So I'm making this gi-fucking-gantinc change in my life here in the next couple of days -- gonna strike out on my lonesome (with a dog) and completely reorient my life -- and it's really unsettling. There are some of the most ridiculous thoughts swirling in my head (and some not so ridiculous) that I sometimes can't think straight.
For example: Living alone, I've always had this fear of falling in the shower, cracking my head or whatever, and just being in there for days until some neighbor notices the water is running *all the time* and complains to the landlord. Because I don't have daily contact with anyone in my life, this *could* happen. And if you are one of those who would ask me to estimate the likelihood such a thing would come to pass, I will tell you that this did in fact happen to a neighbor of mine many years ago. Perhaps that lowers the likelihood I will suffer a similar fate -- in this random life of ours -- but still, it gives me the creeps, even if it is absurd and ridiculous. (Though it certainly wasn't for my neighbor.)
Or: No matter how much I try, I'll never get the timing down when it comes to cooking. I like to entertain and have people over for dinner, but it would totally suck if I screwed up the meal every time.
Or: Without a significant relationship, such as I had with XGF, I will not have anything to do on holidays. (My mother might invite me, but ... uh, no.) So I could end up spending Thanksgiving or Christmas, for example, dressing up the pup Brogan in some clothes he'd rather not wear -- I really think he needs a bowtie, myself -- and feeding him expensive, canned turduckin dog food by the teaspoon. Thus becoming: the crazy lady with the spoiled little dog.
I also am mightily battling the fear that I will never find what I'm seeking, which is a loving, intimate relationship in which all the really essential ingredients (intellect, humor, emotional maturity, sexual chemistry and an openness to adventure) exist, are present and available for enjoyment. Passion, will thou ever find me and stay a while? (Frankly, this is the worst fear of all.)
I suppose all these fears don't really matter. (I scare myself; they even hurt a little; but, oh well....) Because the changes I'm making are less about walking away from a "safety net" (which is very screwed up and full of holes, to say the least) and more about seeking a newer world -- and one that sparks me up at that.
Every time I travel somewhere foreign, I get seriously anxious just prior to the trip. I might think, for example, that some taxi driver is going to hijack me into a remote place, take my wallet and passport and all my luggage and leave me with nothing but my life. (I never think they're going to kill me. Just take every goddamned thing I've got.) I won't speak the language good enough to get the help I need. I won't have any money. While walking some dirt road back to town, I'll get really dirty, which I *hate* to be. I'll be thirsty enough at some point to drink the local water, and then be shitting out my guts, too. The only toilets available will look eerily like props from "Trainspotting." When I finally find the embassy, it will be closed (and of no help even when they open). And people will *still* be begging from me because I'm white.
It's an absurd story. All a traveler's fears wrapped into one hideous tale. (And, truth be told, a little distorted to make my point here.)
What is my point? I travel anyway.
Just like I'm going to pick myself up off this here chair and go move to a new home. If the tub's all that slippery, I'll put those little anti-skid strips on it. And somewhere along the line, I believe, I'll get the timing down on the food. And I will, in truth, be happier to play silly games with the pup on Christmas than to subject myself to the lengthy, off-key incantations of some weird judeo-christian hoo-haw my mom uses as a prayer before eating.
As for the passionate relationship, perhaps it will be ellusive. Can't hurt to look for it, though. It's not like I have something better to do where that's concerned.
But still. I'm a touch scared anyway.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Saturday, March 25, 2006
A killer over the garage
My friend and classmate, The Debutante, called me from the airport yesterday to tell me where I could find the keys to her Jeep, so it would be easier for me to move all my bidness over to the loft.
At the same time, she told me that this woman used to be her nanny and lived over the garage of her house for many, many years.
"She was always -- and I guess this is rather telling -- she was always so sweet," The Deb said. "She was also a very religious woman."
Somehow, I said, I'm thinking the fact that she was very religious is more telling than her being sweet was.
"That's probably true," The Deb said. "I guess that oppressive small-town living and that weird Church of Christ stuff can really take its toll on someone."
Tell me about it. Not that I've ever killed anyone. But religion. Ugh! It *can* make you crazy. Fo sho.
"I was watching the news last night -- I tend to watch too much of it -- and I saw this story unfolding. There was an amber alert out because the kids were missing," The Deb says. "I didn't recognize her at first, but then this morning, she confessed. My mom and I have been talking about this all day. I just can't believe it. It's so weird...."
Well, it will be an interesting story to track. Why did the pastor's wife kill him, anyway? I'll get the scoop from The Debutante and fill you in later.
At the same time, she told me that this woman used to be her nanny and lived over the garage of her house for many, many years.
"She was always -- and I guess this is rather telling -- she was always so sweet," The Deb said. "She was also a very religious woman."
Somehow, I said, I'm thinking the fact that she was very religious is more telling than her being sweet was.
"That's probably true," The Deb said. "I guess that oppressive small-town living and that weird Church of Christ stuff can really take its toll on someone."
Tell me about it. Not that I've ever killed anyone. But religion. Ugh! It *can* make you crazy. Fo sho.
"I was watching the news last night -- I tend to watch too much of it -- and I saw this story unfolding. There was an amber alert out because the kids were missing," The Deb says. "I didn't recognize her at first, but then this morning, she confessed. My mom and I have been talking about this all day. I just can't believe it. It's so weird...."
Well, it will be an interesting story to track. Why did the pastor's wife kill him, anyway? I'll get the scoop from The Debutante and fill you in later.
Books with "Cachet"
So last night, I did something I haven't done in a *long* time: I went and turned myself loose in Powell's City of Books for an hour and a half or so, then went and watched a movie with some friends.
There's a reason I stay out of Powell's -- and it's probably the most common reason to avoid the place. I have difficulty resisting the purchase. Here I was yesterday afternoon -- nay, *just minutes* before I left to go there! -- talking about how I am reluctant to get back into the whole material acquisition thing. And within 10 minutes of entering that fair temple of those who worship books, I had two tucked beneath my arms and was licking my lips over a third.
The third one deserved lip-licking, I should note. It's title: "On Kissing. Travels in an Intimate Landscape." Author: Adrianne Blue ... I stumbled on this succulent bit of anthropological prose in the psychology section while looking for something on the occurrence of and treatment for sex addiction. There was not a single book about sex addiction, but what there was in the sexual psychology section was a distracting enough that I didn't care.
I bought this book, along with three others (one on narrative therapy, one on women travelers and one on a cultural history of sex), and I headed into the cafe to pass the time while waiting for my friends to be done with their own browsing. I pulled out the Kissing book and started reading it, and because I *am* a fairly self-aware person, it was not too long before I realized my lips and tongue were doing all sorts of acrobatics while reading this text. (In fact, I would dare anyone who has ever enjoyed a kiss to read this book and not purse or smack their lips -- or let their tongue visibly loll around in the mouth -- while doing so.)
Anyway...
After Powell's, we went over to the Fox and watched "Cachet," which had gotten high marks from one of the more trustworthy local reviewers. He said it "creeps up your spine" rather than assaulting you directly. ... Let's just say it's a *subtle* French film and even though Juliette Binoche is still h.o.t., The Good Witch started snoring and I stared intently at the screen *waiting* for something to happen.
Then, suddenly and most unexpectedly, something does happen in that film. It's snoozing right along, with all its characters talking -- murmurring, actually -- and showing very little in the way of emotion (presumably because they're French and not, say, Italian), when one guy says, "I wanted you to be present," and what happens on the screen is such a tremendous shock in all respects that the entire theatre GASPED. Then, it returned immediately to the silence that permeates this film. But throughout the audience, there were many shocked comments that rippled out: "Good christ...." "I didn't see *that* coming." "Oh my word!" "Oh! Where did *that* come from?"
I myself both gasped and then, watching the fallout, was unable to suppress something of a snort. Perhaps it was a gag.
Suffice it to say, this moment is both the payoff for all the tension (without affect) that had been building in the film, but it is also no sort of payoff at all. The film continues along, its point just as mysterious at the end as it was at the beginning. When it was done, most of the audience just sat there, staring at the credits. Not in your average "credit-watcher" sort of fashion, either. They all just seemed ... stuck. And all of them watched the screen, as if waiting for something else to happen.
We walked out of the theater, and The Good Witch said, "Well, I feel like I've been suckered!" Cartman stared at the two of us, and asked, "Do you have *any* idea what that film was about?"
I think it was about ambiguity, I replied. But also, it was French. So, it was about French ambiguity, which is more acute than most Americans can tolerate and doesn't actually qualify as entertainment. But I kinda liked it anyway.
Cartman looked at me and rolled her eyes a little. "I didn't understand what was happening. Who was causing all those problems? How do you have a film where you can't tell who the bad guy is? And those people who were supposed to be the good guys? I didn't like them at all."
Not even Juliette Binoche?
"Well, her son disappeared and she barely got upset!" Cartman replied.
Oh, did you miss the part, I asked, where she went into his room and looked through stacks of paper on his desk? I mean, she looked through *two* stacks. That was high drama.
Cartman, who never seems to know when I'm being facetious, replied, "Oh, please. There was *no* emotion. I just don't get the film at all." And then she cursed the movie critic.
And The Good Witch said only, "Was I snoring *that* loudly? I hate when I do that."
Thank heavens I had been reading the Kissing book before I went to the film. It provided some amusing fodder to fill my mind during the lulls in the action. As if there was any action. Except for that one scene. That one scene which is both horrifying and yet redeems the film almost completely.
There's a reason I stay out of Powell's -- and it's probably the most common reason to avoid the place. I have difficulty resisting the purchase. Here I was yesterday afternoon -- nay, *just minutes* before I left to go there! -- talking about how I am reluctant to get back into the whole material acquisition thing. And within 10 minutes of entering that fair temple of those who worship books, I had two tucked beneath my arms and was licking my lips over a third.
The third one deserved lip-licking, I should note. It's title: "On Kissing. Travels in an Intimate Landscape." Author: Adrianne Blue ... I stumbled on this succulent bit of anthropological prose in the psychology section while looking for something on the occurrence of and treatment for sex addiction. There was not a single book about sex addiction, but what there was in the sexual psychology section was a distracting enough that I didn't care.
I bought this book, along with three others (one on narrative therapy, one on women travelers and one on a cultural history of sex), and I headed into the cafe to pass the time while waiting for my friends to be done with their own browsing. I pulled out the Kissing book and started reading it, and because I *am* a fairly self-aware person, it was not too long before I realized my lips and tongue were doing all sorts of acrobatics while reading this text. (In fact, I would dare anyone who has ever enjoyed a kiss to read this book and not purse or smack their lips -- or let their tongue visibly loll around in the mouth -- while doing so.)
Anyway...
After Powell's, we went over to the Fox and watched "Cachet," which had gotten high marks from one of the more trustworthy local reviewers. He said it "creeps up your spine" rather than assaulting you directly. ... Let's just say it's a *subtle* French film and even though Juliette Binoche is still h.o.t., The Good Witch started snoring and I stared intently at the screen *waiting* for something to happen.
Then, suddenly and most unexpectedly, something does happen in that film. It's snoozing right along, with all its characters talking -- murmurring, actually -- and showing very little in the way of emotion (presumably because they're French and not, say, Italian), when one guy says, "I wanted you to be present," and what happens on the screen is such a tremendous shock in all respects that the entire theatre GASPED. Then, it returned immediately to the silence that permeates this film. But throughout the audience, there were many shocked comments that rippled out: "Good christ...." "I didn't see *that* coming." "Oh my word!" "Oh! Where did *that* come from?"
I myself both gasped and then, watching the fallout, was unable to suppress something of a snort. Perhaps it was a gag.
Suffice it to say, this moment is both the payoff for all the tension (without affect) that had been building in the film, but it is also no sort of payoff at all. The film continues along, its point just as mysterious at the end as it was at the beginning. When it was done, most of the audience just sat there, staring at the credits. Not in your average "credit-watcher" sort of fashion, either. They all just seemed ... stuck. And all of them watched the screen, as if waiting for something else to happen.
We walked out of the theater, and The Good Witch said, "Well, I feel like I've been suckered!" Cartman stared at the two of us, and asked, "Do you have *any* idea what that film was about?"
I think it was about ambiguity, I replied. But also, it was French. So, it was about French ambiguity, which is more acute than most Americans can tolerate and doesn't actually qualify as entertainment. But I kinda liked it anyway.
Cartman looked at me and rolled her eyes a little. "I didn't understand what was happening. Who was causing all those problems? How do you have a film where you can't tell who the bad guy is? And those people who were supposed to be the good guys? I didn't like them at all."
Not even Juliette Binoche?
"Well, her son disappeared and she barely got upset!" Cartman replied.
Oh, did you miss the part, I asked, where she went into his room and looked through stacks of paper on his desk? I mean, she looked through *two* stacks. That was high drama.
Cartman, who never seems to know when I'm being facetious, replied, "Oh, please. There was *no* emotion. I just don't get the film at all." And then she cursed the movie critic.
And The Good Witch said only, "Was I snoring *that* loudly? I hate when I do that."
Thank heavens I had been reading the Kissing book before I went to the film. It provided some amusing fodder to fill my mind during the lulls in the action. As if there was any action. Except for that one scene. That one scene which is both horrifying and yet redeems the film almost completely.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Starting over
I'm not exactly starting from scratch here, but this whole business of d.i.v.o.r.c.e. means that I've got to go back into a stage of my life I've never exactly been thrilled about: material acquisition.
Seeing as I've got myself a nice small loft, albeit with big closets, I can't have all *that much* stuff. But there is a kitchen and there is a bathroom, and I've got pretty much got to start over on a lot of that business. I do have china for four, which is probably sufficient, but that's pretty much it.
So I've started shopping. I partially solved the kitchen problem by buying a set of Calphalon One pots and pans. And I've outfitted the bathroom. But then, there is ever so much more:
A bed. I already know what I'm going to do about the frame (that sleigh bed, or as S2 calls it, "a love sled"), but I absolutely *loathe* shopping for mattresses. It's like buying a used car. Cheesy salesmen, weird pitches and absolutely no way to tell one mattress from the next thanks to the fact that Sealy and Simmons and every other goddamned mattress manufacturer changes the name of the mattresses for its retailers so you can never actually compare price. *whining*
A desk and a chair for said desk. XGF has offered, however, to *trade* me the desk we currently have in exchange for $3,000. Too bad for her that I bought this desk just six months ago and recall paying about $250 for it. C'mon! I ain't be goot at math, but I's also ain't be stupid.
Some kind of tall and wide and highly functional -- yet beautiful and unusual (read: fuck Ikea) -- wall cabinet to house my TV, books and knicknackery-haberdachery-do. I expect I could be looking for this fo-evuh, given my -- oh, let's just call it what it is: bitchy -- attitude about simulacra.
Wine glasses and kitchen linens and silver wear and cooking utensils and knives and hot pads and cookie sheets or whatever the hell -- some kind of something or other for putting things in the oven anyway. ... Does it *sound* like I'm gonna learn how to cook? Yessa, massa. I *will* be taking care of myself this go-around, considering I cannot afford to hire a woman to cook for me like I did before I met XGF. ... Paging Williams-Sonoma, stat!
An area rug or two, plus a runner. Gotta do something to take the edge off the echo of the pup, Brogan, as he warns me about a crow on the roof of the house across the street.
Some kind of skinny entry hall table? (Maybe I already have that.)
A garbage can.
Shelving for the pantry and a closet. (If there were an Ikea nearby, I'd go for this stuff.)
Something to put my unmentionables in. (Isn't it funny how the word "unmentionable" actually goes about mentioning the unmentionable things anyway?)
And I *think* I might like to have one more arm chair. But maybe not.
It's hard to say what the space will be like once all this crap in in there. Clutter, I cannot stand. (And I have been living in a somewhat cluttered environment for years.) There must be openness and space and the feeling like I haven't gone and created a landfill. ... For all the stuff I need to buy, I'm beginning to wonder just what the hell it is I'm moving? Two chairs. And end table. A small cabinet. The dining table set. And several pieces of artwork.
Here's my opportunity to start living a little lighter. And what do I do? Go shopping! ... Really, if you want to know why ... I consider it my patriotic doody.
Seeing as I've got myself a nice small loft, albeit with big closets, I can't have all *that much* stuff. But there is a kitchen and there is a bathroom, and I've got pretty much got to start over on a lot of that business. I do have china for four, which is probably sufficient, but that's pretty much it.
