Weekly Photo Challenge: Eerie
Toire wa doko desuka?
A mini-post in honor of NaBloPoMo: National Blog Posting Month.
NaNoWriMo is clearly out of my league this year, but I’m determined to use the energy surrounding the event to squeeze a little writing out of my keyboard on a daily basis.
***************************************************
Before traveling to Japan last summer, my ten-year-old taught me six phrases:
Toire wa doko desuka? Where’s the bathroom?
Sumimasen. Sorry/excuse me.
Arigato gozaimashita. Thank you so much.
Gochiso-sama deshita! It has been a feast.
Ohaiyo gozaimasu/konnichiwa/konbanwa. Good morning/good day/good evening.
O-kanjo o onigai shimasu. May I please have the check?
But if I had to boil it down to the bare essentials, the top three would have done the job.
While in Tokyo, we had lunch with my brother’s in-laws, wandering afterward to Meiji Jingu, where he was married many years ago. Together, we pleasantly whiled away three hours, pointing, gesturing, smiling, looking at photos, exchanging gifts. It is astonishing how few words can communicate so much.
I suppose we couldn’t discuss the fine points of Kierkegaard’s Upbuilding Discourses, but I couldn’t do that in any language. I’m not advocating for monolingualism–so much of our history and culture is embedded in our words and silences. I am merely pointing out that speaking is not the same as communicating, and listening goes deeper than hearing words.
Ah, Halloween! Cow parts and unchaperoned children.
I wore the same fairy costume for four years running.
My getup consisted of someone’s worn and baggy blue dress, a cardboard tiara, and a star covered with Reynolds’ Wrap and taped to a piece of dowel.
Back then, the time change came earlier in the Fall, so it was nice and dark early on the big night. Unfortunately, it was also ridiculously cold, and because my parents loved me, I had to wear a coat covering my costume. They probably did not recognize this as the great disappointment it was, especially since everyone had seen my costume numerous times already.
I’m pretty certain my sister was asked to look after me, but what junior high student wants a baby sister tagging along with her posse after dark? Consequently, I had free reign of the neighborhood from a staggeringly early age, and my candy was only stolen once. No other tragedy befell me.
I would wander, giddy and anxious, mesmerized both by the boisterous clumps of people I wasn’t sure I knew, and by my paper bag, swelling with forbidden sweets. I would take them home and count them, chart them, graph them. I would eat two or three pieces, then squirrel the rest away, doling it out so it would last until Easter–the next time we got a statistically significant dose of sugar.
Once I got a bit older, I branched out and tried new costumes, always outdone by the girl who lived catty-corner from us. How did she predict my costume three years in a row? My mummy costume was made out of an old sheet torn into strips, and held together by an array of safety pins. It drooped and exposed my sweat pants in embarrassing patches. Julie’s father was a doctor, however, so hers was made out of surgical wrapping that clung magically to her gloating face.
Multiply that stinging feeling by all three years. I suppose I would have developed lingering unpleasant feelings about the holiday were it not for the Halloween party we had in our basement the year I turned eleven.
In my opinion, all basements are inherently cold and creepy, and ours was no exception. Scariest of all was the storage room, with concrete walls and floors, and rickety metal shelving loaded with spider webs and long-forgotten boxes. We shoved a few things out of the way so we could guide blindfolded kids one at a time into its clutches.
Perched here and there on the shelves were a variety of bowls into which we plunged their unseeing hands. One held eyeballs, or peeled grapes, and another brains, which was clammy cooked spaghetti.
Things got weirder.
Once a year, my parents purchased a side of beef, which was cut and meticulously wrapped and nestled in the extra fridge in the basement–the one without a handle, that we wrenched open with a dish towel and a finely choreographed hip maneuver. We had no shortage of strange cow parts in the basement freezer, so we thawed a variety of organs to fill the other bowls.
Given the location and ingredients, I suspect that our haunted house would have been just as creepy without the blindfold. And though this may reflect poorly on me, I reveled in the yelps and screams of our guests, and later, their wide-eyed wonder when we revealed the bowls’ actual contents. I think most of them had hoped that what we passed off as a heart might not really be a heart.
The piece de résistance of the evening was the Ghost Cake with Flaming Eyes, however. I remember so clearly that feeling of triumph when we turned out the lights again and lit the eyes.
Ever since that night, Halloween has been my favorite holiday.
