Underwear is like bondage, so constricting, yet also capable of bringing one to the present, if only to remind the body that it is here, being squeezed beyond a reasonable doubt. A hair suit of sorts in terms of constant physical irritation. Why start with something so ridiculous? Because it has just been tugged at, bringing things into the present. I am supposed to be writing without stopping, no corrections, just letting it out. And here I am erasing things like "underwear" and "waistband" and "tug".
Someone wrote today of the steps needed to peel an orange as a way to practice mindfulness. (This unceasing typing is difficult, not in that I don't know what to type but in that I don't know what to type first, what to leave out and what to put in.) I loved her description of finding just the right soft part of the peel that must be located before one can put one's finger into it and start to remove the rind. I immediately imagined the soft spray from it, the way the juice catches the light so you can see it before you smell it, as if the speed of light were not only faster than the speed of sound but also of smell. And I am already correcting things here, changing words, backspacing like crazy. Back to the steps of peeling an orange. After the peel came off, I was not as interested. Maybe in the sections and separating them but not in the description of the taste, except for it being sweet and possibly a little tart. The contradictions. I love the contradictions and the light coming through each piece as it's removed from the whole. But she didn't talk about the light - I saw it while she described the taste and then she went on to describe the way she felt it in her mouth and then her tonsils, which she noted she still had, and how it eventually moved down into her throat and possibly her stomach. But I was barely listening to that because, well, frankly, I did not want to imagine those things, they were way too intimate for me. And really I didn't want to go with her there because I don't want to eat an orange that way but maybe if I wanted to be mindful I would. I was more interested in the light and how it caught and illuminated from within each segment as it emerged from its cocoon of the whole fruit, now shed of its skin.
I am cheating. I have just reread what I wrote above. It is all true but it's not untouched like freshly fallen snow. It's been trammelled a bit and plowed into drifts. It may be suffering from a bout of slush. I will try to manufacture more flakes. Apparently identical ones can now be created. I read (I just erased again!) recently that a technology scientist invented a way to create identical snowflakes. Why, I ask you? Why is that even necessary? Just to see if it were possible? It's like cloning sheep. Or pets. There must be some inherent quality that isn't exactly the same, we just can't see it. I would venture to guess that the snowflake doesn't want it to be seen. It wants to keep some of the mystery to itself. Maybe that's why they melt when you get close enough to study them. There are so many wacky thoughts going through my mind right now. How does one even put those on paper without sounding like a whackjob? Like for instance, do I think snowflakes are alive? Yes, I do, in a sense, but not like you or I are alive, but in their own way that is like a rock is alive or a planet or an unknown part of the universe. But that all sounds so woo woo as Denise would say. Oops just edited myself again.
Here is a new snowfall of words. Does correcting spelling count as cheating? I am going to say no. Oops, just backspaced. I am thinking about what I want to say, which is part of my problem. I don't know exactly what I want to say. Sometimes that's because I think the things I want to say are banal, have already been said so many times over it's just incredibly boring and alarmingly selfish to record such cliches yet again. Oops just erased an entire line. Why else don't I know what to say? Because there is so much that hasn't been said! Or hasn't been heard maybe. For instance, the idea that someone, possibly like myself, although I'm not saying this is a given, is longing to say something real, something so moving it brings tears to the reader, to the witness, tears not only of wonder, of understanding, but of laughter and hilarity. Would they be laughing at said author? Possibly. How ironic would that be since said author is very earnest. Earnestness is actually quite laughable, comedic actually. (more backspacing and overwriting just occurred) Which brings me to the idea that said author might at first be heart broken because authors are known to wear their hearts on their sleeves. Or should I just lump all artists (or "creatives" as they are now dubbed) into this circumstance? If an artist produces a creative thing that is met with uproarious laughter, does said artist crawl under a rock never to produce a creative thing again, especially if said artist was earnest enough to think said creative thing was not done in fun, ie said artist is not a comedian? What if said artist comes to realize from this reaction something else? (more backspacing)
Obvs I am trying to work something out here. Not sure what. See, this is what happens. I get stuck in a thought and then go round and round not sure how to emerge or complete a thought I started that seemed so compelling moments earlier. In that particular instance, I believe I was thinking something specific. I was texting with L and it occurred to me that an artist of this nature, while they believed their goal was to create something mind-blowing, actually was seeking something else that they weren't "mindful" of just yet. That the story of getting to this true goal is their journey which includes a fair amount of sublime ridiculousness or the ridiculous sublime. And their true goal is what? Finding out that they are not alone in wanting to make the world better for everyone. While they were being so hibernated in their quest for blowing minds, they missed how connected they are to other people who also want to make the world better. This seems interesting yet, complicated. I'm thinking this artist, in their absurd egotistical way thought they were alone in their exalted pursuit but it turns out they are not alone at all, but in good company. And this feeling of not being alienated is very empowering. Not just to the artist but to all those people they have encountered on their sublime ridiculous journey, people who have felt and are feeling the weight of their aloneness in wanting to make things better.
