"We all could use a change of scene..."
-- Pippin
In Washington DC I am pretty much your typical run-of-the-mill guy-- white, average height and build, decently groomed and modestly dressed.
But in exotic ports of call like Ho Chi Minh City, this average daisy morphs into a budding bird of paradise. Suddenly I am a towering, pale, hairy beast that inspires either fear or fascination in children and adults alike. Blue eyed, a little on the chunky side, and hilariously flamboyant all reconfigure themselves in my chrysalis of transformation. A change of "seen" influences self-appraisal ... and worth ...
And my chin-strap beard is the stuff of legends ...
My face became like a pregnant woman's belly -- magnetizing people's attention, prompting profuse compliments and celebratory gestures, and the conversion of private to public property while grown men casually caressed my face like languidly stroking an idle cat.
Oh- and arm hair. Like a barbarian emerging from an isolated swampland, children stood transfixed and adults politely darted their gaze to and fro. While eating dinner one night, an unabashed little girl turned my left arm into her personal unconventional doll, tousling my hair and giving a good yank to ensure the stitching was intact.
Despite the initial awkwardness of unraveling this cocoon, I slowly began to flap my compressed wings and engage the "new" me. Unsettled, foreign, still a little on the chunky side- and downright PASTY white.
Pale skin is prized by some women in Vietnam. It is not uncommon to see a woman riding a motorbike in full-blown winter-time regalia, seemingly an ice princess escaping some brutal blizzard of the Arctic. Gloves, long-sleeved hoodies, scarves and face masks (not to mention stylish shades) could easily be mistaken for Muslim garb. Still, this does not seem to distract their epic pursuit of fair skin while being chased by 95 degree temperatures and 80% humidity.
In Cambodia, my height, weight, and skin tone are readily equated with wealth and lavish spending habits. As I flutter-by the shops and market stalls, my appearance elicits tirelessly rehearsed promises of amazing quality and great deals. I generously pollinate my American dollars from bud to bud, indulging in inflated prices and drinking the sweet nectar of a country so different from my own.
And indulging in a persona that is so different from my own ...
One evening at the Cambodian market (a late-night parade of carnival games and food carts - and unfrequented by tourists), my unusual presence drew a small crowd. I was attempting to unsettle a small stack of tin cans with a lightweight baseball ... and to the disappointment of the Cambodian public, this butterfly is ironically inept at handling balls. Appearances can be deceiving.
Being irrefutably unable to "fit in" is a mixed bag ... entangled in historically-woven stereotypes, uninhibited by the expectations and responsibilities of "normal" society, and exuding an air of mystery despite my admitted ordinariness. Nothing could be so wonderfully confusing and paradoxically coherent.
And so, just like the life cycle of a literal butterfly, this proverbial flight of fancy came to an end after 14 days of flitting, floating, and fleeing the gravity of every day life. It was, truly, a vacation from myself into myself.
And I had such a damn good time ... :-)
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Mal di S(ch)iena
"Chi va piano, va sano, e va lontano"
---Those who take it easy live long and healthy.
Well, I should heed any Italian proverb that rhymes.
A series of back-straining activities, which sadly do not relate to my libido, had me taxi-delivered straight to the Italian emergency room this week (the "pronto soccorso", literally "ready relief").
Sure ... "relief" ... like the relief of explaining in another language what your pain is, how it got there, and why you're uncomfortable injecting yourself with medicine in your butt.
Do whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Lemme back up and explain...
Emergency rooms in Italy are (un)remarkably similar to American ERs ... people milling about with ambiguous maladies, TVs blasting poorly delivered soap operas (even if you can't understand them, you can still identify a lapse in creative dialogue writing), and hurried medical personnel who do not have time for your condition (and, more importantly, your lack of comprehension in Italian).
Still, there were the stereotypes of the culture that had to be represented in this thin slice of the Italian populace. There's the old lady dishing out sandwiches and pizza to her precious and helpless son (well, he is 40 after all), the young couple decked out in Italy's newest fashion trends (which exhaustively involve the color purple, and I find myself for the first time unintentionally ahead of the fashion curve ... oh, and Timberlands are REALLY huge here, as well), and the old couple sitting arm-in-arm heatedly discussing something that seems to merit grandiose gestures and sudden peaks in volume (probably the price of tomatoes, god only knows).