I wrote a whole post about my Ghost Cake on LobeStir. Here’s the link–you could make one, too!
Happy Halloween!
To the girl with the “shrinking” mother–
Read this yesterday, and it snagged in my consciousness. Both sides speak well and truthfully. I think we have conflated strength and power with their cultural definitions, and it is helpful to step back and rethink. I had trouble posting this, though, and couldn’t get the youtube video to embed properly. The link to the poem’s performance is in there, and definitely worth a watch. It also provides the context for Rarasaur’s essay.
TO THE GIRL WITH THE “SHRINKING” MOTHER–
I listened to your poem last month, for the first time. I know, I’m a little late to the party. Your performance was in April.
It was sent my way via an article that said it explained the plight of women, who sacrifice for men. I’ll be honest. Activism that suggests someone is behind because someone else is ahead bothers me. Feminism along those lines is what makes me reject the label with a ferocity that would surprise most people– given that I am the “breadwinner” of my home, and in most ways live the feminist ideal. This type of activism suffocates me, and angers me, and limits my brothers and sisters alike– and though I didn’t intend to– I listened to that poem without a beginner’s mind. I sought offense, and I found it– even though your poem was great, and your performance was brilliant.
I wrote my own slam poetry response. The first parodied yours. Yours played on the idea that men of age are often significantly larger than their wives. Mine played off the idea that women live longer.
“Men of my family have been shaving away seconds of life, for women, for decades.”
The second poem I wrote was structured like yours as well, but along the way led into the idea that my mother is the strongest person I know.
This made me reassess my reaction to your poem, and create an alternate possibility that I’d like to share with you.
You see, I’m nearly 30, and it was just a smidge over a decade ago that I would have scoffed at the idea of my mother possessing any strength at all.
I could barely look her in the eye for a whole year of my teens. She seemed like such a waste– this stunning, genius of a woman– reduced to a mother with a near broken back, working all the time for other people’s desires. I don’t know if she’s ever slept more than 8 hours in a row. As soon as she gains something, she gives it away– whether it was space, or knowledge, or money. Every time I saw her, I feared the same would happen to me.
I worried that I had been taught to drop my achievements at a moment’s notice– in the name of handcuffs created to hold women back– just because of my mom’s dedication to those same restrictions. I was worried that I was born into a kind of slavery.
And then there was the car accident.
You see, I have 5 brothers and sisters– so not everyone fits in one car. My big brother had the baby seat, so he was following behind us with my baby sister. The rest of us were with my mom. It was a dark night and we were driving back from dropping my father at the airport– down a fast-moving, icy highway. There were black ice warnings out, and I was in the front seat because I could almost always spot the slippery stuff.
It started to snow, in torrents hard enough to push at the car, and then from the side mirror, I saw it. My brother’s car spun out of control and rolled off the road and down a hill. I screamed his name, and my mom– who witnessed the same thing– put her hand out on mine. She sang a song, to keep the kids in the back of the car asleep, and drove steadily on until there was a place to safely stop. There were tears running down her face, but her voice was clear. She parked the car on the side, put me in charge, took off her 2 inch heels, and walked into the dark snowstorm barefoot– bravely towards what could have been the mere bodies of her children.
I’m not sure on the details, but my brother’s car was started again, and pushed up the hill– and both he and my baby sister were fine.
When I saw my mom finally walking back to me, hours later, the sun was coming up– she was soaked through, and covered in dirt and blood. She was holding her children– and a stranger– and she was smiling.
It occurred to me then that a passerbyer might see her as a woman down on her luck, in a position of weakness– but it was the most invulnerable thing I had ever seen. The sort of strength many people never get the chance to witness in a lifetime.
It sounds like you might have blessed by the benefit of an equally dedicated mother.
A dedication to sacrificing is such a brittle concept, and can look a lot like weakness– like late night trips to the fridge for yogurt and wine from a measuring cup– but it is more powerful than words or swords.
I of course do not know your specific situation, but the next time you see her tucked away in a small space, consider the possibility that it is because she doesn’t need much space to live the life of her dreams, and that she has faith in your ability to do something brilliant with the extra room.
And next time you see worn hands, or a tired back, consider the idea that it is because she has made a priority out of carrying those who cannot move forward themselves.
When the people around her seem to grow at the cost of her loss, lookagain. Their expansion is her battle cry. She is victorious through nurture and sacrifice.
