somebody different

“Maybe the first time you saw her you were ten. She was standing in the sun scratching her legs. Or tracing letters in the dirt with a stick. Her hair was being pulled. Or she was pulling someone's hair. And a part of you was drawn to her, and a part of you resisted--wanting to ride off on your bicycle, kick a stone, remain uncomplicated. In the same breath you felt the strength of a man, and a self-pity that made you feel small and hurt. Part of you thought: Please don't look at me. If you don't, I can still turn away. And part of you thought: Look at me.”  -The History of Love, Nicole Krauss

Sometimes I remember that before I was who I am now, I was someone different.

At the end of the day, we are a sum of our parts; when I look at myself in the mirror, I see a collection of my own choices, adventures and failures. This might sound weird, but I'm sure we all do it, so whatever, I'm over it — I have many times stood in front of my mirror totally naked. I know, get over it, get over all the junior high oh-la-las, and just listen to me for a moment. I do this because I am in a way taking stock of myself, and just me. Not me in a cute J.Crew skirt, not me in a bikini, not me in a bridesmaid dress, not me in anything. Just. Me.

There's something about standing in front of the mirror and realizing that at the heart from the outside, this is all I am — a petite body, with pale skin, a nice smile, and long curly red hair.

I remember right after my bike accident, I was very concerned with the way my body looked. I didn't have scars, just tons and tons of broken blood vessels, scrapes, bruising, a herniated shin muscle and chronic pain from a broken non-displaced pelvis. Every couple of days I would get up from my bed, taking a break from the show that kept me company for weeks, Keeping Up with the Kardashians (another blog for another day), and I would get undressed to take a shower. I remember at first being so scared that I would fall, but only once did I ask someone to wait outside to make sure they didn't hear the crash of me slipping and breaking myself again. I still don't really know why asking for help is something I only ask for when absolutely necessary. But, alas, I had to shower, if only to keep up some semblance of dignity.

Before I would make the slow climb into the tub, I would stand in front of my mirror, balancing on my crutches, figuring out a way to slip off my sweatpants without falling. And, I would stare at myself, at the imperfections that had become me.

There's something about nakedness that polarizes how you value yourself. What are clothes, but another thing to hide behind, to help identify ourselves as someone we want the world to see us as? While nakedness is just another way to be vulnerable, even if it's only yourself who sees.

At the risk of jumping onto a high horse and screaming "Clothes are for the weak!" which very well may be true, I think it's important to take stock of ourselves. People say you come out of the world as you came in, naked — but how many people do you know who have been buried in the nude? We go to our final resting place, dressed how the world wanted us to be.

There's a book I truly adore called, The History of Love, that I quote at the beginning and end of this post. The title makes it sound like a much mushier and false account of what it actually is. At the start of the book the main character, an old man, Leo Gursky, in his early 80s decides to throw caution to the wind and be a model in an art class. Before he goes to the class he disrobes in the comfort of his own apartment to assess who he is without any sort of wrapping paper. And it is not an Adonis he describes...it's just who he is, an elderly man with loose skin, sun spots, white curly hairs everywhere, and lumpy bits covering a weak frame. I love this description. I love that it is unapologetic.

It's strange to realize that the body you have seen naked the most times is your own. Yet, every time you see it, it is different, changing as you change, aging as you age. I suppose this post is more of a reminder to myself, if nothing else, that beneath everything, we're all just people.

“At the end, all that's left of you are your possessions. Perhaps that's why I've never been able to throw anything away. Perhaps that's why I hoarded the world: with the hope that when I died, the sum total of my things would suggest a life larger than the one I lived.” -The  History of Love, Nicole Krauss

moms book club.

The women gathered around Mary Tristan's kitchen table. Each held a copy of their latest fictional conquest, Dance While They Watch, a stupid novel that should only be sold at grocery store checkouts, but which they purchased in bulk from Sam's Club because Sandy Robinson had a 10 percent off coupon. It was the sort of empty, garbage novel that people leave on airplanes, or in hostels.

"I just loved how the author really seemed to...connect...with her characters," swooned Dawn Blanchette, one of Mary's neighbors who just "could not wait to join this book club!" She was the sort of woman that wasn't used to waiting around for an invitation.