So I've started shopping. I partially solved the kitchen problem by buying a set of Calphalon One pots and pans. And I've outfitted the bathroom. But then, there is ever so much more:
A bed. I already know what I'm going to do about the frame (that sleigh bed, or as S2 calls it, "a love sled"), but I absolutely *loathe* shopping for mattresses. It's like buying a used car. Cheesy salesmen, weird pitches and absolutely no way to tell one mattress from the next thanks to the fact that Sealy and Simmons and every other goddamned mattress manufacturer changes the name of the mattresses for its retailers so you can never actually compare price. *whining*
A desk and a chair for said desk. XGF has offered, however, to *trade* me the desk we currently have in exchange for $3,000. Too bad for her that I bought this desk just six months ago and recall paying about $250 for it. C'mon! I ain't be goot at math, but I's also ain't be stupid.
Some kind of tall and wide and highly functional -- yet beautiful and unusual (read: fuck Ikea) -- wall cabinet to house my TV, books and knicknackery-haberdachery-do. I expect I could be looking for this fo-evuh, given my -- oh, let's just call it what it is: bitchy -- attitude about simulacra.
Wine glasses and kitchen linens and silver wear and cooking utensils and knives and hot pads and cookie sheets or whatever the hell -- some kind of something or other for putting things in the oven anyway. ... Does it *sound* like I'm gonna learn how to cook? Yessa, massa. I *will* be taking care of myself this go-around, considering I cannot afford to hire a woman to cook for me like I did before I met XGF. ... Paging Williams-Sonoma, stat!
An area rug or two, plus a runner. Gotta do something to take the edge off the echo of the pup, Brogan, as he warns me about a crow on the roof of the house across the street.
Some kind of skinny entry hall table? (Maybe I already have that.)
A garbage can.
Shelving for the pantry and a closet. (If there were an Ikea nearby, I'd go for this stuff.)
Something to put my unmentionables in. (Isn't it funny how the word "unmentionable" actually goes about mentioning the unmentionable things anyway?)
And I *think* I might like to have one more arm chair. But maybe not.
It's hard to say what the space will be like once all this crap in in there. Clutter, I cannot stand. (And I have been living in a somewhat cluttered environment for years.) There must be openness and space and the feeling like I haven't gone and created a landfill. ... For all the stuff I need to buy, I'm beginning to wonder just what the hell it is I'm moving? Two chairs. And end table. A small cabinet. The dining table set. And several pieces of artwork.
Here's my opportunity to start living a little lighter. And what do I do? Go shopping! ... Really, if you want to know why ... I consider it my patriotic doody.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
Mercy me! The Housing Gods still live!
So, I'm not sure which of the Greek gods I'm supposed to thank for this. But I'm thinking of how Ulysees (in Tennyson's poem) expects Telemacus to be "decent not to fail in offices of tenderness, and pay meet adoration to my household gods...."
I can show great tenderness at times, so I've just got to get this part down about the household gods, because *they* certainly earned my adoration today.
Last night, I was telling Dr. R about how stressed I was over the living situation. I want out of my house because it's, well ... it's Process Central, and it's been that way for *a month.* (Not to say that a divorce, such as it is, doesn't warrant some processing, but it's hardly fun and it's rarely a good thing when it carries on too long.) I told her that today, I was going to engage in "sell-out" activity by going to look at a cute little apartment in Irvington that *doesn't allow pets* and that I was just cringing everytime I looked at the little pup, Brogan, and his exceptional wagging tail and adoring little Cairn Terrier mug and thinking I might have to leave him. She said, "Don't give up on that. He's good company. ... All you have to do is find *one place.*"
And then she made the same suggestion Dr. M has been making, which was to look across the river -- something I find personally distressing because I'm an east-side kinda gal. As are Dr. R and Dr. M, to tell you the truth, but they are also more practical than I am and perhaps able to tolerate some things more than I. For example, I'm just not sure *how* Dr. M manages each day to drive to past that house down the block from her with the large religious message on a sign nailed to the siding. I mean, Whoa, lady! You've got an iron stomach. Or just really *fabulous* blinders, because that would eat, eat, eat at me. Dr. R lives in a more progressive, funky enclave over on the west side, but it's still *over there.* And I am firmly of an *over here* mentality. Not to mention, east-side born and bread S2 practically yelled at me when I mentioned the west side of the river, "Oh my god! Don't *do* that to yourself!"
So I was despairing. East with no dog? West with dog? And I really wanted to be within biking distance of S2.
But SGF and I had been unable to find a place we could agree on, as every place we'd seen together or I'd seen alone either sucked or was taken. And it was going to take something quite special to draw SGF out of her sweet little urban studio anyway. So this morning, I went mercenary and trotted myself up to *the one place* I found on Craig's List last night that looked appealing to me. A home for one. Allowing a dog. On the east side. And in the absolute fucking heart of Lesbian Land no less.
I didn't have high expectations because I know what's down in that neighborhood. It was a loft, advertised as "good creative space," and I thought: paint-splattered floors, concrete walls, a miserable little outdated kitchen with peeling laminate countertops and a bathroom with a deeply stained tub and a toilet with a broken seat. (No, that's not a defective cognition; it's what I've been seeing in all these nasty houses and apartments I've looked at recently.)
Obviously, my stated need to adore the household gods means I found something altogether different. I found, shockingly, a building only a year old. High ceilings. Funky, glossy wood floors. A modern kitchen with a dishwasher and nice countertops and an eating bar, which is more than I could have ever dreamed of finding. Huge windows, all of which *open* and actually have window coverings. About 800 square feet, which is plenty for me. Oh, and three (3!) GIGANTIC closets. The bathroom tub was shiney clean and had excellent water pressure. ... And they take dogs. And the view out the windows (the only downside is they face south, which equals *hot* in the summer), is of two large old Craftsman houses that are holdouts on a street being revived with cafes and boutiques and a thriving little monthly art festival. There's an organic co-op two blocks down and a wine bar that pours 400 bottles by the glass just across the street.
I nearly wet my pants.
Naturally, I applied immediately. I'll pick up the keys tomorrow.
Then, I'll start getting on with my life. (And pay *plenty* of adoration to my household gods, whatever they may be.)
Oh, and I'll buy me that sleigh bed *fo sho* now because a loft cannot have a homely bed. (But still, Dr. M, no spotlights. The bay windows will do just fine.)
I can show great tenderness at times, so I've just got to get this part down about the household gods, because *they* certainly earned my adoration today.
Last night, I was telling Dr. R about how stressed I was over the living situation. I want out of my house because it's, well ... it's Process Central, and it's been that way for *a month.* (Not to say that a divorce, such as it is, doesn't warrant some processing, but it's hardly fun and it's rarely a good thing when it carries on too long.) I told her that today, I was going to engage in "sell-out" activity by going to look at a cute little apartment in Irvington that *doesn't allow pets* and that I was just cringing everytime I looked at the little pup, Brogan, and his exceptional wagging tail and adoring little Cairn Terrier mug and thinking I might have to leave him. She said, "Don't give up on that. He's good company. ... All you have to do is find *one place.*"
And then she made the same suggestion Dr. M has been making, which was to look across the river -- something I find personally distressing because I'm an east-side kinda gal. As are Dr. R and Dr. M, to tell you the truth, but they are also more practical than I am and perhaps able to tolerate some things more than I. For example, I'm just not sure *how* Dr. M manages each day to drive to past that house down the block from her with the large religious message on a sign nailed to the siding. I mean, Whoa, lady! You've got an iron stomach. Or just really *fabulous* blinders, because that would eat, eat, eat at me. Dr. R lives in a more progressive, funky enclave over on the west side, but it's still *over there.* And I am firmly of an *over here* mentality. Not to mention, east-side born and bread S2 practically yelled at me when I mentioned the west side of the river, "Oh my god! Don't *do* that to yourself!"
So I was despairing. East with no dog? West with dog? And I really wanted to be within biking distance of S2.
But SGF and I had been unable to find a place we could agree on, as every place we'd seen together or I'd seen alone either sucked or was taken. And it was going to take something quite special to draw SGF out of her sweet little urban studio anyway. So this morning, I went mercenary and trotted myself up to *the one place* I found on Craig's List last night that looked appealing to me. A home for one. Allowing a dog. On the east side. And in the absolute fucking heart of Lesbian Land no less.
I didn't have high expectations because I know what's down in that neighborhood. It was a loft, advertised as "good creative space," and I thought: paint-splattered floors, concrete walls, a miserable little outdated kitchen with peeling laminate countertops and a bathroom with a deeply stained tub and a toilet with a broken seat. (No, that's not a defective cognition; it's what I've been seeing in all these nasty houses and apartments I've looked at recently.)
Obviously, my stated need to adore the household gods means I found something altogether different. I found, shockingly, a building only a year old. High ceilings. Funky, glossy wood floors. A modern kitchen with a dishwasher and nice countertops and an eating bar, which is more than I could have ever dreamed of finding. Huge windows, all of which *open* and actually have window coverings. About 800 square feet, which is plenty for me. Oh, and three (3!) GIGANTIC closets. The bathroom tub was shiney clean and had excellent water pressure. ... And they take dogs. And the view out the windows (the only downside is they face south, which equals *hot* in the summer), is of two large old Craftsman houses that are holdouts on a street being revived with cafes and boutiques and a thriving little monthly art festival. There's an organic co-op two blocks down and a wine bar that pours 400 bottles by the glass just across the street.
I nearly wet my pants.
Naturally, I applied immediately. I'll pick up the keys tomorrow.
Then, I'll start getting on with my life. (And pay *plenty* of adoration to my household gods, whatever they may be.)
Oh, and I'll buy me that sleigh bed *fo sho* now because a loft cannot have a homely bed. (But still, Dr. M, no spotlights. The bay windows will do just fine.)
Saturday, March 18, 2006
An "explanation" from Mr. Clean
Alright. Back on March 8, I recounted the story of how Mr. Clean believes XGF will someday date men -- and how XGF herself said she was considering it. If you recall, Mr. Clean had also said that he never expects *me* to bat from the other side of the plate, and I wanted to know why. I suggested his opinions must be based on some stereotype, that perhaps my hair was too short or my manner of speaking too direct.
This morning, I got my answer. And all I can say, really, is Dude! And I mean that in the way I'm told some East Coasters interpret "dude," as in what a donkey dick! Or something like that anyway.
So XGF related the following:
On Thursday or Friday of this week, XGF and Mr. Clean had lunch together. At some point, the conversation turns to this topic. XGF asks him why he thinks she's heading toward men but I'm not, and Mr. Clean says something like this:
"I've always found you to be more curious and open about Christianity, and I think you'll become a Christian someday. When you do, I think you'll turn toward men. But UCM? She's never going to be a Christian, so she'll stay gay. She won't change, which is a pity."
XGF says she replied: "I might become bisexual, Mr. Clean, but I am *never* going to become a Christian."
To me, she said, "I was *so* offended by that." But she didn't tell him as much. "I figure," she told me, "that he's always been nice to us and he just takes his religion seriously. But still, I was offended."
Me? We've been friends with this guy for years, eaten at his home many times and he's helped us out around the house with "Man Services," such as rototilling our beds. So it's fairly appalling to me to think he's been sitting around for all this time, doing all those favors with that kind of judgment about us going on in his head. But it also explains why he's shown so little concern over our breakup. Clearly, he thinks it's a good thing because maybe -- just maybe! -- XGF will "straighten out." Even though your's truly is hopeless. And, as I understand things from Mr. Clean's perspective, I'm on the fast track to hell, I am. But I'll have good company there. Very good company.
This morning, when telling SGF about yet another rental we need to look at -- in this, the *slowest breakup ever* -- I told her the Mr. Clean story. SGF summed it up so much more nicely than my Dude! business: "I wish prejudice was just out in the open -- just totally out there," she said. "That way, we'd know where we stand, and there wouldn't be all this behind-closed-doors thinking going on. It would just be obvious."
No shit.
At least now I know. But I really wish it had just been some stupid stereotype.
This morning, I got my answer. And all I can say, really, is Dude! And I mean that in the way I'm told some East Coasters interpret "dude," as in what a donkey dick! Or something like that anyway.
So XGF related the following:
On Thursday or Friday of this week, XGF and Mr. Clean had lunch together. At some point, the conversation turns to this topic. XGF asks him why he thinks she's heading toward men but I'm not, and Mr. Clean says something like this:
"I've always found you to be more curious and open about Christianity, and I think you'll become a Christian someday. When you do, I think you'll turn toward men. But UCM? She's never going to be a Christian, so she'll stay gay. She won't change, which is a pity."
XGF says she replied: "I might become bisexual, Mr. Clean, but I am *never* going to become a Christian."
To me, she said, "I was *so* offended by that." But she didn't tell him as much. "I figure," she told me, "that he's always been nice to us and he just takes his religion seriously. But still, I was offended."
Me? We've been friends with this guy for years, eaten at his home many times and he's helped us out around the house with "Man Services," such as rototilling our beds. So it's fairly appalling to me to think he's been sitting around for all this time, doing all those favors with that kind of judgment about us going on in his head. But it also explains why he's shown so little concern over our breakup. Clearly, he thinks it's a good thing because maybe -- just maybe! -- XGF will "straighten out." Even though your's truly is hopeless. And, as I understand things from Mr. Clean's perspective, I'm on the fast track to hell, I am. But I'll have good company there. Very good company.
This morning, when telling SGF about yet another rental we need to look at -- in this, the *slowest breakup ever* -- I told her the Mr. Clean story. SGF summed it up so much more nicely than my Dude! business: "I wish prejudice was just out in the open -- just totally out there," she said. "That way, we'd know where we stand, and there wouldn't be all this behind-closed-doors thinking going on. It would just be obvious."
No shit.
At least now I know. But I really wish it had just been some stupid stereotype.
Friday, March 17, 2006
And now, back to sex...
I guess that DSM presentation just *wasn't enough* for me earlier this term, because I've gone off and signed up to give another presentation to my class on sex. This time, my colleagues in Treatment Planning will get an earful about how to treat sex addiction.
Upon hearing me discuss with Single Gay Female the fact that I had been waffling between Internet addiction and sex addiction -- and wondering if I could specifically address Internet sex addiction -- our teacher, Mr. Lightfoot, asked me, "Are you going to be the one who gets the reputation for choosing the sticky topics?"
I suppose so. I don't think sex gets talked about enough, I replied.
"Well," Lightfoot told me, "you've picked a good one. It's tricky because sexual addiction isn't a classification in the DSM, and there haven't been a lot of studies done about it. It's a big but generally invisible problem."
I'd think it would be hard to get people to admit to it.
"Researchers have a way of getting the information," he said. "People will tell you a lot of stuff when they know it's anonymous. It's a really big problem. .... Especially," he added, "among women in residential treatment programs. It's very dangerous."
Now *that* got my attention. Because my stereotyped thoughts about who's a sex addict and what they're doing simply did not include women in residential treatment programs. ... I'm already glad I chose the topic; I love it when my notions are disabused.
On a personal note about sex, there is now seered in my brain the most frightening image of my future bedroom, thanks to decorating suggestions from Dr. M. When I told her I was thinking of getting a sleigh bed, she proprosed it be the *only* piece of furniture in my room, that the room be painted a deep ruby red, that the bed be fitted with satiny red sheets and that there be a spotlight over the bed.
Obviously, she's thinking there must be some way to get old UCM's sex life up and roaring -- and that doing so will require gimmicks. (I hope that's not the case. *sigh*)
But upon hearing her suggestion (or her merciless teasing, depending on how I look at it) I was thinking, You forgot to mention the mirrors. And the madam coming to knock on the door to tell my tricks their time is up....
'Cause you know, sweet little me was thinking of decking out my bed with some nice floral print from April Cornell. heh.
Or something illustrating The Preludes and the oral pleasures of the Kama Sutra, which every woman should get to enjoy whether her lovers are men or women. A woman's body is something that deserves great attention and many delights. ... But I digress.
Perhaps the red sheets will be fine. But I rather think a spotlight unnecessary. And probably unflattering, as well.
Upon hearing me discuss with Single Gay Female the fact that I had been waffling between Internet addiction and sex addiction -- and wondering if I could specifically address Internet sex addiction -- our teacher, Mr. Lightfoot, asked me, "Are you going to be the one who gets the reputation for choosing the sticky topics?"
I suppose so. I don't think sex gets talked about enough, I replied.
"Well," Lightfoot told me, "you've picked a good one. It's tricky because sexual addiction isn't a classification in the DSM, and there haven't been a lot of studies done about it. It's a big but generally invisible problem."
I'd think it would be hard to get people to admit to it.
"Researchers have a way of getting the information," he said. "People will tell you a lot of stuff when they know it's anonymous. It's a really big problem. .... Especially," he added, "among women in residential treatment programs. It's very dangerous."
