A Weekend of Mirrors

The year is winding down. How has time sped up with age? Years go by like breaths; I cannot comprehend this passage of time so flippantly.
Friday we were to get our first snowfall of the season, and as usual all of Asheville was electric with excitement and fear. Why does even the suggestion of snow turn adults into dancing kids? I woke Friday to a slight snow cover with much more falling. Neither roommate was home so I had the place to myself and snuggled in for a winter’s quiet.

Around 2:30 Justin and Doug came to the house to get snowed in with me; what great friends. We watched movies, made drinks, ate lots of snacks and watched the snow fall. A snowman was successfully undertaken and just as we came inside, a large tree came down in our neighbor’s yard, blocking the road and taking out the power lines. There went our heat, our lights and our movie-marathon agenda. Justin, Doug and I spent the rest of the night playing Trivial Pursuit by candlelight. It was as fun/more fun than it sounds.

The rest of the weekend was filled with sledding, hot toddies, “My Cousin Vinny” and the rare opportunity to use my snowshoes in Asheville. Since my house had no heat, Saturday night was spent playing the infamous karaoke PS3 game at Nathan’s before finally passing out on the couch at 4am with Justin. Sunday found a slow-food solstice party with friends in West Asheville in a home full of kids, dogs, friends and really ridiculously good food/beer.

Sunday night my little sister and I had a text conversation about accountability that I loved. I believe with my whole body that it is imperative that we (as people) live in community; that is, we surround ourselves with people who love us well enough to tell us the truth and that we love and respect enough to listen. I have been innumerably and inexplicably blessed in this regard and I wanted her to know how important it is. Growing up neither of my parents had social circles to speak of and I wonder how much of that imposed solitude impacted them negatively. It is something about them that I haven’t thought about before. If we aren’t loved in community, I fear we tend toward emotional and societal entropy. I know I do. I can talk myself into and out of anything; if I don’t have mirrors then the only person checking me is me, and often I am not wise or good to myself. But those people who love me wisely and well are, in their own way, the voice of God, steadfastly affirming while lovingly desiring the very best, even when it isn’t what I want to hear. And during this holiday season, it is them that I am most blessed to love.

Singing in the Storm

"Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship."
— Anne Lamott

I wanted to say thanks to all those who have said to me that they understand what I meant in that last post. There have been several of you, and your willingness to sing in that boat with me has meant much.

One of Us In a Boat

So my blog is now seven years old. I've said a lot of things over and over during those seven years. And yes, very often my blog does act like a second grader.
One of the hard parts of blogging right now is that much of what I want to write I don’t even say aloud. I do a lot of twittering (shameless plug: www.twitter.com/ssspoonah) because it is easy to keep it light, keep it funny, keep the dog and pony show going, keep the bowling pins in the air.

In reality, it’s been a lonely year. I haven’t been alone, I’ve been lonely. I’m far from alone: I’ve had more visitors than I’ve ever hosted, attended dinners and parties weekly, had wine nights and mimosa mornings, camping trips, hikes, paddling adventures; I’ve met dozens of new friends and spent more time laughing than crying.

For the most part, my life is full. I have a great job. I have a good community. I have friends all over the country that love and support me. In this way, I am blessed.

But I am also very lonely. It’s hit me more this year than in years past. When I attend events, it is as a solo entity; I am not part of some dynamic duo. I am single. It has become more obvious to me as less and less of my peers are in the same boat. I am among the waning few that show up alone.

I have to be honest: it hurts.

I’ve been friends with several girls (and I use that term intentionally) who seemed resolute in the belief that their life couldn’t really “start” until they were paired up. They couldn’t make decisions about what to do or where to go until the marriage license was signed. It was as if the whole of their lives was actually the one dimension of matrimony.

I am not waiting for my life to start; I’m living my life. I’m just growing tired of doing it without company, of having a fabulous night, then driving home and sleeping alone. I am finally ready to admit that.

Natalie’s illness has only exacerbated this. I haven’t heard her voice or seen her beautiful face in almost six months and it kills the core of me. It is a physical ache. Erin used the best metaphor and I’ll plagiarize it: my heart is a compass and Natalie is my magnetic north. She steadfastly points in the right direction; she gives bearing when the sky is too dark to see stars. Without her, I feel unmoored; adrift, heartbroken and alone.

2009 has been a good year; a great year in some respects. But to my heart it has been most cruel.

Like a Miracle

A miracle:
“an effect or extraordinary event in the physical world that surpasses all known human or natural powers and is ascribed to a supernatural cause.”

There is much that looks impossible. Whether those impossibilities are longstanding or recent, they contain the stuff of futility. I look at them and I know I am powerless. And so I do the only thing I can do: I pray. Prayer, to whoever it is, is hope projected.

I pray for miracles and when I do, part of me expects a big event, my very own parting of the sea. I expect noise and action, an epiphany or a grand gesture, a watershed moment where nothing before looks like what is after.
I’m beginning to learn that miracles are miraculous not because of their size but because of their specificity. They aren’t these big events; they are, like my understanding of who God is, quiet. Miracles, when they do come, are more of a breath than a shout.

That isn’t to say they aren’t life-altering, merely that they are only recognizable to those who were looking for them. In that way, they are much like love.

Burn With the Fire of Ten Million Stars

The 'major motion picture event' known as “Fame” came out the year before I was born. I don't remember a time when I didn't know this, didn't know that Irene Cara played CoCo in “Fame”, I didn't know all the words to “I Sing the Body Electric”. I thought everybody did. It was the sort of knowledge that comes from the deep place of knowing something before you have the conscious to realize you didn't at one time know it. Like peanut butter, or Mr. Rodgers.
I know all this because I have an older sister.

My oldest sister is 9 years my senior, so even she was too young to be obsessed with the “Fame” LP like she was when I was a toddler but that didn't stop it from being played ad nauseum. My other sister and I kept up the tradition long after the eldest had tired of it. Bubby and I would pull out that big black and red disc jacket, knowing of the movie only what we could glean from the photos inside the cover and the words of the songs. In fact, it's all we knew of New York City. Those photos are still so vivid to me, our eyes pouring over every detail.

Here is what our skills of observation were able to collect:

1. We knew it was gritty; there was a photo of kids dancing on cars. IN THE STREET. Gritty.

2. We knew it contained dancing. In like outfits and stuff.

3. And there was a guy with big red hair. Who may or may not have a crush on the girl who is sitting in the snow next to him in that one photo.

4. It may contain dogs. There was a song about dogs in the yard, but we weren't sure where dogs fit in with the dancing storyline. Could be a dead end.

5. We weren't sure what “The Body Electric” was, except an exercise show on PBS but that didn't seem right.

6. There was a character named Leroy, as evidenced by the photo of him in a cut-off sweatshirt with said name ironed across the front.

7. It contained New York City, Boys AND girls, which means one thing: kissing.

And even as I have gotten older these are still the basic facts about “Fame” that I've kept. The first song I learned on guitar I got from that familiar “Fame” soundtrack. This is what I knew of “Fame”, what was safe about it, and that is what I loved. It wasn't until this year that I got around to watching all of “Fame” and let me tell you, NOT a kids movie. Strong references to drug use, pornography, abortion, junkies, homophobia and, most shocking of all, Freddie Prinze SENIOR. I didn't even know there was a Senior. I just knew about the one in “She's All That.” To top it all off that red haired guy in the movie would lose his hair and in twenty years end up as Dr. Romano on ER and there lose his arm (and later his life) to a freakin' helicopter. In some ways it is like a childhood safe space has been shaken up; concussed into a present mindset. Yet in other ways, it's hilarious. Watching the movie I found myself saying, “Oh! That's that one photo!” as if the movie supplemented the soundtrack and not vice versa.

I heard they've released a new version of FAME. I probably won't see it. I don't have the same connection to it as I do the original one. And to be honest, the story in my head will always be better than the one that played out on the screen.