And now I read this over yet again and I am like, omg, this is so stupid sounding. And all I can think about is I must cover my tracks, I must erase this blather. But of course I can't because it's my writing exercise and I promised L I would do this even though I've cheated time and time again. What if I do a call back, as in take something I've already mentioned above and make it reappear here to tie everything together and make it whole, make it make sense which is ridiculous and sublime because it's a random, stream of consciousness thinking (mildly edited) that doesn't make much sense to begin with. Well, if that's the case, then I can take a little bit of liberty and cause a virtual avalanche and cover this drivel up completely. That's metaphorical for turning this blog's settings to private.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Prompt: the 7 deadly sins
She said, "my professor told me if I couldn't think of anything to write about, just write dialog. I tend to free associate anyway, so I could just write down all the free floating stuff that meanders through my mind." She lit a cigaret and inhaled deeply, while her free hand waved the match in the air, extinguishing it with a sudden jerk of her wrist.
He looked down at his coffee and considered investing in a refill, calculating how long he could nurse it against the cost. "Huh," he offered, finally, but she kept going. "I never am at a loss for something to say. I think I'm a great conversationalist, don't you? I mean I can talk about pretty much any subject. Even sports I can usually fake. All you really have to do is nod and smile at the right times. Don't you think so?" She took a last pull on her cigaret then stabbed it out, exhaling, "Just the other day, in fact, I was sitting here and this guy sat down, right where you are now. He goes, 'Is this seat taken?'"
He looked up at her then, more attentively than usual. "Oh?", his body tensed and he sat up, rigid.
She continued, "he was really quite handsome. Well-dressed...maybe even a little too well-groomed. If you know what I mean."
He relaxed back into his seat.
He looked down at his coffee and considered investing in a refill, calculating how long he could nurse it against the cost. "Huh," he offered, finally, but she kept going. "I never am at a loss for something to say. I think I'm a great conversationalist, don't you? I mean I can talk about pretty much any subject. Even sports I can usually fake. All you really have to do is nod and smile at the right times. Don't you think so?" She took a last pull on her cigaret then stabbed it out, exhaling, "Just the other day, in fact, I was sitting here and this guy sat down, right where you are now. He goes, 'Is this seat taken?'"
He looked up at her then, more attentively than usual. "Oh?", his body tensed and he sat up, rigid.
She continued, "he was really quite handsome. Well-dressed...maybe even a little too well-groomed. If you know what I mean."
He relaxed back into his seat.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Prompt: I finally figured it out
"I wish I could say I finally figured it out," she thought to herself, rubbing excess facial moisturizer onto the backs of her hands so as not to waste a precious drop. She blinked, stared blankly at her reflection in the bevelled mirror, laced at the edges with black where the silvering had worn thin. She blinked again, then smiled then frowned, smiled again this time baring teeth that twinkled in the glare of the bathroom lights. She sighed and fluffed her hair. In the second before she turned off the light, the mirror caught the faintest glint of a tear in the outer corner of one eye. By the time she'd reached the bottom of the stairs, it was gone, the sparkle of her dazzling smile arming her for the day ahead.