After checking in with the front desk and giving a run-down of my symptoms (which basically was an uncoordinated mishmash of broken Italian and wild gesturing that looked like an interpretive dance of The Passion of the Christ), I had to sit and wait for my name .... "Brrrrrrruuuus-eh, Dah-veed Weel-ee-ehm-ma" ... and the eyes of the pronto soccorso fixated themselves on a rather tragic figure-- all alone, no family, struggling to bend over and fetch his own coat.
Bless ... Italians can't miss a good show. They stare at you the same way children do in America- with unabashed curiosity. Only in this country there aren't fussy adults to remind them of their impertinence.
The doctor greeted me using formal Italian (which is somewhat surprising, considering my age with respect to hers ... perhaps she was merely pitying my condition as I painstakingly eased myself into a chair). In a flurry of verbose medicinal Italian, I eventually gathered she wanted to know what happened, and how she could help.
Before I knew it, I had my pants around my knees, laying face-down on a cot, with some random nurse injecting something into my ass. If the nurse had been male this could have been a very lovely Italian-fantasy, something complete with Nutella-flavored medicine and a dark, handsome doctor intent on getting to the bottom of this (wink), but alas ... I was scared shitless.
Off to X-Ray!!! Oh, it's a university hospital! Yay ... so the youngin-doctors probably had their first impromptu Charades challenge with me ... and I quickly interpreted that they were miming for me to disrobe and lay down sans pants underneath a machine that was older than both the students' and my age put together. Great.
It was one of those moments where all you really want is your mother. You suddenly realize that being 29, head-strong, and presumably independent boil down to nothing ... and you are 5-years-old again, needing a gentile head rub, and your mom's soothing reassurance. I got a little teary...
X-Ray was negative, so back to the first doctor I went.
The office was sterile and poorly lit, concrete with shades of light green and a lonely crucifix hanging on the wall. The doctor sat solemnly behind a small desk, and typed notes slowly into the computer with her left-index and right-middle fingers. She indicated that I would have to continue with the injections for the next four days.
"Wait ... what?? Is this something I can do myself? Like ... inject ... myself ...???"
The doctor said that this would be difficult. In fact, with someone's help, it was very easy to do. Just ask someone to give you a little poke on the top muscular part of the buttocks, and you're right as rain. She seemed confused that I didn't have this "someone" readily available.
The same puzzled look had come over the nurse's face when she originally called me back from the waiting room.
"Um ... Who else is here with you?"
"No one ... I'm here by myself..."
And so ... armed with syringes and tiny vials of god-knows-what for an aching back and tattered ego, what's a man supposed to do???
Simple- in this country, you would just ask your mother.
---Those who take it easy live long and healthy.
Well, I should heed any Italian proverb that rhymes.
A series of back-straining activities, which sadly do not relate to my libido, had me taxi-delivered straight to the Italian emergency room this week (the "pronto soccorso", literally "ready relief").
Sure ... "relief" ... like the relief of explaining in another language what your pain is, how it got there, and why you're uncomfortable injecting yourself with medicine in your butt.
Do whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat? Lemme back up and explain...
Emergency rooms in Italy are (un)remarkably similar to American ERs ... people milling about with ambiguous maladies, TVs blasting poorly delivered soap operas (even if you can't understand them, you can still identify a lapse in creative dialogue writing), and hurried medical personnel who do not have time for your condition (and, more importantly, your lack of comprehension in Italian).
Still, there were the stereotypes of the culture that had to be represented in this thin slice of the Italian populace. There's the old lady dishing out sandwiches and pizza to her precious and helpless son (well, he is 40 after all), the young couple decked out in Italy's newest fashion trends (which exhaustively involve the color purple, and I find myself for the first time unintentionally ahead of the fashion curve ... oh, and Timberlands are REALLY huge here, as well), and the old couple sitting arm-in-arm heatedly discussing something that seems to merit grandiose gestures and sudden peaks in volume (probably the price of tomatoes, god only knows).
