Adventure
begins. I am off like a prom dress, one of those ugly pink ones that
looked so good in the store. What the hell do I know about prom
dresses? I am out of here (hair) like a bald man. As snow flurries
return to Boston to chill the middle of May, I escape and trip the
light fantastic.
I’ve saved and coveted and calculated all my work vacation
time. ‘Tis time to spend it gluttonously. I leave tomorrow, Thursday,
for Austin and the South by Southwest (SXSW) music festival. Over four
nights, I aim to witness fifty bands, making up for my cultural dearth
in Boston. There shall be Japanese punk explosion, down-home Austin
blues, and little synth kids going boing. Mostly, though, I return to
see Ruben and Alyson, my compatriots in drunkenness. Strange to find
Alyson now single and Ruben now firmly attached as the situation was
rather different two years ago, except for the one constant factor, my
bachelorhood. Ruben gave me run of his room, and Alyson shall check on
our downtown partying when she gets off work. I’m surprised to find
little interest in touring the ol’ chemistry lab; that wasn’t my focus
during my decadent Texas years. I will, however, look for home, or at
least vestigial signs that I should return for good.
Come Monday morning, I take a
flight back to Boston, and like a satellite circuling a planet, I jet
further into the stratosphere of Europe. I return to my other post-doc
haunt, Eindhoven, to take part in Rene’s Ph.D defense. An old Dutch
tradition requires the doctoral defendant to have two supporters, known
as paranymphen, on stage during the examination. Along with fellow
American Chris, I shall wear fancy formal wear and sit patiently while
Rene fields questions from a berobed committee of ten in front of an
expectant audience.
It’s not all chemistry work for
me. I shall spend Tuesday and Wednesday kicking it in Amsterdam.
Kicking it is just a euphemism for all sorts of trouble I might get
into within sin city. No definite plans yet except a coffeeshop or two,
but I don’t know yet the power of a bored Dudek. Dutch girl plans to
come up for an evening; we’ll see, we’ll see.
The new joke at work, especially
on Thursdays and Fridays, is to ask me to where I jet next. I live a
rich and fabulous life of a rock star, a star that stirs paint all day
and plays with glitter. I shan’t slow down yet.
Partially this mad trip is
preparation for my year sojourn. Can I still focused and fulfilled on
my own in places I know well? What is traveling like on my own, alone?
Is this still productive, or would my time be spent better looking for
and applying to other work? We shall see, we shall see. I will keep
writing; you keep reading.
Do well. I miss you already.
What is Burning Man?
I
stole this from Holly. It’s the most eloquent writing I have found yet
on the nebulous entity that is Burning Man. Enjoy.
[Burning Man Without the Man...
Tear down your house. Put it in a truck. Drive 10
hours in any direction. Put the house back together.
Buy a new set of expensive camping gear. Break it.
Stack all your fans in one corner of your living room.
Put on your most fabulous outfit. Turn the fans on
full blast. Dump a full vacuum cleaner bag in front of them.
Pitch your tent next to the wall of speakers in a
crowded, noisy club. Go to sleep. Wake up 2 hours
later in a 110 degree tent.
Buy a new pair of favorite shoes. Throw one shoe away.
Only use the toilet in a house that is at least 3
blocks away. Drain all the water from the toilet. Only
flush it every 4 days. Hide all the toilet paper.
Pay an escort of your affectional preference to not
bathe for five days, cover themselves in glitter,
dust, and sunscreen, wear a skanky neon wig; dance
closely naked with you, then say they have a lover
back home at the end of the night.
Cut, burn, electrocute, bruise, and sunburn various
parts of your body. Forget how you did it. Don't go t a doctor.
Spend a whole year rummaging through thrift stores for
the perfect, most outrageous costume. Forget to pack it.
Spend weeks preparing and freezing tasty, nutritious
food and then forget it in your trunk for a few days
of 110 degree heat. Eat it anyway - and like it.
Listen to music you hate for 168 hours straight, or
until you think you are going to scream. Scream.
Realize you'll love the music for the rest of your life.
Get so drunk you can't recognize your own house. Walk
slowly around the block for 5 hours.
Go to a museum. Find one of Salvador Dali's more
disturbing but beautiful paintings. Climb inside it.
Spend thousands of dollars creating a deeply personal
piece of art work. Hide it in a funhouse on the edge
of the city. Blow it up.
Set up a DJ system downwind of a three alarm fire.
Play a short loop of drum'n'bass until the embers are cold.
Have a 3 a.m., soul-baring conversation with a drag
nun in platforms, a crocodile, and Bugs Bunny. Be
unable to tell if you're hallucinating.]
Testing, Personality Testing, One, Two, Three
I
took an on-line personality test. I find the answers rather telling. I
suggest you take the same test and share the results.
Stability
results were moderately high which suggests you are relaxed, calm,
secure, and optimistic.
Orderliness
results were high which suggests you are overly organized, reliable,
neat, and hard working at the expense too often of flexibility,
efficiency, spontaneity, and fun.
Extraversion
results were high which suggests you are overly talkative, outgoing,
sociable and interacting at the expense too often of developing your
own individual interests and internally based identity.
trait
snapshot: clean, likes large parties,
outgoing, makes friends easily, optimistic, positive, social, high self
control, traditional, assertive, rarely irritated, self revealing,
open, finisher, high self concept, controlling, rarely worries, tough,
likes to stand out, does not like to be alone, semi neat freak,
fearless, dominant, trusting, organized, resolute, strong, practical,
craves attention, adventurous, hard working, respects authority,
brutally honest, realist, altruistic
Slam poetry is a stand-up, knock-down competition for the literate. A
contestant faces the masses. You have three minutes to use only the
sound of your body to entertain, enlighten, amuse. After three minutes,
you are instantly judged. Run over and you loose points. Often, the
high and low scores are dropped, and the remaining numbers totaled.
It’s instant gratification for the writer in front of a demanding
audience. The best slam poetry is comic with a poignant bite. Choruses
keep listeners focused; words are annunciated, twisted, altered with
funny voices.
For my second artist date, I wrote five slam poems. All of them are a
bit shorter than the three-minutes mark. They are best appreciated read
aloud, preferably by me. Feel free to throw money and your love. The
next step is to rattle off this work at a slam.
In the dark ages – And I was never good at world
history in Miss Mogreth’s fifth grade class, In the dark ages,
The Gauls had the gaul to sack
Rome The hordes were at the gates The Visigoths danced on the
Capitoline The Barbaians bartered with
barbers The Vandals stole the handle
Into the Gallic sack went Rome, Went keys, went teas, went China, Went coins, purloined, went
Turkey Went cabbages for savages – no
one went hungry.
Pediments, columns, lintels,
torsos – gone, gone, gone But most of all went the letters, - Miss Morgreth, remember, I was
sick that week, Yes, letters: T’s tied down, L’s loaded up,
C’s carted away, D’s on donkeys, M’s marched out,
K’s kept at bay.
The alphabet plundered,
sundered, scattered Like an abandoned meal on the
backs on picnic ants Split like an infinitive. On the winds, over the waves, To the corners of the continent.
The French took the vowels: No one needs ze consonants. Sinuewy vowels, open mouths of
air. Ou est-il la? N’est-ce pas
personne.
Across the Pyrennes came A’s and
O’s, The darlings of the Spaniards. O’s and A’s, one for each man
and wife, Senora, tu zanahoria es guapa.
The Germans horded the
consonants, Jarring sounds of attention: Rauchen verboten! A few letters slipped away to
the Dutch, Thrifty with whatever they got, A Pile of guttered g’s and
ululated u’s: Goededag uit Groningen.