It is a power connected to the heart of the universe. A strength that fueled a nun to care for lepers, and prompted a man to share a dream of equality. It echoes through every positive change humans have ever seen, and grows every day under the protection of guardians like our moms.
Does that really sound like shrinking to you? Because to me it sounds like something big enough to expand its way right past the hemmed edges of the galaxy.
I realize now that I wasn’t worried that I would becomemy mother. I was worried that I would never become the sort of person worth the sacrifices she made.
Snaps to you for showing off your power. I hope you know that your mom is right to give to you: you are worthy of all the good this world has to offer. If you can accept that truth, I think you’ll find you’ll stop apologizing for empowerment. Just do good with it.
With love from a big sister born of the same big power,
Rara
_______________________________
I probably won’t respond to any comments about feminism, because it’s an issue that goes much deeper than my type of blog– but as always, you’re welcome to share your thoughts as long as you play nice. This post has seen the light of day due to a Daily Post prompt, asking about the post I was most nervous to publish, and what it was like to set it free. I’ll get back to you on that last part of the question depending on how scary my comment section ends up being.
Have you ever driven on black ice? It’s one of my top fears, even before this night.
Separating the weirdly cool from the creepy.
There are plenty of cultural oddities for a whitey round-eye like me visiting Japan.
For starters:
Japanese Vending Machines.
Did you know Japan is about 500 degrees in the summer? Plus 99% humidity? Me neither. It’s so tidy and cool in the guidebooks. Everyone looks all nifty and suited up and un-sweaty-like. Have they photoshopped all of the melting tourists out of the pictures?
Luckily, every ten yards or so there stands a vending machine of happiness.
I’ve seen vending machines before, obviously, but not like these. They are tempting. They are sassy. And they dispense whatever you might desire: juice, milk, towels, ice cream, sweet iced coffee labeled BOSS. You can say whatever you need to say to that boss for 120 yen. That boss has been canned.
A great many vending machines are chock full of beer. Due to circumstances beyond my control, such nectar of the gods is strictly verboten. I struggled to avoid eye contact with the Asahi machines that cropped up on every other block. Given the weather, a cold beer looked damned tasty, even through the shower of perspiration raining down my face.
Oh, well. The spouse could always roll his cold can on the back of my neck.
Japanese Toilets.
It was a little alarming the first time I sat down and perused a toilet control panel, too terrified to push anything. What invasive and embarrassing activity might commence? It is a vulnerable feeling to bare your behind and then submit it to the great unknown.
My two girls were not so tentative. I heard them locked in a stall, screaming and shrieking with laughter. Lord knows what was going on in there, so I retreated to the hallway, cheeks a bit flushed.
One finally emerged, breathless. “Did you push the button with a musical note?” she asked. Turns out, it had played the Star Wars theme. If the line had been shorter, I might have gone back to give it a go.
Sadly, in most restrooms, the music button only makes a loud flushing sound, but now that the note button seemed safe, I decided to step-up my exploration.
What I discovered is that many of the options are surprisingly refreshing. In fact, it was disappointing to arrive back in the States and remember that our lackluster commodes do nothing besides give the ol’ heave-ho to a variety of deposits.
And now…a quick word about the seat heater. It might be a nice feature in certain specific circumstances. Like, in the middle of winter…in your own home. But it was downright lurky to sit on a hot public toilet. It made me think of bacteria multiplying, and about the last pair of bare buttocks that had rested on the very same spot.
Pit toilets on trains.
Pit toilets and trains do not go together.
You may be imagining the pit on the ground, which would not be so bad. No. On trains, the pits are at commode level. You have to step a couple feet off the ground and clutch the safety rail for dear life, trying to maneuver your pants to the ankle area with your free hand. Alternately, you can use your free hand to tuck your skirt into your armpit.
Who decided it was a good idea to dangle your hind-side over a hole while hurtling through the countryside at 240 miles per hour? Avoid. Trust me.
Toilet Slippers.
Never step on tatami mats while wearing shoes. You probably know that.
Here’s where things get strange:
When you get to the restroom, you have to take off those REGULAR slippers and change into your TOILET SLIPPERS. God forbid you get your slippers confused.
When all this takes place in your postage-stamp sized hotel room, absurdity reigns. Imagine opening the door to your teeny tiny room, removing your shoes to put on your regular slippers, shuffling eighteen inches to the bathroom door and changing your footwear yet again.