After checking in with the front desk and giving a run-down of my symptoms (which basically was an uncoordinated mishmash of broken Italian and wild gesturing that looked like an interpretive dance of The Passion of the Christ), I had to sit and wait for my name .... "Brrrrrrruuuus-eh, Dah-veed Weel-ee-ehm-ma" ... and the eyes of the pronto soccorso fixated themselves on a rather tragic figure-- all alone, no family, struggling to bend over and fetch his own coat.
Bless ... Italians can't miss a good show. They stare at you the same way children do in America- with unabashed curiosity. Only in this country there aren't fussy adults to remind them of their impertinence.
The doctor greeted me using formal Italian (which is somewhat surprising, considering my age with respect to hers ... perhaps she was merely pitying my condition as I painstakingly eased myself into a chair). In a flurry of verbose medicinal Italian, I eventually gathered she wanted to know what happened, and how she could help.
Before I knew it, I had my pants around my knees, laying face-down on a cot, with some random nurse injecting something into my ass. If the nurse had been male this could have been a very lovely Italian-fantasy, something complete with Nutella-flavored medicine and a dark, handsome doctor intent on getting to the bottom of this (wink), but alas ... I was scared shitless.
Off to X-Ray!!! Oh, it's a university hospital! Yay ... so the youngin-doctors probably had their first impromptu Charades challenge with me ... and I quickly interpreted that they were miming for me to disrobe and lay down sans pants underneath a machine that was older than both the students' and my age put together. Great.
It was one of those moments where all you really want is your mother. You suddenly realize that being 29, head-strong, and presumably independent boil down to nothing ... and you are 5-years-old again, needing a gentile head rub, and your mom's soothing reassurance. I got a little teary...
X-Ray was negative, so back to the first doctor I went.
The office was sterile and poorly lit, concrete with shades of light green and a lonely crucifix hanging on the wall. The doctor sat solemnly behind a small desk, and typed notes slowly into the computer with her left-index and right-middle fingers. She indicated that I would have to continue with the injections for the next four days.
"Wait ... what?? Is this something I can do myself? Like ... inject ... myself ...???"
The doctor said that this would be difficult. In fact, with someone's help, it was very easy to do. Just ask someone to give you a little poke on the top muscular part of the buttocks, and you're right as rain. She seemed confused that I didn't have this "someone" readily available.
The same puzzled look had come over the nurse's face when she originally called me back from the waiting room.
"Um ... Who else is here with you?"
"No one ... I'm here by myself..."
And so ... armed with syringes and tiny vials of god-knows-what for an aching back and tattered ego, what's a man supposed to do???
Simple- in this country, you would just ask your mother.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
In a New York Day
I boarded the BoltBus Friday morning in DC, equipped with the recently unleashed 2nd album from Glee. What better way to approach the Big Apple than with the auto-tuned show-stopping numbers that practically stupefy gay boys into taser-like submission. So I sat, cradled in Rachel's voice and heated by Puck's face as the crazed Bolt driver yelled her "fuck you's!" and "this bus waits for no one!" to the terrified peons of the roadway.
There are lots of ways to describe New York City. There's the 'energy', the 'buzz', the 'sights and smells'. Within 5 minutes I had observed: a man puking gratuitously into a street receptacle, a number of rats scattered across the rails of the subway, and a public service announcement over the loudspeaker, "A crowded subway is no excuse for sexual misconduct." Ahh ... the city !!!
Well ... vomit, vermin, and perverts aside, there is still plenty enough in NYC left to keep this gay happy like a kid in Candyland. Namely food, alcohol, and musical theater.
Rice to Riches is my go-to pit stop for dessert and amusement- dozens of cleverly named rice pudding flavors and quirky/bitchy signs that encourage gluttonous behavior without regard to calories or common decency (there's even a sign that says "no skinny bitches"). Though tempted by the "Sumo" size, my thighs and humility drove me to share the medium size with a friend- pumpkin and pecan pie, scraping of the bowl required.
Alcohol-- like any tempting vice, it's never in short supply. Half a carafe of vino rosso in Little Italy had me singing show tunes, photographing anything that moved, and lamenting failed romances with a mutually buzzed friend.