A Place On Earth

In my AP English class we had a project where we had to make a representation of either heaven or hell and present it in front of the class. I chose to do hell, because I could understand that. I can comprehend the idea of hell. I can fathom loneliness, chronic uncomfortably; I imagine hell to be a place that isn’t fire and brimstone but oppressive silence, an uncomfortable chill and very damp. In my mind, it is a slow ceaseless sort of torture.
It’s heaven I don’t get.
When I think of heaven, my mental picture is wooden picnic tables on clouds. It’s rather boring. But if I replace the word heaven with the word paradise, I have a completely different reaction. I can imagine a paradise. I think.
Several years ago I wrote a short story about people talking about their ideas of heaven. I think I did this because I don’t know my own. As I was writing the story, I found it fascinating that each character’s version of heaven was totally different than the others; that what is heaven to one person might be closer to purgatory to another.
I guess what gets me about heaven: to be what it is supposed to be, it must be all things to all people. I can’t wrap my head around that.
To be honest, I don’t know if I believe in heaven. I don’t live with some confidant expectation that I’ll end up there; that the people I love will be there too. Don’t get me wrong; I want it to exist but I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if this life is it and strangely that notion doesn’t do much to change my faith. But at this moment, I have to believe in heaven. There seems too much to a soul to simply disappear.

This Bitter Heart

Usually when my life is in turmoil and tragedy has struck and I don’t know what to do or where to turn, I go to Natalie. When good things happen, she is my first call. Default, no question. I call her, I stop by, I sit on that couch with tea and we talk and things are ok. I talk to her at least once a week. She has loved me so well. It’s been this way for 14 years. She attended my high school graduation, my college graduation.We were discussing a trip to Asheville.

So what do I do now that she is the tragedy?

Walking to my car this morning, that was my shock. I thought, “I’m so heartbroken; I really need to be loved and comforted; I need to call Nat” only to literally stop in my tracks and realize I couldn’t. I won’t hear her voice again. Nothing like showing up to work after sobbing for ten minutes.

Driving away from her house yesterday after dropping off my goodbye letter (she hasn’t the strength for a visit) I wondered if it was the last time I’d be in that driveway, in that kitchen. The word shattered doesn’t begin to describe my selfish little heart.

I don’t know how to grieve without it seeming selfish. Is there a way to do it? The person I’d normally ask that question to is Natalie.

I’m lost.

Whoa Dolly

I met Dolly Parton a little over a week ago.
Cool, I know. There we are. Me, Dolly and a few coworkers.
Best. Job. Ever.

Depth Charge

My friend Erin was in town this past weekend.
I have thoughts but every time I write them they sound trite and useless. I don't want to read them and it's my blog. Not a good sign. It was about asking deep questions; those people in life who will do so and those that won't. I used to be drowning in deep questions; now I rarely hear them.
Even from myself.

In Practice

As most of you know, I spent my freshman year of college at Syracuse University before transferring across the street. It was December 21, 1988 when 35 students from that university were flying home from studying abroad on Pan Am flight 103 and were horrifically killed along with 235 other people in what came to became known as the Lockerbie bombing (it was seriously horrific—read the account of how they all died and it'll churn your stomach. No one died from the bombing; they died from falling for two minutes while tornado-like winds ripped off their clothes. Apparently most of them regained consciousness as they fell closer to earth so they knew what was coming as they were strapped to their seats. The 11 killed on the ground (including two families) were literally incinerated; nothing was left of them. The two wings of the plane both landed in a crater where houses had been. They too were burned to nothing. The only way they discovered where both wings landed was by counting the only thing that remained from the houses, families and the wings: screws.)
Every year on the anniversary of the bombing there is a moment of silence on campus and the bell tower tolls once for each student lost. Their photos are featured in the student union with their biographies; 35 students are named prestigious Remembrance Scholars in honor of those lost. Syracuse has a student-exchange program with a school in Lockerbie, Scotland to keep that bond fresh. It is my opinion that SU has done a fine job keeping the memory of those students fresh, even twenty years after the tragedy. Students today live with that tragedy in their minds.

And so I bring this experience to the recent release of al-Megrahi, the only man convicted in the deaths of those 270 people. After serving seven years of a life sentence he has been released on “compassionate” grounds and I am struggling mightily with all of it. Mathematically, he served just 9 days for each life he took. That seems unacceptable to me. But I believe in compassion, I think. I want to forgive, to not feel a sense of outrage that this man is being allowed to go home to die. I want to believe that I believe in compassion, even in the face of utter evil. That the only way to end the cycle of violence is unabashed grace.

But in practice, I'm less forthcoming with forgiveness. I'm American; we sure do love vengeance and grudges even while we extol bible verses when they conform to our existing beliefs. We want to see someone held accountable for every injustice and we want to show no mercy (unless its to us). I want him to pay for his crime, but who am I to say he hasn't already? How are we to sentence one to death based solely on the worst moment in their life? What about all the other moments? How do I know what is in his heart, how do I know the crime hasn't haunted him for 21 years (that would be 28 days per life he took), that it will haunt him until his last breath? I don't. As a Christian I am called to forgive carte blanche, not when it is necessarily easy or justified. And by choosing to only forgive when it is easy, when it is offered, when it is convenient then really, what is my compassion worth?

I don't have a conclusion. This isn't easy on anybody.

Maybe is a Four Letter Word

I just had my first empty weekend since May and it was lovely. I thought I had a birthday party to attend but I got my weekends mixed up and so days I thought were already filled were suddenly quite empty and I needed it. I lay around a lot.

Saturday afternoon I decided to re-watch “Sense and Sensibility” because though I may not look like the type who is a total sucker for Jane Austen, I am. Embarrassingly so. Of course it got me thinking.

My friend Doug recently wrote a rather good blog post on indifference in relationships and I have been chewing the cud on that as well. Too many times I've found myself at the start of a relationship (or, sadly, what I thought was the start but in reality was the whole thing) with someone who I liked fine, just not quite enough, or vice versa. It is as if dating was like Saturday afternoon TV: it's good for now, it's just not what I rush home to see. There's no pursuit, no desire for pursuing. Boy meets girl, boy chats up girl, boy and girl go out a few times, make out a few times, get to sink or swim moment (always seems to be about six weeks in, no?) and they sink. The end. There are no overtures, no grand gestures, no straightforward talks. There is a lackadaisical feeling to the entire dating prospect. No effort is exerted. It is like dating the path of least resistance. Maybe is the most often used word and it becomes a curse.

And so I took these dating disappointments into my viewing of “Sense and Sensibility” and now openly wonder what dating would look like in modern times if all intentions had to be submitted in writing; if dating wasn't so “easy” as it is now. Does the loss of decorum in gender relations hamper our ability to actually invest? Dating becomes a victim of easy come, easy go. Does our freedom to say or do just about anything leave us vulnerable to actually not saying or doing anything? It takes the heft away.

I say all of this as someone who often finds herself on the path of least resistance, at least in a dating sense. I take what sort of falls in my lap, never investing too much but secretly hoping someone else will.

Missing

Saw this on the streets of Asheville and burst out laughing. Lots to say, just no time to say it. I've done a lot of traveling, had visitors, was in a wedding, kissed my dad, cried, went broke, got paid, laughed with friends and slept in an armchair. I'll say more later.

Johnson City Thinks I'm Pretty

The drive to Virginia is a familiar one. It's the same drive I did my four years in Syracuse, the same as my one year in Rochester, and now the same as my three years in Asheville. It's seven hours. It's a roundabout number. I'm throughly used to the seven hour drives alone down I-81. I've been doing them for ten years.

And so this drive was to be no different. I got out of work an hour late, got on the road a half-hour after I would've liked but on the road I got. I only had about a quarter tank but I didn't fill up, eagerly waiting the cheaper gas across the border in Tennessee or Virginia. I was being thrifty.
45 minutes in: there's a black bear. Standing on the side of the interstate. Just watching traffic. Like ya do. Duly noted.