Also, it felt ridiculous to have the word “toilet” written on my feet. At least dogs can’t read.
Pickles.
Pickles, pickles, pickles.
What is it with pickles?
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. More pickles. Different pickles. Pickles as palate cleanser, as condiment, as garnish, as digestive.
It’s like the Eskimos with their snow, except you have to eat it.
Cat Cafés.
Traveling with children means you can’t simply do what the grown ups feel like doing all day everyday. In order to prevent a terrible snit–or worse, mutiny–we had to mix in destinations and activities that would amuse our tiny tyrants. Since we were trying to avoid places like Tokyo Disney, however, we tried to find things that were uniquely Japanese.
About two thirds of the way through our trip, the girls got very homesick, and started waxing nostalgic about our beloved, neglected cat at home. Cat Café, here we come.
The first cat café started in Korea, followed shortly thereafter by one in Osaka, but the pet rental phenomenon really took root in Tokyo, where they have about 40 cat cafes. Since most apartments forbid pets, these places feed the need to find furry love and a little zen-like escape from the frenetic, crowded urban life. One can also find bunny bistros, dog cafes, and an occasional goat here and there, but cat lovers head to places like Nekorobi, in Ikebukuro.
This was a lovely respite for all of us, except the spouse, for whom one cat is definitely enough (if only barely tolerable). He amused himself around Ikebukuro, which is an interesting little pocket of Tokyo.
In case you are secretly judging me, this was not just a place for crazy cat ladies. People go there and play with cats, of course, but only when the cats are interested. Otherwise, people read, and sip coffee, and work, and do regular people activities.
Best of all, Nekorobi had fancy vending machines. They had cubbies and sci-fi toilets. They had regular slippers and bathroom slippers, bean bags, and wifi. And cats.
Plus, no pickles or pit toilets. Perfect.
Fifty-Nine Years and Thirty-Four Days Ago
A bookish fellow
Studied God on weekdays,
Then made his way to Chaska,
To woo the schoolmarm there.Mercifully patient,
He waited six months of Sundays
For an answer
To his question.Instead, they wandered the cold town,
Discussing only anything else,
Turning back before it was too dark
Or too late.They parted ways then,
She to pore over lesson plans,
He to wend his way to the boarding house
Beside the tracks.He wondered,
Hardly daring to sleep,
While freight trains thundered
Through the wee hours,
Through his thoughts,
Shaking the tiny, strange bed.At long last:
Yes.
**********************************************************
A note from Beret: I wrote the preceding piece in response to a photo prompt posted on 100 word story. They post a new prompt each month…plus it’s chock full of amazing 100-word stories, as you might imagine.
Representing for the Grown-Ups
Once I stumbled across Phoenix’s “Lizstomania,” the song went into impossibly heavy rotation. Were it not for an occasional, palate-cleansing round of “Today’s Hits,” my kids would have defected to your house long ago.
Not only did I love the song–and all their other songs, for that matter–I was charmed by its reference to music history, to Berlin and Paris in the 1840s.
Just in case I’m not the only one who had to look up the title:
“Lisztomania was characterized by a hysterical reaction to Liszt and his concerts.[2][3] Liszt’s playing was reported to raise the mood of the audience to a level of mystical ecstasy.[3] Admirers of Liszt would swarm over him, fighting over his handkerchiefs and gloves.[3] Fans would wear his portrait on brooches and cameos.[2][4] Women would try to get locks of his hair, and whenever he broke a piano string, admirers would try to obtain it in order to make a bracelet.[4] Some female admirers would even carry glass phials into which they poured his coffee dregs.[2]“ –the benevolent geniuses at Wikipedia
I must have caught a mutation of the bug myself. Since then, I became obsessed to see Phoenix live, which is odd since I haven’t gone to see live music, for quite some time. For nearly two years they refused to cooperate–touring little, then touring anywhere but San Francisco. I may have even sent a few messages to their band manager in protest. Why were they avoiding my fair city? How could I snag their hankies if they insisted on hanging out in Europe all the time? That’s so French.
And then, a wee miracle. A friend offered me a ticket to Outside Lands, and I jumped on it without thinking.
After all, it was a single ticket. I was going to a humongous music festival:
a) By myself, and
b) As a grown-up.
