed-- and then, as I almost cannot stop the drooling saliva from streaming out of my mouth, I fork as much as the utensil will hold, into my mouth. My mouth rejoices at the familiar flavors and comforting, creamy texture.
If the day has really sucked, I will eat another bowl, and then another. I don't drown my sorrows with ice cream, pot, or booze. It's all about the instant mashed potatoes.
So when the doctor told me it was a No Go on the potato, I began to panic.
Quitting potatoes, cold turkey, even for the first two weeks, when I promised myself it was just an experiment, was not easy. At brunch I'd stare longingly at someone else's homefries, hashed browns (the most painful for me, I truly love hashed browns, the greasier the better, like McD's breakfast ones and Waffle House franchises scattered across the south). It was the worst if the person I was eating brunch with didn't finish their potatoes and left them on the plate, and I had to watch them until the waitress finally would whisk them away. Going out to eat- all the things I would jump on- soup of the day is Potato Leek (YES!) now meant salad instead. Because I cannot bring myself to say "hold the potatoes" if the chicken or steak entree comes with roasted potatoes, or scalloped potatoes (another favorite), or mashed potatoes, I sigh and resign myself to the fish.
But before I knew it, I felt amazing. I had so much more energy than I used to- and my head felt clear. The usual battle against lethargy I had long waged, seemed to have struck a truce. My brain fog dissipated. And forgoing the potato was the only thing in my life that I had changed. The rest of my eating habits, sleep, or exercise regimens (lack thereof) had not changed.
I realized, all those years, when I had been so devoted and loving toward potatoes, they had been doing me wrong. Interestingly, or maybe not, the thing that was helping me cope, was making me feel like crap in the first place. I had been eating them up, and they had been keeping me down. I was furious! Ungrateful tubers! I vowed never to reach out to them again.
And so, to this day, my Potato Buds box sits unfinished, atop the fridge. My roommates have no interest in them, they cope with their bad days in other ways. I keep the box there to remind myself of not only my willpower, but the added determination I feel when giving the box the evil eye.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Skimmed Review of the Scent Opera (article published in a NYC blog)
Approaching the imposing Guggenheim on 89th Street and 5th Ave elicits a myriad of responses. Is it a staid fortress? Glorified toilet bowl? Gorgeous mammoth of sensual design? However you may feel about one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s most famous designs, one thing is clear- programming inside the museum remains on the edge of contemporary art.
Next month kicks off a new season of Works and Processes, one of the most exciting and interdisciplinary performance series to be found in New York. Produced by Mary Sharp Cronson and billed as “groundbreaking and carefully crafted programs that provide unprecedented access to today's leading performing artists, choreographers, composers, writers, directors, poets, and minds,”
(http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/education/works-and-process)
the performances often blur the boundaries between genres, pushing each art form into the avant garde. What makes the evening special, however, is that the performances are paired with an inside look into the conception, development and intentions of the works- with talks or panel discussions given by the artists prior to the piece. Rarely do we get to experience work with the creator’s insight, in a state of the art auditorium and intimate setting. At 285 seats, performances are often sold out.
Such was the case at the world premier of the Scent Opera, an operatic performance in which scents- yes aromatic wafts- performed the libretto.
The “olfactive libretto” was written by Stewart Matthew in collaboration with French perfumer Christophe Laudamiel
http://perfumer.s-perfume.com/christophe_laudamiel.html. New York-based composer Nico Muhly and Icelander Valgeir Siggurdson wrote a score so strange and beautiful it could be easily be performed as a work in itself. Capturing the imaginative whimsy and at times overwhelming visceral power of smell, the music was able to achieve an artfulness and nuance that surpassed the scents.
Each character in the opera was a smell- and the story arc- though seemingly convoluted- involved a cast of characters that were ensconsed in a struggle between nature and modernity.