"I know," replied Mary. "So interesting how the author, what's her name..."

"Isabelle Lawrence," filled in Kit Jeffries, who everyone could tell would have preferred to read Katharine Graham's memoir Personal History, which told the real story of the first female publisher of the Washington Post. When she attempted to throw the book into the running, everyone said they just wanted to have something to escape to, so Kit dropped it, knowing they meant they didn't want to feel bad about not being more accomplished themselves.

"Right, yes," said Mary, "Isabelle just seemed to really be able to jump into the reality of the story." Kit thought it was weird that they now were calling the author by her first name as if she were there and part of their little club.

"I know," cooed Dawn. "It's so hard to believe that every writer, especially one like this, hasn't just lived the lives of her characters."

"I know," chimed in Mary again. "I wish I could live all of these crazy lives, but what can you do?"

Kit sat at the end of the table where Mary's husband normally sat at dinner. She looked up at Mary's remark and decided to rejoin the conversation. "You know, we can live crazy lives if we really want to."

"Please," giggled Dawn. "My idea of a crazy life is walking up the street to Mar's here holding a bottle of wine in a paper bag in one hand and this little ditty in the other," she said, pointing to Dance While They Watch.

"Well, what does the back of the book say?" asked Jane Levinson, veering back to the book. Jane, a beautiful brunette who lived in the next neighborhood over, was invited to the group after Mary's daughter Emily became fast friends with Krissy, Jane's daughter, during an after school year book meeting. She normally didn't read books like Dance While They Watch, but thought it might be a fun exercise in doing that which you don't want to do to fit in.

"Well," of course Dawn stepped in, having already flipped over the cover of the book. It was a taupe colored cover, the title printed in cursive burgundy, with a woman's body from the waste down, in a tango position, wrapped around a man's outstretched leg.

"It says, 'Isabelle Lawrence has been hailed by the Global World Book review as 'one of the world's most popular authors, with over 400 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international bestsellers include Night Crawls, Visions of Shelby, Under the Gate, Everybody's Guest, One Week Left to Live, Elephant No More, The Bells of Churches, Afternoon Magic, Royal Wigwam, Belly Up Veronica, Sitting Alone Thinking, and the popular trilogy A Father's Daughter, A Father's Wife, A Father's Adopted Granddaughter, and other highly acclaimed novels.'"

The five women each sipped from their wine glasses taking in just how many books Lawrence had penned. Even Kit was a little amazed at the sheer ability to write that many words, despite the clear formula Lawrence employed: wealthy female protagonist meets someone/anyone, there are notions of crime, suicide, jail and fraud — and drama ensues!

"Looks like we have some reading to do!" said Sandy. "Good thing they sell these at Sam's! I don't know what my husband would do if I bought all of these full price!"

"Mine would give me a stern talking to," said Dawn a little too seriously, but then laughing, mostly from the half bottle of wine she had somehow swallowed down over the last 20 minutes of chitchat.

"Hearing all those titles makes me want to write a book," said Kit, surprisingly self-conscious all of a sudden. "Of all the things that her characters do, you think she'd write a book about an author."

"Ugh, I hate that sort of self-involved stuff. That'd be like me writing a book about being a wife and mom and trying to pass it off as if it were something special," said Dawn.

"You don't think it's something special?" asked Mary, slightly miffed.

"No, it's not that," Dawn shot back softly, in that passive aggressive tone that makes being a suburban housewife worthy of the reality TV show franchise The Real Housewives of Fill-in-the-Blank-City.

"I think what Dawn's trying to say," poked in Jane, who had been mostly quiet, not knowing her place in the book club, as it was her first meeting, "She was trying to say that it's easy to make your life seem special on the page, but in reality everyones life is pretty..." 

"...boring," finished Kit. 

"Even if you are a wealthy writer or a lawyer or a trapeze artist or whatever," qualified Jane.

After a few more minutes of lightly discussing the book, which featured a scintillating scene where the protagonist, a buxom ballroom dancer from Asheville, North Carolina, runs away from home into the arms of her father's old business partner, and they begin to tango in the middle of the streets of North Carolina, the group's thoughts on Dance While They Watch fizzled. Everyone seemed to think that was a beautiful moment, except Kit who wondered at why Isabelle Lawrence didn't specify which city in all of the state they danced, let alone on which street.