Just north of Johnson City, TN I realize I have to stop for gas. I had wanted to make it all the way to Bristol in VA but this will work. I take the exit for Tri-cities airport and stop at the BP there. First gas pump takes over five minutes to pump about a gallon. This isn't going to work. I painfully wait through $10 of gas ($2.46 gal for mid) then pull around to another pump to try my hand there. Same speed. Apparently this is the gas station from interstate hell. I was just driving at nearly 80mph; I want my gas at that speed too, you bastard. I end it at $12. I can't stand to wait any longer, this just took a half hour. I start my car. It doesn't sound like my car. It sounds ill. My car isn't ill. I stutter across the parking lot to the McDonalds there, so I can use a restroom that isn't attached to a gas station. I come back out, start my car and realize things had gone downhill. I realize this when my car keeps stalling. Or acting like its stalling. Even when I'm revving it like I want to race.

Curse word.
Double triple curse word.
Apologize to God.
Beg his forgiveness.
Promise him my first-born if car is magically healed.
Try car again.
Still coughing like it has auto emphysema
Well too bad, God cuz I didn't plan on kids anyway so HA!

I pop the hood and stare. Go to trunk, pull out tools and Haynes manual. Dismantle air filter, check it. Looks a-ok. Check connections on spark plugs. Check idle. You get the idea. I'm stuck in the parking lot of a McDonalds in 88 degree Tennessee. I'm in jeans. I hate everyone. Nice guy stops by with a slight beer belly, a trim strawberry blond beard and a receding hairline. He's the kind of guy one knows works construction before he confirms it. He offers whatever he can. We agree it's probably my fuel injectors. He works in town but doesn't live here and starts calling his buddies to find a good auto parts place. This is also when he starts telling his buddies he's met “some cute lady who's got her own tools. And a Haynes manual. I'd ask her out if she twern't headin' for a weddin' up in Virginia. Hold on. (turns to me) How ol are ya?” Then drops the phone and asks if I wanna go to the lake with him and forget my car for a while. Oh lord. I am in two different colored wife-beater tanks, my hair looks like it has been subjected to windows down driving for over an hour (it has) and I'm rapidly collected Johnson City crud between my toes. If this is what it takes to look cute around here, I am gonna win. I politely decline and reluctantly the nice bearded guy leaves to meet up with his friends. I head to the gas station (who sold me the stupid gas in the first place) and ask them if they know of any auto parts stores or mechanics.

Guy behind counter: I dunno. I don't live here. I lives in Kingsport.
Me: But you work here. And you haven't seen anything?
Guy behind counter: Nope.
Me: (to woman standing there): Do you know anything?
Stringy haired chain smoker: Naw. I lives in Johnson City.
Me: Well then where am I? What town is this?
Guy behind counter: Beats me.
Me: But you WORK HERE.
Guy behind counter: Well YEAH.
Me: And you don't know what town this is.
Guy behind counter: They don't pay me to know that stuff.
Me: Do you have a phone book?
Guy behind counter: I thinks so.

I borrow phone book, use it and the GPS function on my phone to figure out I'm in Grey, Tennessee. Because homeboy behind counter isn't paid enough to know the name of the town in which he works. Well done; he's gonna go far it life. I then use the phone book to call and plead with two mechanics to help me, who both tell me that it's too close to closing and that they're booked up for the rest of the week. Drat. I call a third. His name is Ed. I crank up the southern accent. I dial into my inner helpless woman. I throw hints about loving Jesus and being from out of town. Ed sighs. I tell him my problem. Ed understands. Ed gives me advice. He says its probably bad gas, I should get some specific fuel injector cleaners and try that out. And just in case, he'll have calls forwarded to his cell phone if I'm still stuck. I decide that first born no longer goes to God, creator of the Universe, but to Ed, polite auto mechanic.

I again use phone book to find auto parts store. I enter it into my GPS, who tells me in a polite voice that the closest store like that is .7 miles away, down the four-lane divided road that is Bobby Hicks Highway and so there I go. Along my walk two other guys stop to ask if I need a ride, or they can be of service. This would be a nice gesture if I hadn't just watched “Monster” and if they had been looking me in the eyes. And if my serious case of back sweat hadn't been so uncomfortable. I again decline the offer of a ride and keep on my trek to Advance Auto. I make it, I find what I'm looking for, I ask the guys there what they think and they say I'm probably spot on. Walk the .7 miles back along the highway that has no sidewalks, dump one in my gas tank, sputter around the parking lot a bit then say to hell with it and get back on the interstate.
I immediately feel that I have to pee.
But I won't stop.
Not for another four hours.
I'm going now, dammit I won't get delayed again.
So a seven hour drive turns into nine hours with the addition of $22 in dreadfully slow (bad) gasoline, 3 sketchy ride offers, a 1.4 mile walk along a highway named after someone who probably drove moonshine, $8 in fuel injector cleaner and one free phone book.

And no more bears.

Plug of the Day

My friend Leah has a fabulous blog of fabulous stories, ones that I am pretty sure most of you will absolutely adore. I couldn't give a stronger recommendation. This post is a hands-down favorite involving grape picking, semi-nudity and Mennonites.
For your entertainment I present Confessions of a Homecoming Queen.

The Truth is Like a Second Chance

A few quick notes...

Yes, I’ve been very busy lately. I had a period of time when I was out 12 days straight and the only reason I stayed in that 13^th day was because I was too tired to move. Summertime brings out the social in all of us.

I’ve had nights on roofs, nights on late walks, nights full of silence, nights full of song and a conspicuous lack of nights full of tears. I am so blessed.

My job has picked up. It has gotten more challenging and I still love it.

I went camping this past weekend with several friends. We were planning it for over a month and a half; I was thrilled to see it all come together. On the trip we had a bear. The bear managed to somehow get up to where my tent was and knock it over, putting a hole in its process of scouring our campsite. Bastard bear. I got that tent when I was 13 or 14. It is where I stayed on all my camping trips with my dad and brother that we took at least once a summer. It went to Canada with me three times; I have distinct memories of falling asleep in it with my guitar and my dog beside me. Lots of sentimental value. Just gotta get a new one now, make some new memories.

Just ate an ice cream sundae. I immediately regret that decision. Ice cream does not like me much.

Two weeks ago one of my oldest and dearest friends, Megan, was in town along with ol’ Nathan H. They were doing a 100 mile century ride in the mountains around here, evidence that they are gluttons for punishment. The first night we went to the Chocolate Lounge and in walked Katherine/Andy/Ena and Nathan E. The six of us sat down around the big table and began to chat. It took a moment to realize that all six of us had attended the same high school, seven hours away from where we sat. Andy had started there in 1990; Nathan H had graduated in 2000. We spanned a decade. Amazing.

Tomorrow is the start of Bele Chere. The past two years I have intentionally skipped out of town; this year I am excited to stay for the simple reason that Dar Williams is coming. A free Dar Williams show. I can handle that. I started listening to Dar in 1996 and haven’t seen her live since a show I went to with Emilie in 2003 in Ithaca. How far away that seems.
This is a favorite Dar song. It’s about depression but has some of the more poignant lyrics I’ve heard on the subject. “It felt like a winter machine that you go through and then/you catch your breath and winter starts again/and everyone else is spring bound.” Ugh. What a description.

I love the line, “When you live in a world, it gets in to who you thought you'd be.” Can’t wait for the show.

And to mess with you, check out this cover that Dar Williams and Ani DiFranco did in 2005. It is in my top five favorite covers of all time. Video is lame, song is amazing.

Jump Back, 1999

I just read that it was ten years ago that JFK, Jr died.

I remember that summer with clarity I don’t have for any previous seasons (or really any since). When I read that it had been a decade that summer flooded back in full-color flashes.