The Poles suffered a shortage of
Spanish sounds. They pushed together j’s and w’s
like beds for warmth: Wojohowitz, Waselewski,
Wiedermannivitz.
In Sweden, O’s were split,
divided, slashed, Impropriety to things rounds. Instead, pairs of dots danced – Fur garlands for shivering
sounds.
And the English, on an island,
stand apart. Stealing what we need, Borrowing what we might, Picking what we choose, Sewing second-hand clothes for
clunky crowds: Through, knight,
antidisestablishmentarism.
Ms. Morgreth, didn’t I get this
right?
Hit the Road
Spring comes, the frost ebbs, Eyes wander out of windows. The days lengthen, the heart
strengthens Is this light again? Can we rise
like a tulip?
Now is now, and here is here, But you no longer have been –
here.
Bang on these windows, Bust down these doors, Break down these walls, Leave it all behind: files,
filters, folders, phones left on. Hang a crude sign that reads
“Gone.”
Pack a bag, whatever fits, cram
in fewer bits, Tie a red and white handkerchief
to a pole, A hanging hammock for your
buoyant soul.
Hit the road, Jack, and don’t
come back Fling yourself forth on the
currents Your flagship sets sail round
the horn. Sally forth, strike out, march
forward, dance a jig. Go, later there will be time for
rest.
Ride the rails, unfurl your
sails, Your oyster now, it is the world, That luminous sun, it is your
pearl. The moon will comfort, the stars
will guide. Young man, go west.
Live deliberately, suck out all
the marrow of life. Bungle with balancing Buddhists, Tangle with tantalizing tapirs, Dawdle with Danish druids, Jingle in a jalopy in Jaipur.
Move when the urge takes you, Take only when needs find you Need nothing because You are a child of the world,
and the world will provide
Listen, listen to someone who
stayed behind I watch through the window, I
rest in my chair I heard the call, I worried
about all, I brought up the bed covers and
turned the next page.
The time, your time, is now. For you won’t find life here. The secret is not on a
spreadsheet Wisdom plots not on a graph Frivolity is found not on the
slide master Essence lacks a cubicle. Youth is wasted on the young.
Reach, then, reach up, reach
out, reach in - courage Step now, lightly, quickly,
firmly, I’ll hold the door, I’ll shut the windows, I’ll send the notes, The fires will still be burning
when you come back.
Om
Om…Om…Shanti om… Three om’s at the start of yoga
class Three om’s at the end. Nameste. Om on the in-breath, om on the
out-breath. Inhale, om, exhale, om,
Om. The breath of life, the tone
of the fife Many muses that play within us. Interjections, rejections,
reflections. Notes long, shrill, short,
silent.
Um- I was naked and, Um- I slipped and fell on it. Um, the wayward pause, the
hidden cause, The sound that buys time at
auction in lots
Ouwm- that fuckin’ hurts Ouwm- what the fuck did you that
for? Ouwm, the muted scream, the
horrid dream, The pungent pain that lingers…
Ooom- yeah, baby, right there, Ooom- a little lower, faster,
deeper, Ooom, the bath of bubbles, the
prelude to cuddles, The ecstatic sigh of bliss that
floats…
Ooccchmmm, I’m floating, flying,
falling Oocchhmmm, it’s a cigar, it’s my
mother, it’s a purple dog, Ooochhmmm, the hours of night,
sometimes a fright, The sonorous beat of sleep that
awaits…
Oome- shanti, shanti, Oome- hari Krishna, hari Rama, Oome, the bend of the back, the
turn of the mind, The call above to bring below
within
Om, Um, Ouwn, Ooom, Oome, A word, a pause, a scab, a kiss,
a snore, a call, Om, inhale, exhale, Time marches, colors change, the
actors put on new costumes Day races into night, the frost
fades to heat’s hold, the castle crumbles, We wake, we falter, we cry, we
love, we breathe Om, the first sound of life, om,
the last sound of death.
My Third Eye
I have a third eye Between the other two You can’t see it, it sees though. It is the third eye, the eye of
intuition It’s not the green, brown, gold
of my eyes. It lacks color and contains them
all A mood-ring stone that swirls
with auras
My third eye – Like the illuminati eye hovering
watchful over the pyramid Like the eye of the needle for
the camel to cross into heaven My third eye sees needs, feeds
on thoughts, tends the weeds of desire My third eye, the eye of
intuition, directs the traffic, the jam – honking – between my psyche,
my heart, my loins
The problem is, recently I
stumble more, I make bad choices, I don’t reflect, I confuse wants with needs, blur
desire with destiny, fumble with the future I went to get my eye checked. The third eye doctor, the third
I visited – as the first two were quacks,
quaking like ducks, This witch doctor told me that
my third eye needs glasses, Actually a glass, a psychic
monocle to sharpen my Foucault focus. Can’t I undergo third eye lasiq
with blinding incision from the Tao? Can’t I cradle a giant contact
lens, bulbous, billowing?
My third eye needs glasses. Glasses to prevent the laser
beam from obliterating you all. As my third eye with its red
line fathoms your heart, plumbs your soul. Who will grind the lens? The
oracle at Delphi? The hot-line psychic? Lenscrafters, in their intuition
division? Do I get a student discount as I
am a student of life? Will my glass fog? Cloud up
under passion? Bead up when my third eye cries troubled tears of
longing? Will the ladies – Circe and her
pigs, the Sirens and their songs – overlook me now behind my ocular
wall of silica? The thick black frames may be
taped. Am I now a psychic nerd?
My third eye, the eye of
intuition, needs glasses. My third eye, out of sight,
insight, foresight, this site. I want to see again - not
straight – But see the curved arc that is
my life, that is my past, my future, my load to bear. My third eye
needs glasses. Can you help out a poor blind
man?
Eighty thousand
Eighty thousand dollars a year
is not enough. I want more. I work in a non-descript
start-up, end-up, finish-down. You haven’t heard of it, but
it’s been around. There’s been talk. Even shouts -
occasionally. Nobody noticed.
Forty dollars an hour is not
enough. I want more. I don’t work a lot. Just nine to
six, pick up sticks. My boss leaves me alone most of
the time. Alone to my own devices, Devices that surf the internet,
write e-mail, drink coffee. I get by.
Sixty-six cents a minute is not
enough. I want more. Meetings pass me by. I don’t go. I don’t even manage; I manage by
not managing. I write a report once a month, usually late, pieces of eight. He doesn’t look.
I stir paint. That’s it. Paint.
Stir. Paint. Yes, paint. Patience. ‘Twas the night before Christmas
– yes, you got it, not a creature was stirring, but
me – stirring paint. Patently. Patiently. Somedays it is black paint.
Other days, white paint. If I’m lucky, brown, green,
silver. New colors twist in the laundry,
spot my shoes.
Eighty thousand a year, Forty an hour, Sixty-six a minute. It is not enough. It is not enough to show me the
majesty of the sunrise. It is not enough to hear the
glory of the late throb of the disco. It is not enough to listen to
the still snap of the snowy, dark, desolate.
Life seeks outside these doors. I am more than a salary, more than a bank statement, more than a flick of the wrist
that stirs, and stirs to seize the color of
life, the gamut of passion, the hue of intent.
Are we more than what we do? Are
we? No, we are what we do, so choose
carefully. I burst down these doors. I fling myself forward on the
mercy of the river of conjecture. I will live like a pauper, a
pauper whose hat is filled with what comes: pain, ecstasy, uncertainty,
understanding. That will be enough. That will
be enough.
And yet. And yet Einstein
labored in a patent office. And yet Wallace Stevens wrote
verse at the Hartford Accident and Indemnity. Shall we suffer the certainty or
jump the void?