Now *that* got my attention. Because my stereotyped thoughts about who's a sex addict and what they're doing simply did not include women in residential treatment programs. ... I'm already glad I chose the topic; I love it when my notions are disabused.
On a personal note about sex, there is now seered in my brain the most frightening image of my future bedroom, thanks to decorating suggestions from Dr. M. When I told her I was thinking of getting a sleigh bed, she proprosed it be the *only* piece of furniture in my room, that the room be painted a deep ruby red, that the bed be fitted with satiny red sheets and that there be a spotlight over the bed.
Obviously, she's thinking there must be some way to get old UCM's sex life up and roaring -- and that doing so will require gimmicks. (I hope that's not the case. *sigh*)
But upon hearing her suggestion (or her merciless teasing, depending on how I look at it) I was thinking, You forgot to mention the mirrors. And the madam coming to knock on the door to tell my tricks their time is up....
'Cause you know, sweet little me was thinking of decking out my bed with some nice floral print from April Cornell. heh.
Or something illustrating The Preludes and the oral pleasures of the Kama Sutra, which every woman should get to enjoy whether her lovers are men or women. A woman's body is something that deserves great attention and many delights. ... But I digress.
Perhaps the red sheets will be fine. But I rather think a spotlight unnecessary. And probably unflattering, as well.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
The butch-femme thing
I've got this weekly salon going with some of the women at school, and one of the topics we discussed today has been itching at my brain since I heard talk the ladies talking about it. One of the more contentious issues in gay relationships is the matter of gender roles. Not to say that gender roles aren't a problem in heterosexual relationships, but, as Dr. M pointed out, straight people fall into those roles more easily. Gays have to sort it all out amongst themselves.
This year, I attended a Superbowl party attended solely by women. Only two (if that) weren't gay. Sometime during the fourth quarter, an argument ensued. The essence of it was that within the lesbian culture, there is a preference for "butch" women, frequently (though not exclusively) defined as gals with a more masculine look and attitude about them. Femmes tend to get trashed up one side and down the other.
One of the women at the party -- I'm thinking it was one of the straight women -- said this attitude was inherently anti-woman and anti-feminist because it is a rejection of the feminine and an elevation of the masculine. Femmes, she argued, are often regarded as weak and not authentically queer because they stick to the gender roles "assigned" by the broader culture. Further, she suggested that butch lesbians are a political put-on, a powertrip on the part of women who want to milk the male gender role for its perceived social benefits. One of the more butch women in the group got her panties (her boxers?) in a wad over this and became very defensive, saying that her masculinity was an authentic representation of herself. At the same time, she claimed that femmes were just girls who want to fly below the radar and avoid the social disapproval of being gay.
Things got really heated. Even though I was in another room and no longer paying attention to the game, I got a big earful of the debate. But generally, I tried to tune it out because this topic always annoys me a little.
On the way home from the party, XGF was talking about the argument. "Wouldn't you be offended if someone said called you feminine?" she asked me.
Uh, no, I replied. I'd actually like to think there's *something* feminine about me. I *am* a woman.
XGF sighed. We've been down this road many times over the years. She's insulted when someone says she's feminine; I'm insulted when someone says I'm "butch."
I'm recalling a conversation that came up years ago in the writing group where XGF and I met. This group was composed primarily of old-school lesbians, women in their 50s. There was some scale they were all talking about -- something like a Kinsey scale, but it was ranking how butch or femme a woman is. Let's say it rates 1 as femme and 10 as butch. Most of the women were claiming something in the 7 or 8 range. They asked me how I ranked myself, and I simply replied, I don't.
I swear someone *hissed* when I said that. Then, they all started ranking me themselves, based on godonlyknows what criteria. Someone ranked me as high as a 9 (ouch!), but I think the consensus averaged me at a 7.6381 (or thereabouts). What was their criteria? My short hair? My direct manner of speaking? The fact that I don't wear makeup? I remember thinking: You people have no fucking clue who I am. But what I said was:
You can put whatever stupid ass number on me you want. I'm not going to accept it. I'm just ... *me* and nothing but *me*!
I have never been able to wrap my mind around the whole butch-femme thing in any way that allows me to accept all the stereotyping inherent in it. I do use the word "femme" as a shorthand to describe women who look feminine and sometimes use "butch" to describe women who look more masculine, but there's a big gap in the middle that is neither femme nor butch nor androgynous. They're women.
Butch and femme are divisions based on more than looks, though. There's a lot of *attitude* associated with the role-playing that goes on, such as determining who is more mentally tough, who engages in emotional "caretaking," who is the protector, the decision-maker or the one who drives the relationship. There's also that division-of-labor issue, whereby the "man" in the relationship does the yardwork or kills the spiders, while the "woman" in the relationship does the laundry or something.
All of this -- the debate about looks and the attitude about gender roles -- is what was being critiqued as anti-woman and anti-feminist by the one woman at the Superbowl party. For the record, I'm in *her* camp. I've always thought the essential element to a good lesbian relationship (aside from that *passion thing* that's been insanely missing in my life) was an egalitarian attitude. After all, here is the opportunity for women to be *who* they are, to express themselves in relationship with another in the way that suits them rather than falling into -- or being forced into -- prescribed gender roles. When two women set up house, there are no rules about who wears the apron and who weilds the hammer -- or, for that matter, does both or neither. And yet, so many lesbians eschew that opportunity by enforcing existing gender roles based on this notion of butch and femme.
I think that sucks. (How's that for erudite and thoughtful?)
All I can say for myself is that I love women. And I mean: Women.
Perhaps my biggest failing as a feminist -- and the thing which undermines my chances of finding a partner in the lesbian community -- is that I find women who look like men, who look especially masculine, to be rather unattractive. In truth, if there was a Bad Idea in my relationship with XGF, who, thanks mainly to her haircut, looked extremely masculine when we met, it's that I *tried* to get past this, to be open to *the person* rather that being concerned about appearances and sexual chemistry. Indeed, I did find a decent enough relationship that way, but it totally lacked the spark and arousal that I experience when my attention is captured by witty, intelligent women who have more feminine qualities to them. (Just what those qualities are, I can't say exactly, but I know what I like when I see it, and it *never* looks like a man.)
I'm thinking of something Dr. M told me a couple weeks ago about my dating criteria as I contemplate my future as a single woman: "Don't give up on looks," she said. "I tried that once, and it didn't stick."
I hear ya. Didn't work for me, either. ... It's just that in Dr. M's world, this kind of discrimination is acceptable: No one blames a woman for wanting a masculine man. Over here in lesbian land, though, my love of the feminine is some kind of heresy. Might as well get out the sticks and start building the bonfire now, though -- because I am, indeed, incorrigible.
This year, I attended a Superbowl party attended solely by women. Only two (if that) weren't gay. Sometime during the fourth quarter, an argument ensued. The essence of it was that within the lesbian culture, there is a preference for "butch" women, frequently (though not exclusively) defined as gals with a more masculine look and attitude about them. Femmes tend to get trashed up one side and down the other.
One of the women at the party -- I'm thinking it was one of the straight women -- said this attitude was inherently anti-woman and anti-feminist because it is a rejection of the feminine and an elevation of the masculine. Femmes, she argued, are often regarded as weak and not authentically queer because they stick to the gender roles "assigned" by the broader culture. Further, she suggested that butch lesbians are a political put-on, a powertrip on the part of women who want to milk the male gender role for its perceived social benefits. One of the more butch women in the group got her panties (her boxers?) in a wad over this and became very defensive, saying that her masculinity was an authentic representation of herself. At the same time, she claimed that femmes were just girls who want to fly below the radar and avoid the social disapproval of being gay.
Things got really heated. Even though I was in another room and no longer paying attention to the game, I got a big earful of the debate. But generally, I tried to tune it out because this topic always annoys me a little.
On the way home from the party, XGF was talking about the argument. "Wouldn't you be offended if someone said called you feminine?" she asked me.
Uh, no, I replied. I'd actually like to think there's *something* feminine about me. I *am* a woman.
XGF sighed. We've been down this road many times over the years. She's insulted when someone says she's feminine; I'm insulted when someone says I'm "butch."
I'm recalling a conversation that came up years ago in the writing group where XGF and I met. This group was composed primarily of old-school lesbians, women in their 50s. There was some scale they were all talking about -- something like a Kinsey scale, but it was ranking how butch or femme a woman is. Let's say it rates 1 as femme and 10 as butch. Most of the women were claiming something in the 7 or 8 range. They asked me how I ranked myself, and I simply replied, I don't.
I swear someone *hissed* when I said that. Then, they all started ranking me themselves, based on godonlyknows what criteria. Someone ranked me as high as a 9 (ouch!), but I think the consensus averaged me at a 7.6381 (or thereabouts). What was their criteria? My short hair? My direct manner of speaking? The fact that I don't wear makeup? I remember thinking: You people have no fucking clue who I am. But what I said was:
You can put whatever stupid ass number on me you want. I'm not going to accept it. I'm just ... *me* and nothing but *me*!
I have never been able to wrap my mind around the whole butch-femme thing in any way that allows me to accept all the stereotyping inherent in it. I do use the word "femme" as a shorthand to describe women who look feminine and sometimes use "butch" to describe women who look more masculine, but there's a big gap in the middle that is neither femme nor butch nor androgynous. They're women.
Butch and femme are divisions based on more than looks, though. There's a lot of *attitude* associated with the role-playing that goes on, such as determining who is more mentally tough, who engages in emotional "caretaking," who is the protector, the decision-maker or the one who drives the relationship. There's also that division-of-labor issue, whereby the "man" in the relationship does the yardwork or kills the spiders, while the "woman" in the relationship does the laundry or something.
All of this -- the debate about looks and the attitude about gender roles -- is what was being critiqued as anti-woman and anti-feminist by the one woman at the Superbowl party. For the record, I'm in *her* camp. I've always thought the essential element to a good lesbian relationship (aside from that *passion thing* that's been insanely missing in my life) was an egalitarian attitude. After all, here is the opportunity for women to be *who* they are, to express themselves in relationship with another in the way that suits them rather than falling into -- or being forced into -- prescribed gender roles. When two women set up house, there are no rules about who wears the apron and who weilds the hammer -- or, for that matter, does both or neither. And yet, so many lesbians eschew that opportunity by enforcing existing gender roles based on this notion of butch and femme.
I think that sucks. (How's that for erudite and thoughtful?)
All I can say for myself is that I love women. And I mean: Women.
Perhaps my biggest failing as a feminist -- and the thing which undermines my chances of finding a partner in the lesbian community -- is that I find women who look like men, who look especially masculine, to be rather unattractive. In truth, if there was a Bad Idea in my relationship with XGF, who, thanks mainly to her haircut, looked extremely masculine when we met, it's that I *tried* to get past this, to be open to *the person* rather that being concerned about appearances and sexual chemistry. Indeed, I did find a decent enough relationship that way, but it totally lacked the spark and arousal that I experience when my attention is captured by witty, intelligent women who have more feminine qualities to them. (Just what those qualities are, I can't say exactly, but I know what I like when I see it, and it *never* looks like a man.)
I'm thinking of something Dr. M told me a couple weeks ago about my dating criteria as I contemplate my future as a single woman: "Don't give up on looks," she said. "I tried that once, and it didn't stick."
I hear ya. Didn't work for me, either. ... It's just that in Dr. M's world, this kind of discrimination is acceptable: No one blames a woman for wanting a masculine man. Over here in lesbian land, though, my love of the feminine is some kind of heresy. Might as well get out the sticks and start building the bonfire now, though -- because I am, indeed, incorrigible.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
28 Days Later
All that's coming to my head these days is a scene in "28 Days Later," a little sci-fi sick-monkeys-escape-and-turn-the-Brittish-into-zombies horror flick that came out a couple of years ago.
One of the last *sane* people -- who avoided the zombie fest by virtue of being in a coma and snoozing through the fall of civilization -- walks into a church, looking for sanctuary. There on the old stone walls was scrawled some graffiti: "The end is nearly fucking nigh."
And then some monkey-infested-zombie priest comes lunging out of the choir loft or whatever and tries to *eat* our fair hero.
Well, at least life is keeping him guessing. Can't be *all* bad if that's the case, eh?
One of the last *sane* people -- who avoided the zombie fest by virtue of being in a coma and snoozing through the fall of civilization -- walks into a church, looking for sanctuary. There on the old stone walls was scrawled some graffiti: "The end is nearly fucking nigh."
And then some monkey-infested-zombie priest comes lunging out of the choir loft or whatever and tries to *eat* our fair hero.
Well, at least life is keeping him guessing. Can't be *all* bad if that's the case, eh?
More Nietzsche
It's late in the evening (I'm hearing Paul Simon sing it when I say that), and this is a crime known as WWI (writing while intoxicated). I've been out with S2, sowing the universe with stories over G&Ts at a neighborhood pub, and I'm too intoxicated to sleep. ... In fact, I could fall into a slumber in this state, but it wouldn't be a good one, and I'd wake with some kind of problem as a result. So I'm invoking Thor's cure: Stay awake long enough to take two OTC pain killers and drink two glasses of water. In the meantime, I'm killing time listening to some music on the computer and engaging in reckless WWI.
I read this recently, and I'm posting it with a little nod to Dr. M:
"Delight in blindness. -- 'My thoughts,' said the wanderer to his shadow, 'should show me where I stand; but they should not betray me where I am going. I love my ignorance of the future and do not wish to perish of impatience and of tasting promised things ahead of time.' "
It's the second annoying Nietzsche quote I've posted (from the same book) on the same day, although it's technically Sunday now. This is aphorism #287. Now, anyone who's read "The Gay Science" knows what a crackup (and anachronistic German) Nietzsche can be. But I gotta respect the guy for the useful things he penned. And this is one of them.
Why should we know the future? If I had my hand around every blessed moment before it happened, I should think myself bored. Terribly bored. So I'm dedicated to embracing the thrill of the unknown, the life less-planned, the exquisite tension of wondering what's next without demanding an answer.
I was waxing philosophic -- only slightly so -- about this with Dr. M the other day, and I simply must stress (to myself, to anyone who will listen) that it's a liberating spot from which to approach life. As we can't know the future, why should I spend my precious present trying to figure out what's next?
On a totally random note (because I am WWI...), to S2, I say this: You and I are from the same planet. Our sisters are crazy. Our mothers are in la-la land. But how wonderful for both of us that we persist and still manage to live joyfully. What creates women like us? Magic beans? ... Personally, I vote for the the ability to laugh at ourselves, at the world and at our position in time itself. (Why am I in this corner of the universe, at this place in all the eternity that proceeded me and will follow me? Ah! Don't ask WHY! ... "But it's not this random life only, throwing its sensual astonishments upside down on the back of my eyeballs...." Here is that tension between wanting meaning and knowing there is none. Best to just enjoy what we've got in The Now, eh?) Thank you for the grand time. I really needed that tonight.
With that, I have finished my second glass of water and now conclude my WWI. I bid you all a good-night. ;-}
I read this recently, and I'm posting it with a little nod to Dr. M:
"Delight in blindness. -- 'My thoughts,' said the wanderer to his shadow, 'should show me where I stand; but they should not betray me where I am going. I love my ignorance of the future and do not wish to perish of impatience and of tasting promised things ahead of time.' "
It's the second annoying Nietzsche quote I've posted (from the same book) on the same day, although it's technically Sunday now. This is aphorism #287. Now, anyone who's read "The Gay Science" knows what a crackup (and anachronistic German) Nietzsche can be. But I gotta respect the guy for the useful things he penned. And this is one of them.
Why should we know the future? If I had my hand around every blessed moment before it happened, I should think myself bored. Terribly bored. So I'm dedicated to embracing the thrill of the unknown, the life less-planned, the exquisite tension of wondering what's next without demanding an answer.
I was waxing philosophic -- only slightly so -- about this with Dr. M the other day, and I simply must stress (to myself, to anyone who will listen) that it's a liberating spot from which to approach life. As we can't know the future, why should I spend my precious present trying to figure out what's next?
On a totally random note (because I am WWI...), to S2, I say this: You and I are from the same planet. Our sisters are crazy. Our mothers are in la-la land. But how wonderful for both of us that we persist and still manage to live joyfully. What creates women like us? Magic beans? ... Personally, I vote for the the ability to laugh at ourselves, at the world and at our position in time itself. (Why am I in this corner of the universe, at this place in all the eternity that proceeded me and will follow me? Ah! Don't ask WHY! ... "But it's not this random life only, throwing its sensual astonishments upside down on the back of my eyeballs...." Here is that tension between wanting meaning and knowing there is none. Best to just enjoy what we've got in The Now, eh?) Thank you for the grand time. I really needed that tonight.