It was 1999. I was leaving for Syracuse in a few weeks. I’d lived with my father for exactly one year and was still getting used to freedom. I was saying my goodbyes to friends I’d known my whole life, shedding my family and the person I was sick of being. It was a typical Virginia summer of suffocating humidity and days of nonstop 90 degree sun. I was working at the environmental consulting firm as an intern and I dressed up every day and made ridiculous amounts of money. I shared an office with a guy who looked a lot like Charlie from "The West Wing". One of my best friends from high school worked in the office with me. I drove us to work everyday in the little blue Mitsubishi that I borrowed from my grandparents while they were summering in Maine. We took long lunch breaks and loved the feeling of pretending to be a grown up and having the money to back it up. Every morning we stressed about what we'd do that night.

It was the same summer that Blair Witch Project came out and I distinctly remember reading an article in the Washington Post about how it was allegedly based on actual footage. Burkettsville is less than a half-hour from my house. I saw that movie during a rainstorm. Seth and I drove back home in his pale yellow Mercedes and we were frightened of the endless forests and gravel roads of our home town. Ghosts and witches could be anywhere.

It was the summer of Woodstock ’99 and the chaos there. I remember friends considering going but never getting around to it. It was year of the final Lilith Fair; I went with friends from work.

I remember the overwhelming sense of sadness at the loss of JFK, Jr and I didn’t even know much about him. I was saddest for the Bassett family. It was just so abrupt.

Ten years. It went by at a speed I am just beginning to process.

Dual Citizenship

I have ten cousins and five siblings.
My mother is one of four; father is one of five.
So far this sounds like the beginning of an SAT word problem.
Ten cousins. That's it. My siblings and I double their cousin numbers.

I'm not close to cousins on either side. I didn't grow up near cousins; I saw them on holidays or random weekends or not at all. I have cousins I don't recall ever meeting; cousins I couldn't pick out of a line up, cousins I haven't seen in over five years. I don't know my extended family past a perfunctory point. And there are only ten of them.

But Facebook has done its best to bridge all distances.
My final sibling joined FB the other day. The five of us are now like Captain Planet & the Planeteers; I'm making my brother be Ma-Ti, the stupid kid with the power of heart. That kid was lammme.

With this fun coming togetherness crap the inevitable reunion banter begins. A cousin (one of the ones I don't quiiiite remember meeting) sent out an email to the rest of us, enthusiastically declaring we should have a big ol' family reunion because look at us, we are all on FB and it's high time we hung out. I don't think our parents have even attempted a family reunion since 1984. I saw my aunt for the first time in 20 years at my grandfather's funeral.

I understand the idea, I really do.
Family is family; blood is thicker than water, and on.
Sorry to be Debbie Downer here, but I don't know you. What we have in common is our parents are siblings; you know less than nothing about me and I can't say I know a thing about you. If you can't tell, I'm hyper negative about the idea of getting to know my cousins and I've been racking my brain as to the why. I usually thoroughly enjoy meeting people and making connections but to this I have a visceral heel-digging reaction. This is my theory as to the why.
When my parents divorced, my mother's family rallied around the flag of the country YourExIsABigFatBastard-ilvania while my father and his family choose the smaller country of NoGoodCrazyChristianBitch-instein. While two very worthy countries on their own, those who were born holding both those passports were unfortunately stuck like Tom Hanks in that equally unfortunate movie, “The Terminal.” But the viewers of that movie had to suffer for two hours; my siblings and I suffered...well...I think I still do. My aunts and uncles and grandparents fought bravely for their respective countries, and so family visits consisted mainly of listing to my family load cannons of hate and fire them, aiming them to destroy one who was half of my genetic material. I was eight years old. Didn't make me like my extended family much. I felt like I was evidence of a past mistake made by my parents; “look there's that reminder of that marriage implosion to the spouse we never thought was good enough for our kid/sibling. Maybe she'd like a popsicle.” With the exception of one fabulous uncle & aunt, not a single one of my parents’ siblings has ever tried to know a thing about me and that tastes a bit like bile. So, strange cousins, why now? What is so great about our genetic material that we should come together to see the ways in which it manifests itself? There were years and years when I needed family so badly and it wasn't anywhere to be found; why the hell should I give it audience now?
I'm happy with my siblings; our personalities and dramas and personal universes make five seem all the larger. Though the five of us have never lived together under one roof, we still manage to make weather systems whenever we gather. That is enough. I've seen their two passports; that's all the family I need.

This is not meant to knock any cousins. I'm reflecting on my reaction to the invite, not to the people themselves. I'm sure the ones I do not know are very nice.

Make a Joyful Noise

In the Shadow of the City

Last summer I spent many of my nights at "The Shop", a dilapidated warehouse hidden in plain sight in the midst of the bustle of downtown. My friend Adam built guitars there, and we drank, played guitars and darts, and climbed through a converted window onto the roof of the abandoned warehouse next door. On it we'd sit with our drinks in hand and watch the world go buy, listening to the concerts at the Orange Peel as they seeped through the open windows, the cheers from a baseball game across the street, watching the fireworks that lit up the sky in celebration of our 232nd year of independence.
I knew it'd never last. It was one of those times in life that whisper their transiency between the moments of breathlessness and thrill.

Last week I once again stood on the roof next door with drinks and friends, waiting for the Beastie Boys to take the stage at the Peel. The sky was marbled and full of the relief that comes just after a thunderstorm. I looked back at the shop and the city behind it and I was full.

The downtown commission has approved the demolition of the Shop and surrounding warehouses. We lose another hidden gem.

(these two photos are courtesy of Clark Mackey, a phenomenal photographer who is very often involved with the adventures at the Shop. I do not own these; I showcase Clark. Go to his Flickr to see them on black; they are even more impressive.)

Truth and Everything Else

Hello…you may remember me as someone who used to blog all the time. Remember those days? Those were good days.

I discovered that the times when I am happiest I don’t write much, because writing is the method I use to scratch the itchy places in my life. It puts my fears, frustrations, hopes and heartaches into words; map them into something I can process; organize them into the stacks of Truth and Everything Else. When I am happy, when I am not itchy in those deep places only I know, my words evaporate into a trickle. Thoughts don’t stay with me long; they alight before words can catch them.

This spring and summer I have been busy. Not hectic; busy. As in full. As in constant. As if I live life like the outline of the soft Blue Ridge and not the harsh extremes of the Rockies. And it has been good.

I’ve been canoeing on the French Broad with Emily, floating gently by the back side of the Biltmore House on a Sunday beatific in its summer uncomplicatedness.

I did a random road trip to south Georgia with Leslie and her gaggle of kids (and aging wiener dog) to sit on a back deck with her parents, drink gin & tonics, eat boiled peanuts and kayak through a cypress grove.

After a particularly rainy week I ended up in a whitewater raft with Doug, his father and Nathan on section IX of the French Broad, guiding those silly guys down Class III-IV rapids with 24oz cans of Modela shoved in our PFDs.

I had a birthday.

I’ve had some damn good kisses.

I took off my flip flops, rolled up my jeans and splashed in puddles in the street after finishing wine at Bouchon while the sky threw the sort of tantrum it only throws in the summer.

I’ve laughed with my whole body.

I discovered that I really, really don’t like sea urchin.

I've tried acupuncture.

When I was in Georgia, Leslie’s mom showed me a green plant climbing the trunk of a massive live oak tree. She said, “That is called a resurrection fern. When there is no rain it withers up and appears dead. It shrinks to nothing. But when the rains come again, it unfurls and greens. It resurrects over and over again.”

I haven’t stopped thinking about that resurrection fern.
Or whether it falls into Truth, into Everything Else, or both at the very same time.

Son of A

This one is for Leslie....