Nary a day of vacation left to
me so I jet off to Colorado instead for the brief weekend, coming back
almost as quickly, like a rocket arcing around a planet. It is almost
spring and the world is puddle wonderful, at least in Colorado. While
Boston still freezes, literally, with temperatures bouncing in the low
thirties, Denver bakes in March, hitting seventy last week.
Denver is also home to Mr. Mike Bada, bio-informatician at
large, but don't ask too much what that is as you'll suffer through
ontological discussions of natural language processing. Mike and I met
ages ago at Stanford and lived together with two other chemists.
Through the years, we've had our adventures, sundry and sordid, in
California, Manchester, Amsterdam. He moved a while ago into a terrific
Denver apartment in a boutique building with a theme: the Works. The
staircase has bronze gears, a video by the front doorway shows
machining, the apartment fixtures are black, industrial, with light
wood. The boy needs better lighting and a few more pieces of furniture,
but with a blue couch and a grand tv, it's make-out time. His place has
in abundance what The Palace lacks: warmth. We slumbered in the same
bed; he accused me of hoarding the duvet, not realizing that this is
merely Boston survival instinct. Time to ski. Unlike in San
Francisco, the slopes are just over an hour away from Denver. The city
itself has panoramic vistas of snowy rocky mountains to the west. We
motored out promptly through mining towns and up and down slopes. We
debarked at Winter Park, a largish but local ski resort. Michael
grabbed a snow-board and I clipped on two planks. We were off to the
downhill races for a half-day of snow. While Mike took a lesson on
turning - pretty useful, I went up and down and up and down on my own.
The sun ducked into the clouds and I hit up my fellow lift riders for
ski information. A group of nurses, a college kid, two girls. Winter
Park is known for its moguls, honeycombed hills of small mountains of
snow. Good skiers like to swish rhythmically between mogul and mogul. I
flail. I sought out some long, steep descents, once got stuck under the
eyes of the lift on a forest of moguls, and after some practiced
flailing, skied into the trees. It was a day of practice, joy of
shushing, and two planks running over snow.
Tired, Mike and I reconvened in
the ski lodge, ditched our equipment, and followed the treasure map in
our car to our quarters for the night. Introducing, Hadlarif. Hadley
and I worked together way back when at Stanford in our amusing,
attriting research group. I made the molecules, she analyzed them. With
each our own spheres of influence, the partnership worked with lots of
not working. Through haphazard years and lots of frivolity, out came a
Science paper - the golden boy - and then more publications. I greatly
admired her drive for things not work: rock climbing, snow boarding,
San Francisco. There were lulls. A Monday morning meeting at
eleven, freakin' eleven, was too early for her. One time, she stayed
out all night at a party on a Sunday night, got in her car, drove hell
bent to Stanford, put her head under the bathroom sink, and lay tired
in Chidsey's office. Another time, during a conference call with four
scientists to discuss yet another draft of the Science paper, she
passed me a note: yo Mama is so fat that she has small yo Mamas
orbiting around her. Prof. Chids intercepted the note, read the first
part on the phone, and then couldn't figure out what the hell we bored
folks were doing. After more partying in San Francisco, Hadley a few
years ago moved from Stanford to UC Boulder where she took a post-doc
position in the chemical engineering departments, now runs a small
group doing bio-polymer stuff, and rakes in the money with research
awards. Life is drama; after dating for years a guy named Darren (sp?),
a kindred party soul, the circular peg wouldn't fit in the triangular
hole. As they say on the busted London subway, all change, and with
anguish, she swapped Darren for more academically minded by still crazy
Joe. They will get married come May in Oregon. Next fall, they try
together to join the big faculty world.
Cause of botched wedding
planning, I moved my Colorado trip from February into March. Hadley
said she'd make it up to me, and did she ever. Five people make quite a
party, especially if they are all Ph.D chemists. Hadley and Joe rented
out a fatty ski condo in a little town near the Winter Park ski place.
Although they live just an hour away, they filled their car with
everything: skis, a dog, unwritten wedding invitations, a printer, a
guy named Bobby, steaks, a dozen eggs, champagne, two freakin'
turntables, a crate's worth of vinyl, a mixer, two speakers, and a
subwoofer. Shit, she even brought a dj. Joe cooked steaks on the
outside grill in the snow, I brought out General Tito for some euphoric
Red Lounge gimlets, Bobby hit the tables, and the party started. No
place to go, the five of us stayed in like a cast of Real World bu on a
show that works. The steaks got grilled, green beans got sauteed, we
ate together like a commune. Hadley grilled me about my research
proposal, and suggested that if she hadn't read my Adventures in
Dutchyland to figure out who was the person with whom she worked for
four years, that we wouldn't be friends. I hope all that text didn't
scare her off. Bobby taught Mike how to dj. Joe was chillin like a
villain. We stayed up until one, I got tired from all that skiing and
flying. Snow fell, fluffy, blanketing the world like an Ansel Adams
photograph.
Fried potatoes in the morning.
The wedding invitations never got written. The engaged couple lay dead
in their bed. I dragged the Bada up. The kitchen got sorted. It was
another blue-sky, hot Colorado March day. Mass movement to empty the
house by noon and we hit the road again back down the winding pass. Mike and I made it back to
Denver to check into the Museum of Natural History. We got tickets for
a planeterium show called Sonic Vision. This ain't your parents' laser
show. Set to some killer music arranged by Moby - Star Sailor;
Radiohead; Goldfrapp - the domed walls of the planeterium came alive
with swirling colors and moving images, butterfly-like critters waving,
a dome full of opening eyes, three Japanese robots dancing with
glow-sticks. Some gifted tech kids did a whole lot of drugs - DMT comes
to mind - to put up a show like this. I forgot to breathe through some
of the numbers.
Denver. It's a strange place.
Alpine, wide-open spaces, lots of glass and brick. Yet there are
streets of bungalows and Victorians. Denver is a conglomerate feel of
many other US cities and because of it, it's own beast. We did what
Denverites do, visit the REI store, expanded in a converted factory.
It's three floors, walkways, stairs of climbing gear, backpacking
equipment, and oodles of cash drain for my outdoor friends. After REI,
we hit a fancy nautical bar in the Brown Hotel for a pint and chat. We
made it back to Mike's joint at the Works. He cooked dinner, sumptuous
lamb shanks in broth that had in it onions, mushrooms, gin, and a whole
freakin' bottle of merlot; orzo salad to compliment and some baklava to
wind up the Greek theme.
We drank gin and tonics and
yelled at the Academy Awards on his new-to-him gigundus television. I
was thrilled to see Hoffman walk away with Best Actor for Capote, my
most troubling film of the year, but thought Ang Lee and Brokeback
should have gotten Best Picture over the little known but Los
Angeles-based Crash. It was a wild and weird show, and one of the few
that I have watched mostly. The awards ended and I had to get into
Mike's SUV (no, it's not monstrously huge) for a return trip to the
airport.
Can I tell you how tough was the
beginning of this week? After three and half hours of flying and fitful
sleep, I landed in Boston at five-fifteen (nah, nah, na), in the
morning on Monday. I hopped the subway, kept my eyes closed, and walked
in the chilly dawn air back to The Palace. No sleep until Brooklyn or
until the weekend. I plodded on the bicycle to work, wandered in a daze
for days, and got through it all. Hey, maybe more Colorado in April.
Thanks tons, Mike. Mad props to Hadlarific.
Out with the Old
Spring comes and with it the
urge to clean out the closets. The annual clothing drive came to the
company with a push to donate to Goodwill Industries. Last night, I
sorted through stuff, mounds of stuff. My friend Kim has a rule for her
cluttered household: before you can buy one thing - shoes, coat - you
gotta get rid of three of that item. I filled two bags full of stuff of
remorse and misguided opportunities.