With that, I have finished my second glass of water and now conclude my WWI. I bid you all a good-night. ;-}
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Why the hell not!
"Either we have no dreams, or our dreams are interesting. We should learn to arrange our waking life in the same way: nothing or interesting." ... Nietzsche's aphorism #232 on "Dreams" from "The Gay Science."
I don't seem to have too much trouble living an "interesting" life these days.
How 'bout the rest of y'all?
I don't seem to have too much trouble living an "interesting" life these days.
How 'bout the rest of y'all?
Friday, March 10, 2006
Peru, Part 3
11 August ... Amazon
On our third day here in the jungle, we rose early to take a hike before breakfast in search of birds and monkeys. Although howler monkeys could be heard in the distance, we saw none. And though the forest is alive with bird sounds, we saw just a handful of them. I saw a blue-cheeked jacamar, but no one else in the group (besides the guide) managed to spot it before it took off. We also saw a toucan of some sort -- it was high in the canopy and little more than a silhouette.
In two hours, we saw hardly a thing -- save for the jungle itself and the leaf cutter ants' kingdom. HUGE ant hills -- 8 or 10 yards across and about 6 feet high at the apex. Many entrances, but even the ants were sleeping and didn't let themselves be seen. We did, however, see some bullet ants, which are more than an inch in size -- quite large -- and are also quite venemous. Ucil said they will not kill a human, but will cause a lot of pain and bad fevers. So we kept a respectable distance.
We hiked for two hours, mostly in circles on paths in the jungle behind the lodge. I suppose the highlight of it was our simply watching the sunrise through the trees and bring light to the jungle floor.
After breakfast, we gave fishing a try. I got one good bite, but the fish didn't get hooked. Ucil pulled in one fish, Cleever pulled in three or four, and Nick and Arnaud each pulled in one. We women, including Jenin, pulled in NOTHING. Bummer. But, like birding, I think fishing is best in earlier hours. No one caught pirhana, and Kate would really like to pull one in. I would just like to see the nasty little buggers up close. But not too close.
We returned to the lodge, where Nick bid us adieu. Then, thankfully, we got a few hours of rest. I took a delicious nap in the hammock on the back porch of our bungalow -- very cozy and just the bit of rest I needed. Kate woke me around 2 to tell me that I had another hour to sleep (thanks!), after which we would be going in search of the hoatzin. Now, *that* is a bird I was really hoping to see -- much more than I ever wanted to see the resplendant quetzal in Panama. It's a good thing I *really* wanted to see it, too, because what we did in search of that bird exceeds anything I ever imagined doing just to go look at a bird. I gather they are more easy to find in the high water when you can reach many remote places by canoe, but we did a lot of work on foot.
We took the boat upriver about 20 or 30 minutes and disembarked at a spot marked by nothing more than the tracks of a single keel in the mud. Ucil announced that Cleever would be leading the hike, as he was familiar with a way to access a hidden lake. Cleever took off at a very quick pace, and all of us trotted along behind him through the jungle. There didn't appear to be any trail whatsoever -- just the faintest hint that someone had pushed through there ahead of us (obviously, Cleever).
Through dense jungle, over downed logs, across small ponds -- one of which I slipped into and sank in muddy, scum-covered water about to my hips -- we hiked at a quick pace for about an hour. Part of it, I'm sure, was Cleever's natural speed, but the other concern was the clearly waning sunlight. At 4:15 or so, the forest was already in deep shade. Sometime around 5, we came to the edge of the forest near the lake. It was very mushy and muddy underfoot, and the lake was overgrown with vegetation -- an Amazonian version of one of the most frustrating portages I ever made in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (something that was supposed to be a lake but was really a drying swamp full of quick sand-like stuff).
Here, the nemesis was mud -- really juicy mud -- and something I've never seen before: a palm tree whose trunk is covered thickly in thorns. Thorns are an understatement. It was heavy with something akin to porcupine quills -- long, spiny and sharp -- a *whole forest* of these nasty things growing closely together. And the ground beneath them was sodden with mud and decaying wood and palm fronds, such that was easy to lose your balance. The perimiter of this brutish environment was 20-25 yards deep, and on the other side was the swampy lake. On the other side of the swamp was another stand of these nasty trees -- and therein hid the hoatzin. We could hear it making a panting sound.
Ucil tried to find a way to the lake, while Cleever went off to make noises 30 yards away in hopes of flushing the hoatzins from their roosts. A few times, he succeeded, and for a moment or two, I saw the hoatzins in flight -- their bright blue (?) and red plumage was brilliant in the light of the setting sun. Once they landed, however, we could not see them.
Cleever called out that he had a place with better access to the open space of the swamp, and he had a hoatzin in sight. We backed through the prickly woods and muddy gook and went to him. While he was making noise, he had been cutting down small trees with his machete, and he'd laid them in the mud like a little footbridge. Well, I take that back -- it wasn't like a footbridge at all -- it was just sticks laying on top of the swampy, muddy grass. He also scraped a lot of the thorns off the side of the trees so we'd have a place to push against to balance ourselves while walking on his fresh-cut balance beams. Rather ingenious. But also rather precarious. How can one adequately describe the rush of adrenalin one gets while trying to balance atop a stick lying on muddy goop at least four feet deep while surrounded very closely by trees covered in nasty thorns?
At one point, I stepped on the edge of a fallen palm from the evil trees, and when I did, I accidentally levered some of those porcupine quills into the air. They hit me in the side of my right calf, piercing not just my pants but *my boots* and dug their awful needles into my flesh. They apparently have some kind of poison on them, as well, because I have painful red bumps where each pierced my skin.
We scooted across a slippery, muddy, decaying log once we'd accessed the swampy edge of the lake, and Ucil went about finding the bird hidden in the canopy 75 yards away.
The hoatzin is a prehistoric-looking bird with peculiar *claws on the end of its wings* as a young bird (so it can crawl up the sides of trees before it has feathers to fly). Even as an adult, it has a peculiar crest atop its head. It's also a large bird -- I'm not sure of the size, but LARGE. One sat perfectly still for a good long while -- in the waning sunlight, no less -- so that all of use could enjoy a good look at it. It appeared reddish brown, with a creamy-colored band on its tail feathers. And it had that massive crest atop its head that looked like the spiked hair of a punk's mohawk.
The bird was magnificent. But equally magnificent was its location. When we were able to get through the spiny, prickly forest into the clearing made by the swamp/lake, we were treated to a really incredible bit of scenery. Verdant grasses of the swamp were ringed with a wall of palm trees -- every shade of green imaginable was on the palette. Everything in the scene, including the bird, looked prehistoric. It was if time had forgotten this place, that man had not yet crawled out of the primordial ooze, that the wilderness was completely untouched even by us as we stood there. I have never seen such a sight -- I can only hope the photos Kate got of this scene have the faintest sense of what this place in this moment was like.
We all felt like true explorers. We all were impressed with the bird. And we all were amazed by the scenery. Even Ucil, who had never been to this spot before, was commenting on its unearthly beauty.
The walk back to the boat was even more brisk than the walk out. The sun was setting, and the jungle was growing gloomier by the moment. None of us had a flashlight, so speed was our only defense against being caught uneprepared in this home of vipers and vines and tree roots. All of use tripped up or stepped in holes on the way back; I fell on my hands and knees once when tripping over some stub of a tree. Fortunately, the forest floor is covered in so much decaying material that it's a soft landing. We all hurried back to the boat and got there just in time to avoid the darkness.
The hike was muggy and fast-paced, and we were all sweating buckets, but by its end, none of us felt especially tired. I think the destination and the hoatzin were both so spectacular that it made it impossible for us to feel tired -- it was very energizing. We all really enjoyed it. I could've done without falling down and without falling into the pond (and the *pond scum*), but then, this is the Amazon. It's not supposed to be easy by any stretch of the imagination. We are humans on Nature's territory -- not the other way around. This is the truth all the world over, but a place like the Amazon crystalizes that knowledge pretty well for you.
On our third day here in the jungle, we rose early to take a hike before breakfast in search of birds and monkeys. Although howler monkeys could be heard in the distance, we saw none. And though the forest is alive with bird sounds, we saw just a handful of them. I saw a blue-cheeked jacamar, but no one else in the group (besides the guide) managed to spot it before it took off. We also saw a toucan of some sort -- it was high in the canopy and little more than a silhouette.
In two hours, we saw hardly a thing -- save for the jungle itself and the leaf cutter ants' kingdom. HUGE ant hills -- 8 or 10 yards across and about 6 feet high at the apex. Many entrances, but even the ants were sleeping and didn't let themselves be seen. We did, however, see some bullet ants, which are more than an inch in size -- quite large -- and are also quite venemous. Ucil said they will not kill a human, but will cause a lot of pain and bad fevers. So we kept a respectable distance.
We hiked for two hours, mostly in circles on paths in the jungle behind the lodge. I suppose the highlight of it was our simply watching the sunrise through the trees and bring light to the jungle floor.
After breakfast, we gave fishing a try. I got one good bite, but the fish didn't get hooked. Ucil pulled in one fish, Cleever pulled in three or four, and Nick and Arnaud each pulled in one. We women, including Jenin, pulled in NOTHING. Bummer. But, like birding, I think fishing is best in earlier hours. No one caught pirhana, and Kate would really like to pull one in. I would just like to see the nasty little buggers up close. But not too close.
We returned to the lodge, where Nick bid us adieu. Then, thankfully, we got a few hours of rest. I took a delicious nap in the hammock on the back porch of our bungalow -- very cozy and just the bit of rest I needed. Kate woke me around 2 to tell me that I had another hour to sleep (thanks!), after which we would be going in search of the hoatzin. Now, *that* is a bird I was really hoping to see -- much more than I ever wanted to see the resplendant quetzal in Panama. It's a good thing I *really* wanted to see it, too, because what we did in search of that bird exceeds anything I ever imagined doing just to go look at a bird. I gather they are more easy to find in the high water when you can reach many remote places by canoe, but we did a lot of work on foot.
We took the boat upriver about 20 or 30 minutes and disembarked at a spot marked by nothing more than the tracks of a single keel in the mud. Ucil announced that Cleever would be leading the hike, as he was familiar with a way to access a hidden lake. Cleever took off at a very quick pace, and all of us trotted along behind him through the jungle. There didn't appear to be any trail whatsoever -- just the faintest hint that someone had pushed through there ahead of us (obviously, Cleever).
Through dense jungle, over downed logs, across small ponds -- one of which I slipped into and sank in muddy, scum-covered water about to my hips -- we hiked at a quick pace for about an hour. Part of it, I'm sure, was Cleever's natural speed, but the other concern was the clearly waning sunlight. At 4:15 or so, the forest was already in deep shade. Sometime around 5, we came to the edge of the forest near the lake. It was very mushy and muddy underfoot, and the lake was overgrown with vegetation -- an Amazonian version of one of the most frustrating portages I ever made in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (something that was supposed to be a lake but was really a drying swamp full of quick sand-like stuff).
Here, the nemesis was mud -- really juicy mud -- and something I've never seen before: a palm tree whose trunk is covered thickly in thorns. Thorns are an understatement. It was heavy with something akin to porcupine quills -- long, spiny and sharp -- a *whole forest* of these nasty things growing closely together. And the ground beneath them was sodden with mud and decaying wood and palm fronds, such that was easy to lose your balance. The perimiter of this brutish environment was 20-25 yards deep, and on the other side was the swampy lake. On the other side of the swamp was another stand of these nasty trees -- and therein hid the hoatzin. We could hear it making a panting sound.
Ucil tried to find a way to the lake, while Cleever went off to make noises 30 yards away in hopes of flushing the hoatzins from their roosts. A few times, he succeeded, and for a moment or two, I saw the hoatzins in flight -- their bright blue (?) and red plumage was brilliant in the light of the setting sun. Once they landed, however, we could not see them.
Cleever called out that he had a place with better access to the open space of the swamp, and he had a hoatzin in sight. We backed through the prickly woods and muddy gook and went to him. While he was making noise, he had been cutting down small trees with his machete, and he'd laid them in the mud like a little footbridge. Well, I take that back -- it wasn't like a footbridge at all -- it was just sticks laying on top of the swampy, muddy grass. He also scraped a lot of the thorns off the side of the trees so we'd have a place to push against to balance ourselves while walking on his fresh-cut balance beams. Rather ingenious. But also rather precarious. How can one adequately describe the rush of adrenalin one gets while trying to balance atop a stick lying on muddy goop at least four feet deep while surrounded very closely by trees covered in nasty thorns?
At one point, I stepped on the edge of a fallen palm from the evil trees, and when I did, I accidentally levered some of those porcupine quills into the air. They hit me in the side of my right calf, piercing not just my pants but *my boots* and dug their awful needles into my flesh. They apparently have some kind of poison on them, as well, because I have painful red bumps where each pierced my skin.
We scooted across a slippery, muddy, decaying log once we'd accessed the swampy edge of the lake, and Ucil went about finding the bird hidden in the canopy 75 yards away.
The hoatzin is a prehistoric-looking bird with peculiar *claws on the end of its wings* as a young bird (so it can crawl up the sides of trees before it has feathers to fly). Even as an adult, it has a peculiar crest atop its head. It's also a large bird -- I'm not sure of the size, but LARGE. One sat perfectly still for a good long while -- in the waning sunlight, no less -- so that all of use could enjoy a good look at it. It appeared reddish brown, with a creamy-colored band on its tail feathers. And it had that massive crest atop its head that looked like the spiked hair of a punk's mohawk.
The bird was magnificent. But equally magnificent was its location. When we were able to get through the spiny, prickly forest into the clearing made by the swamp/lake, we were treated to a really incredible bit of scenery. Verdant grasses of the swamp were ringed with a wall of palm trees -- every shade of green imaginable was on the palette. Everything in the scene, including the bird, looked prehistoric. It was if time had forgotten this place, that man had not yet crawled out of the primordial ooze, that the wilderness was completely untouched even by us as we stood there. I have never seen such a sight -- I can only hope the photos Kate got of this scene have the faintest sense of what this place in this moment was like.
We all felt like true explorers. We all were impressed with the bird. And we all were amazed by the scenery. Even Ucil, who had never been to this spot before, was commenting on its unearthly beauty.
The walk back to the boat was even more brisk than the walk out. The sun was setting, and the jungle was growing gloomier by the moment. None of us had a flashlight, so speed was our only defense against being caught uneprepared in this home of vipers and vines and tree roots. All of use tripped up or stepped in holes on the way back; I fell on my hands and knees once when tripping over some stub of a tree. Fortunately, the forest floor is covered in so much decaying material that it's a soft landing. We all hurried back to the boat and got there just in time to avoid the darkness.
The hike was muggy and fast-paced, and we were all sweating buckets, but by its end, none of us felt especially tired. I think the destination and the hoatzin were both so spectacular that it made it impossible for us to feel tired -- it was very energizing. We all really enjoyed it. I could've done without falling down and without falling into the pond (and the *pond scum*), but then, this is the Amazon. It's not supposed to be easy by any stretch of the imagination. We are humans on Nature's territory -- not the other way around. This is the truth all the world over, but a place like the Amazon crystalizes that knowledge pretty well for you.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
The episode in which I ask: "Who *is* this woman?"
So last week, I have lunch with Red, and I break the news to her that GF and I are splitting. Red and her husband, Mr. Clean, are regulars on our social calendar. GF has known Mr. Clean for 10 years, starting under rather peculiar circumstances. In an unrelated situation, I did five years hard labor in Corporate America with Red. So it was natural that we'd start socializing. They come over for dinner; we go over for dinner; they come over for dinner; it's been quite the volley match.
Over sushi, I tell Red the Whole Story, the *official* story that GF wants me to tell our friends -- plus the bit about me and my quixotic pursuit of passion, such as it is. Red sits with her mouth open for a minute, then responds the way she *almost* always has: with humor, compassion and a recommitment to her belief that I'm utterly incorrigible. We've eaten lunch together countless times, and just about every time, there's something notable that comes up in the conversation. But the punch line to *this* meal was so outrageously unexpected, that I was a little taken aback.
"Well, since you and GF are breaking up, I guess I can tell you this now," Red says. "Mr. Clean has many times over the past several years said something to me about GF that ... Well, OK, he said, 'UCM, there's *no question* she's gay. But GF? I just don't think she is. I wouldn't be surprised if they broke up some day and GF started to date men.' It's just something Mr. Clean has been thinking for a long time. What do you think about that?"
Exactly *why* does Mr. Clean lable *me* gay and *not* GF?