She's Hot to Go

Asheville has the worst collection of radio stations I could imagine compiling so I rarely listen to it. I listen to NPR or my iPod. However I forget to charge my iPod all the time. It has only run out of juice once or twice since I don’t use it that much anymore (commute is half the time and falls during prime NPR hours). Now I have the stock stereo in my car; I never felt the need to update it and so I still rock a cassette player in my dash. Why would I need anything else?
Last night was one of those times that my iPod died and it was an off-hour where my least favorite NPR program is broadcast. It is for these moments that I still have cassettes floating around my car. Most are mix tapes from college that have withstood the test of time and better tastes. I blindly grabbed one and stuck it in and was immediately flooded with memory and comfort. It wasn’t one I made; it was a mix that my dad recorded in probably 1990 or 1991 that is comprised of Lyle Lovett’s first three albums taped from records. The tape has the scratchy and mildly tinny quality that distinguishes it; as if the imperfections make it more personable. I stole it years ago and have kept it because I have memories of listening to the same tape on childhood trips to Maine and Canada; it is something that is so concretely familiar. I have the CD versions of those albums but they don’t have the character of that mix tape.
Thanks for that, Lyle.

Somebody Understands

I can't stop thinking about the shooting of the abortion doctor in Wichita.
I'm disgusted by it; haunted that someone could be so hated for doing what is, by law, legal. It doesn't really matter whether one deems it immoral; it is within the law and thus the choice belongs to the woman and the doctor, not to some perceived moral cause.

But we have those who claim to be protectors of "innocents" who find it their moral obligation to assassinate those with whom they disagree. Before this murder, Dr. Tiller had had his clinic bombed and he had been shot. Twice. His family received death threats; he was taken to court on multiple occasions under paper-thin allegations. And he kept practicing, because he believed so strongly in a woman's right to choose. And so a single bullet met him in the foyer of his church, as he served as an usher. How ironic that he'd be killed there. I wonder how many "houses of worship" put on the face of condemnation at this act while secretly singing "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead". I cannot fathom how those who espouse the worth of unborn “life” can in the same breath advocate the outright murder of a doctor working within the lines of legality. It makes my blood absolutely boil.

The right to choose is not the same as advocating abortion: it is simply asking that a choice be possible, that the decision rest in the hands of the woman and not in the hands of the church or the government.

“We must not inflict life on children who will be resented; we must not inflict unwanted children on society.” --Anne Lamott

In 1998 Ani DiFranco released the song, "Hello, Birmingham" about the shootings of abortion doctors. I post a video to it now; the words are powerful even as the video is shoddy.

"A bullet came to visit a doctor in his one safe place
a bullet ensuring the right to life
whizzed past his kid & his wife
and knocked his glasses right off of his face
and the blood poured off the pulpit
and the blood poured down the picket line
and the hatred was immediate
and the vengeance was divine."

Turn Around Bright Eyes

Ok it's not as funny as the literal version of "Take On Me" but it's still pretty great. I wrote up a blog about the weekend I just had and I'll get it up soon enough, but hopefully this will keep you entertained until then...



This is also my favorite song to do in SingStar. Because I am a SingStar master. And that's how I roll.

Plates

I bought my little Subaru five summers ago and happily moved the license plates from my POS Tempo to my new upgrade. I've had the same plates since two weeks after 9/11 and through my six moves in four years, they were my constant. I kept my car registered to my father's address as he was still a co-signer on my title and I moved so often it wasn't worth the money to change them with me. And so there they were, a little piece of Virginia no matter where I was; proof I had a place to go home to.
Today I finally got around to switching my car to North Carolina tags. I avoided it; North Carolina doesn't issue a front plate and that drives me crazy. But I needed to and so I did.
I picked up my lone little plate at the DMV office inside a mall that looks like it was shabby and mostly empty even when it was built in 1985. I took it out to my car and, sitting in my driver's seat, I burst into tears.
I love where I live; I believe that this is the closest thing to a sense of home I've ever had. But that simple act of switching two plates for one was an admission that I was one step farther from my father's house.

And really, he is what I know of home.

Just Dance

Six years ago I sat in the Carrier Dome in flip flops, wedged between Caroline and Jen Cash, eager to get out of a smelly rented robe. We were all hungover, exhausted and stressed about the sheer volume of family currently in town. It was time for Commencement and our speaker was none other than the 42nd President of the United States, William Jefferson Clinton. As expected, he was a phenomenal, talking about the difference between the headline and trendline in history. Jen and Alexis fell sound asleep. Like mouth breathing, drooling asleep. Caroline's eyes kept fluttering and the FEG boys behind me were busy blowing up a huge Little Caesar's inflatable pizza. I was enraptured with his words and I soaked them in.
But with all the love I had for his speech, if this had been what we heard that day...well. Watch it. It's 10 minutes, but it sure is worth it. She did a great job.

I Always Wanted to be the Face In Front of Me

This has been the song of 2009...love it. Tell me it isn't great. Go ahead.
Happy Friday!

Easy Living

It started on Saturday when I was sitting on the couch in the living room and Lucinda Williams' West ended and I was wondering what to listen to next. I haven't been able to stop listening to West lately--it's so solid from start to finish; I love her songwriting style. I wanted to keep the alt-country thing going and pulled out Kelly Willis' 2002 album Easy. It's a strong listen, albeit a short one. I listened twice.
Lately the word easy has been coming up a lot. I think about it because I wonder when easy became easy; that is, when did the easy route become my de facto choice. For years my default was the difficult, the tough, the narrow rocky road. I wanted the path of most resistance, I wanted a head wind, jeers against me, adversity, wanted the loneliness of the long distance runner. I took on more than I should, I squeezed myself into ill-fitting groups, beliefs and expectations to prove to some unknown idea that I could do it. I bit off and bit off and bit off long before I could even consider chewing.
And one day I just got tired.
And it was so easy to leave all of it.
Now I choose easy for most everything. I have leaked ambition. It feels like I just ruptured. I don't know if it is precisely the path of least resistance; it feels more like the path of less resistance. I take things as they come and leave them as they go. I don't beat myself up about things I've done or didn't do, things I should be doing or feeling or saying. I'm not holding tightly to much. I'm trying to learn how to balance the idea of long term dreams with the concept of living one day at a time and my pendulum has swung the other direction from where I was. There are times when I get saddened by this type of resignation, but most of the time it's a relief to live without my fight face.
It is selfish but god, it's easy.

Beach

The doors opened up onto our bedrooms, mine on the left, Margarita's on the right and the glass doors to the deck, the deck to the salt air, the salt air to the sky, the sky to sky to sky.

Equal Parts

This past weekend was one of spectating. I like spectating. I thoroughly enjoy watching sports. I love to cheer, to groan, to tailgate and get invested in the drama for a little bit. Anyone who has had to suffer through me watching a Redskins game knows this. I get really invested when it comes to my ‘Skins.

Friday afternoon I met up with Margarita, the Polis, Cara’s Dad and Nathan at the Tourists’ baseball game. I didn’t get there until the 7^th inning; just in time to walk in for free, catch up on the happenings, drink a pint and then leave without the normal boredom that comes with watching baseball. It was a gorgeous spring evening, the kind where the outcome of the game/match doesn’t matter as much as the enjoyment of the experience. After the game the group split, with most everyone going to Wedge Brewery for a pint and Nathan and I going to pick up his dog, drop him and the truck at Nathan’s house then walk to Jack of the Wood for the Habibigy show. Laura and Drew met up with us there and, as expected, it was a great night. The music was lively and unexpected, the conversation was meandering and the company was top-notch. It was another night in this town where I have to pinch myself that I live here, that this is my life. I get to be with my sort of people.

Sunday afternoon M-rita and I met up at memorial stadium to watch Doug, Dan, Clay, Aaron, Dave, etc play their guts out in search of glory and victory for Jack of the Wood’s soccer team. By halftime it was raining feverishly and Margarita and I took shelter in beach chairs under the bleachers. We stayed mostly dry and the boys won.