Aran Isle cable-knit
sweater, bought in Scotland with the lovely Kristen, gone after years
of use and college graduation photo, gone cause you shrunk too much.
All those old slacks, the word makes me shudder: slacks, gone because I
don't have a suit job and they were lousy anyway. I stir paint, dammit.
Odds and end left at my house from parties like a wool skirt and some
long underwear, gone whoever owned them. Old shoes, old shirt, old
pants, gone. My closets are free-er, my drawers are emptier.
Then again, I still got
lots of coats and all sorts of redundant stuff. I don't need more. I
need less. Still, it's stuff I like but don't wear, yet. I need instead
to gift-wrap the stuff I don't use, and open the packages when I have
an urge to buy more. Oh, wow, a gift from me: exactly what I wanted,
again.
The winter marches on. March has come and with it portents
of salvation from the cold. It's not the outside frost that sullies my
mood. It's the cold that invades the apartment. The bed is cold, the
shower is cold, even the water from the tap is cold. I wear a knit hat
with dinner in the evening and shuffle with my slippers. During the big
storm, I unfurled a window shade to find snow flurries coming in
through the casement. Kim suggests plastic wrap for the window frames,
tightened with a blast from a hair-dryer. I have neither plastic wrap
nor a hair-dryer, and the winter shall end soon. I would like a warmer,
more intimate space.
March has come and with it
the Lent. Although I'm firmly not Catholic, I do try to give up
something for the forty days of reflection. It's a symbolic
doing-without and improving-within. I shall abstain from candy,
punching in only the healthy snacks from our work vending machine. I
have lasted almost two days; just thirty-eight more to go. With Easter
and the end of the flipping candy fast, comes a fun frolic in Seattle
for a long weekend, hopefully spent on a dripping, forested Sound
island.
March has come and with it
lots of travel ahead. It's a big time of opportunity and many returns.
I leave tomorrow for Colorado and Mr. Mike Bada of Stanford and
Manchester fame. We shall hit the slopes for at least a day outside
Denver and then commune with the flakes. We're trying to have a proper
ski trip and not like the half-assed LSJUMB productions in destruction
and anarchy. In the middle of the month, I return to Austin for the
SXSW music festival. Ruben has lent me his room for a few nights. I
shall commune with notes and pints on Sixth Street, the place of my
Texas post-doctoral education. At the same time, I hope to look for
work, or a sense that I could made life happen back in Texas. It may be
my future home. Running from Texas, I hop the next flight out to the
Netherlands where I preside over the Ph.D defense of young jedi Rene.
Perhaps in Amsterdam I shall reunite with the Dutch girl. It is a month
of great potential.
The winter wears on and I
find myself surprisingly busy in a routine. I don't go out much, but I
do lots. The Spanish course wraps
up in two weeks with a hola and tocamos cervecas. The teacher(s) are
wonderfully entertaining and through exercises like diagramming our
apartments, I am learning practical Spanish. I wonder why the text book
in the second chapter spends so much time on household chores like
dusting the furniture and taking out the trash, but there are the
biddies that want to learn to talk to the help. Through yoga, I've
developed some surprisingly firm abs. Much of the practice focus on
using your core, the non-bone area right around your belly, for support
and strength in the various asanas or seats. My posture has improved,
and although I walk funny, it is more upright. I've made it now to two
poi-spinning classes. The commute to the BU academic building is long
on the subway, but in a short time, I've learned to twirl the weave, an
intricate but satisfying pattern of shuffling tube socks; bring on the
fire. A flame has already arisen as I spar with Danielle and with my
slow way seeing whether dating will work - or not. The couple comes round
when they can, but work and class as well consumes their time. The
Magda knitted me a fine hat made from wool dyed at a South American
co-operative. Grand Master Chris delightfully brought me red light-up
ice cubes, red glow sticks, and some literature to keep me busy. Thursday nights brings my
evening call to Holly to discuss the week's reading and assignments for
The Artist's Way. I'm developing as a more confident creative person.
In the previous week, I wrote four slam poems, published soon by the
world-renowned Red Lounge Press. I also diagrammed my weekly schedule,
wrote a list of 20 activities I like to do, documented 10 ways I would
like to change myself, and thought how people fit into my inner space.
I shall look past at this
period and realize the great activity around. I am learning and growing
and doing, all without straying too far from my house. I try more to be
positive and count what is right instead of dwelling on what is wrong.
I have a decent job, I can bike to work, my apartment is large, there's
a great bread bakery next to the office, I can walk to two grocery
stores, I found a great yoga studio, I sleep enough, I have time for
personal projects, I'm developing a supportive community, I have
wonderfully concerned friends like The Couple who shower me with gifts,
my life is balanced.
And yet, yet, you can have
all you want in the world - big apartment, nice salary, good hours,
friends, - and yet if that ineffable something is lacking - call it
community, fulfillment, satisfaction, place - then that hollowness
nags. Boston and my situation in Boston lacks 'it'. I don't know what
'it' is either, the 'it' that centers, brings me to rest. My life in
Austin, my life at Stanford, heck even when I ended in the Netherlands,
those had center, grounding, growth. It is growing older, staying
alone, needing more, wanting less; it is not here.
The great glasses debate
continues. A and F have been eliminated and a play-off round ensues. As
I'm not wild about any of the styles, I shall delay the search some. In
similar news, fashionista Mikal wrote in with the productive
suggestion: "i would advise a new hairdo. middle parting is not
flattering on boys older than 5. make it shorter and spiky. and invest
in styling products. You can as well give it a go - if you dont like
it, itll grow back." Could be the new me ahead. Little help? Holly's
boy is a beauty-school drop-out with a precocious pair of scissors.
Don't be surprised if you are surprised come mid-April.
The Day of Reckoning
It’s
that time of year for evaluation. In my personal life, I’m trying to do
what I’ve never done, ask a girl out. However, my obfuscation isn’t
working. Thinly veiled e-mail to the goddess of Brookline has yielded
not even tentative commitment to share the same space at the same time.
I’m old enough that I can handle rejection, but I rather now a clear
yes or no. I’m not sure what I would even do with a yes. On my part, I
ought to just call the goddess, but timidity rises.
At work, it is yule time for the
annual work review. All employees are assessed on their 2005
performance, judged, and – get this – ranked. After ranking, raises are
assessed and assessments written and delivered. However, it’s not like
I sit on the side-lines. Each employee is required to write their own
self-assessment, filling in accomplishments, deficiencies, goals for
the following year, and steps to growth. With my teeth permanently
grinned, I sat down to take a crap on the assessment form. I may be a
good liar (well exaggerator) but it still don’t feel good. I rather
honestly state my difficulties with the position, my conditional urge
to leave, and steps to rectify the situation. That, though, will get me
shown the door. I ought to squirrel away some money as I’m expecting an
unfortunate pay decrease.
Da Nicest Things
Sage said the nicest things about me. She’s amazing and utterly deluded
about my own self-worth:
Don't
forget, YOU are a TIGER, With Horns, no
less! You've traveled widely, you speak dutch, you
have a PHD, are gainfully employed, have a wicked sense of
humor, insightful, a tight body, you are warm and
cuddly, you have own place with a comfy bed, creative, a
burner, and you are in your mid 30s. All good. Party Trouble
I
learned from the Tao this weekend: sometimes smaller is better,
sometimes unplanned is more adventurous. In the void space of yin comes
the chaotic energy of yang.
Friday rolls around and I head
over to Kim and Kyle's house. The monthly event on tap is called
Psyforia, and it's held at the VFW hall in Cambridge along the river.