Cut to Act II at the Duplex for Mostly Sondheim, where several rounds of vodka and diet (a drink named, oddly enough, the "skinny bitch") helped amplify the never-auto-tuned voices of professionals and amateurs alike. They took to the open-mic with live accompaniment and let wail a surge of belted Broadway that covered every inch of a room in perfect bliss.
It was special. It felt like what any Broadway show should feel like- it is only performed once, for your audience. Everything is fresh, everything is new, and you were just damn lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.
The encore to an already fabulous weekend was Next to Normal, a modern musical highlighting the triumphs and failures of psychopharmocology, and the multiple routes toward stable mental health. What's more (and deliciously ironic), I saw Dr. Ruth at the Will-Call window after the matinee-- yeah, she really is that short! No wonder she knows so much about genitalia, they're at her eye-level 24-7 !!!
Hurtling back to DC on the Bolt, I chuckle at how 24 hours can be so short but end up so great. Armed with the Next to Normal soundtrack being downloaded while I'm typing, the show's moral ammunition is tucked safely into its holster-- "happiness" and "normal" are about to be redefined...
And I'm the one writing the dictionary. Thank you NYC :-)
There are lots of ways to describe New York City. There's the 'energy', the 'buzz', the 'sights and smells'. Within 5 minutes I had observed: a man puking gratuitously into a street receptacle, a number of rats scattered across the rails of the subway, and a public service announcement over the loudspeaker, "A crowded subway is no excuse for sexual misconduct." Ahh ... the city !!!
Well ... vomit, vermin, and perverts aside, there is still plenty enough in NYC left to keep this gay happy like a kid in Candyland. Namely food, alcohol, and musical theater.
Rice to Riches is my go-to pit stop for dessert and amusement- dozens of cleverly named rice pudding flavors and quirky/bitchy signs that encourage gluttonous behavior without regard to calories or common decency (there's even a sign that says "no skinny bitches"). Though tempted by the "Sumo" size, my thighs and humility drove me to share the medium size with a friend- pumpkin and pecan pie, scraping of the bowl required.
Alcohol-- like any tempting vice, it's never in short supply. Half a carafe of vino rosso in Little Italy had me singing show tunes, photographing anything that moved, and lamenting failed romances with a mutually buzzed friend.
Cut to Act II at the Duplex for Mostly Sondheim, where several rounds of vodka and diet (a drink named, oddly enough, the "skinny bitch") helped amplify the never-auto-tuned voices of professionals and amateurs alike. They took to the open-mic with live accompaniment and let wail a surge of belted Broadway that covered every inch of a room in perfect bliss.
It was special. It felt like what any Broadway show should feel like- it is only performed once, for your audience. Everything is fresh, everything is new, and you were just damn lucky enough to be in the right place at the right time.
The encore to an already fabulous weekend was Next to Normal, a modern musical highlighting the triumphs and failures of psychopharmocology, and the multiple routes toward stable mental health. What's more (and deliciously ironic), I saw Dr. Ruth at the Will-Call window after the matinee-- yeah, she really is that short! No wonder she knows so much about genitalia, they're at her eye-level 24-7 !!!
Hurtling back to DC on the Bolt, I chuckle at how 24 hours can be so short but end up so great. Armed with the Next to Normal soundtrack being downloaded while I'm typing, the show's moral ammunition is tucked safely into its holster-- "happiness" and "normal" are about to be redefined...
And I'm the one writing the dictionary. Thank you NYC :-)
Friday, December 11, 2009
decaf delight
"So what's the deal with decaf? How do they get the caffeine out of there, and where does it go?" -- Seinfeld
* * * * *
"But dad, seriously, it's like brown water. What's the point?"
"Someday you'll understand, son."
Bastard. His comments always come back to bite me, with that same dull panicky sensation that makes you realize you are becoming your parent regardless of how much you squirm and wriggle from the grasps of maturity. For all those caffeine-laced jabs and joists at his decaf habit, inevitably I am the one ordering a grande decaf drip and complaining that Starbucks Decaf Via is never in stock.