During one half hour of music, scents that evoked nature tangoed with scents that evoked technology, each scent making its appearance in six second bursts. Earthy, dank and mulchy smells flitted and fought with metallic smells. There were twenty three scents in all. Often, it was too much for my nose and stomach to bear, and small waves of nausea pulsed through my body during particularly climactic moments of the opera.
How did we as the audience receive the smells? Enveloped by darkness, we sat with an interesting technological device- a microphone of sorts- at an adjustable length underneath our noses. Throughout the course of the performance, audience members either brought the scent-emitting microphones closer to their nostrils, or was often my case, pushing the device further away.
The scents came out in bursts, a stream of air with the odor riding in the vapor.
While unsure if I enjoyed the experience on a sensorial level, given the heavy olfactory barrage, I was awed at the innovation of the idea, and thus delighted in the opportunity to hear the creators speak about the work.
Laudamiel, Stewart, Muhly and Siggurdson spoke of the relationship of scent to music, with Laudamiel noting, ‘Perfumery should be the same kind of discipline as music or visual art,’ (The Wall Street Journal). Muhly explained how perfumes are like chords, with a series of notes that are released to varying effect. Matthew discussed the future of scent as an artistic medium, and all shared quirky anecdotes about sending vials back and forth across continents as the libretto’s “characters” came to take shape. Beyond the fascinating look into the evolution of this project enabled by the panel discussion, the creators were available to chat during the elegant reception following the performance.
Tickets for Works and Processes performances are $30, $25 for members and $10 for students.
Refer to http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/education/works-and-process/events-schedule
For the Fall 2009 schedule.
Next month kicks off a new season of Works and Processes, one of the most exciting and interdisciplinary performance series to be found in New York. Produced by Mary Sharp Cronson and billed as “groundbreaking and carefully crafted programs that provide unprecedented access to today's leading performing artists, choreographers, composers, writers, directors, poets, and minds,”
(http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/education/works-and-process)
the performances often blur the boundaries between genres, pushing each art form into the avant garde. What makes the evening special, however, is that the performances are paired with an inside look into the conception, development and intentions of the works- with talks or panel discussions given by the artists prior to the piece. Rarely do we get to experience work with the creator’s insight, in a state of the art auditorium and intimate setting. At 285 seats, performances are often sold out.
Such was the case at the world premier of the Scent Opera, an operatic performance in which scents- yes aromatic wafts- performed the libretto.
The “olfactive libretto” was written by Stewart Matthew in collaboration with French perfumer Christophe Laudamiel
http://perfumer.s-perfume.com/christophe_laudamiel.html. New York-based composer Nico Muhly and Icelander Valgeir Siggurdson wrote a score so strange and beautiful it could be easily be performed as a work in itself. Capturing the imaginative whimsy and at times overwhelming visceral power of smell, the music was able to achieve an artfulness and nuance that surpassed the scents.
Each character in the opera was a smell- and the story arc- though seemingly convoluted- involved a cast of characters that were ensconsed in a struggle between nature and modernity.
During one half hour of music, scents that evoked nature tangoed with scents that evoked technology, each scent making its appearance in six second bursts. Earthy, dank and mulchy smells flitted and fought with metallic smells. There were twenty three scents in all. Often, it was too much for my nose and stomach to bear, and small waves of nausea pulsed through my body during particularly climactic moments of the opera.
How did we as the audience receive the smells? Enveloped by darkness, we sat with an interesting technological device- a microphone of sorts- at an adjustable length underneath our noses. Throughout the course of the performance, audience members either brought the scent-emitting microphones closer to their nostrils, or was often my case, pushing the device further away.
The scents came out in bursts, a stream of air with the odor riding in the vapor.
While unsure if I enjoyed the experience on a sensorial level, given the heavy olfactory barrage, I was awed at the innovation of the idea, and thus delighted in the opportunity to hear the creators speak about the work.