It's an electronic dance event in a little room with an adjoining smoky
(shhh) bar. The rave kids at this stripped-down party in one half mix
with the grisled veterans in the other who chuckle back, "Kids, go have
your fun. We fought so you can do what you want."
Three djs were on the line-up.
Two projectors were cycling with patterns. I knew some of the fifty of
so peeps there. Boston has a terrible way that even if you recognize
someone, you don't say hi unless you been over or had a formal
introduction or swapped spit, so I just walked on by, down the hall
(too many Doors songs in my life). Kym, Kyle, and I drank a Bud at the
bar (this is the VFW, ladies). While the couple got held up by some
work friends, I explored. A hippie from Vermont came on to the
turntables. An odd site to see this Vermonster named Green Man spin a
killer set. Fun, yet somewhat unfulfilling.
Saturday came the Gathering of Lost Souls, or something
like that. I wanted some folks over to my place to have dinner, discuss
a bit Burning Man plans for the fall, and then get to some drinking and
whoring. I spent Saturday morning shopping at the Haymarket for
vegetables, Saturday afternoon cooking, and the early evening dashing
around hiding stuff (mom-a-flague). Fortunately, everyone showed up an
hour late.
Everyone was six people: Kim,
Kyle, Sage, Patrick, Corey, Amanda. No Danielle (sigh). I plated out
some lasagna, broccolini, and tiramisu for Kim, Kyle, and Sage. We
worked our way through an okay bottle of merlot. After dinner, though,
the party dragged. The guests froze in the Red Lounge cause the Palace
is perpetually cold. Most got up periodically to lumber outside for a
cigarette in the cold. I tried to take pictures, draw drawings, dance
dances, whatever to perk up the peeps. And yet before midnight, it was
time for everyone to go. I ushed them out; can't have a rager all the
time.
Fortunately, Sage stayed. We
moved some of the plates around and then sat amongst the twinkling
lights in the study for a good long talk. She's a great kid, especially
to keep me company. I took some more pictures the next morning and then
the two of us had some French toast and omelet at Rosebud diner.
Sunday funk set in early like
the fog rolling over the San Franciscan hills. Was this gonna be
another weekend of drinking on the couch, making frantic phone calls
until the night grows long? I opened a beer and waited. Hey, Kyle
called. He wanted to come hang out. WTF? I called Sage. She wanted to
hang out. WTF? I grabbed a bunch of stuff including a big bottle of the
General and dashed out the door for the 83 bus to Central Square.
Kim stayed to sort baubles. Kyle
and I jumped into his ancient white BMW with the racing seatbelts and
the window opened cause gas leaks into the cabin. We hurtled with a
chuck through Cambridge, over the river, and into the South End of
Boston. Destination: Sage's wonderfully warm loft with its concrete
floor, fluorescent art, and jewelry equipment.
There was wonder in the air.
Three people having fun on a Sunday night of a three-day weekend.
Neither of us were dating the other so we could just be ourselves. Kyle
didn't have to worry about Kim, I didn't have to worry about a
fictional Danielle, Sage didn't have to worry about Patrick. I had a
few key lime pie cocktails. We discussed all sorts of things like
chemistry, poi, and pod casts. With three, one person can shut up while
the other two groove on. It was an unexpectedly pleasant gathering,
more animated and less forced than anything I deliberately planned,
more intimate and less pedestrian than anything at the VFW. Sometimes
'tis better to wait for opportunity.
===================================== Burning Man Tickets Shipment
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within 5 business days.
Expressing bored frustration
with Boston months ago, I got the advice to go out and do something
different/crazy each week. Monday, join a blind swim team, Tuesday hit
up tantric yoga, Wednesday, take an architectual tour of Dorchester,
Thursday, read for the lesbian book club. Keep on the move.
Last night, I went to a poi spinning class. Huh? Poi. It's
an exercise/sport/entertainment for rave kids, two balls on chains that
you swing around wildly/rhythmically depending on ability. The thrill,
more than just the visual show, is that at some point, you dip the two
balls in lamp oil, light them, and then swing them around
wildly/rhythmically depending on ability for several minutes. There's a
chance for third degree burns or light a forest on fire. I've oft been
put off by poi cause they are for poser stoners, pyro dudes, and candy
ravers, but there I was Monday evening. In a Boston University empty
room, a great guy named Chad teaches a free class each week to whomever
shows up. At the first class, I got my own pair of white tube socks
whose tied ends were full of beans. Then it was time to swing - ow, my
head, and swing - ow, the family jewels, and keep trying. There was
about ten of us, most people pretty good. A guy named Mike was twirling
hula hoops and long poi and whatever else he could grab.
I'm not a poi master - yet, but
apparently I'm picking it up reasonable fast. First, the cross-over,
eventually the weave. Cause there's a lot of swinging behind your back,
it helps to be tall and thin. Eventually, like sometime this summer,
it's time to light them up, swing around, and check again my medical
coverage. Just call me strange cause things are getting stranger these
days. Next week: I'm signing up for scuba to perfect my underwater
basket weaving.
The Artist's Way
Last week, I started a 12-week course
- much like a 12-step program - called The Artist's Way. The
self-administered class supposedly will strengthen my latent creative
confidence and give me supportive space to explore. The course's
structure comes entirely from a handbook of the same name by Julia
Cameron. She wrote the text from her notes on a New York class she gave
for years to blocked artists. Her class was mainly for struggling
artists to reapproach their craft or branch out to new projects. Not a
professional artist myself, I hope the class will get me going with
that underwater basket weaving project I have meant to do.
Actually, I want to finally get writing, something substantive, either
long fiction, travel essays, a comprehensive pharmaceutical book,
anything.
Over in Seattle, Holly
started the The Artist's Way same time as I did. We read one chapter
each week from the text. Each chapter includes an extended muse on what
it means to be an artist and how to find your way. At the end of the
chapter are tasks to do for the week. So, once a week on Thursday, we
call and chat for an hour on the phone about the chapter, what we did
last week, and we plan to do next week.
Sounds easy? Well, there's a bit of work involved. The two
initial concepts are Morning Pages and the Artist's Date. For the
morning pages, I wake and then write for twenty minutes. It's not a
diary; you write whatever you want. Furthermore, nobody reads what you
have written so editing isn't important. The writing exercise
familiarizes you with the process of writing and, furthermore, through
diagramming your day or getting your thoughts done, you supposedly free
yourself for other tasks. Or so the theory goes. I work on faith, much
in the same way that sitting in a chair with my eyes closed just
breathing and meditating is supposed to make me a better centered
person. Nonetheless, Since Friday, I've kept up with the writing. Just
eighty more morning of seven a.m. scribbling.
The other concept is the
Artist's Date. Dating myself is easy cause it's not like I'm dating
anyone else. Once a week, you set aside a block of time, like an hour,
and have fun with a project. Could be drawing with crayons on cardboard
or making a new fantabulous dessert, but it's a commitment you make to
do something. On Sunday, I wandered from Harvard Square back to my
house
snapping
pictures of the strangest stuff like street signs and condemned
buildings. Don't know what next week will bring, but the course goes on.
There's some fruity stuff
as well. I'm supposed to write at length: I am an artist, I am an
artist, I am an artist, see me starve. Although her rhetoric may
overwhelm, I do appreciate the book's structure and exercises. Maybe
there's a nude modeling session in which I have to sketch my friends.
Any takers? It is just art after all.
Gathering of Lost Souls
An
Evening in Three Parts
The North
wind blows. Snow drifts overwhelm the feet. Winter
extends her icy darkness. Gather together and bring forth light. Recall
warmer days and plan for the return of the sun.