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
Prompt: beyond illusion
What lies beyond illusion? What color are lawns on this side of the fence, anyway? And if clothes make the man, who is this tailor? And how is it that everyone can write so fast in this group? While I struggle to pluck each word from the orbits whirling in my imagination, as I grapple with the perfecting of a phrase, a simple subject, verb object construction, everyone around the coffee table is scribbling madly away, tapping merrily on keyboards. I alone am bumbling, stumbling, groping to say something coherent, having given up on profound. Writing always seems to drag me beyond illusion and plunk me, unceremoniously in the here and the now.
Monday, January 4, 2016
Notes
Motivation, compelling
Be careful what you wish for
How did I get here?
Even though one appears to "have it all" longing persists
Age
Middle age
Shuttling back and forth between the past and the present to make sense of where one is, how one arrived here
writing
What is that makes something compelling enough to read? If it's a memoir, and it's about someone, the life they've lived thus far, is it the events of their life? The way they've considered those events? They way they write about them? Is it about contemplation? Exhibitionism?
What exactly is it that I've enjoyed reading about when reading about a person's life lived thus far? I think first and foremost, it has to be language and its use. If something is written well, I will read it through almost no matter what. I'm thinking about A Parisian from Kansas. Or Travels with Lizbeth. Or Being Geniuses Together. Or Gertrude and Alice. All of these are, in my opinion, interestingly written. Probably a little bit of meandering between thinking aloud on the page, contemplatively, and alternating with some description of a person, place or thing.
Writing about events, chronicling, seems dull to me, so listing one's accomplishments is not so much what I look for in a book. If however, the author, or the teller of the tale, perambulates, meditates, weaves in and out of the calendar of their life, hovering here and there to put something into context, I might linger, but it really depends on how they spill their beans. I imagine I like them poured slowly, one by one, maybe even categorized for color or size before moving onto the next, but not too perfunctorily. Just tantalizingly enough to cause one to wait until the next pops out, or dribbles, or saunters, and then the next and so on. But then again not too showy with the bean revelations or else it might feel too self-conscious.
I notice now, the titles above all have something in common: place as a character with which to interact. Travels. I suppose I like the idea of being somewhere else, to be out of one's element. That's what I like about being elsewhere. It forces you to think differently, to experience the world new again, as if you were your younger, more innocent self. It didn't take much to transform your world anew: a winter's storm; a string of lights; a blanket draped over two chairs and a flashlight to read by. I love that. I mean, I sometimes feel that way again, here, at home, on a simple walk after it rains, or early in the morning when everything is waking up, fresh from sleep. I love that feeling of seeing something for the first time, because, really, as they say, you can never step into the same river twice, right? Everything is changing, nothing stays the same. But I digress. These books are about being in places where the senses are constantly engaged, on high alert. Isn't that what a life, a lucky life, well lived can be all about?
If I were to write something, I would like to leave stories for N to read, so he would know my life better. What it was like growing up, things I couldn't tell him even though I've told him so much. Yet there's so much that I could never tell him. I could tell him the stories of my parents, as much as I know, and their parents, of which I know even less. That would be interesting to me, possibly to him. I can try but I just have these fragments that add up to not much. Sometimes it's interesting how life turns out. And sometimes it's not.
When I was still in college, a friend and I would argue about the end of the world. Back then, before the end of "the cold war", Americans worried about nuclear bombs, and about the former Soviet Union sending missiles over here to annihilate us. My friend and I would sit in our cramped old-fashioned kitchen around an atomic styled chrome table that I bought at a garage sale. We'd spend most of our tiny paychecks on cheap red wine, expensive cheese, and back then I'd found a good source for fresh brioche. Over these hard won delicacies, we fought. I was convinced the world would end with a bang but she disagreed. To her a whimper seemed much more likely. When I look back on this scene, I have to concede that she may have been right.