Laudamiel, Stewart, Muhly and Siggurdson spoke of the relationship of scent to music, with Laudamiel noting, ‘Perfumery should be the same kind of discipline as music or visual art,’ (The Wall Street Journal). Muhly explained how perfumes are like chords, with a series of notes that are released to varying effect. Matthew discussed the future of scent as an artistic medium, and all shared quirky anecdotes about sending vials back and forth across continents as the libretto’s “characters” came to take shape. Beyond the fascinating look into the evolution of this project enabled by the panel discussion, the creators were available to chat during the elegant reception following the performance.
Tickets for Works and Processes performances are $30, $25 for members and $10 for students.
Refer to http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/education/works-and-process/events-schedule
For the Fall 2009 schedule.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
read in reverse
Hmm, so if you're interested in the Alaska story in terms of flow or chronology, you should read the last two blog posts in reverse order.
First read "Lost Cats in Noe Valley" and then read "Losing Time Means Losing My Mind"
First read "Lost Cats in Noe Valley" and then read "Losing Time Means Losing My Mind"
Losing Time Means Losing My Mind
Another excerpt in working on my Alaska story. I am not sure what form this story is going to take- only that I know I want to write about my experience in Alaska and I'm just posting these as I go. I will tighten it up hopefully sometime later. I think it will help to just get my words out there. Releasing the pieces, as unpolished as they are, helps take the pressure off the delusionary quest for (personal) perfection....better just to write and move on and keep writing and keep moving on.
On my arrival in Nak Nek Alaska:
I got off the plane and looked around. I like small airports, one baggage claim, one airstrip. I feel like my arrival matters, I will not be lost in the mayhem. I collect my bag easily, but there is no indication for where I should go. There is a huge yellow school bus with a man holding a sign, “Trident Cannery” and almost everyone from my plane starts filing onto that bus. I want to go with them. Safety in numbers. Before climbing up the steps of the bus, the man I sat next to on the plane turns back and gives me a sad smile and a thumbs up. Suddenly I feel my only friend is leaving me. The school bus pulls away.
The parking lot, if you could call it that, is clearing out. A woman jumps out of an SUV with a big shaggy golden retreiver and asks if I’m LuLing. Yes…just like that? I'm the only one to pick up? I don’t know what to think, so I think nothing.
We drive. The dog calms me as I reach over the back seat to pet it. I let it lick me generously. I let it lick away my salt and my fear. There are endless fields of wildflowers. We make easy small talk about the weather up here, the population (300), what kind of wildlife roams (bears, moose, caribou, foxes, wolves), and after about twenty minutes, we’ve pulled up to a compond with some rusty boat hulls in a gravelly parking lot and shanty-looking clapboard buildings dotting a sprawling uneven acreage.
(Note to self: It hurts to go over this in my head. Do I need to recall the details? Can I just talk about the stuff I want to talk about? Do I have to tell the story with any kind of narrative cohesion? I only want to recall some, not all, of the memories. But will it make the story patchy?)
My dorm is called Waldorf Hysteria. I think it’s funny for the first day and by the third, I resent anyone making light of the shit we suffer through.
The only thing that can preserve my sanity, that can run its fingers over the fissures beginning to crack across the surface of my body and mind, is time. Time is the panacea, the caulking. Time means sleep, getting to eat, dialing the phone to the one voice out there who can soothe me. But time is always one step ahead, taunting me, as I chase its slithering tail. I cover my ears, and blot out its laughter.
We work sixteen hours a day, every day of the week. That leaves eight remaining hours that should, arguably, belong to me. But there is a line for the shower. There is a line to do laundry. There is a line to get food. There is a line at the payphone. I swat mosquitoes, exhausted and aimless, waiting. I wait to turn on the hot faucet and wash the sick stench of fish off my skin. I wait to dump my clothes in the washer. I wait til the Polish girl is done yelling at me because I have removed her clothes from the washer and some have fallen on the floor. I wait with my plastic tray to lift a lifeless heap of cafeteria grub.