Hey, I wanna have people over this Saturday night. Come to
my little apartment in Cambridge for an evening of merriment. We will
first have some dinner, then discuss wacky ideas for the Burn, and
finally get down to the real business of lounging and frolicking. Come
for any or all of the evening; the door will be open unto the wee
hours. Bring whomever you want with you whenever. Wear something
interesting; it’s just us freeky peeps and you, yes you, are the party.
So…
I. Dinner. I’ll cook a
vegetarian lasagna, some broccolini, and tiramisu. Victual are at
around six o’clock but if you come late, there will be lots more
plates. If you are interested in eating here, can you tell me so I know
how much to make? Otherwise I send you to Anna’s Taqueria.
II. The Burn approacheth. After
dinner and over cocktails, we’ll discuss late August in all her glory.
How to turn a double-decker bus into floating whale, why playa
sticks to pleather.
III. Once we get quickly sick of
Black Rock City, it’s time to party. I have beer and the Switzerland of
spirits: vodka. If you drink something else, bring it. If you don’t do
alcohol, and rather do something else, um caffeine, that’s fine too. I
call this a gathering instead of a party, as since the landlord lives
upstairs, I can’t have everyone screaming real loud at once accompanied
by the big bass, but other than that, it’s a fine place and open all
night. Schedule says midnight for those that need to hop the T back,
but if you are driving, stay, and if you rather stay on one of the five
couches, stay too.
In a fit last week, a two-year
plan sprung to mind like Venus on a Botticellian clam shell. I've
always been a planner, but of late I'm adrift with what I perceive to
be a crappy job and no other direction. Thinking haphazardly about my
future, life seems to fall together by falling apart.
Hence, the 2-Year Plan. I'm
gonna stick out work until the Burn in September. My position here at
work may improve, I may feel more home at home, I may get better sense
that it is better to stay and suffer in the short term than leave
hastily. In the meantime, I will hunt out possible synthetic jobs in
exciting locations. I get a possibility about once every two months.
The latest was a chance to join the new Molecular Foundry at Berkeley.
They need a staff organic chemist to make molecules, help visiting
scientists with nanotechnology, and work on independent research. Great
fit for me - maybe even a dream job - but no response three weeks
later. Maybe other chances will come down the pipe-line. Maybe not.
Nonetheless, if six months
hence, I still feel disgruntled and no other opportunities have been
landed, it will be time to up and go. From Burn to Burn, I'm going on
hiatus. It will be like an academic sabbatical, but without the
academic position. I will give up my apartment, sell my belongings, and
go west, young man. I shall surf couches for a while, visit friends,
move slowly. It is my chance to reinvent myself from nothing without
preconception, external direction, or past. I will move with the wind
and see where my whims take me. Mostly, it is time for me to be me and
do some of the tasks I have wanted to do: write, meditate, travel,
create. I'll start in Seattle with Holly and stay as long as
appropriate. Then visit others. Come winter, it may be time to leave
the States, go to Europe, or head out to exotic lands. I want to
explore India and China, maybe trek the Silk Road from London to
Beijing.
During the journeys, I hope to
sort out what I want to do when I return. However, if little sways me,
then I'm thinking of applying for academic jobs in the fall of 2007. I
have a resume ready. I need to put together a research proposal. It's
quite an intense fall-back. I'll either be eagerly ready to become
Prof. Dudek (the IVth), or else another calling will have already
grabbed me, or maybe I'll be back where I started.
I'm squirrelling away money,
spending less of drinks, thinking about the future. If I can save
twelve grand, then I will have a thousand a month with which to live.
Is that enough? Will I get bored? More and more, with Boston as Boston,
I'm not going to leave because I am running away, but because it is
time for me to do something else.
Well, at least that was the plan
as of a week ago. Come a few months hence and there will be hasty
retractions, anxious footsteps in retreat at the end of the diving
board, and renewal that I can stay here some more.
My trip to Denver got pushed off until March. Instead, I
raced out of work and took a bus over to New York for a party Friday
night. Sage, Meridian, Matt, and I met up with Meridian’s friend named
Adam in his lower east side apartment. Come before midnight, we put on
some crazy duds and took a car towards Madison Square Garden for a
little club. The event was called Freek Factory and it was quite a New
York blow-out. A Middle-Eastern troop ululated with the help of a boa
constrictor while a dj pounded out break beats. On the second dance
floor, hula hoopists twirled sets of mesmerizing LED rings. Lots of
people from the Disorient crew wore pink and orange. When the place
shut down after five, we hopped into a friendly van. Direction: an
after party in an artists’ loft located under the Manhattan Bridge in
Brooklyn.
There's a long version of the night. It's a bit over the top in
abundant verbiage, but if you have an ear for exultation and some time,
read some more
The AP shouldn't be
covering bird flu. It should focus on a more pervasive epidemic that
struck my demographic. Everyone I know is pregnant. Well, not everyone,
just five: my brother's wife, my co-worker, my co-worker's wife, my
Texan friend, and the ex-girlfriend. However, the pregnancy virus is
catching. It's a race now to pop out ten-pound bowling balls, but not
really, as with the systematic nine-month track, I ought to know who's
ahead, but I try not to follow these kinds of things.
Since none of these
pregnancies are standard, I got to hear about each one in peculiar
ways. The parents told me about my overworked brother suffering through
the move this summer, a new job, an unemployed wife, and the arrival of
his second kid. And I thought stirring paint all day was taxing. My new
co-worker avoided me in the lab for weeks because she got hired and
then got unexpectedly pregnant. Her sound flight from chemicals meant
some reorganization in the company as she was hired to do lab
chemistry. The co-worker that I badgered about turning forty - with a
thirty-year old wife, late in life, he's pumping out the kids. The
Texan friend showed up at my door in January all spry, and then had a
nervous breakdown after a morning run to the CVS for a home pregnancy
kit. The Palace is now the venue to learn about the start life. The
ex-girlfriend sent me a little announcement of her growing rotund
state. After I thanked her for the news and wished her a healthy child,
I banished her from my life.
Preggo. It's that time. Of
course, I'm single, dateless, wifeless, and kidless. Heck, I haven't
even practiced making babies for at least a year. I'm surprisingly calm
about all this new civilization. It's the everybody getting married
part that bugged me. Go ahead and have kids; it will give you something
to do.
I have periodic
arguments/discussion about how pregnancy changes relationships. Kids
affect things. They bring parents closer together as a couple and
closer to their sprog, but they also separate parents more from their
former friends. Kids are a wedge. Parents' priorities change as they
turn inward and circle the wagons.
Will I have kids? Someday.
Someday like after the reincarnation as a chicken. I got other matters
to work on before that happens. Don't, however, invite me to a baby
shower.
Yin and Yang
I'm reading a short book
on Zen philosophy. It's too hip for its own good, and at the same time,
too flaky. You really mean that breathing exercises will teach me how
to astrally project? Nonetheless, the author has some salient,
philosophical points. There is a section on Yin and Yang, the cosmic
balance of the world and in the self. For example, Yang erupts with a
flurry of activity; Yin calms with periods of stillness. It's a
balanced cycle in one's life between motion and inaction, and one that
I got to learn better to accept.
This past weekend featured
two botched evenings. Parties were in the works, but due to Karmic bus
routes, I ended up home instead, on my red couch, drinking with the
General in a semi-depressed mood for a party for one. Friday, the
conzert in Union Square was a mad bust of a dark room, listless people,
and two crazed synth musicians jumping around. I left before the guy at
the door hit me up for seven bucks, but not soon enough to walk to Kim
and Kyle's house for a ride to a house-warning party; their door was
dark. Saturday night, due to people's inexplicable needs to do laundry
(exciting) and a pre-arranged date of another group to stay in and
watch a movie, I surfed my couch with Tito some more. It was time for
Yin, and I should have better accepted the stillness. Into that
emptiness will eventually come motion. I did clean my kitchen, mopped
the floors, cooked a Chinese meal, sorted some Belgian photos, and
figured out how zippers worked, but stilll... ah, yes, stillness.