"I think it's more metaphorical than that," reasoned Dawn with difficulty. Mary nodded her head in agreement.

"Sometimes you just dance through a whole state in a moment," added Mary.

"That's ridiculous," Kit responded.  

"Well, what I think is ridiculous is that this whole thing is gone," remarked Dawn, pointing to the empty bottle of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio she'd drunk almost entirely alone.

After the women left Mary's home, she straightened her kitchen chair cushions, vacuumed the beige shag Pottery Barn rug in her front hall atrium, and took out the recycling. Her kids, Eric and Samantha came home later from a friends house and a soccer game respectively.

Mary asked them about their days, made them a dessert snack, which consisted of sliced up apples and caramel sauce. They said thank you, and left the table without clearing it. Neither of them asked how their mom's night was. 

Kit, Jane, Dawn and Sandy each had similar experiences once they too got home. Their next meeting is in a month. They're reading Captive and Captivate by Emily Daltessi.

living.

squeek
her voice squeeks
it's like a dagger
but it doesnt hurt
it's too quick
she's incredibly quick
with her words

i never thought about
it.

about poems
and music
and how they are the same

squeek
the oil
the oil is necessary

squeek
with a sharp wit
bit by bit

i never thought about it
i never knew it was there.
squeek.

i should have.
because one day
it hit me. it hit me like a dagger.
sharp.
squeek.

mouse.
in a house
it shouldn't be a surprise.
but it is.

squeek.

Bird.

There's a bird outside the one window in this Brooklyn apartment. Specifically, it's a pigeon. And specifically, it's Prospect Heights, on the very Northwest tip of the park — Prospect Park, if you can believe it.

Anyway, there's this bird that sits outside her window ruining the only thing that's beautiful about her converted two-bedroom — which was essentially a one-bedroom split in half by a partition. It's the kind of partition that separates large classrooms into smaller classrooms. That taupe plastic...thing.

"Her" is Kat Muller. She's thirty. She has a roommate. She has brown hair. It's wavy, but she wants it to be curly. She curls her hair with a large barrel curler from ConAir. She hates that movie. She wishes she didn't waste energy on hate, but she does. She says ones thing, and then normally attaches a qualifying "but." Everyone knows what she's thinking because her face doesn't hide like Mona Lisa's. If she knew I wrote that just then, she'd make a "You're retarded face." She wishes I would say "stupid," but, I didn't and I don't because, frankly, I don't give a shit.

"I" am her roommate, Emily. What a simple name? I put a question mark at the end of that, then I deleted it, put a period and then went back to a question mark. I used the word "what," which should denote that I asked a question. "Should." I love the conditional. I have brown hair too and a soft chin. Boo! Soft chins suck no matter how old you are, but they just keep getting softer with age and fat.

We have lived together since 2007. It's 2014. That's a lot of years. If we were different genders we could apply for Common-law marriage...or be considered for it. I don't really know how that works. I don't even know if marriage equality exists in New York. I like to think that I would know if I lived in, like, Chelsea.

Anyway, that bird. Ugh. That stupid bird. That retarded bird. It comes by every day, and I have never seen it fly. It must though. It walks over from the neighbors every day. It doesn't start the day at our place, or end it there. It's as if it is going to our house for "work." It's there 9am-5pm, and then the F train steams by, and it's out of here. Gone...to be seen from again. Tomorrow at 9am. It's never been late, which to me, is hilarious. If it were, I would expect a verbal apology with words and apologetic hand gestures.

I've named him Bird. Sometimes less is more. My mother says things like that to me. I imagine her needle-pointing onto shitty pillows when we talk on the phone. I'm from Michigan: the birthplace of crappy pillows and the best trees. Whenever I'm home in Michigan I feel naked. I'm convinced it's the crispness of the air. It cuts straight through clothing, no matter the amount of hipster layering I attempt.