For those of us desperate for time, waiting is the tax we pay. With pain, I watch my minutes pass. The first second of a new minute is a seed. The subsequent seconds build around the seed, packing around it, morphing and coalescing into a ball. After sixty seconds, a new seed forms, and the seconds pack around it, and each minute becomes a round hard unit, like a marble. As I stand waiting, hungry, tired, sweaty, itchy, longing, dirty, I watch as a big hand reaches into the last stash of my equanimity and pockets my marbles. I am losing them, and I feel my undoing.
On my arrival in Nak Nek Alaska:
I got off the plane and looked around. I like small airports, one baggage claim, one airstrip. I feel like my arrival matters, I will not be lost in the mayhem. I collect my bag easily, but there is no indication for where I should go. There is a huge yellow school bus with a man holding a sign, “Trident Cannery” and almost everyone from my plane starts filing onto that bus. I want to go with them. Safety in numbers. Before climbing up the steps of the bus, the man I sat next to on the plane turns back and gives me a sad smile and a thumbs up. Suddenly I feel my only friend is leaving me. The school bus pulls away.
The parking lot, if you could call it that, is clearing out. A woman jumps out of an SUV with a big shaggy golden retreiver and asks if I’m LuLing. Yes…just like that? I'm the only one to pick up? I don’t know what to think, so I think nothing.
We drive. The dog calms me as I reach over the back seat to pet it. I let it lick me generously. I let it lick away my salt and my fear. There are endless fields of wildflowers. We make easy small talk about the weather up here, the population (300), what kind of wildlife roams (bears, moose, caribou, foxes, wolves), and after about twenty minutes, we’ve pulled up to a compond with some rusty boat hulls in a gravelly parking lot and shanty-looking clapboard buildings dotting a sprawling uneven acreage.
(Note to self: It hurts to go over this in my head. Do I need to recall the details? Can I just talk about the stuff I want to talk about? Do I have to tell the story with any kind of narrative cohesion? I only want to recall some, not all, of the memories. But will it make the story patchy?)
My dorm is called Waldorf Hysteria. I think it’s funny for the first day and by the third, I resent anyone making light of the shit we suffer through.
The only thing that can preserve my sanity, that can run its fingers over the fissures beginning to crack across the surface of my body and mind, is time. Time is the panacea, the caulking. Time means sleep, getting to eat, dialing the phone to the one voice out there who can soothe me. But time is always one step ahead, taunting me, as I chase its slithering tail. I cover my ears, and blot out its laughter.
We work sixteen hours a day, every day of the week. That leaves eight remaining hours that should, arguably, belong to me. But there is a line for the shower. There is a line to do laundry. There is a line to get food. There is a line at the payphone. I swat mosquitoes, exhausted and aimless, waiting. I wait to turn on the hot faucet and wash the sick stench of fish off my skin. I wait to dump my clothes in the washer. I wait til the Polish girl is done yelling at me because I have removed her clothes from the washer and some have fallen on the floor. I wait with my plastic tray to lift a lifeless heap of cafeteria grub.
For those of us desperate for time, waiting is the tax we pay. With pain, I watch my minutes pass. The first second of a new minute is a seed. The subsequent seconds build around the seed, packing around it, morphing and coalescing into a ball. After sixty seconds, a new seed forms, and the seconds pack around it, and each minute becomes a round hard unit, like a marble. As I stand waiting, hungry, tired, sweaty, itchy, longing, dirty, I watch as a big hand reaches into the last stash of my equanimity and pockets my marbles. I am losing them, and I feel my undoing.
Lost cats in Noe Valley and a Trip Back to Alaska
I'm house-sitting my cousins' apartment in Noe Valley. It's sunny, the wind is blowing, like an animated conversation between the trees and the hills. Back and forth, the swishing sounds and gestures of agreement (swaying this way) and disagreement (swaying that way). Everything is moving outside. It feels alive.
Inside I am working on my Alaska story. I will include its beginnings at the end of this post.
I almost had a heart attack this afternoon when I couldn't find the cat. I walked around the house, here kitty kitty....Micah....Micah where are youuuu? Micah, come out...I want to give you a treat... treat treat treat.....Micah...