During the quiet evenings, I did
project myself astrally into world-wide web. I joined two personal ad
sites. Well, not actually sites for dating, but more for connecting,
no, not in that way. They are free sites. I signed up on tribe.net to
join the New England Burners group. Frequently at freak events,
parties, folks just say, "Look me up on tribe." Well, you can now look
me up on
tribe. I choose a more standard profile for myspace.com. I had
heard previously about friendster, but word on the street is that
myspace is the new friendster with an additional dating component.
Thanks to your wonderful photographic input, I got me a self-portrait
and some accompaning text for my interests.
I realized that I'm a bit
at a loss to describe myself. I can describes others pretty well, but
me? What are my hobbies? What am I looking for? How do I pick five
adjectives to pin down the ineffable, adventurous, bright, critical,
playful nature of myself? Furthermore, I'm more of person to put up an
ad and then not do much more with the placed ad or comb through the
other ads. I already got some responses to my profile. Since the five
women who have responded, with pictures all not wearing much, with the
vaguest of terms not relating to me, I deduce that they are internet
prostitutes - yep web whores. Valentine's Day approacheth.
I’m turning into one of
those busy-body retired persons that takes adult education classes to
exercise the mind before slow decline. I signed up for a language
course. French in high school meant lots of reading of the classics
like Racine but no conversation so I can’t order anything in a bistro.
Dutch was too awkward with impatient native speakers so I can’t woe de
meisjes in Nederlands.
Third try? Ah, Spanish.
It’s clear to hear, it’s the number two most spoken language in the
world after Chinese, it’s relatively simple, lots of ‘Mercans speak it
in the taco joints and supermarkets. Maybe I could watch the Mexican
soap operas – Juan, adiamos – or backpack from Panama to Chile.
Tuesdays and Thursdays, I
bike to Harvard Square where now I feel like an Ivy League student
rushed to class to conquer the world. I enter a mall, press the
elevator button for the top floor, and step out into an English academy
where every object is labeled: I am flushing the toilet.
Our teacher, Rasco
Cortinas, is an amiable young American of Cuban descent who spends his
days teaching semi-colons to Boston highschool gangsters and his nights
teaching an assortment of adults how to say, “Cual es tu numero de
telefon?” He’s a great teacher: animated, understanding, clear. The
class may go a little slow, but we are all there together saying hablo,
hablas, habla, hablamos.
It’s a small group of
fourteen or so in a circle of chairs. For a few weeks, we had name
signs hanging off our desks. Almost all of us are American, we are
roughly twenty-five to thirty-five, and some of us eminently single.
I’ve got my eye on the luscious oncological resident surgeon named
Samantha who I can excuse for being Canadian. We’re a talkative group,
somewhat dedicated. I’ve learned already lots of pick-up lines like
“What’s your address? Where are you from?”
Well, seven more weeks to
go through the Spanish workbook. I fill out exercises over breakfast
and will soon break out the companion DVD to watch the soap opera about
the Way of the Jaguar involving a Cuban and Venezuelan couple that are
anthropologists. Maybe this time I will finally learn the language so I
can speak Spanish with some confidence. Otherwise, I may have to pick
up Esperanto.
That’s What Friends are For
Union
Square, Somerville - Friday 3 February, 2006
Friday night rolls around
and I’m stumped for what to do. I spend most of the work week dreading
the days and counting until Friday for a breath of air. This Friday,
Kim suggested I go to a house-warming party hosted by a brain imaging
colleague of hers. Or, I could go to a concert at a studio in Union
Square. On the docket at the studio was an experimental Dutch group who
merged visual with audio art. On the one hand, a bunch of random
psychiatrists; on the other hand, a bunch of random psychedelic sounds.
I didn’t take the bus
through Somerville alone. The General sat next to me. Of late, I have
soured on General Tito: too bitter, too routine, too Tito. However, one
Red Lounge supa-Gimlet in me drunk in languor at the Palace, and the
bus ride became an adventure all over again. I ended beneath a highway
in a dark, light-industrial section of town with a brief case of the
giggles. I was lost, somewhat drunk, alone, and not at all worried. A
call to information, a.k.a. Kim, didn’t help with directions remotely,
but after some turns, I wound up in Union Square.
I choose poorly. What I
thought would be a little lounge club with bright, shiny, happy people
ended up as a dark space with rows of folding chairs, a mute, seated
audience transfixed by a freaky geisha-girl squeaking in the front of
the room. When the proprietor, thirty seconds after I entered, asked
for seven bucks, I told him that this wasn’t at all what I expected and
skeedaddled. These damn studio spaces are so non-interactive.
Time for Plan B. I walked
with a poor sense of direction through Inman Square to the house that
Kim and Kyle built. I had to go to the bathroom and the psychiatrist
party might heal what ails me or give me new reason to worry. The
windows are dark; the house is empty; Kim and Kyle have left. Damn, I
wandered to sketchy Central Square and then just ambled looking for
something interesting on a Friday night. Everyone seemed to be part of
a couple or laughing in an insular mob. I had a hasty espresso at a
coffee shop (not Starbucks) and then despondently took the subway home.
Round trip time: two hours. Effect: depression. I was in bed by eleven.
That’s what friends are
for. All the tea in China isn’t worth a cent if you don’t have someone
to drink it with. All the gold in King Solomon’s mines is not worth a
penny if you don’t have someone to spend it with.
Faire
du Ski Stowe, VT
I
grew up in New England, smack in ground zero of moneyed society -
Wellesley. When winter rolled around and stuck tenaciously for many
white months, my classmates jetted off on ski trips to exotic sounding
places like Killington, Wachusetts, Stowe. I, however, stayed put. My
parents didn't know which end of the pole went into the snow, and the
skis we did see were distant Polish relatives.
Years passed and I left home, far from home, to sunny California.
Winter there rolled around, departed feebly from the shore. Everyone
headed to the mountains to ski. With a bunch of other novice students,
we learned to ski first at Heavenly and then the whole Lake Tahoe area
was our playground. Ski Friday, ski Saturday, ski Wednesday, ski with
friends, ski as a research group, ski with the outing club, ski with
the marching band, it didn't matter. Folks bought ski passes, learned
to snowboard, tried telemark skiing. I slowly got better moving from
bunny slopes to more of a hare hill.
I came back to my New England roots a year ago. It was time to
see what the fuss was all about. Last weekend, I took off with the
couple to the ski bastion of New England: Stowe. Even the name recalls
martinis by roaring fires, and a litttle pip-pip as you pass the Boston
Brahmans on the slopes. The trip started with some danger, a sick day
from work, but not your usual dizzy-hacking sick day, but a planned,
calculated absence. I did my best to cough up a storm on Thursday night
and then called in sick on Friday - from a bedroom in Vermont. Oddly,
the fates intervened and I did indeed get sick but a day later than
announced. I shut up most of Saturday and Sunday with
Brontasaurus-sized bronchitis.
Skiing was pleasant. New England has suffered this season with
unseasonably warm temperatures and no snow. No snow means no skiers.
Finally the snow came. My friend Alex's reports of freezing-ass cold,
testicle cold, proved naught. Days were above freezing with blue skis
and relatively empty slopes. The mountain isn't large and there are
still icy patches through which I - and the rest of the crashed bodies
- don't know yet how to maneuver. The three of us spent Friday and
Saturday up and down the hills, testing as many trails as we could
muster.