It's not really fair that the only window we have goes straight into Kat's section of the apartment, which is just barely a step-up from a cardboard box. It's better in the winter, but not in the summer. "It's" meaning the apartment. In the summer it's a boiling cesspool of my and Kat's sweat. I mean, no it's not an underground garden unit, which basically is just asking for a rat to be your unofficial nonpaying roommate — but it's not a far cry. The first time we had an issue with the apartment, I cried. I never thought of myself as a crier, or an emotional person, but when it happened, it was so disproportional that I came to the conclusion that I am an emotional person, I just don't know when's an appropriate time to let it out, so I hit this tipping point, and then I was toast. Burnt toast that's no good.

I'm looking at Bird right now, and I'm wondering where he calls home. I'm wondering who's waiting for him to get back at 5:30pm. I'm not wondering how long his commute is. Everywhere in New York is a half hour. Or should be. Whatever comes first.

Maybe I'll move back to Michigan. There's birds in Michigan.

i'm a memory

i pace inside daily, and sprint outside come night.
i wake you up when sleeping
there's no escape
im wrapped around your throat tight

there are no words spoken
no feeling of air exiting your lips
i cannot be pinpointed.

there are blades of grass. they are lime salted
margarita mixed
you think about them in a blink
and then
they're gone

like me, but ever present.
so not.

i drive a fancy sports-car
it goes incredibly fast
so fast you might miss it

feel the blade of grass, that one
yes
that's her.
the one beneath your big toe.

can you feel it?
no

i whisper gently to you
lulling you to bed
until tomorrow when there is nothing
for you're surely dead

there are sheep above you
count them
one. seven. nine. four. noon.
you'll be up there with them
dead so quickly soon.

i live inside your heart. your brain. your candy-coated skin.
i live inside you until there's nothing.
and no one knows i was therein.

i cannot be pinpointed.
im a squiggle on your notepad in the middle of the night

count them.
one. seven. nine. four. noon.
there is no deciphering my meaning.
it'll all be over soon.

shrugging.

"Later, when they told her that Ellis Wyatt had vanished, leaving nothing behind but a board he had nailed to a post at the foot of the hill, when she looked at his handwriting on the board, she felt as if she had almost known that these would be the words:

'I am leaving it as I found it. Take over. It's yours.'"

-End of Non-Contradiction, Part I, Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand.

Books.

Periodically I'll get phone calls from my mother asking me what's hot in the world of literature. It's mostly adorable, but sometimes frustrating. A couple weeks ago little Sheila (el mama) called me to ask about Ayn Rand's philosophy. I appreciated her willingness to read awesomeness, but was annoyed to a tee when she said she probably wouldn't read The Fountainhead due to its length. She's now reading We the Living, one of my favorites.

I'm now reading Atlas Shrugged. Joy.

This cracked me up.

Books.

Periodically I'll get phone calls from my mother asking me what's hot in the world of literature. It's mostly adorable, but sometimes frustrating. A couple weeks ago little Sheila (el mama) called me to ask about Ayn Rand's philosophy. I appreciated her willingness to read awesomeness, but was annoyed to a tee when she said she probably wouldn't read The Fountainhead due to its length. She's now reading We the Living, one of my favorites.

I'm now reading Atlas Shrugged. Joy.

Books in 2010

Last year was an epic year for book reading. So far this year I've been pretty bad.

1. Breakfast at Tiffany's, Truman Capote
2. T.S. Eliot Collected Poems, T.S. Eliot
3. Born Standing Up, Steve Martin
4. Waiter Rant, Steve Dublanica
5. City of Thieves, David Benioff
6. Holidays on Ice, David Sedaris

In process/ Plan to read in the near future:
1. Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand
2. I am the New Black, Tracy Morgan
3. The Mailroom, David Rensin
4. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho
5. What is the What, Dave Eggers
6. Eating the Dinosaur, Chuck Klosterman

Not Finishing:
1. Profiles in Courage, JFK
2. You Shall Know Our Velocity, Dave Eggers

One Month In Between Time

It's the 19th. One month's in between time was quite a lot of time. The holidays happened. My other blog: http://www.thingsthatmayormaynotbetrue.com took off. My job has remained unsteady and unreliable. I am in turn becoming unsteady and unreliable. The play I'm in, "Trifles," opens next week. Second term of iO is underway and things with that are wonderful. And I haven't left the state in what feels like forever.