Nothing. No sign of her. Went upstairs and looked all around the bed and the cushions on the floor, trying to suss out her secret sleeping places...Micah..I looked for her perched atop the bookcase or some other sneaky high landing...Micah come here girl.....
nothing.
I swallowed my panic. It was not going to help. First, I had to comb the house. I looked in the bathroom, in the shower, behind the curtains, under the sink. I looked in the spare bedrooms, even though the doors were firmly shut. My eye gravitated uneasily to the wide open window. My stomach rolled and I felt sick. I walked over to the window and looked down, holding my breath. I did not see any blood, any fur, any signs of distress- no limp and lifeless cat two stories below on the concrete. I kept pacing the house, kept looking back at the window, pacing the house, calling out her name, looking at the wide open window, cursing myself for leaving it open, and thinking, how the hell am I going to explain this? I lost your cat. I fell asleep for 15 minutes and when I woke up your cat was gone. Poof. Honestly, just like that....
Just then, out of nowhere, Micah strolls up beside me. Purring. When cats purr it's like there's a little engine inside their bodies, the whole thing whirring, the thin rib frame of it containing this warm emitting buzz and purr...and she looks at me quizically like, "Oh me? Were you looking for me?"
I can breathe again, and pour myself some juice.
And get back to work.
And here is what I'm trying to do with my Alaska story beginnings. Please excuse it, it's very rough. * * * * *
As I reached the designated gate at the Anchorage airport, it hit me- like the shattering thin glass of an exploding lightbulb- that I had given almost no thought at all to the reality of this little adventure that was in store.
The gate area was small, dingy, and gave a bad first impression. While the rest of the airport was rather new, slick, and allowed sweeping views of nearby mountains, the gate area looked like a community rec center that lost its funding years ago, but continued to leave its doors open for vagrants to wander in off the streets, and find respite from the cold. There was free coffee. A man who looked like he was battling a meth addiction was downing packets of splenda (also free). I counted the open sores on his face. A number of people looked like they had definitely done time. It’s a different crowd when most people prefer to be lying down and sprawling out on the unvacuumed carpet instead of sitting in the seats.
The only neatly dressed person was a girl in her late teens. Pouty lips painted a light glossy pink, hair smoothed into a ponytail, skirt short but not sluttily so. She had a stern aloofness that felt distinctly Eastern European. It took several seconds to realize that among the ex-cons sat a mail order bride, about to meet her Alaskan bushman for the first time. She made a regal effort to look only straight ahead, nonchalant. She crossed her legs at her ankles. With her air of forced superiority, I thought she seemed to be doing a good job steeling herself for what was to come. Perhaps I should figure out how to steel myself for what was to come?
I felt a wave of commiseration. A soft glow of realization began spreading through my mind- Maybe there was still time to turn back. Despite already dreading what I was about to get into, and having no idea of the nature of my work contract, I turned to the age-old comfort of relativity: a stint of factory work was surely child’s play compared to marriage. With her small hands tugging on the hem of her skirt, and my inability to think through my actions, who between us was the child anyway?
I took a deep breath and poured a cup of lukewarm coffee. I sat down. I felt pretentious reading my book. I watched the second-hand do its slow sweeping rounds, brushing back time from the face of the clock.
We boarded a tiny plane where we could choose our own seat, I sat next to a man covered in tattoos- sometimes I see auras and his relaxed me. It turns out he was petrified of flying, and I had to talk him through the turbulence as we suddenly saw nothing but the thick pillow-stuffed clouds tearing apart in the grey sky around us. When he gave me his phone number in Seattle, where he was going back to after several months of working on the crabbing ships, I pushed the scrap of paper down into the seat pocket in front of me when he wasn’t looking. Later, I felt guilty, and realized now was not the time to accumulate bad karma.
Inside I am working on my Alaska story. I will include its beginnings at the end of this post.