I got a little nervous. What was I doing?
The spouse offered to drop me near the entrance. How long did I want to stay? Let’s see. How many trips to a porta-potty was I willing to endure?
Answer: two. And after giving birth twice, that means four hours, tops.
When I got to the festival grounds, I consulted the schedule, feeling old, wondering who the 39 other bands were. To buy myself a minute of think time, I wandered over to get an id bracelet. The security guard took one look at my driver’s license and blurted, “oh, my god!”
Dang. I am old.
He tried to smooth things over, like it was no big deal, but it was too late. The youth of America were staring at me, perhaps figuring the odds that I might know their parents.
I tried to blend into the crowd, meandering toward Jurassic Five. I guess they were making some sort of comeback on the music scene as well. I stepped politely over a number of glazed-eyed tokers and their hairy friends. Lurching twenty-year-olds grabbed the arms and shoulders of strangers nearby or, when they missed, fell face first into a carpet of crushed keg cups.
Along the way, I made peace with my age. It’s ok to be past the age of white crocheted pants over black undergarments. Or bear hats, fox tails, bad beards, and ginormous fake flowers dangling like hippie antennae.
Well, maybe I could still rock a bear hat.
And it was a relief not to have to find anyone in particular. In a crowd of 60,000, finding a friend entails spearing stuffed animals on ten-foot poles or clutching Hello Kitty balloon bouquets like overgrown toddlers, cursing vehemently at AT&T and Verizon in equal parts.
I felt like an anthropologist, watching the herds ebb and flow around crowd surf misfires.
As the music grew louder, though, the crowd ceased to exist. Jurassic Five were awesome, and I stood, transfixed.
When they finished, I stayed and walked against the crowd, filling in the empty pockets closer and closer to the stage as they opened in front of me. I itched for the center of the action, whichever band was up next. What is the point of listening to live music from the comfort of a seat, miles from the performers and their die-hard fans? How is that different to listening to Pandora at home? I mean, other than the sewage truck and the other 59,999 people between you and the performers. I like to be close enough that the drum and bass override my heart beat.
Then, by some divine intervention, Karen O sashayed out in her shiny, shiny suit.
I almost went home after her band played. If I start practicing now, I thought, maybe I could be a rock star before I kick the bucket.
In a delirious happy daze, I finally found my way to the other end of the festival, where Phoenix were about to take the stage. Since I was solo, I plowed into the tight fist of people, smiling sheepishly, apologizing profusely, thinking I could eventually make it to the very front. “Excuse me,” I said to a woman’s neck. She turned and accidentally gave me an Eskimo kiss. “Exactly where do you think I can go?” she asked, not unkindly. She was right. At that point it was literally impossible to move closer. Or get out, for that matter. I tried not to think about it.
I could barely see the stage or even the screen for a while, thanks to an extremely tall man next to me. He was the only grumpy person out of tens of thousands.
“Why aren’t your arms up?” an incredulous teenager asked him. “I guarantee you’d have the highest hands in the whole crowd.” Still, tall man stubbornly abstained.
Meanwhile, a few people to my right, a supremely enthusiastic fan gushed uncontrollably. “Oh man!” “Yeah!” He pumped his fist each time they played a first chord. “This song, too?!”
Smoke and more smoke and fog of all sorts poured out of machines and skies and people, climbing up the spotlights like animated streamers.
Now I remember: it is an extremely pleasant feeling to be in a big mob of people singing big happy songs. That’s something Pandora can’t give you.
Low points were few:
Initial lost feeling
Porta potties
Wondering if I would be crushed.
High points:
Well, everything else.
Plus, since the event took place in Golden Gate Park, city ordinance dictated that the festival shut down at 9:55 p.m. Perfect for mature music enthusiasts.
Since that day in August, my Lizstomania has mutated. Now it’s the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s station that makes my kids roll their eyes. Perhaps I should hold a vigil for their next visit.
The dangers of a fabulous summer vacation
By now, you’re probably familiar with the benefits of vacation. I don’t need to list them, do I?
If you’re not sure, you can seek help from a pile of sunkissed facebook friends, always slapping up photos of this or that paradise, regaling you with stories of fun, fun, fun, and going on like foodie wankers about every morsel that has touched their lips.
I love reading your posts, of course. That goes without saying.