"Decaf" is a bit of a misnomer... your average grande still has about 25mg of caffeine, which is enough to merit a "de" when compared to the whopping 320mg of a regular Starbucks brew.
"I'm sorry, sir, we stop brewing decaf in the afternoons."
Which makes perfect sense. Because people who order decaf all go to bed by 5pm, after devouring their sodium-enriched early-bird steak down at Bob Evans (pre-chewed).
"I can make you a fresh pot. Can you stand with your walker for that long?"
Asinine. People need less caffeine in the evenings. It's like dishing out Valium at 10am.
Apparently there is a coffee bean that grows naturally un-caffeinated, but the trend hasn't caught on yet with major retailers. That's gotta be rough on the decaf coffee bean out there - probably feels like a guy with ED sitting in a room full of porn stars on Viagra.
As for my own caffeine-envy, I am all too eager to inform the less-than-25-yr-olds out there that their day is coming. "Oh my god, I can, like, drink it alllll day and go right to bed!" *shaking my head*
And so, while marching steadily towards my 30s, I recycle the wisdom of the ages that serves as a cautionary tale to the young. And I stare forever forward, trepidacious and aware that things like ED, diapers, and dentures are patiently awaiting their rotation ... and conquest.
* * * * *
"But dad, seriously, it's like brown water. What's the point?"
"Someday you'll understand, son."
Bastard. His comments always come back to bite me, with that same dull panicky sensation that makes you realize you are becoming your parent regardless of how much you squirm and wriggle from the grasps of maturity. For all those caffeine-laced jabs and joists at his decaf habit, inevitably I am the one ordering a grande decaf drip and complaining that Starbucks Decaf Via is never in stock.
"Decaf" is a bit of a misnomer... your average grande still has about 25mg of caffeine, which is enough to merit a "de" when compared to the whopping 320mg of a regular Starbucks brew.
"I'm sorry, sir, we stop brewing decaf in the afternoons."
Which makes perfect sense. Because people who order decaf all go to bed by 5pm, after devouring their sodium-enriched early-bird steak down at Bob Evans (pre-chewed).
"I can make you a fresh pot. Can you stand with your walker for that long?"
Asinine. People need less caffeine in the evenings. It's like dishing out Valium at 10am.
Apparently there is a coffee bean that grows naturally un-caffeinated, but the trend hasn't caught on yet with major retailers. That's gotta be rough on the decaf coffee bean out there - probably feels like a guy with ED sitting in a room full of porn stars on Viagra.
As for my own caffeine-envy, I am all too eager to inform the less-than-25-yr-olds out there that their day is coming. "Oh my god, I can, like, drink it alllll day and go right to bed!" *shaking my head*
And so, while marching steadily towards my 30s, I recycle the wisdom of the ages that serves as a cautionary tale to the young. And I stare forever forward, trepidacious and aware that things like ED, diapers, and dentures are patiently awaiting their rotation ... and conquest.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Air travel
“Please maintain control of your personal belongings...”
Right?!? I'd like to say the same to the crowd at Cobalt on a Friday night. Keep your baggage (package?) to yourself!!!
But in the Washington Reagan National Airport, this simply means “bitches, don't leave your shit around … how else are we gonna charge you 20 bucks for your bag???”
Woman in front of me at the ticket counter: “No, ma'am, I'm not checking any luggage today”.
US Airways attendant: “What about that mid-size elephant that is traveling with you?”
Woman: “That'll fit in the overhead bins.”
And, sure enough, people will try to jam any ginormous suitcase into impossible crevices on the plane (hell, if Catherine the Great can figure it out, why can't I?). Fortunately the airlines are now checking these bags (for free!), which only further encourages the smuggling of over-sized bags into the cabin.
All this, only to be charged for peanuts!! Now if someone uses the phrase “oh, they work for peanuts!”, we'll have to substitute “oh, they work for $5, cash appreciated”.
And first class … my god, I just don't get it. Why do they board first? Why is it considered a privilege for you to sit there while everyone else gets on board, crowding up the aisle next to you, shuffling past to the back of the plane?
First class passengers stare straight forward in the same way most people stare past beggars on the street- with eyes darting side to side.