"I don't know," Red said. "It's just his instinct."
Straight people. ... Perhaps some of my straight friends -- and those who are a bit queer but living the straight life -- can tell me what the hell this is all about? Anyone?
But wait! That's not the end of the story!
So, the other evening, near-xGF and I are engaged in yet *another* discussion about this divorce situation, when n-xGF says, -- out of the blue! -- "I hope you won't be surprised or bothered if ... well ... if I date a man after we're all broken up."
Have you been talking to Mr. Clean? I asked.
"Not since the party," she says. "Why?"
I had the weirdest conversation with Red the other day, I reply. She told me Mr. Clean thought you might just do that. He's apparently thought so for years.
"Huh, that's *weird,*" n-xGF says. "I wonder why he would think that?"
Well, apparently *you* are not necessarily gay in his mind. But, get this, *I* am unquestionably gay. Then, I think for a minute and say, What do you *mean* you're going to date men? Where did *that* come from?
"I don't know," she says. "I was just thinking...."
So this is where I ask: Who *is* this woman? Six and a half years together, and there's not a peep about being anything other than gay. Now, suddenly, it's part of our breaking up. It's just ... odd.
It's important to note some things here:
First, I never have and don't expect I ever will give a good goddamn who my xGFs date after we've gone our separate ways. What business is that of mine?
Second, despite Anne Heche (which I say in the same tone that Anne Frank might say, "Despite the Nazis...") I find it impossible to be condemning of bisexuals. Enjoyable sex (depressing when it's anything else, I can tell you) is a great spark no matter which consenting adult is putting it to you. I mean, to each our own.
But I gotta ask: What's up with Mr. Clean? Why am I so unquestionably gay? Is it my willingness, even without intoxicants, to objectify Halle Berry (yummy!) (or Helen Hunt when prodded)? Was it the Angelina Jolie as Laura Croft screensaver I had at work? Is it the way he saw me take a woman's coat at my Mardi Gras party? It's hard to say. But, c'mon! Somewhere in here lies some stinking stereotype.
And I gotta ask n-xGF: It really ain't my business, but ... Say WHAT?
Over sushi, I tell Red the Whole Story, the *official* story that GF wants me to tell our friends -- plus the bit about me and my quixotic pursuit of passion, such as it is. Red sits with her mouth open for a minute, then responds the way she *almost* always has: with humor, compassion and a recommitment to her belief that I'm utterly incorrigible. We've eaten lunch together countless times, and just about every time, there's something notable that comes up in the conversation. But the punch line to *this* meal was so outrageously unexpected, that I was a little taken aback.
"Well, since you and GF are breaking up, I guess I can tell you this now," Red says. "Mr. Clean has many times over the past several years said something to me about GF that ... Well, OK, he said, 'UCM, there's *no question* she's gay. But GF? I just don't think she is. I wouldn't be surprised if they broke up some day and GF started to date men.' It's just something Mr. Clean has been thinking for a long time. What do you think about that?"
Exactly *why* does Mr. Clean lable *me* gay and *not* GF?
"I don't know," Red said. "It's just his instinct."
Straight people. ... Perhaps some of my straight friends -- and those who are a bit queer but living the straight life -- can tell me what the hell this is all about? Anyone?
But wait! That's not the end of the story!
So, the other evening, near-xGF and I are engaged in yet *another* discussion about this divorce situation, when n-xGF says, -- out of the blue! -- "I hope you won't be surprised or bothered if ... well ... if I date a man after we're all broken up."
Have you been talking to Mr. Clean? I asked.
"Not since the party," she says. "Why?"
I had the weirdest conversation with Red the other day, I reply. She told me Mr. Clean thought you might just do that. He's apparently thought so for years.
"Huh, that's *weird,*" n-xGF says. "I wonder why he would think that?"
Well, apparently *you* are not necessarily gay in his mind. But, get this, *I* am unquestionably gay. Then, I think for a minute and say, What do you *mean* you're going to date men? Where did *that* come from?
"I don't know," she says. "I was just thinking...."
So this is where I ask: Who *is* this woman? Six and a half years together, and there's not a peep about being anything other than gay. Now, suddenly, it's part of our breaking up. It's just ... odd.
It's important to note some things here:
First, I never have and don't expect I ever will give a good goddamn who my xGFs date after we've gone our separate ways. What business is that of mine?
Second, despite Anne Heche (which I say in the same tone that Anne Frank might say, "Despite the Nazis...") I find it impossible to be condemning of bisexuals. Enjoyable sex (depressing when it's anything else, I can tell you) is a great spark no matter which consenting adult is putting it to you. I mean, to each our own.
But I gotta ask: What's up with Mr. Clean? Why am I so unquestionably gay? Is it my willingness, even without intoxicants, to objectify Halle Berry (yummy!) (or Helen Hunt when prodded)? Was it the Angelina Jolie as Laura Croft screensaver I had at work? Is it the way he saw me take a woman's coat at my Mardi Gras party? It's hard to say. But, c'mon! Somewhere in here lies some stinking stereotype.
And I gotta ask n-xGF: It really ain't my business, but ... Say WHAT?
Petty thing
So, this happens from time to time to all of us, but I just want to issue a big old WTF?
I'm sitting in traffic. Got only one lane I can drive in because, well, there's only ONE LANE. And the state-owned vehicle in front of me has this big bright orange sign on the back: "This vehicle makes many stops. Do not follow."
Like I have any other choice. If you don't want me to follow you, don't drive on one-lane streets!
I'm sitting in traffic. Got only one lane I can drive in because, well, there's only ONE LANE. And the state-owned vehicle in front of me has this big bright orange sign on the back: "This vehicle makes many stops. Do not follow."
Like I have any other choice. If you don't want me to follow you, don't drive on one-lane streets!
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
More from Peru
Iquitos ... 8 Aug.
We saw the Amazon River for the first time this morning. Two blocks from our hotel, there is a boardwalk with stone railing, benches and a grand sense to it. The boardwalk is on a bluff perhaps 50 feet above the flood plain for the river. It's the dry season, so the Amazon is a good distance from the city. Its banks are broad and covered in green grasses dotted with trees. To the south, the barrio of Belen, a floating villiage sometimes called the Venice of South America, is visible in the distance.
Altogether, the view seemed like something I've seen before -- some exotic, wild, pastoral and vivid scene that already existed in my brain. I don't recall every seeing a photo of this place, but the scene was so incredibly familiar that I must have seen something similar before. The flood plain was huge, the river off in the distance, dotted with large islands and all sorts of twists and tributaries.
Kate and I walked along the boardwalk for several blocks, then winded our way back toward the Plaza de Armas. On every street was a swarm of the mototaxis or tuk-tuks or whatever they're called -- the motorcycles with the passenger carts on back. Soemthing about the atmosphere -- these tuk-tuks racing up and down the streets without regard to the idea of lands -- made both of us feel a little giddy. It's hard to describe the feeling, but we were really enjoying ourselves.
It's hot and sticky and lout and a touch chaotic here, but I'd say we both like it a lot.
After a loop around the Plaza, we headed back to the waterfront to visit a "museum," which appears to be a functioning government building. We looked at some statues of native people from tribes here -- made of plaster casts of actual people -- and some photos of old Iquitos. We sat for a spell in the courtyard, and a policeman came up and started talking to us. He asked us where we were from and then proceeded to go on at great length about a variety of topics in Spanish that I could barely follow. As far as I could tell, he told us something about the white people needing shoes in the jungle where the tribal people don't need them, something about Columbia collapsing because of the drug trade, something about how the Indians hunt and something about the height of most Indians compared to the one tall statue of a chief in the courtyard.
Just as I did this morning when an African-American woman named Orchidy told us about prostelytizing tbe "word of god" to "untouched" peoples in the jungle, I acted like I understood what he was saying and was impressed by it. We gave him a postcard of Cape Foulweather to thank him for his exuberant sharing of information. We were just about to extract ourselves from the coversation and leave the building when a guide showed up and somehow swooped Kata and me and a man from Colorado into a "tour group" (only the three of us). So we ended up paying about $8 for the privilege of seeing the statues *again* -- this time with a *little* interpretation. But the upside was that we were ushered into a room where previously we had spied some kind of government meeting going on. It was empty in there, and the guide asked us to sit at the table -- apparently, it was the meeting room for the govenor of Lareto, *department* of Lareto. We sat in ornate mahogany chairs with plush velvet cushions and had photos taken -- a fun little diversion.
Later, after returning to the hotel to cool off for a few minutes, we went to luch at a great local Peruvian restaurant near the hotel. Yummy chicken and pork and ceviche and some kind of jungle fruit juice -- a whole pitcher of it.All it all, it cost us about 22 soles, $7 or $8. Very good food for that price.
We spend the hot afternoon in a bar drinking cyperingas (spell?), some kind of Brazilian drink Kate brought home aftera a business trip. The bartended jammed the class with limes and the liquor and ice, and we drank that nice refreshing beverage and wrote postcards. Afterward, we paid for tomorrow's trip to the lodge and met Carolina, whom I've been e-mailing at Muyuna.
We returned to the hotel for another *brief* sietsta, then headed out to the artisans market in San Juan. We bought a few trinkets, but the notable moment came when one woman shop owner pulled a baby sloth out of a piece of potter and showed it to us. Kate wanted to photograph it, and the woman was happy to oblige -- by handing the sloth to *me!* It was a small, furry thing with very sharp claws that had a good grip on my fingers. Kate popped off photos while I stood there squirming a bit like someone hoding a stinking baby covered in poop or something -- away from me and a bit scared looking, I guess. I wasn't scary, but it was hurting my finger a little bit. And I feared getting leshmaniasis from it, to tell the truth. Her photos will probably be funny if they have enough light in them -- it is an outdoor market, and it was dark by then.
We took a tuk-tuk to get to the market and back. It was about $1 each way. The rides were fun. It is one thing to look at the chaos of the tuk-tuk and motorcycle traffic from the sidewalk, but altogether different to be in the middle of it as a passenger. I'm not sure how they avoid wrecks, but the experience felt both safe and thrilling. I'm sure the thrilling part was the newness of this mode of transportation, but I felt much safer than I -- or most people I know -- would expect. Very fun. And nice to have a breeze, even if it came covered in gas fumes.
10 August ... Amazon Jungle
This is our second night in the Amazon. If I were a truly *dedicated* journalist, I would've written last night at length about our experiences in this amazing and vast wilderness.
But, as luck would have it, the jinx I seem to have with boating activities -- specifically, getting INTO the boat -- was plaguing me yesterday. Upon our departure from Iquitos to come up to Muyuna lodge here, I lost my balance trying to board the boat -- trying to take a step up something that was at about hip level. And in front of 8 other guests, the guides, driver and dozens of jungle boat crews down at the boat launch, I fell on my ass in the mud -- and almost took my head out on the bow of another boat to boot. I did not feel like writing yesterday, not only because I was in somewhat poor spirits from the experience but because my lower back was aching something fierce. I was in a good bit of pain all day, all night and into today. Sitting in a boat on a seat similar to the cheap bleachers in a stadium is no way to cure and aching lower back.
And the situation was only compounded by the machismo of the guides, who decided -- I guess -- to interpret my mishap as a sign that I am a clumsy, feeble tourist who is in over her head in this dense and hard jungle. One insisted on treating me like a grandmother and holding my hand and saying things like, "This way, madame" or "Step here, madame" even to walk up a hillside or up some stairs from the dock. The other -- Ucil -- the guide we've been assigned actually asked me if it was going to be a problem for me to canoe for two hours (downstream!) in a dugout in which four or five other people would be paddling. I felt like saying to him, Three weeks of paddling 8 to 10 hours a day in the mosquito-infested North Woods is not too much for me, sir. Why would you even *ask* me a question like that? But I simply said, My back is bothering me, it's true. But I really don't think it will be a problem. And I am a very good canoeist.
These kinds of humiliations and difficulties and pains aside, this has been an intriguing and other-worldly experience thus far. This jungle, this rain forest, is massive beyond comparison. Iquitos is hundreds of miles into it but is only at one "end" of it. We took a boat upstream 80 or 90 miles yesterday -- four hours of non-stop (nearly) motoring -- the last two in a smaller boat that can pass through the narrow mouth of the Yanuyacu River even when the waters are receeding here in the dry season. The Amazon itself is low -- you can see the channel it cuts during the high season, and it's dozens of feet below that level now. But, beyond that, the river floods the flat land on either side sometimes for miles and miles. You can see the water marks on the barks of trees that are partially submerged in the high water season. Although I hear the mosquitos are incredibly miserably at that time of year, especially April and May, I'd like to come back to the river in high water and see how different it is.
After our 4-hour journey, we ate lunch at the lodge and then went on another boat excursion to "look for anything that moves." Kate is keeping a list, and I will record the full list at the end of this trip. In brief, there were quite a few birds -- egrets, hawks, kingfishers of several sorts -- and a couple monkeys. We returned to the lodge to shower and clean up before dinner, then in the evening, we went out on a night excursion in the boat, where we saw several sloths and an Amazon boa constrictor way up in the treetops. I'm sure all this sitting in boads has only made the muscle injury from my fall all the worse.
This morning we took that paddle -- two hours down the Yanayacu to its connection with the Amazon. There is a village at the junction -- Ayachuco is the name, I think. While we were there waiting for our lunch to be cooked, we walked around the village and saw the manner in which people lived. It goes beyond calling it "rustic." They live in houses made of roughly hewn tree trucks (as stilts), atop which most have layered thin, straight branches to make a floor. These are covered with the thatched roofs of palm trees. They are similar to the construction we saw in Panama, but most of the houses in Panama were constructed of plank floros and had walls. These had no walls. Only open air, with the entire family sharing the space of one big platform.
Ucil made a point of noting that sex is not taboo. How could it be in these conditions? There is absolutely *no* privacy. In fact, as we stood outside the house talking, we might as well have been standing IN it -- so open was the architecture. Ucil gave us some insight into the marriage customs -- how local tribes get together for a big soccer match to let single people check out their options -- and some information about the schooling and the life cycle of the kids and families.
After lunch, we got into the boat and again went in the Amazon, looking for pink river dolphins. I had seen one the day before when we were boating up here, but no one else had seen it. We did see them -- and the gray dolphins -- today.
And then, much to Kate's delight, we all took a plunge into that great mythic river and swam in the Amazon. Of course, this is unforgettable in its own right. A memory to be shared among those exotic moments that may never find us again. The water, brown and silty, was the most refreshing temperature. Neither cold nor warm, but it was a great way to soothe the heat from our skin, as the sun on the water is very intense and we'd been in the boat for a couple hours today. But it is also just the thrill of being in a situation so ... well ... the funny thing is the urge to compare it to anything else. It is swimming in the Amazon River. It is being in the Amazon basin and being hot and tired and sweaty and covered with dirt from walking around the local village and applying so much sunscreen and bug spray that you're not sure where your skin is anymore -- then jumping over the side of a dugout peki-peki (a motorized dugout -- we had transferred to a slightly larger boat at the village so we could handle the currents). And it is closing your mouth so you don't swallow the silt, the bacteria, the parasites -- the exotic bugs -- and feeling that nice cool water envelope you. Then, it is having little fish come suck at you, curious if you are edible. And it is wondering just what was that thing which brushed up against you just then. It is finding salvation from the hot sun and the muggy air for a few minutes. *That* is swimming in the Amazon. It shouldn't be compared to anyting else by way of explaining what it is like to be in such a mythic body of water. This will probably be the "swimming flag" that Kate and I will be most thrilled to place on our travel map at home.
After our swim, we were heading back up river toward the mouth of the Yanuyacu when the motor on the peki-peki went out. Suddenly, there we all were -- me, Kate, two Dutch people named Jenin and Arnaud and an adventure travel guide writer named Nick, Ucil and the driver, Cleever -- adrift on the Amazon with only *one* paddle. The current in the river is strong, and I don't know that this one paddle could've even gotten us to shore. Fortunately, another group from the lodge had taken a similar trip -- no canoeing, no village -- to see the dolphins and were downstream of us. About half an hour later, they came along and one 15 HP little peki-peki motor towed our boats -- first as a flotilla, then as a direct tow -- back to the lodge. This was a difficult task, as the Yanuyacu's mouth is narrow and quite shallow in the dry season. We got stuck several times, and the swift current we were going against made the going *very slow.* It was three hours from the time they rescued us until we got back to the lodge, probably a journey of 45 minutes or an hour in a properly powered boat that isn't loaded with goods in addition to its passengers.