This town was different back then. Not all prettied up and manicured within an inch of its perfectly landscaped lawns. It was funky. In fact, I worked briefly at a place called The Blue Mango, a co-op restaurant that every self-respecting hippie within a thousand mile radius had heard of and made a pilgrimage to. In truth, the Mango was just one of countless such establishments across the country back then. Places run by committee, when even the smallest detail had to be agreed upon by a majority of members. Including what brand of ketchup to use or how to rotate bathroom duty. But we loved the Mango because it was ours. Never mind that our paychecks were often months late being cut or that we "waitoids" had to split our tips with the bussers and the kitchen staff. We weren't beholden to anyone except ourselves and our patrons.
The "floor" was made up of tables just like any other restaurant. I can't remember the carpeting but I remember stacking chairs after closing to vacuum late into the night. Sometimes, Walter Pope would show up and play the piano in the corner while we restocked condiments. Sometimes he'd even stay after we'd left, under the little dim spotlight, playing I have no idea what songs. Years later I saw him in the east bay and we exchanged pleasantries. He was as happy go lucky as he'd been a decade earlier. I wondered if he still played piano in the middle of the night.
Around the outside of the main restaurant was an open air patio that wrapped around the building. On busy summer weekends, for brunch, people would be lined up out the door even though there were plenty of tables inside and out. They even lined up to pay for their meals, at the small lectern where the cash register sat, near one of the swinging wooden doors that led from the inside to the patio. They stood in line, under the little mango, painted blue, that dangled over the register. I don't think anyone ever saw the little blue mango up there, collecting dust.
The menu design changed little in the all the years of the Mango's existence. Most of the offerings remained steady as well and consisted of vegetarian classics such as Huevos Rancheros, pancakes, waffles, etc. There were also dishes that bespoke the restaurant's philosophy, like the Worker's Breakfast. This was a bowl of beans, rice, shredded cheese and diced green onions topped with a dollop of sour cream. My favorite was the "nut yeast gravy" always available to pour liberally on whatever one wished, and went especially well with potatoes. This all sounds so cliched now, and it may have been back then, but it was so comforting to be there. Even when meetings went late into the night and sometimes into the next morning and even if those meetings were strained and the agendas preposterous, it was all done with empathy and respect. I mostly felt supported there and amongst friends even when my last paycheck finally came six months after I'd quit.
I knew it was time for me to stop waiting tables. I'd started my vocation in high school, five years earlier, in southern California, in a place called The Parasol, an umbrella shaped building in the Googie style that was open twenty four seven. As innocent as its exterior may sound, it was a strange place with even stranger clientele and I was happy to leave there not long after my training was complete.
When I got to SF, in the fall of 1982, I bussed tables for a while in a fairly expensive, well-respected, dimly lit white cotton table cloth establishment where a friend worked. Her uncle waited tables there so I suppose I had an in. Or my in had an in. In any case, it was probably a typical restaurant there at that time. It may have been ahead of its time in that it served the new California cuisine that was just starting to come into its own. My friend and I were two of maybe four bussers. We were required to wear black pants and white shirts with skinny ties. Comfortable shoes were a wise investment as we were on our feet before the restaurant opened getting the floor ready for opening, folding napkins, refilling condiments, etc. After closing we were responsible for cleaning up while the wait staff counted their tips over a leisurely bottle of wine followed by a rollicking party in the basement. This always included quantities of high quality weed and the occasional cutting of lines. After everyone was good and plastered, and weather permitting, or not, there were usually a party or two to attend, more than likely in a warehouse south of market. But that's another story.