And what about that mosquito net they put up to separate them from the coach passengers? Sometimes I want to light a citronella candle and start buzzing and prodding, just to complete the experience for them.
I always get nervous at the baggage claim. “Many items look alike” … yes, and “many items could so easily be taken it's a wonder that the gypsies haven't caught on to our ignorance”. And as those numerous, dark, seemingly-similar suitcases come wielding around the belt, it's a mystery that we are ever reunited with the exact right bag. Like penguins in a sea of hundreds, somehow we find our match.
Waiting to be picked up at the airport is like the carline at an elementary school; everyone standing impatiently with their over-sized school bags, scanning the arsenal of vehicles hoping to spot a familiar face. Security directs the soccer moms to their appropriate segment of the line, while trunks pop and slam and hugs (sometimes unwillingly) are exchanged. And if they have brought you a snack (no peanuts, please), they are superstars. “How was your day?” is replaced with “How was your flight?”, and you drive off leaving your schoolmates still fretting over “Where are they?”
So there I was, package in tow (wink), ready to start a week-long vacation in Florida and the Bahamas.
To be continued – though sadly there will be no package stories to be told ...
Right?!? I'd like to say the same to the crowd at Cobalt on a Friday night. Keep your baggage (package?) to yourself!!!
But in the Washington Reagan National Airport, this simply means “bitches, don't leave your shit around … how else are we gonna charge you 20 bucks for your bag???”
Woman in front of me at the ticket counter: “No, ma'am, I'm not checking any luggage today”.
US Airways attendant: “What about that mid-size elephant that is traveling with you?”
Woman: “That'll fit in the overhead bins.”
And, sure enough, people will try to jam any ginormous suitcase into impossible crevices on the plane (hell, if Catherine the Great can figure it out, why can't I?). Fortunately the airlines are now checking these bags (for free!), which only further encourages the smuggling of over-sized bags into the cabin.
All this, only to be charged for peanuts!! Now if someone uses the phrase “oh, they work for peanuts!”, we'll have to substitute “oh, they work for $5, cash appreciated”.
And first class … my god, I just don't get it. Why do they board first? Why is it considered a privilege for you to sit there while everyone else gets on board, crowding up the aisle next to you, shuffling past to the back of the plane?
First class passengers stare straight forward in the same way most people stare past beggars on the street- with eyes darting side to side.
And what about that mosquito net they put up to separate them from the coach passengers? Sometimes I want to light a citronella candle and start buzzing and prodding, just to complete the experience for them.
I always get nervous at the baggage claim. “Many items look alike” … yes, and “many items could so easily be taken it's a wonder that the gypsies haven't caught on to our ignorance”. And as those numerous, dark, seemingly-similar suitcases come wielding around the belt, it's a mystery that we are ever reunited with the exact right bag. Like penguins in a sea of hundreds, somehow we find our match.
Waiting to be picked up at the airport is like the carline at an elementary school; everyone standing impatiently with their over-sized school bags, scanning the arsenal of vehicles hoping to spot a familiar face. Security directs the soccer moms to their appropriate segment of the line, while trunks pop and slam and hugs (sometimes unwillingly) are exchanged. And if they have brought you a snack (no peanuts, please), they are superstars. “How was your day?” is replaced with “How was your flight?”, and you drive off leaving your schoolmates still fretting over “Where are they?”
So there I was, package in tow (wink), ready to start a week-long vacation in Florida and the Bahamas.
To be continued – though sadly there will be no package stories to be told ...
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Spotless Minds
"I remember the time I knew what happiness was ...
Let the memory live again" -- Cats
I've been doing some Googling on this quote from the musical Cats, trying to make sure I got it right -- Is it "I remember a time...", or "I remember the time..."? Every source online seems to say "the time".
There's a seemingly subtle but nevertheless substantial difference between the two. "A time" refers back to a pleasant moment past. "The time" refers to a pleasant moment past in the face of a less pleasant present. If I were to say, "I remember the time I was happy", it indicates that there is a part of my life that no longer exists today - a happy part.