On the up side, month one of this decade not even over, and I've finished two books:

Nick Hornby's "Juliette, Naked" and Steve Martin's "Born Standing Up."

Received David Sedaris' "Christmas on Ice" and Ayn Rand's "Atlas Shrugged" for Christmas, and have three more books on the ready:

David Rensin's "The Mailroom," Tom Shales & James Andrew Miller's "Live from New York," and a photobook, "Laugh," with pictures taken by William Claxton. There are things to read in that last one, but it's mainly short stories from the people within the photos.

Books, still in review

If you read my blog, you know I like — no scrap that — love to read. Since my last reading list post, I've finished:

1. Personal History, Katharine Graham
2. Twenties Girl, Sophie Kinsella
3. The Wild Things, Dave Eggers
4. Truth in Comedy, Charna Halpern, Del Close, Kim Johnson
5. I Feel Bad About My Neck (and Other Thoughts on Being a Woman), Nora Ephron

But

I'm still trying to finish:
1. Profiles in Courage, JFK
and
2. You Shall Know Our Velocity, Eggers

I don't know if I will finish either of those any time soon though. For some reason I can't seem to get into either, really. I'm 3/4 done with Profiles in Courage though, so I think I will just tough it out. I mean, it's a good book, it's just so full that I find myself rereading things often just to keep up. I think I'm going to get back to reading autobiographies though. I find them much more enjoyable than biographies, as those read seriously like text books, rather than life stories, which is what they are. I think people are more coherent when they're writing about themselves rather than someone else. It's funny though because JFK got a Pulitzer for Profiles in Courage, and so did Katharine Graham for her autobiography, Personal History.

* Add A Long Way Gone, Beah, and What is the What, Eggers to the soon-to-read list.

Books, Books, Books

I always tell Brian that we can be the couple who reads together. I don't know why, but I have this idea that we could go to a park, and there wouldn't be any bugs, and I could be reading some silly Sophie Kinsella book or some really intense biography about a high-powered woman, and he could be reading some book that periodically he has to read out loud to show just how funny it is.

I don't know why, but it's always been something that I've sort of wanted, for one reason or another. Maybe it's because I really love going to bookstores, but there are never comfy chairs open, so I just end up reading outside and want company. Or maybe it's because I want someone to read sentences aloud to. That's company though, right?

Company is probably the biggest thing, because really, reading is quite a solitary activity. Or, it's all just a throwback to reading outside on the pentacrest in college. Let's go with company as a whole though.

I mean, you've got your book groups and the like, but there's no real discussion, I imagine. Maybe I have a skewed perspective on book groups thanks to my mother. She has been part of one for a few years now and enjoys reading, but somehow always gets distracted and can never finish the book in time for the book group deadline. I get that. But at the same time, it's hard to have a real chat about a book if you've only finished a third of it. Then again, why is there a timetable for reading a book? Ah, ha, libraries also have timetables. Two weeks, or you're out. I pounded down the latest Sophie Kinsella novel, Twenties Girl, in just over a day on Wednesday. I was dodging a late fee and returned it during the off-hours technically after the deadline, but also technically not. Limbo. By the way, in case you hadn't heard from me already, Personal History was great. It's sad that there's no more. If I were Katharine Graham (provided I was still alive), I think it would be really scary to look at a 650-page book and realize that's it. That's your life. I mean, obviously not everything can be covered in a book, but it's sort of intense.

But this is neither here nor there. I suppose I do have a way of talking about the books I'm reading. Thanks for checking up, blog readers. In the meantime, I'll probably be outside. Reading. For now it's JFK's Profiles in Courage.

Two Quotes to Live By

"To me, working is a form of sustenance, like food or water, and nearly as essential." -Katharine Graham, Personal History, p. 623

"The longer I live, the more I observe that carrying around anger is more debilitating to the person who bears it." -Katharine Graham, Personal History, p. 614

Books in review, adding to my year-long reading list

Books Read:
1. Can You Keep a Secret?, Sophie Kinsella
2. Remember Me, Sophia Kinsella
3. The Undomestic Goddess, Sophie Kinsella
4. How to be Good, Nick Hornby
5. A Model World, Michael Chabon
6. Shopaholic and Baby, Sophie Kinsella
7. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, Dave Eggers
8. *

Books in Progress:
1. Personal History, Katharine Graham
2. A Long Way Gone, Ishmael Beah
3. Twenties Girl, Sophie Kinsella
4. You Shall Know Our Velocity, Dave Eggers

*I feel like I have one more that I can't remember—I will add it later...