After the match the whole lot headed around the block to Dirty Jacks, the top-secret speakeasy brewpub for JotW for a Tres de Mayo potluck (or “Cinco de Tres” according to Clay). We played horseshoes, laughed, got herded inside by the grumbles of thunder and then trapped by the violent storms that followed. When I finally left, downtown was empty and without power—no cars, no streetlights, no stoplights—and the drive home was spooky, as if I was the only one left. It took me four tries to get back to my house; every street had a tree down or power trucks blocking the way.

There is no neat conclusion to this summary, only that this weekend I felt like I was equal parts observing life and living it.

Just Like the Waves

Two weeks ago I went to the beach.

Margarita mentioned it, as did Goodboy Norman Featherstone, who, for a pug, is quite observant. Not that Margarita isn’t observant but she is, after all, a human. With a college degree. She should be able to formulate sentences.

Nathan’s family owns the most impressive beach house I’ve ever stayed in and they were gracious enough to share it with us for the extended weekend. I didn’t grow up going to the beach (I only remember going twice my whole childhood: 1987 to Virginia Beach and 1992 to Duck, NC) and haven’t quite grasped the appeal of it before this trip. My impression of the beach was this: airbrushed t-shirts, fat people in small swimwear, overpriced crappy beer, jelly fish, sunburn, lethargy and sand invasions. Not impressive.*

But this trip was relaxing, peaceful, delicious food, microbrews, bocce/root ball games, great conversation, love, dogs, naps and the general feeling of a contented sigh. I shucked oysters with Ian and Nathan, stunk up Wii baseball with Margarita, read on the deck outside my bedroom while the morning tide let out and played fetch with a few very dirty and happy dogs. Waking up to waves is like waking up to love: the sound like safe arms, the salt like warm breath. The first thought one of peace and safety, comfort and hope.

I could get used to that.

*I’d like to give a shout out to the North Myrtle Beach trip of May/June 2006 that was the initial impression breaker. That trip was HILARIOUS.

Fighting Basics for Artists

There is a blessing and a curse to being in a family of creative types. We can’t turn off the creativity and it seeps into everything, from our doodles and humor to, in the case of my brother, sister and I, how we fought each other.
It wasn’t just a slap here or a tripping foot there; it was hours and days spent figuring out a way to accidentally kill each other. We were viscous. Knock down, drag out, attempt-to-throw-out-a-window viscous. My mom wouldn’t let me take karate in 6^th grade because she was sure I’d permanently damage my little brother; she knew I didn’t need the edge that karate would have given me. I was shocked and disappointed she didn’t believe in me/saw through my plan. She tried strict rules but the three of us would figure out ways to de-tangle what she saw as a water-tight web and still manage to inflict the maximum physical harm. Mom said we weren’t allowed to hit each other so instead we’d pick up our sweet, mild-mannered cat, Sam, shake her up and then launch her legs-first at whoever had incurred our wrath in hopes that she, in her airborne panic, would latch onto their faces. Usually, this worked splendidly. Sam would screech in mid-air and then land with her claws wrapped around my brother’s head. And I didn’t cause the injury, Sam did. I didn’t touch Elliott’s face, I don’t know how those scratches got there, Mom.

And you thought you and your siblings had cat fights....

Dunno

This was Summer, 2004 and it was Dave and Shelby's wedding. Dave is in the red vest, Elena is being the tiny goof between Dave and I and on the end is our boss, the reason we all know each other: Anna B. Later on we tried to roll and run on the hay bails behind us. It was a good wedding.
The scary thing to me is out of everyone in this photo, I am the only one who hasn't had cancer since it was taken. Anna found out that fall she had precancerous growths; she was 33. This past fall Dave came down with a softball-sized tumor in the middle of his chest. He did six months of chemo and just had surgery last week. He's weak but he's fighting. He just turned 30.
Yesterday afternoon Elena called me saying she had news. She's been with the same great guy for close to three years now so I was expecting the usual, "I'm engaged!" call I've fielded dozens of times. Instead the call revolved around cortisol levels and the hypothalamus and thalamus and the words "tumor" and "pituitary" together. Elena is 26.
It isn't like I know a whole bunch of people from AL; 30 at the most. And then three come down with tumors? At such young ages? I don't understand it, and I'm scared. It is early, she still has a lot of tests before she knows the extent of the tumor and whether to be scared, but I can't help it. She's one of my closest friends.
How does that happen?

That's Bleepin' Fantastic

Special thanks to Ian and Tammy, who shared this gem this weekend and has had me laughing for about four days straight. I mean that's funny stuff right there.

Dreaming (your) Dreams

My friend Seth just sent this to me and it cracked me up...

"In a dream last night I came to a rather disturbing conclusion as to why there were so many hippies/[our high school] grads that had congregated in the same place (Asheville). I dreamt that you all had become part of a dissident school for the performing arts that based its recruiting off of facebook friend lists. You all had built a stronghold in an old castle and had even tricked the us army into giving you all your own rotc branch with which you were building your army. It was like "red dawn" for 20 somethings with makeup and tights. And there were many people there from our graduating class. Apparently rush limbaugh has invaded my dreams and is accessing my facebook friend list. I'm nuts."


HAHAHAHHAHA! Love it.

Up and At 'Em

Now that I sit at a computer most of my day, I’ve gotten back into Pandora. I need something background, some little bits of ambience. Besides that, I’ve been mulling over the same few songs that have been the only thing that has the ability to get me up and going in the morning. I haven’t posted a musical list lately so here it is.

What Drags My Ass Outta Bed, April 2009 edition:
Kids—MGMT
My Only Offer—Mates of State (this one especially)
Carpetbaggers—Jenny Lewis
Nothing to Worry About—Peter Bjorn and John
Don’t Call Me Whitney, Bobby—The Islands
Sugarlumps—Fight of the Conchords
Road to Joy—Bright Eyes
Myriad Harbour—New Pornographers
Hard Worker—Avett Brothers
This is Not a Test—She & Him
New Soul—Yael Naim

Chestnut-ing

I'm on a business trip but spent the afternoon riding on a farm cart covered in hay bales, looking at squiggly chestnut shoots. These are the future of the American chestnut. Some have died, some are weakened by cankers, some shoot up toward the sky.
In the fall, the chestnut trees drop thousands of spiny pods, each containing three seeds. They feel like an urchin and at the farm they litter the ground.

Some are from the trees that are now the parents to the blight-resistant strain currently in testing.

In that little spiny urchin could be history changed. I picked up a chestnut seed and put it in my pocket. It'll remind me what hope can look like, no matter the odds.

Where'd You Park?

I go to Staples for work.
A lot.
It seems like every time I come out of Staples, there is a new, more odd vehicle in the parking lot waiting to greet me.

Today it was this:

And last week it was this:

Thank you, Staples. Not only do you supply all my office needs (according to your riches and glory, as per the company Visa) but you bring entertainment as well. Bravo.

Holy Day

Easters have gotten less important with time, like birthdays. It has little to do with baskets full of shredded green plastic grass or cheap chocolate molded into fertility demigods; it is the meaning that has faded, not just the trinkets. I haven’t had an Easter basket since I was 10 or 12. Maybe younger. My childhood was spent with more browbeating about meanings than presents and it stuck. Every Christmas and Easter I go through this mental obstacle course, trying to remember to focus on the meanings of the holidays rather than the accoutrement that dress them. And every holiday I fail. I forget, or I remember but feel nothing. I tend to want to spend those days alone; cloister myself into meaning. To be completely honest, I get more emotional about Independence Day than I do about Easter. The brilliant bursts of light in the sky, the hand over the heart, singing Francis Scott Key: this is a holy day to me. This I understand. There is life and bright color and hope and joy.
As my faith has faded to more muted tones so has my guilt about my lack of holy on holidays. I appreciate the day, I get why it is important. I just don’t feel anything about it but a vague sense of gratitude and an even fainter sense of loss.

He's a Race Fan

As seen at the NASCAR race. This is their actual license plate. They love Mel that much.