I just got back from the trip of a lifetime, so once I have fully digested the experience, I’ll probably bore you with a post or two about how great it was. For now, I thought I’d remind you that vacation can have its drawbacks, too.
1. Jet lag is insufferable.
How is it that human beings have figured out how to clone a sheep, land on the moon, and sequence our genetic material, but no one has figured out how to avoid jet lag?
I try, though.
I have tried all kinds of homeopathic remedies, as well as a garden variety of pharmaceuticals. I have tried foregoing coffee a week in advance, or drinking it only at 4 pm. I have tried yoga, sleep hypnosis, and apps with gentle sounds and white noise. Last time I suffered from jet lag, I tried getting up in the middle of the night to write. This year, I am just lying in bed worrying about not sleeping.
2. Kids do not sleep well when traveling, either.
This is an understatement. I’m not sure I can talk about this without dropping a few choice words, but I should try since my mom has started reading my posts.
On our most recent trip, the eight-year-old completely forgot how to sleep like a regular person. First off, she couldn’t fall asleep. She whined and cried, and then cried harder because she felt guilty. “I’m so sorry, Mama,” she sniffled repeatedly.
“No one’s upset with you, sweetie,” I lied, trying hard to keep my tone light. “But it would be great if you could just lie still and be quiet.”
We plied her with Sleep Rescue and Calms Forté. We gave her chamomile tea and rubbed her back. We stroked her hair and whispered soothing things. After a couple of hours, she would drop off for about 45 minutes. Then, the sleepwalking commenced. And sleep shouting. It got to the point where I couldn’t doze off, no matter how exhausted, because I knew should she would scare the bejeezus out of me the second I relaxed. “Help! I can’t get out! Let me out! I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!” she yelled, pulling open drawers, banging against the walls and the door. That girl was constantly and desperately trying to escape.
“Not to be rude,” the ten-year-old finally piped up one night, “but could you possibly shut up so I could sleep?”
Did I mention that we were all busy not-sleeping in the same room for nineteen days?
3. You can still get sick.
For once, it wasn’t me, but it sounded pretty bad. The spouse got a sinus infection accompanied by a wracking cough and general malaise. Every time he laid down, he would start hacking like an emphysema patient, adding to the challenges mentioned in numbers one and two. Consequently, he burrowed into the hotel room in a semi-seated coma for several days. We didn’t completely desert him; we would stop by now and then to get updates on the progress of his plague.
“I just pulled out a rope of snot,” my spouse confided. I murmured something, but apparently did not communicate the proper awe. “Seriously. I was physically pulling it out of my nostrils, because it was too thick to blow.” OK, kids. Time to go.
4. Interesting cultural moments can be a bit painful.
Like when your child says, nice and loud, “How much is a million yen in human money?”
Sigh. Eight years of sensitivity training at home, all for naught.
5. There can be some alarming culinary challenges.
Make no mistake, I had some awesome meals. But in the interest of keeping an open mind, I made myself try a lot of things that were outside my teeny tiny comfort zone. Due to a variety of preferences and intolerances, plus general squeamishness, I am a pain in the neck at the table. This time I was going to surprise everyone, especially the brave spouse.
He arranged for a kaiseki meal.
Kaiseki roughly translates from the Japanese to: “if you put a second mortgage on your house, the chef will serve fourteen courses you would never, ever order, then watch intently while you try to put it in your mouth without making a face.”
I ate a whole fish, pleading eyes, spine, fins, and all. It was gut-wrenching to make my teeth crush that little guy. Uni (sea urchin) appeared. It was terrifying. It looked like the jaundiced tongue of a ill-fated five-year-old. But I ate it. I also ate raw quail egg, fish jello, pickled everything except cucumbers, and quite a few things I simply could not identify.
Then a shot glass appeared, full of a clear, gooey viscous something–I believe the chef called it sea threads–complete with a raw octopus arm shoved in there. I hesitated. The spouse plunged fearlessly ahead, of course. I watched him toss back the shot and chew it for several long minutes, while fighting my gag reflex. I couldn’t do it.
Frankly, I’m a little disappointed in myself. Maybe it was fabulous.
6. Mother Nature has her own itinerary.
Evidently, we were staying at the foot of this mountain for four days:
I never saw it. I have a picture just like the one above except there is no mountain. And no sky. Just a big cloud of nothingness encompassing everything above 6 feet.