Darkness fell, the mosquitos came out, Cleever took a serious interest in my marital status (Thank god for the "boyfriends," Thor & Bob, who are "surfing in Mancora" while Kate and I visit the jungle), as well as wanting to know all about my plans for childbirth (soon, I told him). But Cleever also found something for me in the darkness. I asked, and he happily pointed out the Southern Cross. There it was. My first time to see the Southern Cross. And in the Amazon to boot.
We saw the Amazon River for the first time this morning. Two blocks from our hotel, there is a boardwalk with stone railing, benches and a grand sense to it. The boardwalk is on a bluff perhaps 50 feet above the flood plain for the river. It's the dry season, so the Amazon is a good distance from the city. Its banks are broad and covered in green grasses dotted with trees. To the south, the barrio of Belen, a floating villiage sometimes called the Venice of South America, is visible in the distance.
Altogether, the view seemed like something I've seen before -- some exotic, wild, pastoral and vivid scene that already existed in my brain. I don't recall every seeing a photo of this place, but the scene was so incredibly familiar that I must have seen something similar before. The flood plain was huge, the river off in the distance, dotted with large islands and all sorts of twists and tributaries.
Kate and I walked along the boardwalk for several blocks, then winded our way back toward the Plaza de Armas. On every street was a swarm of the mototaxis or tuk-tuks or whatever they're called -- the motorcycles with the passenger carts on back. Soemthing about the atmosphere -- these tuk-tuks racing up and down the streets without regard to the idea of lands -- made both of us feel a little giddy. It's hard to describe the feeling, but we were really enjoying ourselves.
It's hot and sticky and lout and a touch chaotic here, but I'd say we both like it a lot.
After a loop around the Plaza, we headed back to the waterfront to visit a "museum," which appears to be a functioning government building. We looked at some statues of native people from tribes here -- made of plaster casts of actual people -- and some photos of old Iquitos. We sat for a spell in the courtyard, and a policeman came up and started talking to us. He asked us where we were from and then proceeded to go on at great length about a variety of topics in Spanish that I could barely follow. As far as I could tell, he told us something about the white people needing shoes in the jungle where the tribal people don't need them, something about Columbia collapsing because of the drug trade, something about how the Indians hunt and something about the height of most Indians compared to the one tall statue of a chief in the courtyard.
Just as I did this morning when an African-American woman named Orchidy told us about prostelytizing tbe "word of god" to "untouched" peoples in the jungle, I acted like I understood what he was saying and was impressed by it. We gave him a postcard of Cape Foulweather to thank him for his exuberant sharing of information. We were just about to extract ourselves from the coversation and leave the building when a guide showed up and somehow swooped Kata and me and a man from Colorado into a "tour group" (only the three of us). So we ended up paying about $8 for the privilege of seeing the statues *again* -- this time with a *little* interpretation. But the upside was that we were ushered into a room where previously we had spied some kind of government meeting going on. It was empty in there, and the guide asked us to sit at the table -- apparently, it was the meeting room for the govenor of Lareto, *department* of Lareto. We sat in ornate mahogany chairs with plush velvet cushions and had photos taken -- a fun little diversion.
Later, after returning to the hotel to cool off for a few minutes, we went to luch at a great local Peruvian restaurant near the hotel. Yummy chicken and pork and ceviche and some kind of jungle fruit juice -- a whole pitcher of it.All it all, it cost us about 22 soles, $7 or $8. Very good food for that price.
We spend the hot afternoon in a bar drinking cyperingas (spell?), some kind of Brazilian drink Kate brought home aftera a business trip. The bartended jammed the class with limes and the liquor and ice, and we drank that nice refreshing beverage and wrote postcards. Afterward, we paid for tomorrow's trip to the lodge and met Carolina, whom I've been e-mailing at Muyuna.
We returned to the hotel for another *brief* sietsta, then headed out to the artisans market in San Juan. We bought a few trinkets, but the notable moment came when one woman shop owner pulled a baby sloth out of a piece of potter and showed it to us. Kate wanted to photograph it, and the woman was happy to oblige -- by handing the sloth to *me!* It was a small, furry thing with very sharp claws that had a good grip on my fingers. Kate popped off photos while I stood there squirming a bit like someone hoding a stinking baby covered in poop or something -- away from me and a bit scared looking, I guess. I wasn't scary, but it was hurting my finger a little bit. And I feared getting leshmaniasis from it, to tell the truth. Her photos will probably be funny if they have enough light in them -- it is an outdoor market, and it was dark by then.
We took a tuk-tuk to get to the market and back. It was about $1 each way. The rides were fun. It is one thing to look at the chaos of the tuk-tuk and motorcycle traffic from the sidewalk, but altogether different to be in the middle of it as a passenger. I'm not sure how they avoid wrecks, but the experience felt both safe and thrilling. I'm sure the thrilling part was the newness of this mode of transportation, but I felt much safer than I -- or most people I know -- would expect. Very fun. And nice to have a breeze, even if it came covered in gas fumes.
10 August ... Amazon Jungle
This is our second night in the Amazon. If I were a truly *dedicated* journalist, I would've written last night at length about our experiences in this amazing and vast wilderness.
But, as luck would have it, the jinx I seem to have with boating activities -- specifically, getting INTO the boat -- was plaguing me yesterday. Upon our departure from Iquitos to come up to Muyuna lodge here, I lost my balance trying to board the boat -- trying to take a step up something that was at about hip level. And in front of 8 other guests, the guides, driver and dozens of jungle boat crews down at the boat launch, I fell on my ass in the mud -- and almost took my head out on the bow of another boat to boot. I did not feel like writing yesterday, not only because I was in somewhat poor spirits from the experience but because my lower back was aching something fierce. I was in a good bit of pain all day, all night and into today. Sitting in a boat on a seat similar to the cheap bleachers in a stadium is no way to cure and aching lower back.
And the situation was only compounded by the machismo of the guides, who decided -- I guess -- to interpret my mishap as a sign that I am a clumsy, feeble tourist who is in over her head in this dense and hard jungle. One insisted on treating me like a grandmother and holding my hand and saying things like, "This way, madame" or "Step here, madame" even to walk up a hillside or up some stairs from the dock. The other -- Ucil -- the guide we've been assigned actually asked me if it was going to be a problem for me to canoe for two hours (downstream!) in a dugout in which four or five other people would be paddling. I felt like saying to him, Three weeks of paddling 8 to 10 hours a day in the mosquito-infested North Woods is not too much for me, sir. Why would you even *ask* me a question like that? But I simply said, My back is bothering me, it's true. But I really don't think it will be a problem. And I am a very good canoeist.
These kinds of humiliations and difficulties and pains aside, this has been an intriguing and other-worldly experience thus far. This jungle, this rain forest, is massive beyond comparison. Iquitos is hundreds of miles into it but is only at one "end" of it. We took a boat upstream 80 or 90 miles yesterday -- four hours of non-stop (nearly) motoring -- the last two in a smaller boat that can pass through the narrow mouth of the Yanuyacu River even when the waters are receeding here in the dry season. The Amazon itself is low -- you can see the channel it cuts during the high season, and it's dozens of feet below that level now. But, beyond that, the river floods the flat land on either side sometimes for miles and miles. You can see the water marks on the barks of trees that are partially submerged in the high water season. Although I hear the mosquitos are incredibly miserably at that time of year, especially April and May, I'd like to come back to the river in high water and see how different it is.
After our 4-hour journey, we ate lunch at the lodge and then went on another boat excursion to "look for anything that moves." Kate is keeping a list, and I will record the full list at the end of this trip. In brief, there were quite a few birds -- egrets, hawks, kingfishers of several sorts -- and a couple monkeys. We returned to the lodge to shower and clean up before dinner, then in the evening, we went out on a night excursion in the boat, where we saw several sloths and an Amazon boa constrictor way up in the treetops. I'm sure all this sitting in boads has only made the muscle injury from my fall all the worse.
This morning we took that paddle -- two hours down the Yanayacu to its connection with the Amazon. There is a village at the junction -- Ayachuco is the name, I think. While we were there waiting for our lunch to be cooked, we walked around the village and saw the manner in which people lived. It goes beyond calling it "rustic." They live in houses made of roughly hewn tree trucks (as stilts), atop which most have layered thin, straight branches to make a floor. These are covered with the thatched roofs of palm trees. They are similar to the construction we saw in Panama, but most of the houses in Panama were constructed of plank floros and had walls. These had no walls. Only open air, with the entire family sharing the space of one big platform.
Ucil made a point of noting that sex is not taboo. How could it be in these conditions? There is absolutely *no* privacy. In fact, as we stood outside the house talking, we might as well have been standing IN it -- so open was the architecture. Ucil gave us some insight into the marriage customs -- how local tribes get together for a big soccer match to let single people check out their options -- and some information about the schooling and the life cycle of the kids and families.
After lunch, we got into the boat and again went in the Amazon, looking for pink river dolphins. I had seen one the day before when we were boating up here, but no one else had seen it. We did see them -- and the gray dolphins -- today.
And then, much to Kate's delight, we all took a plunge into that great mythic river and swam in the Amazon. Of course, this is unforgettable in its own right. A memory to be shared among those exotic moments that may never find us again. The water, brown and silty, was the most refreshing temperature. Neither cold nor warm, but it was a great way to soothe the heat from our skin, as the sun on the water is very intense and we'd been in the boat for a couple hours today. But it is also just the thrill of being in a situation so ... well ... the funny thing is the urge to compare it to anything else. It is swimming in the Amazon River. It is being in the Amazon basin and being hot and tired and sweaty and covered with dirt from walking around the local village and applying so much sunscreen and bug spray that you're not sure where your skin is anymore -- then jumping over the side of a dugout peki-peki (a motorized dugout -- we had transferred to a slightly larger boat at the village so we could handle the currents). And it is closing your mouth so you don't swallow the silt, the bacteria, the parasites -- the exotic bugs -- and feeling that nice cool water envelope you. Then, it is having little fish come suck at you, curious if you are edible. And it is wondering just what was that thing which brushed up against you just then. It is finding salvation from the hot sun and the muggy air for a few minutes. *That* is swimming in the Amazon. It shouldn't be compared to anyting else by way of explaining what it is like to be in such a mythic body of water. This will probably be the "swimming flag" that Kate and I will be most thrilled to place on our travel map at home.
After our swim, we were heading back up river toward the mouth of the Yanuyacu when the motor on the peki-peki went out. Suddenly, there we all were -- me, Kate, two Dutch people named Jenin and Arnaud and an adventure travel guide writer named Nick, Ucil and the driver, Cleever -- adrift on the Amazon with only *one* paddle. The current in the river is strong, and I don't know that this one paddle could've even gotten us to shore. Fortunately, another group from the lodge had taken a similar trip -- no canoeing, no village -- to see the dolphins and were downstream of us. About half an hour later, they came along and one 15 HP little peki-peki motor towed our boats -- first as a flotilla, then as a direct tow -- back to the lodge. This was a difficult task, as the Yanuyacu's mouth is narrow and quite shallow in the dry season. We got stuck several times, and the swift current we were going against made the going *very slow.* It was three hours from the time they rescued us until we got back to the lodge, probably a journey of 45 minutes or an hour in a properly powered boat that isn't loaded with goods in addition to its passengers.
Darkness fell, the mosquitos came out, Cleever took a serious interest in my marital status (Thank god for the "boyfriends," Thor & Bob, who are "surfing in Mancora" while Kate and I visit the jungle), as well as wanting to know all about my plans for childbirth (soon, I told him). But Cleever also found something for me in the darkness. I asked, and he happily pointed out the Southern Cross. There it was. My first time to see the Southern Cross. And in the Amazon to boot.
I had a dream. Finally!
I am accustomed to having frequent and vivid dreams. But since the onset of the insomnia I've been experiencing, I wasn't having any. Until early this morning when, blissfully, I had a nice, meaning-filled dream. I relate the following:
I was snowboarding (which I don't know how to do) down a steep and heavily forested mountainside, cutting hard corners left and right. There were pine needles spread all over the snow, and each move demanded speed and concentration. It went on for such duration that my thighs were burning and I was becoming mentally fatigued.
Presently, I saw in the forest beside me Soccer-Squared's husband in some kind of monster truck outfit for skiing. He was crawling quickly down the slope but with lots of traction. I thought, He's lucky to have it so easy. But I knew him to have some problem with his knees that required such alternative transportation.
Just as I starting to get dizzy from the rapid traversing and hard cuts of snowboarding through this forest, I came to a clearing and stopped to rest and look around. The remainder of the mountain was wide open powder. On a parallel slope uphill from me, S2 was resting on her skis. "Hey!" she called out to me. "I've been waiting for you. You went down the hard way!" Then she called out behind her, "P! Let's go!" Her daughter -- several years older than she is now -- came skiing down the slope.
The three of us -- me on my own run -- raced down the slope. At times, there were patches of rough snow, small crevasses that threatened to catch my board. I jumped or skirted them all. It was a beautiful, thrilling trip to a place where the runs converged (still high on the mountain). S2 and P outpaced me, and I attributed it to their skis versus my snowboard.
When we got to the bottom, I slid to a stop near S2. It was a warm, sunny day with a brilliant blue sky. S2 was wearing a halter top of sorts. "*This* is paradise," she said.
If you say so, I replied.
"Really," she said. "You can't beat this weather. Warm sun and good snow! Trust me, it's paradise." Then she turned to P, who was skiing in her undies, and said, "You need to put your clothes on before we get to the bottom."
And that was the end of my dream. P, by the way, is 2 or 3 years old and in that phase of life where she likes to take off her clothes. And S2 is prepetually dressing her. ... Otherwise, I would suspect those friends of mine from school -- and several of those who are *not* in school -- understand why this dream needs no other interpretation from me.
I am simply happy as all get-out to have *finally* hit REM sleep. I mean, it's only been six weeks or something....
I was snowboarding (which I don't know how to do) down a steep and heavily forested mountainside, cutting hard corners left and right. There were pine needles spread all over the snow, and each move demanded speed and concentration. It went on for such duration that my thighs were burning and I was becoming mentally fatigued.
Presently, I saw in the forest beside me Soccer-Squared's husband in some kind of monster truck outfit for skiing. He was crawling quickly down the slope but with lots of traction. I thought, He's lucky to have it so easy. But I knew him to have some problem with his knees that required such alternative transportation.
Just as I starting to get dizzy from the rapid traversing and hard cuts of snowboarding through this forest, I came to a clearing and stopped to rest and look around. The remainder of the mountain was wide open powder. On a parallel slope uphill from me, S2 was resting on her skis. "Hey!" she called out to me. "I've been waiting for you. You went down the hard way!" Then she called out behind her, "P! Let's go!" Her daughter -- several years older than she is now -- came skiing down the slope.
The three of us -- me on my own run -- raced down the slope. At times, there were patches of rough snow, small crevasses that threatened to catch my board. I jumped or skirted them all. It was a beautiful, thrilling trip to a place where the runs converged (still high on the mountain). S2 and P outpaced me, and I attributed it to their skis versus my snowboard.
When we got to the bottom, I slid to a stop near S2. It was a warm, sunny day with a brilliant blue sky. S2 was wearing a halter top of sorts. "*This* is paradise," she said.
If you say so, I replied.
"Really," she said. "You can't beat this weather. Warm sun and good snow! Trust me, it's paradise." Then she turned to P, who was skiing in her undies, and said, "You need to put your clothes on before we get to the bottom."
And that was the end of my dream. P, by the way, is 2 or 3 years old and in that phase of life where she likes to take off her clothes. And S2 is prepetually dressing her. ... Otherwise, I would suspect those friends of mine from school -- and several of those who are *not* in school -- understand why this dream needs no other interpretation from me.
I am simply happy as all get-out to have *finally* hit REM sleep. I mean, it's only been six weeks or something....
My travel journal
So when I was talking recently to near-xGF about the photo album from Peru, it reminded me that I'll need to collect my travel journals and cart them away with me when I move. Of all the things I've written, my travel journals are the most interesting. I've been thinking for some time that I should clean them up and -- after I manage to collect a few more -- I should *do something* with them. In the meantime, recognizing I should type them in somewhere so I don't lose them, I thought, Why not put them on the blog? ... This will be a slow process, because I they are long and I don't want to sit and type them forever, but they'll come along, and perhaps whoever reads this will find them interesting. (I will not be editing them; this is the raw form of what I wrote, jet lagged, sick, pissed off, injured, tired and all. The first couple entries are rather boring, but it gets better. Much better. And ever so much weirder.)
So, without further adieu:
Lima, Peru ... wee hours of 7 Aug.