I almost had a heart attack this afternoon when I couldn't find the cat. I walked around the house, here kitty kitty....Micah....Micah where are youuuu? Micah, come out...I want to give you a treat... treat treat treat.....Micah...
Nothing. No sign of her. Went upstairs and looked all around the bed and the cushions on the floor, trying to suss out her secret sleeping places...Micah..I looked for her perched atop the bookcase or some other sneaky high landing...Micah come here girl.....
nothing.
I swallowed my panic. It was not going to help. First, I had to comb the house. I looked in the bathroom, in the shower, behind the curtains, under the sink. I looked in the spare bedrooms, even though the doors were firmly shut. My eye gravitated uneasily to the wide open window. My stomach rolled and I felt sick. I walked over to the window and looked down, holding my breath. I did not see any blood, any fur, any signs of distress- no limp and lifeless cat two stories below on the concrete. I kept pacing the house, kept looking back at the window, pacing the house, calling out her name, looking at the wide open window, cursing myself for leaving it open, and thinking, how the hell am I going to explain this? I lost your cat. I fell asleep for 15 minutes and when I woke up your cat was gone. Poof. Honestly, just like that....
Just then, out of nowhere, Micah strolls up beside me. Purring. When cats purr it's like there's a little engine inside their bodies, the whole thing whirring, the thin rib frame of it containing this warm emitting buzz and purr...and she looks at me quizically like, "Oh me? Were you looking for me?"
I can breathe again, and pour myself some juice.
And get back to work.
And here is what I'm trying to do with my Alaska story beginnings. Please excuse it, it's very rough. * * * * *
As I reached the designated gate at the Anchorage airport, it hit me- like the shattering thin glass of an exploding lightbulb- that I had given almost no thought at all to the reality of this little adventure that was in store.
The gate area was small, dingy, and gave a bad first impression. While the rest of the airport was rather new, slick, and allowed sweeping views of nearby mountains, the gate area looked like a community rec center that lost its funding years ago, but continued to leave its doors open for vagrants to wander in off the streets, and find respite from the cold. There was free coffee. A man who looked like he was battling a meth addiction was downing packets of splenda (also free). I counted the open sores on his face. A number of people looked like they had definitely done time. It’s a different crowd when most people prefer to be lying down and sprawling out on the unvacuumed carpet instead of sitting in the seats.
The only neatly dressed person was a girl in her late teens. Pouty lips painted a light glossy pink, hair smoothed into a ponytail, skirt short but not sluttily so. She had a stern aloofness that felt distinctly Eastern European. It took several seconds to realize that among the ex-cons sat a mail order bride, about to meet her Alaskan bushman for the first time. She made a regal effort to look only straight ahead, nonchalant. She crossed her legs at her ankles. With her air of forced superiority, I thought she seemed to be doing a good job steeling herself for what was to come. Perhaps I should figure out how to steel myself for what was to come?
I felt a wave of commiseration. A soft glow of realization began spreading through my mind- Maybe there was still time to turn back. Despite already dreading what I was about to get into, and having no idea of the nature of my work contract, I turned to the age-old comfort of relativity: a stint of factory work was surely child’s play compared to marriage. With her small hands tugging on the hem of her skirt, and my inability to think through my actions, who between us was the child anyway?
I took a deep breath and poured a cup of lukewarm coffee. I sat down. I felt pretentious reading my book. I watched the second-hand do its slow sweeping rounds, brushing back time from the face of the clock.
We boarded a tiny plane where we could choose our own seat, I sat next to a man covered in tattoos- sometimes I see auras and his relaxed me. It turns out he was petrified of flying, and I had to talk him through the turbulence as we suddenly saw nothing but the thick pillow-stuffed clouds tearing apart in the grey sky around us. When he gave me his phone number in Seattle, where he was going back to after several months of working on the crabbing ships, I pushed the scrap of paper down into the seat pocket in front of me when he wasn’t looking. Later, I felt guilty, and realized now was not the time to accumulate bad karma.
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