During this period of inclement weather, our hosts came down with strep throat. We babysat their kid and wished we knew of someplace to go–and how to get there. We did visit the supermarket several times, and ate at a place known affectionately as “the truck stop.” We visited a dirty little hot springs–complete with a vending machine of towels and a layer of sulphuric slime on everything–while the hosts slept in the car in the parking lot. Then they rallied and drove us around a bit, pointing out places we might have gone if they had been feeling well, or if the weather had been better.
Nice people, though. Really nice.
****
I have plenty of other misadventures to report, but now that we are nestled back in the damp, cold that Bay Area residents call “summer,” those memories are starting to fade. Pretty soon, all I’ll have left are the good ones, plus some lovely photos. Perhaps I’ll post them for everyone to admire.
Just Breathe
Though going to art school was inherently non-rational, I approached it in a methodical, uptight manner which might seem out of character. As a non-traditional, second-degree student and mother of two, I was not at a point in my life where it was acceptable to dabble and meander and find myself. I took the requisite courses, in the prescribed order, and checked them off my list.
But one summer, realizing I had a single elective to squander, I inexplicably found myself signing up for a sewing class in the Fashion Design department. I did not admit this to my classmates in photography, however. It seemed shallow and irresponsible. Maybe a tad shameful.
It was also ridiculously inconvenient. It met two evenings a week, from 6-10 pm, which meant that my husband had to rearrange his work schedule, and home life was turned upside-down for half of the summer. In order to get to the first class, I had to leave my family stranded and carless in Tahoe, drive three and a half hours, eat Taco Bell in the car, and change out of my sweats in the parking lot of Sports Basement. Then I drove back.
Meanwhile, I wondered…why would I invest so much time and money on this class when I already knew how to sew? I could sew on a button; I could hem pants. It wasn’t like I wanted to sit around and make homely, ill-fitting clothes in all of my ‘extra time.’ How would this help me in my art practice? How would this contribute to the world? What was I doing?
But I went anyway, and after covering everything I knew in the first twenty minutes, what unfolded thereafter was a complete surprise.
We were a small and motley crew: a paralegal, a woman from student affairs, a RISD student in the Bay Area for the summer, a chipper, chatty nineteen-year-old obsessed with lingerie, and a tough guy who worked in the wood shop. Plus me.
Outside, it was freezing in the San Francisco summer way. The fog would roll in right at the start of class, casting a gloomy pall over our fair city as I hunted for parking. Inside the sewing room, however, it was eternally close and sweaty. We hunched over our commercial machines wearing as little as socially acceptable. We lingered long after the official class ended–often staying until midnight–sewing an imaginary world made of fabric and thread.
We talked, ate picnic dinners on the cutting tables, and commiserated over the evil overlock machine, but mostly we just sewed in a zen-like stupor. Fans oscillating, music cranked, we listened to an endless loop of loud, meditative dance music selected by the club-hopping RISD kid.
I made a skirt I sort of like, an ugly, uncomfortable shirt, and two princess dresses–the last of which was my masterpiece. Including the muslin mock-up, I must have spent thirty or forty hours on that thing. But when I brought it home for my five-year-old, she wore it once and let it languish in the back of the closet. A little peeved, I asked her about it. “I’m not really into princesses anymore,” she said. “I’ve started my rock star phase.”
First of all, #$%*()@!
Second of all, what five-year-old talks like that?
Still, it doesn’t really matter. That class gave me endless joy.
To this day, when I hear the first couple of bars of Breathe by Telepopmusik, I am immediately transported to those long, hot, unstructured stretches of happy time. If something important is due, if I am frustrated or inconsolable, if I have 30 seconds to sit in the car before picking up my kids, I pop in my headphones, and there I am in the sewing studio again: feeding fabric, clipping threads, watching the needle go up and down. I let thoughts float and disperse like clouds, fixing on nothing in particular. Just breathing.
LAME DISCLAIMER
Apologies, apologies. I should have posted something eons ago.
I know there are people out there with a laser-like focus–the kind who are raising the next president all while working full-time, serving up leek tarts, volunteering regularly, going to school on the side, and writing a novel in their spare time.
It’s not like that over here.
Now that summer vacation is underway for the two smallest people in my house, it has become nigh impossible to coax a coherent paragraph or two out of the day.
Instead, I’m sending warm greetings from Camp Beret.
Bad Parenting 101 