Arrived and customs was like a roulette game. "Madam, please step up to this kiosk and press the button." Randomly, the light lit red or green. Green meant you were free to enter the country without a luggage inspection. Red meant customs would tear through your belongings and levy taxes on your extra items. Kate and I didn't know we were only allowed to bring five rolls of film into the country each -- and we'd placed all 14 rolls into her carry-on in a film safe anyway. Lucky for both of us, we got the green light in the roulette game and neither one of us had to go through inspection.
We hired a "remisse" driver to take us to Hostal El Patio, where I am right now. A "remisse" is a safe taxi. You pay a premium for them -- $21 or 70 soles versus $6 -- but they take you to your destination without any hassle (like trying to take you to a different hotel) and they do so in a nice, safe car. Also, you are fairly guaranteed that you will not be robbed.
The drive through Lima from the airport was pleasant. By night, it looks a lot like Panama City or El Paso. It's very late -- 2:50 a.m. -- so we'll see what tomorrow brings.
Iquitos ... 7 Aug.
The first time I heard of this city was reading Tom Robbins' novel "Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates." It is a strange thing to think that I'm now here -- getting ready to go to the land of nod in a hotel one block off the Plaza de las Armas. Iquitos is the world's largest city that's completely inaccessible by road. You have to fly or take a boat up or down the Amazon to get here. Our hotel is about 2 blocks from the river, but we haven't seen it yet. It was dark when we arrived. I suppose that's the first thing we'll do tomorrow after breakfast.
This morning, we awoke in Lima feeling like we had been drugged. Both of us were terribly exhausted -- must've been the late-night arrival and the fact that we wanted to get up in time for breakfast at the hotel. All in all, I could've slept through breakfast, as it consisted of only bread, one container of butter, one glass of a juice that didn't quite taste like the orange-pineapple that the server told me it was and a banana that was -- I kid you not -- the size of my thumb. Also, I had a few cups of tea.
After breakfast, we stored our luggage in the hotel office and a very nice old woman who worked there (or maybe owned the place?) suggested Kate and I visit the Museo de la Nacion, which has a bunch of pre-Columbian artifacts. We hired a guide to take us through the archeaological exhibit and got some pretty good insight into the difference between Chavin (de Huantar) culture, Moche, Nazca, Wari & Incan artifacts, as well as a slew of others. By far, the Nazca pottery was the most superb. It was INCREDIBLE, actually. (God help me, I *think* it was Nazca.) Very exquisit details for that old -- 100 to 500 BC -- really good representations of humans and animals and amazing use of color. I could scarcely believe I was looking at something that old.
I have to say, though, that the museum had a lot of replicas of things and that I was fooled a few times by stone heads and whatnot that turned out to be reproductions. I am assuming all the pottery to which I refer was the real thing.
We saw three incredible mumified heads of people who had been sacrificed. Weird and cool at the same time.
After we left the museum, we took a taxi back to the hotel, got our luggage and met the remisse driver for a ride to the airport. We got our tickest to Cajamarca and then waited -- and waited -- for our LAN flight. It left two hours later than originally stated -- or more. When we first booked the flight, it was scheduled for 3:10 p.m. We got an e-mail that the time had changed to 4:05 p.m. Then, at the airport, a delay was announced -- and it didn't leave until almost 6 p.m. Kate noticed that the boarding passes we got said the flight would leave at 4:05 p.m. but noted that boarding would not begin until 4:55 or so. Guess that's what you call "Latin Time." Oh well. No skin off our backs.
The only thing that bummed me out was not getting to fly over the Andes before sunset and not getting to see the endless Amazon basin *before* I entered it. Our return flight is scheduled for the morning, so we should get to see something then.
We were met at the airport by a driver for this hotel, the Hotel Maranon, *and* by a woman who works for Muyuna. The woman asked if Kate and I could fit all our clothes for the lodge into one back. I *doubt* it, but we'll try. She said the boat is small and goes faster with less luggage. That's understandable, but I'll still be surprised if we manage to get everything we want for the lodge into a single bag...
Oooh! I just heard my first crack of Amazon thunder. It had started to rain when we were coming back from dinner (a very late dinner!) but this thunder is different. Very nice. I wish Kate was awake to hear it. But unlike me, she's smart and went to sleep early. I'm going to follow suit now and shut my eyes and listen to the motorcycles and the Amazon thunder. It's simply a cool thing to be here.
So, without further adieu:
Lima, Peru ... wee hours of 7 Aug.
Arrived and customs was like a roulette game. "Madam, please step up to this kiosk and press the button." Randomly, the light lit red or green. Green meant you were free to enter the country without a luggage inspection. Red meant customs would tear through your belongings and levy taxes on your extra items. Kate and I didn't know we were only allowed to bring five rolls of film into the country each -- and we'd placed all 14 rolls into her carry-on in a film safe anyway. Lucky for both of us, we got the green light in the roulette game and neither one of us had to go through inspection.
We hired a "remisse" driver to take us to Hostal El Patio, where I am right now. A "remisse" is a safe taxi. You pay a premium for them -- $21 or 70 soles versus $6 -- but they take you to your destination without any hassle (like trying to take you to a different hotel) and they do so in a nice, safe car. Also, you are fairly guaranteed that you will not be robbed.
The drive through Lima from the airport was pleasant. By night, it looks a lot like Panama City or El Paso. It's very late -- 2:50 a.m. -- so we'll see what tomorrow brings.
Iquitos ... 7 Aug.
The first time I heard of this city was reading Tom Robbins' novel "Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates." It is a strange thing to think that I'm now here -- getting ready to go to the land of nod in a hotel one block off the Plaza de las Armas. Iquitos is the world's largest city that's completely inaccessible by road. You have to fly or take a boat up or down the Amazon to get here. Our hotel is about 2 blocks from the river, but we haven't seen it yet. It was dark when we arrived. I suppose that's the first thing we'll do tomorrow after breakfast.
This morning, we awoke in Lima feeling like we had been drugged. Both of us were terribly exhausted -- must've been the late-night arrival and the fact that we wanted to get up in time for breakfast at the hotel. All in all, I could've slept through breakfast, as it consisted of only bread, one container of butter, one glass of a juice that didn't quite taste like the orange-pineapple that the server told me it was and a banana that was -- I kid you not -- the size of my thumb. Also, I had a few cups of tea.
After breakfast, we stored our luggage in the hotel office and a very nice old woman who worked there (or maybe owned the place?) suggested Kate and I visit the Museo de la Nacion, which has a bunch of pre-Columbian artifacts. We hired a guide to take us through the archeaological exhibit and got some pretty good insight into the difference between Chavin (de Huantar) culture, Moche, Nazca, Wari & Incan artifacts, as well as a slew of others. By far, the Nazca pottery was the most superb. It was INCREDIBLE, actually. (God help me, I *think* it was Nazca.) Very exquisit details for that old -- 100 to 500 BC -- really good representations of humans and animals and amazing use of color. I could scarcely believe I was looking at something that old.
I have to say, though, that the museum had a lot of replicas of things and that I was fooled a few times by stone heads and whatnot that turned out to be reproductions. I am assuming all the pottery to which I refer was the real thing.
We saw three incredible mumified heads of people who had been sacrificed. Weird and cool at the same time.
After we left the museum, we took a taxi back to the hotel, got our luggage and met the remisse driver for a ride to the airport. We got our tickest to Cajamarca and then waited -- and waited -- for our LAN flight. It left two hours later than originally stated -- or more. When we first booked the flight, it was scheduled for 3:10 p.m. We got an e-mail that the time had changed to 4:05 p.m. Then, at the airport, a delay was announced -- and it didn't leave until almost 6 p.m. Kate noticed that the boarding passes we got said the flight would leave at 4:05 p.m. but noted that boarding would not begin until 4:55 or so. Guess that's what you call "Latin Time." Oh well. No skin off our backs.
The only thing that bummed me out was not getting to fly over the Andes before sunset and not getting to see the endless Amazon basin *before* I entered it. Our return flight is scheduled for the morning, so we should get to see something then.
We were met at the airport by a driver for this hotel, the Hotel Maranon, *and* by a woman who works for Muyuna. The woman asked if Kate and I could fit all our clothes for the lodge into one back. I *doubt* it, but we'll try. She said the boat is small and goes faster with less luggage. That's understandable, but I'll still be surprised if we manage to get everything we want for the lodge into a single bag...
Oooh! I just heard my first crack of Amazon thunder. It had started to rain when we were coming back from dinner (a very late dinner!) but this thunder is different. Very nice. I wish Kate was awake to hear it. But unlike me, she's smart and went to sleep early. I'm going to follow suit now and shut my eyes and listen to the motorcycles and the Amazon thunder. It's simply a cool thing to be here.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Good night, and good luck
I almost fell off the wagon last night. Dr. R invited me to a movie with one of her sisters -- to see "Good Night, and Good Luck." I won't bother with the commentary on whether it was a good film or not (but I'll say both "Capote" and "Brokeback Mountain" were better). Rather, I'll just report on my struggle to remain passive and avoidant of the news. It's not all that easy, you know.
So I was sitting there in the movie and I was thinking of this photo I saw posted on a blog written by a friend of Dr. M. It was a photo of Anne Coulter posing happily at Joseph McCarthy's tombstone. Dr. M, who obviously has a gift for vulgarity, called Coulter a "disgustig, vile, putrid cow" and a "life-sized taint." (I'm *still* laughing at that!) She's a serious cobag, as the blog's author notes. Not to mention a nasty media whore.
Watching "Good Night, and Good Luck" made me think about the many grotesque injustices committed by the United States today. Guantanamo is the very thing Murrow was warning about some 50 years ago. And Abu Ghraib was like the Anne Coulter-certified version of Guantanamo.
Every so often, I'd hear Dr. R sighing in her seat, disgusted by the footage from the McCarthy hearings. When it was over, she said, "I feel like ... writing some letters." (She's *clearly* a rabble-rouser!) Dr. R hasn't had a television for several years, and on accounts of how she looks much younger than her actual age, I felt compelled to tell her the McCarthy hearings were, well ... over, so her letters might go unread. But then I thought, Why burst her bubble? She might also then have to come to grips with color television, and *that* could be a shock. So I stayed silent. Consider it a gift of friendship.
But you know, I understand the frustration she felt. I took note of the news meetings Murrow's staff had over what to put on his show. The same discussions -- nearly word-for-word sometimes -- still go on in newsrooms all over this country. The same debates. The same squabbles about advertisers. The same fear of reporting something upsetting. The same negotiations with the owners of the papers or TV stations. The same crappy pressure from governmental officials to see the stories ahead of time so they can "approve" them. I mean, REALLY, the shit has barely changed since 1953.
What has changed is that there are fewer and fewer journalists like Murrow and more and more media outlets around to drown out the voices of those who *are* like him.
Frustrated by the parallels to today, I felt compelled to go home and get online, to return to my old haunts -- from the New York Times and the Guardian to the Sydney papers, Salon and Slate. I almost fell off the wagon. Then, sanity returned with my little mantra: You reading isn't going to make any difference to what's happened. Just let it go. Watch 'Saturday Night Live' and fall asleep in front of the mindless TV instead.
You know, it's just as well for Dr. R that she doesn't have a TV. True to Murrow's warning at the film's end, if the medium wasn't used for some kind of educational good, it would be nothing more than a box with lights and wires. That's pretty much what we've got now, isn't it?
On the upside, though, I did learn from the movie that Liberace was putting off marriage until he found someone with whom he could have a lasting relationship. Sounds like that the many-jeweled dude was looking for PASSION. Boy, let me tell ya, NOW, I feel like I'm in good company. Whew!
(Addendum of March 9: Dr. R informs me she is aware that the McCarthy hearings are no longer continuing. I misunderstood her comment about writing a letter. Apparently, she is rather upset about Watergate and hopes President Nixon will resign soon. *heh.* We can only hope.... Apologies, Dr. R, for misrepresenting you. I shall strive to be more accurate in my reporting of events in the future. It's not like I have a lot of experience at it....)
So I was sitting there in the movie and I was thinking of this photo I saw posted on a blog written by a friend of Dr. M. It was a photo of Anne Coulter posing happily at Joseph McCarthy's tombstone. Dr. M, who obviously has a gift for vulgarity, called Coulter a "disgustig, vile, putrid cow" and a "life-sized taint." (I'm *still* laughing at that!) She's a serious cobag, as the blog's author notes. Not to mention a nasty media whore.
Watching "Good Night, and Good Luck" made me think about the many grotesque injustices committed by the United States today. Guantanamo is the very thing Murrow was warning about some 50 years ago. And Abu Ghraib was like the Anne Coulter-certified version of Guantanamo.
Every so often, I'd hear Dr. R sighing in her seat, disgusted by the footage from the McCarthy hearings. When it was over, she said, "I feel like ... writing some letters." (She's *clearly* a rabble-rouser!) Dr. R hasn't had a television for several years, and on accounts of how she looks much younger than her actual age, I felt compelled to tell her the McCarthy hearings were, well ... over, so her letters might go unread. But then I thought, Why burst her bubble? She might also then have to come to grips with color television, and *that* could be a shock. So I stayed silent. Consider it a gift of friendship.
But you know, I understand the frustration she felt. I took note of the news meetings Murrow's staff had over what to put on his show. The same discussions -- nearly word-for-word sometimes -- still go on in newsrooms all over this country. The same debates. The same squabbles about advertisers. The same fear of reporting something upsetting. The same negotiations with the owners of the papers or TV stations. The same crappy pressure from governmental officials to see the stories ahead of time so they can "approve" them. I mean, REALLY, the shit has barely changed since 1953.
What has changed is that there are fewer and fewer journalists like Murrow and more and more media outlets around to drown out the voices of those who *are* like him.
Frustrated by the parallels to today, I felt compelled to go home and get online, to return to my old haunts -- from the New York Times and the Guardian to the Sydney papers, Salon and Slate. I almost fell off the wagon. Then, sanity returned with my little mantra: You reading isn't going to make any difference to what's happened. Just let it go. Watch 'Saturday Night Live' and fall asleep in front of the mindless TV instead.
You know, it's just as well for Dr. R that she doesn't have a TV. True to Murrow's warning at the film's end, if the medium wasn't used for some kind of educational good, it would be nothing more than a box with lights and wires. That's pretty much what we've got now, isn't it?
On the upside, though, I did learn from the movie that Liberace was putting off marriage until he found someone with whom he could have a lasting relationship. Sounds like that the many-jeweled dude was looking for PASSION. Boy, let me tell ya, NOW, I feel like I'm in good company. Whew!
(Addendum of March 9: Dr. R informs me she is aware that the McCarthy hearings are no longer continuing. I misunderstood her comment about writing a letter. Apparently, she is rather upset about Watergate and hopes President Nixon will resign soon. *heh.* We can only hope.... Apologies, Dr. R, for misrepresenting you. I shall strive to be more accurate in my reporting of events in the future. It's not like I have a lot of experience at it....)
The Notorious M.O.M.
I finally stood up to my mom this morning and told her I didn't like the way she talked to me, didn't like the way she is still painting me with the same brush with which she painted me as a child and had no interest whatsoever in talking to her about our family because it's always so terribly offensive when she does.
I was polite and firm. She got pissed and hung up the phone on me. If I never hear from her again, I think I'll consider it a Good Thing (even as trademarked by Martha).
There's no sense in hashing it out here. It's a story for the telling, not the writing. And it's not all that terribly interesting.
But you should know that one motivator was "x"GF's comment -- she who *knows* the evil my mother does -- who said, "I would feel better about you breaking up with me (somone you love) if you had also broken up with your mom, who brings nothing but misery to your life." There was a certain hypocrisy there that I had to accept. And, when the moment suddenly presented itself this morning, I decided to end the hypocrisy.
No more "La, La, La!" song, ma. And that's all.
I was polite and firm. She got pissed and hung up the phone on me. If I never hear from her again, I think I'll consider it a Good Thing (even as trademarked by Martha).
There's no sense in hashing it out here. It's a story for the telling, not the writing. And it's not all that terribly interesting.
But you should know that one motivator was "x"GF's comment -- she who *knows* the evil my mother does -- who said, "I would feel better about you breaking up with me (somone you love) if you had also broken up with your mom, who brings nothing but misery to your life." There was a certain hypocrisy there that I had to accept. And, when the moment suddenly presented itself this morning, I decided to end the hypocrisy.
No more "La, La, La!" song, ma. And that's all.
Is that a Cairn Terrier?
So, supposedly a good way to meet people is through your dog. This has certainly been the case for me with my energetic little Cairn, Brogan. He's so beautiful, he stops traffic. Seriously.