Not too long after I'd started bussing, one of the chefs helped me get a gig as a waiter at her friend's new restaurant in North Beach. It was right on Columbus. I remember riding my little motorcycle up there in the mornings, in the fog. The air smelled like freshly roasted coffee and good bread. I might have stayed there for a while but the place didn't last long, possibly due to poor planning. At the time, I was 19 years old and was helping to get the grand opening ready. I would be waiting tables in the cafe, which is where guests would have an appetizer and drinks while they waited for tables to become available. I don't recall exactly how they prepared for the opening, but I don't recall having any instruction on formal table service. This proved disastrous as the owners had neglected to train us on basic formal table service. With my luck, on the fated night, because we were not prepared with adequate staff in the cafe, I found myself pouring for a very large table who seemed friendly yet also strangely condescending. This, I later found out, was the party of a well-known chef and national restaurant critic. The next day, in the paper, my faux pas were one of the highlights of his critique. Needless to say I didn't last long there. But while I was there I met some characters of interest.
What exactly is it that I've enjoyed reading about when reading about a person's life lived thus far? I think first and foremost, it has to be language and its use. If something is written well, I will read it through almost no matter what. I'm thinking about A Parisian from Kansas. Or Travels with Lizbeth. Or Being Geniuses Together. Or Gertrude and Alice. All of these are, in my opinion, interestingly written. Probably a little bit of meandering between thinking aloud on the page, contemplatively, and alternating with some description of a person, place or thing.
Writing about events, chronicling, seems dull to me, so listing one's accomplishments is not so much what I look for in a book. If however, the author, or the teller of the tale, perambulates, meditates, weaves in and out of the calendar of their life, hovering here and there to put something into context, I might linger, but it really depends on how they spill their beans. I imagine I like them poured slowly, one by one, maybe even categorized for color or size before moving onto the next, but not too perfunctorily. Just tantalizingly enough to cause one to wait until the next pops out, or dribbles, or saunters, and then the next and so on. But then again not too showy with the bean revelations or else it might feel too self-conscious.
I notice now, the titles above all have something in common: place as a character with which to interact. Travels. I suppose I like the idea of being somewhere else, to be out of one's element. That's what I like about being elsewhere. It forces you to think differently, to experience the world new again, as if you were your younger, more innocent self. It didn't take much to transform your world anew: a winter's storm; a string of lights; a blanket draped over two chairs and a flashlight to read by. I love that. I mean, I sometimes feel that way again, here, at home, on a simple walk after it rains, or early in the morning when everything is waking up, fresh from sleep. I love that feeling of seeing something for the first time, because, really, as they say, you can never step into the same river twice, right? Everything is changing, nothing stays the same. But I digress. These books are about being in places where the senses are constantly engaged, on high alert. Isn't that what a life, a lucky life, well lived can be all about?
If I were to write something, I would like to leave stories for N to read, so he would know my life better. What it was like growing up, things I couldn't tell him even though I've told him so much. Yet there's so much that I could never tell him. I could tell him the stories of my parents, as much as I know, and their parents, of which I know even less. That would be interesting to me, possibly to him. I can try but I just have these fragments that add up to not much. Sometimes it's interesting how life turns out. And sometimes it's not.
When I was still in college, a friend and I would argue about the end of the world. Back then, before the end of "the cold war", Americans worried about nuclear bombs, and about the former Soviet Union sending missiles over here to annihilate us. My friend and I would sit in our cramped old-fashioned kitchen around an atomic styled chrome table that I bought at a garage sale. We'd spend most of our tiny paychecks on cheap red wine, expensive cheese, and back then I'd found a good source for fresh brioche. Over these hard won delicacies, we fought. I was convinced the world would end with a bang but she disagreed. To her a whimper seemed much more likely. When I look back on this scene, I have to concede that she may have been right.
This town was different back then. Not all prettied up and manicured within an inch of its perfectly landscaped lawns. It was funky. In fact, I worked briefly at a place called The Blue Mango, a co-op restaurant that every self-respecting hippie within a thousand mile radius had heard of and made a pilgrimage to. In truth, the Mango was just one of countless such establishments across the country back then. Places run by committee, when even the smallest detail had to be agreed upon by a majority of members. Including what brand of ketchup to use or how to rotate bathroom duty. But we loved the Mango because it was ours. Never mind that our paychecks were often months late being cut or that we "waitoids" had to split our tips with the bussers and the kitchen staff. We weren't beholden to anyone except ourselves and our patrons.