That's the Best Kind

Every bowling ball should come in size XX-Lager.

Weekly Ponderosa

After 20 months of trying, we finally came in first in Quizzo. We have come in second many, many times and each time we are thrilled, but to finally come out the victor is, well, totally sweet. We didn't know what to do. At the end of four rounds we were tied with one other team, and thus there was to be a shout-out best-out-of-three challenge for all-out victory. Of course the tie was with the ever-present (and ever victorious) Smartypants, a team we revile but a bunch of people we quite like. Doug manned up and took the shout-outs and after a tense few rounds the victor was announced and it was us! If you don't play trivia with the same team week in and week out it probably isn't too interesting, but for those of us who have had this Monday tradition, it is a pinnacle.

Last Saturday I was driving from Wedge Brewery to Nathan's house and there, standing on the corner of Hillard and Biltmore in the pouring rain, was a no-armed midget. Just standing and staring. It was almost 11pm. Ian said it best, “I felt like I was suddenly in a David Lynch movie.”

My old teachers are in town this weekend and I can't wait to take them out.

I can't believe how fast the day goes when I'm working on something I like.

Nathan has the Playstation 3 karaoke video game (as does Ian and Tammy) and for some reason I'm quite good at it. Except after a few hours of beer and singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” I lose my voice.

Jane got new bookshelves and I finally unpacked books that have been in boxes for nearly three years and I swear I could hear them sigh. I love owning books; I have reread most of them at least once and I do use them as references or recommendations. I love the library but there is something so important to me about owning a book.

There is a White Stripes song that has the line, “It's the truth and it don't make a noise.” For some reason I'm been mulling over that for quite a while; wondering what sort of noise truth doesn't make. I guess lies are more the rustling type. I think of them as sound like a bag of chips, where no matter how hard one tries, they are going to make a whole lot of very recognizable noise.

Start Your Engines...

Every now and then I get a few days of outlandish.
It takes on several forms, be it impromptu trips to the beach (for a day), brew tours, a caving trip gone wrong by rednecks or just Waffle House at an ungodly hour. Yet each and every time I am struck with the same feeling of hilarity and awe—hilarity at the characters and situations, awe that I get to live it.
Two weekends ago the outlandish took the form of a ½ mile oval track called Bristol Motor Speedway, which is, I have now learned, is one of the more revered NASCAR tracks out there. Nathan and I first had to stop at Wal-Mart to pick up various sundries for the journey: ear plugs, size-specific coolers, tailgating chairs and the most ostentatious shirts we could find emblazoned with our token driver upon it. After fifteen minutes in Wal-Mart we were both itching to leave as quickly as possible. It was the people...that's when we realized how snobby we were. And how we were judging people by their clothes, their weight, what was in their cart or the rowdiness of their kids. I was sort of OK with snobby because of the stigma of Wal-Mart, the great homogenizer of the US. Hypocritical? Absolutely.
So after our forays into Wal-Mart and our subsequent judgmental rantings we met up with Cara and Anthony, who were coming off of a stay at a cabin near Hot Springs for their anniversary. Anthony's family has property and connections in Bristol and graciously let the four of us crash on various couches and air mattresses.
Saturday night we stayed out much too late at Anthony's cousins house, drinking PBR in cans and smoking cigars in the frigid night. One of the guys kept assuming I was married to Nathan and I/we didn't know how to tell him otherwise. I was keen to go along with it and would have probably made up a fantastic story about our wedding if I was assured the friends who knew better would have gone along with it.
We began tailgating around 9am at a campground less than a mile from the track. We fired up the grill and began to cook our brats and drink our beers and quietly play our music, like every other person there. I was laughing internally because though we were looking mighty redneck, the music we were blaring was bluegrass, not country. Our brats were from the organic grocery and were called things like “bison chiorzo”. Even our beers were microbrewed porters or organic ales. It was like we were just playing dress-up.
What can I say about the race? It was mighty loud, it was dizzying, it smelled like oil and rubber and my driver won. There was no conversing with the people around, no trash talking, no cheering on a team. The crowd was silent. Eerie to be in a stadium of 170,000 people or so and have it sound so ambivalent to the goings on. We did nothing but spectate; it might as well have been on TV.
Would I go again? Maybe not to a 'short-track' race. I have heard that longer track races allow time to actually speak to those around you, and that would be exactly the experience for which I was looking.

Best Diner

In Syracuse there is this 50 year old diner that never closes, the waitresses are surly and chain smoked as long as they legally could, one of my favorite places to study and recover from nights and blurry mornings. Doc is now applying for chapter 13 bankruptcy and I suspect Doc's will close for good. End of an era, a beloved spot on the west side of town, just off 690.

It is so beloved that Martin Sexton (a Cuse native) mentioned it in song... "grab yourself a cheeseburger at the Little Gem Diner off the old 6-9er..."

Murphy Bed in Eternity

I'm going to post like 5 different posts today, so spread them out for the week.

It's been a crazy week. In a span of five days I managed to get over my fear of submitting writings for publication and interview for a new job. I don't know about the writing (and probably won't ever know) but I did get the job, which is mighty exciting. I start next Monday. Wow. I'll be working for The American Chestnut Foundation (www.acf.org) and I am absolutely THRILLED to be doing this. It's a big boost for my “career” whatever that means; I'll actually be doing something about which I care. How novel. It is kind of wicked how much I relished giving my two weeks to current job. But now they won't let me use any vacation and I have no motivation to do anything there so I'm wasting everyone's time showing up every day. Glorious New Job is non-profit so I'll be even more broke than I am currently; if anyone has any ideas for part-time work let me know. Afternoons and weekends! Just no babysitting, or working with any people who have a high probability of defecating/vomiting on themselves while in my charge. I can't handle bodily fluids. My house in heaven just shrank with that confession. It's down to a fifth-floor walk-up studio in the Harlem of Heaven at this point...Sure can't wait for my squeaky Murphy Bed in Eternity.

Think Think Thunk

I think one of my problems lately has been my inability to think. I haven't been able to. This is partially due to being busy; going out every night, having something on the docket at almost every waking hour. I run and run and laugh and play and somehow in doing so I completely detach from whatever it is to which I am moored. As if I need the scheduled cloister to settle me, to let me back into my own head. Though for the life of me I don't know how I manage to so easily lock myself out.

No Ani

Tuesday night I met Nathan at the home of Anthony and Cara and after a rather pathetic game of horseshoes the four of us went downtown to see Dan Tyminski at The Orange Peel. It was enjoyable but I can't focus on that much bluegrass in one sitting. I get overwhelmed and it all runs together. Later in the week Ani DiFranco played two nights at the Orange Peel and in those evenings I was badly missing my DC sisters. I needed a strong fan to go with me but I know of none around here and Ani is not a show to go alone. I had a great weekend anyway, meeting my friend Emily for drinks on Friday night and Saturday involving delicious Jamaican food and Will Ferrell's GW Bush but every time I passed the Peel I got a little heartbroken. It was just a little splinter of disappointment.

Song Lyrics I Really Don't Believe redux

More song lyrics I don't believe:

“I want a girl with a short skirt and a loooong jacket.” --Cake. (no you don't, Cake. You want a hooker. Or at least a dominatrix with fingernails that shine like justice, who goes by the name “Kitty” and drives a White Crystler LeBaron. Totally sounds like most of the go-getting women I know. Oh wait.)

“Brother wanna thank your mother for a but like that.” --Salt n' Pepa (Somehow I don't think they are serious...at least I hope not. What an awkward conversation that'd be: “Hi Carl's mom, I'm Pep, and I just wanted to thank you for birthing this fine piece of ass. Truly, look at him from behind. Daaaaamn.” Just doesn't sound like the conversation one would/should/could have with one's paramour's mother.)

“At night I lock the door so no one else can see...”--Madonna (oh Madge. You wrote and photographed a book called “SEX”. Somehow I don't actually see you locking the door where no one else can see, you voyeuristic freak.)