I prefer California's alpine feel, large terrain, views of the
lake, and choice of hills. Stowe is freakin' expensive at sixty bucks a
day without equipment, and only if you buy a multiple-day pass. Alex
tells me again that California - since I left it - has gotten similarly
pricey. Skiing is just a rich man's pursuit. All those hotrodding kids
on the slopes don't know how well they got it.
We spent evenings at the lodge, a gigantic eccletic building
called the Stowehof into which we lay three heads for a room meant for
two. Chris graciously took the middle spot on the king-sized bed, large
enough that I didn't know others were there. I get into strange
situations with all these couples as the squeeky third wheel on the
bicycle. Age has gotten to me. Years ago, trips like this meant
pounding the spirits at night and a frolic in the woods. This weekend,
we got captivated nights by two jigsaw puzzles, staying up to the wee
hours putting together a Norman Rockwell print and then working on a
silly one thousand piece fishing-themed puzzle. I don't even fish but I
had fragments of reels and halibut going through my head at night.
Such a great place to stay. Cookies at four, a hot tub and sauna
in the evening. We drank Red Lounge gimlets by the fire and bottles of
Vermont (Rock Art) beer latter on. The town of Stowe is a bit precious,
but some good pizza places remain. The ice bar called the Rusty Nail
wanted seven bucks just to get in, while the Hof's fires were more
inviting.
I worked on chatting up folks on the lift. I'll meet my wife
someday when I run over her snowboard. We'll chat in some Nordic
language after the apologies and then discuss the merits of Black Rock
City. I gotta take a lesson next time cause I'm struggling on some of
these hills.
Well, two weeks from now brings more schushing but in Colorado.
My friends are more right than I am: I do live a charmed life.
Scriptures
I’ve saved and coveted and calculated all my work vacation
time. ‘Tis time to spend it gluttonously. I leave tomorrow, Thursday,
for Austin and the South by Southwest (SXSW) music festival. Over four
nights, I aim to witness fifty bands, making up for my cultural dearth
in Boston. There shall be Japanese punk explosion, down-home Austin
blues, and little synth kids going boing. Mostly, though, I return to
see Ruben and Alyson, my compatriots in drunkenness. Strange to find
Alyson now single and Ruben now firmly attached as the situation was
rather different two years ago, except for the one constant factor, my
bachelorhood. Ruben gave me run of his room, and Alyson shall check on
our downtown partying when she gets off work. I’m surprised to find
little interest in touring the ol’ chemistry lab; that wasn’t my focus
during my decadent Texas years. I will, however, look for home, or at
least vestigial signs that I should return for good.
Denver is also home to Mr. Mike Bada, bio-informatician at
large, but don't ask too much what that is as you'll suffer through
ontological discussions of natural language processing. Mike and I met
ages ago at Stanford and lived together with two other chemists.
Through the years, we've had our adventures, sundry and sordid, in
California, Manchester, Amsterdam. He moved a while ago into a terrific
Denver apartment in a boutique building with a theme: the Works. The
staircase has bronze gears, a video by the front doorway shows
machining, the apartment fixtures are black, industrial, with light
wood. The boy needs better lighting and a few more pieces of furniture,
but with a blue couch and a grand tv, it's make-out time. His place has
in abundance what The Palace lacks: warmth. We slumbered in the same
bed; he accused me of hoarding the duvet, not realizing that this is
merely Boston survival instinct.
The winter marches on. March has come and with it portents
of salvation from the cold. It's not the outside frost that sullies my
mood. It's the cold that invades the apartment. The bed is cold, the
shower is cold, even the water from the tap is cold. I wear a knit hat
with dinner in the evening and shuffle with my slippers. During the big
storm, I unfurled a window shade to find snow flurries coming in
through the casement. Kim suggests plastic wrap for the window frames,
tightened with a blast from a hair-dryer. I have neither plastic wrap
nor a hair-dryer, and the winter shall end soon. I would like a warmer,
more intimate space.
Saturday came the Gathering of Lost Souls, or something
like that. I wanted some folks over to my place to have dinner, discuss
a bit Burning Man plans for the fall, and then get to some drinking and
whoring. I spent Saturday morning shopping at the Haymarket for
vegetables, Saturday afternoon cooking, and the early evening dashing
around hiding stuff (mom-a-flague). Fortunately, everyone showed up an
hour late.
Last night, I went to a poi spinning class. Huh? Poi. It's
an exercise/sport/entertainment for rave kids, two balls on chains that
you swing around wildly/rhythmically depending on ability. The thrill,
more than just the visual show, is that at some point, you dip the two
balls in lamp oil, light them, and then swing them around
wildly/rhythmically depending on ability for several minutes. There's a
chance for third degree burns or light a forest on fire. I've oft been
put off by poi cause they are for poser stoners, pyro dudes, and candy
ravers, but there I was Monday evening. In a Boston University empty
room, a great guy named Chad teaches a free class each week to whomever
shows up. At the first class, I got my own pair of white tube socks
whose tied ends were full of beans. Then it was time to swing - ow, my
head, and swing - ow, the family jewels, and keep trying. There was
about ten of us, most people pretty good. A guy named Mike was twirling
hula hoops and long poi and whatever else he could grab.
Sounds easy? Well, there's a bit of work involved. The two
initial concepts are Morning Pages and the Artist's Date. For the
morning pages, I wake and then write for twenty minutes. It's not a
diary; you write whatever you want. Furthermore, nobody reads what you
have written so editing isn't important. The writing exercise
familiarizes you with the process of writing and, furthermore, through
diagramming your day or getting your thoughts done, you supposedly free
yourself for other tasks. Or so the theory goes. I work on faith, much
in the same way that sitting in a chair with my eyes closed just
breathing and meditating is supposed to make me a better centered
person. Nonetheless, Since Friday, I've kept up with the writing. Just
eighty more morning of seven a.m. scribbling.
Hey, I wanna have people over this Saturday night. Come to
my little apartment in Cambridge for an evening of merriment. We will
first have some dinner, then discuss wacky ideas for the Burn, and
finally get down to the real business of lounging and frolicking. Come
for any or all of the evening; the door will be open unto the wee
hours. Bring whomever you want with you whenever. Wear something
interesting; it’s just us freeky peeps and you, yes you, are the party.
So…
My trip to Denver got pushed off until March. Instead, I
raced out of work and took a bus over to New York for a party Friday
night. Sage, Meridian, Matt, and I met up with Meridian’s friend named
Adam in his lower east side apartment. Come before midnight, we put on
some crazy duds and took a car towards Madison Square Garden for a
little club. The event was called Freek Factory and it was quite a New
York blow-out. A Middle-Eastern troop ululated with the help of a boa
constrictor while a dj pounded out break beats. On the second dance
floor, hula hoopists twirled sets of mesmerizing LED rings. Lots of
people from the Disorient crew wore pink and orange. When the place
shut down after five, we hopped into a friendly van. Direction: an
after party in an artists’ loft located under the Manhattan Bridge in
Brooklyn.
During the quiet evenings, I did
project myself astrally into world-wide web. I joined two personal ad
sites. Well, not actually sites for dating, but more for connecting,
no, not in that way. They are free sites. I signed up on tribe.net to
join the New England Burners group. Frequently at freak events,
parties, folks just say, "Look me up on tribe." Well, you can now look
me up on
tribe. I choose a more standard profile for myspace.com. I had
heard previously about friendster, but word on the street is that
myspace is the new friendster with an additional dating component.
Thanks to your wonderful photographic input, I got me a self-portrait
and some accompaning text for my interests.