Last night I watched the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time. Despite its stoner-esque title, the concept behind the story is pretty intriguing -- What if we could delete someone from our memory ... completely?
Ultimately this boils down to erasing someone from our memory who has hurt us deeply. The ironic twist is that this person is probably the same one who has brought us a lot of happiness ... at one time.
I think there are two categories of "pain"; the kind that we would rather be without, and the kind that we tolerate because we have no choice. For example, it's painful losing your mother ... but you would never want to completely zap her from your memory, right? However you might consider zapping an ex-boy/girlfriend who gave you the pink slip in a harsh way?
One difference between the two kinds is mere accusation. My mom dying was not her decision, but a breakup or fight between friends carries "blame". Another difference is emotional "loitering" ... mom is gone, but ex's still cross paths.
The characters in Spotless Mind chose memory deletion as a way to endure, as if their lives weren't worth living with those memories in tow. I don't want to live like that.
I'd rather approach both kinds of pain in the same way- remember them both for what they have brought me, taught me, and ultimately how they have led me to where I am today. Which is to say, inevitably- very happy ...
So can I look back positively on ex-roommates-gone-psycho, ex-boyfriends-gone-stale, and ex-best-friends-gone-sour ... ? I guess that's what life is all about- wanting the sunshine, and putting up with the shadows that consequently stand out.
Occasional Cloudiness of the Polka-dotted Mind ... sounds like an absolute blockbuster :-)
Let the memory live again" -- Cats
I've been doing some Googling on this quote from the musical Cats, trying to make sure I got it right -- Is it "I remember a time...", or "I remember the time..."? Every source online seems to say "the time".
There's a seemingly subtle but nevertheless substantial difference between the two. "A time" refers back to a pleasant moment past. "The time" refers to a pleasant moment past in the face of a less pleasant present. If I were to say, "I remember the time I was happy", it indicates that there is a part of my life that no longer exists today - a happy part.
Last night I watched the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the first time. Despite its stoner-esque title, the concept behind the story is pretty intriguing -- What if we could delete someone from our memory ... completely?
Ultimately this boils down to erasing someone from our memory who has hurt us deeply. The ironic twist is that this person is probably the same one who has brought us a lot of happiness ... at one time.
I think there are two categories of "pain"; the kind that we would rather be without, and the kind that we tolerate because we have no choice. For example, it's painful losing your mother ... but you would never want to completely zap her from your memory, right? However you might consider zapping an ex-boy/girlfriend who gave you the pink slip in a harsh way?
One difference between the two kinds is mere accusation. My mom dying was not her decision, but a breakup or fight between friends carries "blame". Another difference is emotional "loitering" ... mom is gone, but ex's still cross paths.
The characters in Spotless Mind chose memory deletion as a way to endure, as if their lives weren't worth living with those memories in tow. I don't want to live like that.
I'd rather approach both kinds of pain in the same way- remember them both for what they have brought me, taught me, and ultimately how they have led me to where I am today. Which is to say, inevitably- very happy ...
So can I look back positively on ex-roommates-gone-psycho, ex-boyfriends-gone-stale, and ex-best-friends-gone-sour ... ? I guess that's what life is all about- wanting the sunshine, and putting up with the shadows that consequently stand out.
Occasional Cloudiness of the Polka-dotted Mind ... sounds like an absolute blockbuster :-)
Monday, April 20, 2009
Hands moving in church
Hands moving in church?!? Not for Twitter-checking, and not for altar boys. Whenever my hands are moving in church- rather, whenever my hands are even IN a church building, it has to do with interpreting and sign language. And, oddly enough, it is generally for an audience that has no friggin' clue what I'm saying.
I could stand in front of a congregation and sign "sodomy feels awesome" to the hymn "He Touched Me", and half of the people would ooh and ahh at the grace that is American Sign Language.
Of course that would be highly unprofessional, unethical, and it could put me in an uncomfortable position. *cough*
Two weeks ago I had the opportunity to interpret a few songs for a high school church choir at a Methodist church west of DC. The church had all the required features needed to sustain its Methodist status: food, lots of old people, and clapping to music that is about as exciting as a dog panting.