The "floor" was made up of tables just like any other restaurant. I can't remember the carpeting but I remember stacking chairs after closing to vacuum late into the night. Sometimes, Walter Pope would show up and play the piano in the corner while we restocked condiments. Sometimes he'd even stay after we'd left, under the little dim spotlight, playing I have no idea what songs. Years later I saw him in the east bay and we exchanged pleasantries. He was as happy go lucky as he'd been a decade earlier. I wondered if he still played piano in the middle of the night.
Around the outside of the main restaurant was an open air patio that wrapped around the building. On busy summer weekends, for brunch, people would be lined up out the door even though there were plenty of tables inside and out. They even lined up to pay for their meals, at the small lectern where the cash register sat, near one of the swinging wooden doors that led from the inside to the patio. They stood in line, under the little mango, painted blue, that dangled over the register. I don't think anyone ever saw the little blue mango up there, collecting dust.
The menu design changed little in the all the years of the Mango's existence. Most of the offerings remained steady as well and consisted of vegetarian classics such as Huevos Rancheros, pancakes, waffles, etc. There were also dishes that bespoke the restaurant's philosophy, like the Worker's Breakfast. This was a bowl of beans, rice, shredded cheese and diced green onions topped with a dollop of sour cream. My favorite was the "nut yeast gravy" always available to pour liberally on whatever one wished, and went especially well with potatoes. This all sounds so cliched now, and it may have been back then, but it was so comforting to be there. Even when meetings went late into the night and sometimes into the next morning and even if those meetings were strained and the agendas preposterous, it was all done with empathy and respect. I mostly felt supported there and amongst friends even when my last paycheck finally came six months after I'd quit.
I knew it was time for me to stop waiting tables. I'd started my vocation in high school, five years earlier, in southern California, in a place called The Parasol, an umbrella shaped building in the Googie style that was open twenty four seven. As innocent as its exterior may sound, it was a strange place with even stranger clientele and I was happy to leave there not long after my training was complete.
When I got to SF, in the fall of 1982, I bussed tables for a while in a fairly expensive, well-respected, dimly lit white cotton table cloth establishment where a friend worked. Her uncle waited tables there so I suppose I had an in. Or my in had an in. In any case, it was probably a typical restaurant there at that time. It may have been ahead of its time in that it served the new California cuisine that was just starting to come into its own. My friend and I were two of maybe four bussers. We were required to wear black pants and white shirts with skinny ties. Comfortable shoes were a wise investment as we were on our feet before the restaurant opened getting the floor ready for opening, folding napkins, refilling condiments, etc. After closing we were responsible for cleaning up while the wait staff counted their tips over a leisurely bottle of wine followed by a rollicking party in the basement. This always included quantities of high quality weed and the occasional cutting of lines. After everyone was good and plastered, and weather permitting, or not, there were usually a party or two to attend, more than likely in a warehouse south of market. But that's another story.
Not too long after I'd started bussing, one of the chefs helped me get a gig as a waiter at her friend's new restaurant in North Beach. It was right on Columbus. I remember riding my little motorcycle up there in the mornings, in the fog. The air smelled like freshly roasted coffee and good bread. I might have stayed there for a while but the place didn't last long, possibly due to poor planning. At the time, I was 19 years old and was helping to get the grand opening ready. I would be waiting tables in the cafe, which is where guests would have an appetizer and drinks while they waited for tables to become available. I don't recall exactly how they prepared for the opening, but I don't recall having any instruction on formal table service. This proved disastrous as the owners had neglected to train us on basic formal table service. With my luck, on the fated night, because we were not prepared with adequate staff in the cafe, I found myself pouring for a very large table who seemed friendly yet also strangely condescending. This, I later found out, was the party of a well-known chef and national restaurant critic. The next day, in the paper, my faux pas were one of the highlights of his critique. Needless to say I didn't last long there. But while I was there I met some characters of interest.
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