“Fo' sheezy my neezy keep my arms so breezy.” --Jay-Z. (???????????????????????????????)

“I can catch the moon in my hand, don't you know who I am? Remember my name! FAME!” --Irene Cara (Unfortunately for you, Irene Cara, the only reason people will remember your name is when it is tagged along with two words: Flashdance or Fame. Which is cool and all, but being that those two songs are now both old enough to rent cars and drink, maybe it's time to do something else. Maybe “Fame” shouldn't have been your very first hit. Kinda sets the bar a wee bit too high. And FYI: Just because one has “FAME” they cannot alter the course of celestial beings. They can try, but don't think they actually can. In case anyone forgot to tell you: The moon is very large.)

Hockey Hair

My mother was too cheap to buy my brother a bicycle helmet.
The three older kids had survived just fine with nare a protective covering over their sweet noggins but the first and only boy in the family necessitated a hard candy shell and mom didn't want to spring for it. Brother was constantly banging his head/arm/leg/face on something be it stationary or by the hands of his older sisters and when bike riding came into the fold a helmet was a logical step.
Mom was an avid yard-saler and would often come home with things we did not want/need/use and she's proudly show off the new-used purchases' wonders to the bemused faces of her skeptical children.
One Saturday mom came home with a bright orange-yellow hockey helmet. It was the color of the crayon a child would choose to use to draw in the noonday sun; a color that causes conspicuousness to hide. It was an adult small, much too big for Brother's 6 year-old noggin but this oversight hardly mattered. Brother's head would be protected, and that protection cost about 75 cents. When we put the helmet on him we'd have to cinch it all the way down, so that the ear holes covered his cheeks and the two parts of the buckle would be only about an inch apart, hanging loosely under his chin. Once that was as tight as we could get it (which wasn't much) he'd be set to go for a play. It would sit so far back on his head that it really only covered the back quarter of his melon and his big ears hung out the sides, making him look very much like a wing-nut. An orange-capped wing-nut.
We lived on a very quiet, very seldom driven gravel country road, but this helmet situation would have embarrassed my brother even if his only witnesses had been the trees. He refused to wear it.
I couldn't blame him, I pretended I didn't know him when he was wearing it, but then again I pretended I didn't know him all the time so my opinion on the matter hardly counted for much.
My older sister decided she wanted to help out Brother. She thought maybe if we decorated the helmet he'd be more inclined to wear it. I don't quite remember the details of how it came about, but I do remember my sister proudly displaying the new and improved version of the Hockey Helmet from Heaven, this version entirely decorated with glittery puffy paints. You know the kind.
Her version of humor was to paint on the back of the helmet one of those big reflective orange triangles one sees on the back of tractors or other slow-moving farm equipment that travels the roads, so that when Brother did finally wear the helmet out on the road, he'd be sporting the same signage as that John Deere down the street.
I called my sister to ask her what else she remembers painting onto the hockey helmet but all she could recall were pink glittery swirls along with the orange triangles so that didn't help much. My brother remembered about the same, and validated the previous comment about the pink glittery swirls. Brother also recalled when we'd roller-skate in our unfinished basement and he'd have to wear the helmet and we'd all sing and dance to “Stop in the Name of Love” as it was the only song we knew that contained traffic signals.
The end.

The Flu

I feel like I'm writing this blog just because I need to; because I haven't posted in a while and I'm getting out of the habit. What can I say? The flu is traveling around from person to person and for some reason when I watch someone come down with it I think of zombies. As if zobieism were as contagious as the common flu, which, in my book, it probably would be. I mean if it wasn't then we wouldn't have to worry too much about catching the zombie flu. If it spread like herpes then you'd just have to have unprotected sex with a zombie to get it and of course the conservative Christians would be like, “NO FUNDING FOR ZOMBIE PROTECTION RESEARCH” like they did with AIDS and then where would we be. And have you ever seen a zombie? Somehow I don't think they are getting laid all too often. They may have looked like Matt Damon before the Zombie-disease took control but after that they all sort of look like a mildly sea-sick Bea Arthur. Oh snap. All that to be said: Zombie herpes would be right out. Which brings me back to my initial point of people with the flu reminding me of zombies. I could never be a nurse.

Open Letters

Dear Kettle Chips,
Thank you for making Spicy Thai chips. They are addictive and awesome and delicious.
Love,
Spooner

Dear Trident,
Thank you for making gum that is strong enough that it can actually battle Kettle Brand Spicy Thai Chips.
Love,
Spooner

Dear Slumdog Millionare,
You were good but you weren't THAT good. Don't get too big for your britches. That's my final answer.
Love,
Spooner

Dear babies,
Please learn to comprehend sarcasm so we have something to talk about.
Love,
Spooner


Dear woman wearing jean jacket and jeans,
God bless you, but no. Nope. Uh uh. Not even you can pull that off.
Love,
Spooner


Dear Wafflehouse,
Every time someone thinks it is a good idea to patronize you I come to regret it later. Almost immediately actually. You are like a visit to my grandmother's but with less condescension.
Love,
Spooner


Dear Huddle House,
Please read my letter to Wafflehouse. Ditto to you, slugger. If possible, you are actually worse.
Love,
Spooner


Dear Sing-star,
You are the best game ever. Thank you for showing me how badly I suck at rapping, and yet how truly awesome it is to sing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” and “Don't Go Breakin' My Heart” into a Playstation microphone. Now expand your song catalog. Beyonce please.
Love,
Spooner


Dear Brian Krakow,
I recently realized that most of the guys I date are basically you plus 15 years. That is kind of weird but now you are suddenly way cooler to me and that kind of creeps me out.
Love,
Spooner


Dear people who don't know who Brian Krakow is,
ABC's 1994 show “My So-Called Life” nerdy neighborhood kid, you commie loving bastard.
Love,
Spooner

Dear scale that says I've gained 15 pounds in a little over a month,
One of us is lying. My clothes say I'm right. Who is your character witness, scale? Who? Suck it.
Love,
Spooner


Dear people who are still reporting on Sarah Palin,
WHY!? DEAR GOD WHY? Is there really nothing else going on in the world, cuz I think there is. Now quit it.
Love,
Spooner


Dear Boyz II Men,
Reunion tour? Really? I didn't know we were even missing you yet. But you are coming to Greenville and I am DYING to know your demographic.
Love,
Spooner

Edit it

One of my good friends is a teacher at my old high school, something I consistently forget. I was talking to her the other day and she said an old teacher had asked about me and that teacher wanted my email address; she was planning to come to Asheville for a conference. This teacher had taught my honors English 9 class but was more familiar to me as the yearbook adviser, the person I probably saw the most the last three years of high school, saw more than my family. Junior year I was an assistant editor; senior year was head editor. Yearbook at my high school wasn't an extra-curricular activity: it was life. The high school had one of the top yearbook programs in the nation; it consistently won every major award on state and national levels. This all sounds crazy unless you have ever seen the difference between a nationally recognized book and a regular one. Then it makes perfect sense. But that sort of work requires the amount of time usually only reserved for athletes pursuing college scholarships, and so I was in the yearbook office a half-hour before school started, during two of the seven periods of the day, and 4-6 hours after school. And some weekends. (I wasn't the only one. My senior year we had a staff of 120. Out of a school of a little under 1100. It was actually one of the popular things to do) I loved and hated it, the same feelings that I still reserve for the adviser of the book. I should rephrase that. We always had a complicated relationship. It was the hardest period of my life due to everything outside of yearbook and thinking of that time brings up rough memories. I love her dearly. I had only thought of her in passing these past ten years until my friend mentioned her coming to Asheville, and now it's all I'm thinking about. What am I supposed to say about these ten years? What is there to tell? Much too much, and yet nothing. I don't know how to successfully zoom out; what big markers to hit. I don't know how to edit this.

I don't know if we will actually connect. But if we do, I hope words come too.