The kids were pretty damn good considering the surge of hormones constantly yanking at their vocal chords. And it was somewhat haunting to hear songs that instantaneously transported me back to my 8-year-old self. It reminded me of my family's weekly trek to church ... the ceremony, the (ir)reverence, and the anthems sung and played by my mom and dad.
My aunt (mom's sister) was the choir director and also accompanied the kids during the concert. I looked over at my aunt and thought about how she knew my mom in a way I never would (growing up together). It felt lonely. Then I stood up and waved my arms around to a bunch of people who wouldn't know the difference between real sign language and lewd gestures in another culture. And that felt lonely, too.
I stepped outside to get some fresh air after the concert. Congregants inside were wrapping up in truly Methodist style (like watching grass grow in a pitch-black room) and the cool night air was perfect for some pensive reflection about my family. And then the pastor strolled up ...
"Hey there! Friday night at church, huh? Usually I go down to Dupont Circle."
Hmmm ....
"You looked sooooo beautiful in there, you've got such long fingers- perfect for graceful signing."
Hmmm ....
"Your beard looks amazing, it's so short! How'd you get it like that? I use a number 2 on my trimmer- what do you do???"
Oh my hell ....
Well, I didn't stick around long enough to see what kind of tithing he wanted to put in my offering plate ... but I did start to think about this (potentially) gay priest and what kind of life he was living.
Perhaps this priest, quite like myself, stands before groups of people who don't really understand him at all. I wonder if that makes him feel lonely, too?
So ... maybe the next time I find myself in a sanctuary without sanctuary, I'll try to remember this priest and the commitment he has made- faithfully putting himself out there, knowing that hopefully, maybe maybe *fingers crossed*, someone in the crowd will get it.
In the meantime, I'll just keep signing "stripper's pole" instead of "cross", and wait until I hear an audible *GASP*.
I could stand in front of a congregation and sign "sodomy feels awesome" to the hymn "He Touched Me", and half of the people would ooh and ahh at the grace that is American Sign Language.
Of course that would be highly unprofessional, unethical, and it could put me in an uncomfortable position. *cough*
Two weeks ago I had the opportunity to interpret a few songs for a high school church choir at a Methodist church west of DC. The church had all the required features needed to sustain its Methodist status: food, lots of old people, and clapping to music that is about as exciting as a dog panting.
The kids were pretty damn good considering the surge of hormones constantly yanking at their vocal chords. And it was somewhat haunting to hear songs that instantaneously transported me back to my 8-year-old self. It reminded me of my family's weekly trek to church ... the ceremony, the (ir)reverence, and the anthems sung and played by my mom and dad.
My aunt (mom's sister) was the choir director and also accompanied the kids during the concert. I looked over at my aunt and thought about how she knew my mom in a way I never would (growing up together). It felt lonely. Then I stood up and waved my arms around to a bunch of people who wouldn't know the difference between real sign language and lewd gestures in another culture. And that felt lonely, too.
I stepped outside to get some fresh air after the concert. Congregants inside were wrapping up in truly Methodist style (like watching grass grow in a pitch-black room) and the cool night air was perfect for some pensive reflection about my family. And then the pastor strolled up ...
"Hey there! Friday night at church, huh? Usually I go down to Dupont Circle."
Hmmm ....
"You looked sooooo beautiful in there, you've got such long fingers- perfect for graceful signing."
Hmmm ....
"Your beard looks amazing, it's so short! How'd you get it like that? I use a number 2 on my trimmer- what do you do???"
Oh my hell ....
Well, I didn't stick around long enough to see what kind of tithing he wanted to put in my offering plate ... but I did start to think about this (potentially) gay priest and what kind of life he was living.
Perhaps this priest, quite like myself, stands before groups of people who don't really understand him at all. I wonder if that makes him feel lonely, too?
So ... maybe the next time I find myself in a sanctuary without sanctuary, I'll try to remember this priest and the commitment he has made- faithfully putting himself out there, knowing that hopefully, maybe maybe *fingers crossed*, someone in the crowd will get it.
In the meantime, I'll just keep signing "stripper's pole" instead of "cross", and wait until I hear an audible *GASP*.
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