Today, walking to the grocery store, a woman in a black Volvo slowed her car down to a crawl on a fairly well-traveled street and called out to me, "Is that a Cairn Terrier?"
Yes.
"I used to have one of those! He was the sweetest dog I ever had," she said, as traffic started to collect behind her.
Yeah, they're great dogs, I said while Brogan took his, oh, eighty-fifth pee of the walk.
"He's just *beautiful,*" she cooed from across the street, poking along as she was. "What great coloring!"
(I get this all the time since I started getting a demi on my hair. First people compliment my dog, then they say "what great coloring." Funny how that works!)
Finally, she decided to speed up, and as she drove away, she waved out the widow and yelled, "Bye, baby!"
And I was thinking, Lady, you don't know the half of what a baby this dog is!
Last week, Single Gay Female and I headed up to Forest Park for a little hike. SGF loves walking the dogs, missing her Aeridale like she does. On the way to the trailhead this week, Brogan was whimpering and yelping with neurotic excitement *so much* that SGF said, "Brogan, you need a magazine rack for all your issues." (Having never heard this said to a dog before, I cut up laughing.) Later, SGF told him, "Dude! You've got so much social anxiety!" That, he does.
But he sure does attract people. At the grocery store, a woman from the meat department was outside taking a break. (You can imagine how much Brogan loved *her!*) She asked after his royal Cairn-ness, commenting, "I have two German Shepards and I was thinking they needed a little playmate. I've been thinking about a Cairn. But you don't find many of them in Portland. " I guess not. I guess that's why anyone who has ever known and loved a Cairn seems to stop me on the sidewalk, on the hiking trail, at the grocery store, at the dog park. Doesn't matter where. They come out of the woodwork.
Kinda sweet that my little guy's so *purty* that he stops traffic.
Today, walking to the grocery store, a woman in a black Volvo slowed her car down to a crawl on a fairly well-traveled street and called out to me, "Is that a Cairn Terrier?"
Yes.
"I used to have one of those! He was the sweetest dog I ever had," she said, as traffic started to collect behind her.
Yeah, they're great dogs, I said while Brogan took his, oh, eighty-fifth pee of the walk.
"He's just *beautiful,*" she cooed from across the street, poking along as she was. "What great coloring!"
(I get this all the time since I started getting a demi on my hair. First people compliment my dog, then they say "what great coloring." Funny how that works!)
Finally, she decided to speed up, and as she drove away, she waved out the widow and yelled, "Bye, baby!"
And I was thinking, Lady, you don't know the half of what a baby this dog is!
Last week, Single Gay Female and I headed up to Forest Park for a little hike. SGF loves walking the dogs, missing her Aeridale like she does. On the way to the trailhead this week, Brogan was whimpering and yelping with neurotic excitement *so much* that SGF said, "Brogan, you need a magazine rack for all your issues." (Having never heard this said to a dog before, I cut up laughing.) Later, SGF told him, "Dude! You've got so much social anxiety!" That, he does.
But he sure does attract people. At the grocery store, a woman from the meat department was outside taking a break. (You can imagine how much Brogan loved *her!*) She asked after his royal Cairn-ness, commenting, "I have two German Shepards and I was thinking they needed a little playmate. I've been thinking about a Cairn. But you don't find many of them in Portland. " I guess not. I guess that's why anyone who has ever known and loved a Cairn seems to stop me on the sidewalk, on the hiking trail, at the grocery store, at the dog park. Doesn't matter where. They come out of the woodwork.
Kinda sweet that my little guy's so *purty* that he stops traffic.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Message to the Deaf
Mr. Shineyhead says to get up off your asses and start signing with the ASL students who go to the local Deaf coffee hour. He asks: How the hell are new interpreters supposed to get the diversity of signing experience necessary to understand what the fuck you're saying -- if you won't sign with them?
Or, as we in the Hearing world say: WTF? You trying to *kill* your own language? Isn't it bad enough that Washington's threatening to close your school?
Well, as an ambassador of good will, you all should know that I'm teaching my fellow classmates in graduate school all the good curse words. And if, as a half-fluent signer, I'm totally fucking them up, well ... if you went to coffee more you could fix these things. So Mr. Shineyhead says anyway.
I'm just the messenger.
Or, as we in the Hearing world say: WTF? You trying to *kill* your own language? Isn't it bad enough that Washington's threatening to close your school?
Well, as an ambassador of good will, you all should know that I'm teaching my fellow classmates in graduate school all the good curse words. And if, as a half-fluent signer, I'm totally fucking them up, well ... if you went to coffee more you could fix these things. So Mr. Shineyhead says anyway.
I'm just the messenger.
A story I could tell, but won't
An e-mail arrived in my in-box today that was so curious, so full of true-crime novel drama and oblique references to a murder-suicide involving a famous romance novelist that my prior history as a muckraking journalist almost sparked a Jekyl-and-Hyde war within me. Part of me wanted to just publish the whole damn thing, in-flight martini vomit and all. The other part of me knows better.
There are many reasons I left my post in the media. One of them was the complete and utter disregard that the "profession" has for the stories people tell, the things they experience and the trauma they suffer. Your average person will occasionally utter the phrase, "No news is good news." But your average journalist turns it around: "Good news is no news."
I recall (somewhat fondly) how Dr. M's eye started to twitch when she heard I rarely watch the news, don't subscribe to any newspapers or news magazines, don't have cable TV and haven't typed MSNBC.com into a browser window in several months. (We've become friends, but I think it's against her better judgment.)
You know what it is? I'm on the wagon when it comes to "the news." After working as a reporter and editor in my previous life, I know how decisions are made about what to play up, what to play down and what to completely ignore. I realized a long time ago that I could learn as much as I needed to know about what's happening by listening to a Letterman monologue as I could by watching the evening news. Most of what's in the news is total crap that has no context or meaning for those who watch or read it. I've also realized that when something "important" happens, I find out about it without even trying.
It used to be that I paid attention. And all I got for my efforts was ... anxiety. (Hence, the News-Related Anxiety Recovery Group proposal I did for Mr. Hand's miserable little class earlier this term.) It got so bad, I had a problem walking past all the newspaper boxes downtown. Don't look at the headlines, I'd tell myself. You'll just get sucked in again.
But somewhere along the line, I got off the juice. Hurricane Katrina almost pulled me back down into the muck again -- but didn't. (Sure as hell did piss me off, though, what with our inept president and his "Silent Bob" routine. Didn't ask a single question in the briefing! But don't ask me how I know this -- I must absorb it from the atmosphere or something, because I haven't read shit about that topic, I swear.)
I pretty much live in a media never-never land, and I couldn't care less. Eight years ago, I would've said such a thing was *never* going to happen, just wasn't possible. I would have called someone like me "an ignorant fool who's fucking up our democracy." Nowadays, I just think I'm smarter than everyone else. (Either way, I'm still smug!)
Still, there's a part of me that wants to "report" the murder-and-martinis tidbit that arrived in my e-mail today. But I won't. It will be my little secret. And the world will never know the fucking difference. Nor will it care. Which is pretty much what you could say about 90 percent of the stuff aired on CNN. Without the big cameras and the bright lights, a pile of bullshit is nothing more than something that stinks and attracts flies.
Don't waste your time with it, people. Be like me! It really ain't that bad. (Except for the part where I'm going through a breakup, haven't had great sex in a long time and recently lost a treasured necklace I brought back from the Amazon with me. That all pretty much sucks. But the part where I'm ignorant of "what's happening" is sweet sweet sweet. Like dulce de leche, I'm telling ya.)
There are many reasons I left my post in the media. One of them was the complete and utter disregard that the "profession" has for the stories people tell, the things they experience and the trauma they suffer. Your average person will occasionally utter the phrase, "No news is good news." But your average journalist turns it around: "Good news is no news."
I recall (somewhat fondly) how Dr. M's eye started to twitch when she heard I rarely watch the news, don't subscribe to any newspapers or news magazines, don't have cable TV and haven't typed MSNBC.com into a browser window in several months. (We've become friends, but I think it's against her better judgment.)
You know what it is? I'm on the wagon when it comes to "the news." After working as a reporter and editor in my previous life, I know how decisions are made about what to play up, what to play down and what to completely ignore. I realized a long time ago that I could learn as much as I needed to know about what's happening by listening to a Letterman monologue as I could by watching the evening news. Most of what's in the news is total crap that has no context or meaning for those who watch or read it. I've also realized that when something "important" happens, I find out about it without even trying.
It used to be that I paid attention. And all I got for my efforts was ... anxiety. (Hence, the News-Related Anxiety Recovery Group proposal I did for Mr. Hand's miserable little class earlier this term.) It got so bad, I had a problem walking past all the newspaper boxes downtown. Don't look at the headlines, I'd tell myself. You'll just get sucked in again.
But somewhere along the line, I got off the juice. Hurricane Katrina almost pulled me back down into the muck again -- but didn't. (Sure as hell did piss me off, though, what with our inept president and his "Silent Bob" routine. Didn't ask a single question in the briefing! But don't ask me how I know this -- I must absorb it from the atmosphere or something, because I haven't read shit about that topic, I swear.)
I pretty much live in a media never-never land, and I couldn't care less. Eight years ago, I would've said such a thing was *never* going to happen, just wasn't possible. I would have called someone like me "an ignorant fool who's fucking up our democracy." Nowadays, I just think I'm smarter than everyone else. (Either way, I'm still smug!)
Still, there's a part of me that wants to "report" the murder-and-martinis tidbit that arrived in my e-mail today. But I won't. It will be my little secret. And the world will never know the fucking difference. Nor will it care. Which is pretty much what you could say about 90 percent of the stuff aired on CNN. Without the big cameras and the bright lights, a pile of bullshit is nothing more than something that stinks and attracts flies.
Don't waste your time with it, people. Be like me! It really ain't that bad. (Except for the part where I'm going through a breakup, haven't had great sex in a long time and recently lost a treasured necklace I brought back from the Amazon with me. That all pretty much sucks. But the part where I'm ignorant of "what's happening" is sweet sweet sweet. Like dulce de leche, I'm telling ya.)
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Mine and yours
This is a weird process, this determination of who gets what. In no previous relationship have I accumulated so many things with another person. Nearly all the furniture in our home. Nearly all the artwork. Rugs. China. Lawn equipment. Dogs. And a house. There is an intermingling of everything except our clothes and shoes. (And even I have to reclaim my too-big shoes off GF's feet at times.)
It seems ridiculously fast to be at this stage in the game, but GF's got it in her head -- and it's in mine, too -- that I need to be out of the house in a reasonably short period of time. It's probably the best way to keep the peace and to stifle the awkwardness of sleeping in the same bed and carrying on the same domestic routines that we've maintained in several years of living together. I'm still folding her undies (yes, I'm an undie folder), and she's still cooking my dinner.
But the coming apart is starting to come together. "I really wish you'd spend more time with other people," GF told me tonight. "It would be good if we didn't see so much of each other at home. It's just ... awkward." I've been doing that, you know, I said. I was thinking of going to Lake Quinault at spring break. "It would be good for you to do that," she replied.
Then, she starts asking me what I want to take with me when I leave. Which pieces of furniture? Which decorations? "Will you take the adirondaks or the patio furniture? And how shall we handle our retirement accounts?" Nothing feels good, but the discussion is going calmly.
Then, GF starts to tear up and says, "This is really, really hard for me to ask for, but I want you to know I want it *desperately,* so I hope you'll let me have it." Considering we've divided the major pieces of furniture, I am surprised to see this much emotion and wonder what it can possibly be. So I inquire: What is it?
"The photo album from Peru," she says and a big tear escapes.
I feel a stab in my chest. I think of standing in Kuelap, watching the senora's daughter pull a large stone out of the ancient walls. She reached inside and felt around, and I was thinking, Snakes! Spiders! but was also looking at the bromeliads and orchids cascading down the wall nearby. Then she pulled out a large bone fragment -- obviously a radius or ulna -- and extended it toward me. Eight centuries old, it was, at least.
And I think of the "Casa del Serpiente" in the Amazon. Not a place for someone with a snake phobia, even when it's in remission because of The Clairvoyant's successful hypnosis. There, I touched an anaconda. It was a "small" one, perhaps 10 or 12 feet in length.
I think of the moto-taxis in Iquitos. The first sight of the Amazon itself. Swimming in the Amazon. Eating the pirhana I caught. Seeing the Southern Cross for the first time (thank you, Crosby, Stills & Nash for *that* song). Being eaten alive by bugs and needing shots to stop the itching. Watching women in the Andes walk down the street with severed cows heads tied to their backs. Taking a long soak in a deep Incan bath. And, then, happening upon what I believed to be the moment of my death in the Maranon Canyon.
It all comes like a flash.
Uh... I say, lamely. Then I look closely at her face. Why Peru? Why not Italy? Or Panama?
"Because Peru was the best trip we took," she said. Then, she added, "You can take the alpaca blanket. And the photos and negatives from all our trips."
OK. It's a deal. And I'll take the Panama album, I guess.
First time I've seen her smile in days. Then she says, "Washer or dryer? Or both?"
This feels like the most bizarre conversation I've had in my life. But I'm willing to bet there was some discussion -- some day with friends who were all stoned or something -- when the topic was a lot more peculiar. ... Oh yeah, definitely the day we decided it would be funny -- or not, in that freaky Homeland Security kind of way -- to put a radio transmitter in someone's vagina and broadcast All Vagina Radio, All The Time. There could be Tampon Talk, Sex Hour and, naturally, the Vagina Monologues. But that's a story for another time.
It seems ridiculously fast to be at this stage in the game, but GF's got it in her head -- and it's in mine, too -- that I need to be out of the house in a reasonably short period of time. It's probably the best way to keep the peace and to stifle the awkwardness of sleeping in the same bed and carrying on the same domestic routines that we've maintained in several years of living together. I'm still folding her undies (yes, I'm an undie folder), and she's still cooking my dinner.
But the coming apart is starting to come together. "I really wish you'd spend more time with other people," GF told me tonight. "It would be good if we didn't see so much of each other at home. It's just ... awkward." I've been doing that, you know, I said. I was thinking of going to Lake Quinault at spring break. "It would be good for you to do that," she replied.
Then, she starts asking me what I want to take with me when I leave. Which pieces of furniture? Which decorations? "Will you take the adirondaks or the patio furniture? And how shall we handle our retirement accounts?" Nothing feels good, but the discussion is going calmly.
Then, GF starts to tear up and says, "This is really, really hard for me to ask for, but I want you to know I want it *desperately,* so I hope you'll let me have it." Considering we've divided the major pieces of furniture, I am surprised to see this much emotion and wonder what it can possibly be. So I inquire: What is it?
"The photo album from Peru," she says and a big tear escapes.
I feel a stab in my chest. I think of standing in Kuelap, watching the senora's daughter pull a large stone out of the ancient walls. She reached inside and felt around, and I was thinking, Snakes! Spiders! but was also looking at the bromeliads and orchids cascading down the wall nearby. Then she pulled out a large bone fragment -- obviously a radius or ulna -- and extended it toward me. Eight centuries old, it was, at least.
And I think of the "Casa del Serpiente" in the Amazon. Not a place for someone with a snake phobia, even when it's in remission because of The Clairvoyant's successful hypnosis. There, I touched an anaconda. It was a "small" one, perhaps 10 or 12 feet in length.
I think of the moto-taxis in Iquitos. The first sight of the Amazon itself. Swimming in the Amazon. Eating the pirhana I caught. Seeing the Southern Cross for the first time (thank you, Crosby, Stills & Nash for *that* song). Being eaten alive by bugs and needing shots to stop the itching. Watching women in the Andes walk down the street with severed cows heads tied to their backs. Taking a long soak in a deep Incan bath. And, then, happening upon what I believed to be the moment of my death in the Maranon Canyon.
It all comes like a flash.
Uh... I say, lamely. Then I look closely at her face. Why Peru? Why not Italy? Or Panama?
"Because Peru was the best trip we took," she said. Then, she added, "You can take the alpaca blanket. And the photos and negatives from all our trips."
OK. It's a deal. And I'll take the Panama album, I guess.
First time I've seen her smile in days. Then she says, "Washer or dryer? Or both?"
This feels like the most bizarre conversation I've had in my life. But I'm willing to bet there was some discussion -- some day with friends who were all stoned or something -- when the topic was a lot more peculiar. ... Oh yeah, definitely the day we decided it would be funny -- or not, in that freaky Homeland Security kind of way -- to put a radio transmitter in someone's vagina and broadcast All Vagina Radio, All The Time. There could be Tampon Talk, Sex Hour and, naturally, the Vagina Monologues. But that's a story for another time.
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