The Second Wind

"The fatigue of the climb was great but it is interesting to learn once more how much further one can go on one's second wind. I think that is an important lesson for everyone to learn for it should also be applied to one's mental efforts.

Most people go through life without ever discovering the existence of that whole field of endeavor which we describe as second wind.

Whether mentally or physically occupied most people give up at the first appearance of exhaustion. Thus they never learn the glory and the exhilaration of genuine effort."

-from Personal History, by Katharine Graham, as quoted from her mother's diary entry.

Over the past week I have begun reading Katharine Graham's autobiography. I am going to be frank here: I love it.

For those of you who do not know, Katharine Graham (neé Meyer) was the publisher of The Washington Post for two decades, which fortune would have it were during the Watergate times. It should also be noted that perhaps I might be a teensy bit biased, as I love journalism and history more than your common 23-year-old. Anyway, the Post broke the story first, with leaks and off-the-record witnesses and eventually publishing the entirety of the Pentagon Papers. Graham's father purchased the Post in the 30s when it was a dying venture and passed it on to Katharine's husband, Phil Graham. He ran it until Katharine eventually took the reigns.

What amazes me most about Katharine herself was her genuine charismatic personality. And what further excites me is her zest for life, change in career paths, interest in politics, desire to be a mother—all of these things. I think what attracts me most is simply the notion that she is a woman I not only admire, but want to emulate. While she was handed almost everything, she never took it for granted, and she knew what to do with it once it had been given her.

Her whole life seems like a second wind after a second wind after a second wind. And it's true, most people go through life permitting themselves only the status quo, but she didn't, and I don't intend to.

Spam, Porn and the Like

I try to clear out my Spam box daily. I'm a bit anal when it comes to the way my gmail box looks, and right now it's bizarre to me that sans full-time job I have gotten lazy. Earlier today I deleted the Spam box with more than 500 emails in it.

And let me just ask, does it bother anyone else that almost all of the emails have something to do with either free credit or free sex?

I don't get it. When did all inhibitions become cast aside causing the Internet to blow up? In Chuck Klosterman's "Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs," he makes the statement in one of the chapter essays that the reason the Internet expanded like it did was because of the notion that the Internet got rid of the awkwardness of buying pornography. Not only did you not have to accidentally run into your mom's best friend buying groceries, you got the porn for free. It seemed the best of both worlds, but I mean, please don't call me naive, but doesn't it sort of make you sick? There are over 500,000 sites dedicated to contrived nudity. Aren't there better things one could be doing with their time than either a. creating a free porn site? or b. looking at a free porn site? or the worst, c. paying for porn on the Internet because the free stuff doesn't quite do the trick?

I should think the Spam company (i.e. makers of Spam food (?) products, also contrived) would be upset that their good name has been tarnished by free porn marketers all over your Internet email address. But I guess a product that promotes its "World of effortless, everyday creativity," as Spam boasts on its website, probably wouldn't give a damn. It would require effort, and we've all figured out that free porn or being upset about its existence would require at least some small effort.

Books I've read over the last year

1. Slam, Nick Hornby

2. A Long Way Down, Nick Hornby

3. We the Living, Ayn Rand

4. The Fountainhead, Ayn Rand

5. Confessions of a Shopaholic, Sophia Kinsella

6. Shopaholic Takes Manhattan, Sophia Kinsella

7. Shopaholic Ties the Knot, Sophia Kinsella

8. Shopaholic and Sister, Sophia Kinsella

9. When You Are Engulfed in Flames, David Sedaris

10. Do Travel Writers Go to Hell?, Thomas Kohnstamm

11. Under the Mercy, Sheldon Vanauken

12. Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs, Chuck Klosterman

13. Watchdog Journalism: The Art of Investigative Reporting, Steven J. Berry