So awhile back I had to write a bit about some huge event that affected me in a deeply personal, heartrending sort of way. I wrote about hurricane Irene.
The Perfect Storm
The days leading up to the hurricane I paid little attention to the news. There is always something happening, always something tragic, and always very far from where I am in both the literal and psychological sense. And if tragedy is not the theme of the evening news, it is something frivolous such as what my pillows say about my personality. Thank you Yahoo, I’m a “bohemian.” In fact so many of the times that I follow the news, it seems as if it were all a large-scale reality show. The world continues to premier disasters on a regular scheduled programming. So reading about Hurricane Irene and her “churning winds,” I was not impressed. In fact I regarded the whole event in a nonchalant manner as each member of my family called to tell me their respective views of the hurricane and what I should/would do about it.
The truth is, though, that I was secretly excited. I am a skeptical optimist. I say it won’t happen but secretly dream it will. And in my mind, I was finally part of the action. I was one of those poor souls in New York, preparing as Hurricane Irene “barreled North up the Eastern Seaboard.” Like in all my favorite disaster films, Dante’s Point and Day After Tomorrow, I was a character in something exciting. It is a horrible thought, but part of me craves these life-threatening scenarios. I am such a bored, cautious person, that I actually want disasters to make my life more interesting. This is often why I will spontaneously force myself to do stupid things like skateboarding down a hill. This is a stupid thing to do because I don’t know how to skateboard and I do these stupid things to remind myself that I am still alive, to remind myself what it feels like to be alive. This feeling is commonly known as an adrenaline rush but I ignore that finer scientific anecdote.
So this hurricane, in all its glorious bane, was on it’s way and I half dismissed it because I distrusted the news, and half anticipated it with a disturbing impatience. I knew I was nowhere in the evacuation zones, that the worst I’d get would be possible flooding, a loss of electricity, and according to the weather reports, winds rushing in at sixty-two miles per hour. But my roommate informed me that sixty-two mile per hour winds were strong enough to knock me over, and this was something to hesitantly look forward to. I wanted to brace myself against a force stronger than me, to get sopping wet and caught in a falling building. I would survive of course, but only after being rescued by some darling in a uniform. I wanted a storm, a real storm but I still retained my realistic notion of what would likely occur. Some lousy weather, and nothing too horrific. Nevertheless, my brother called me early Friday morning and asked what I was going to do. He too had fallen into the trap of the world news reality show.
“To prepare” he said. “Absolutely nothing.” I’d answer. “I’m not in the evacuation zone.”
My father called later that afternoon. He told me to board up my windows. “You don’t want the glass to blow in on you.” He also to me to fill bags with water and put them in the freezer. They would not only keep my fridge cool if I lost power, but I could drink from them if in the midst of flooding my pipes broke down. Shortly afterward, my mother called to tell me about the clever idea my father had come up with. “Sarah, your father had such a clever idea! Freeze bags of water.” My parents, like everyone outside of the hurricane-promised land were wondering what would happen next, wishing they could be a part of it all. This episode had its selected cast and everyone else was left to wonder what was happening behind the scenes, reading the news articles of a shows synopsis.
As Friday ended and Saturday began, I spent more time by the windows. I was a princess awaiting her prince, and a deranged lady impatient for her disaster. But there was sun and there were birds and I told myself that this was just the calm before the storm. That soon enough these little blue jays would get sucked into roiling black clouds and the sun would disappear into a black abyss. But the damn birds were obstinate and it seemed this storm would never come. Yet the news continued to flash its warnings. Like a preview for House, drama reigned in cyberspace as the hundreds of articles gave credence to exaggeration. The sun was shining and I was being told of an apocalypse. Thankfully, by Saturday night the winds had started to increase. Winds so powerful they knocked over my empty carton of crackers.
Around four in the morning I had the idea to go on the roof with hopes of maybe seeing some fifty-foot waves with sharks and torched oil spills. According to what I read online, this was not far-fetched. Instead there was just mist and I couldn’t see much farther then the extent of the building I stood on. As one can imagine, I was pissed. Here the news had promised me a hurricane, and my friend’s bleating belief further convinced me that perhaps it would happen but then this, this ridiculous lack thereof. There was more lightening and thunder during the rest of the year than this news-wide weather report and the branches littered on Eastern Parkway did little to appease me. Sunday too, which had promised the sixty-two mile per hour winds and came with worried phone calls from family and relatives was a disappointment. New York had not fallen into an “eerie silence” as one newspaper claimed and the only real issue was the dysfunctional subway system.
Perhaps I should have gone to Manhattan for the weekend, truly placed myself in a danger zone. There were enough photographs popping up of taxis driving through flooded streets to get me interested. Manhattan, so close to it all, and yet without a functioning subway, so very, very far from me. Like everything before it, I was nowhere near the danger. No winds or flooding or power outages, just large blocks of ice shaped like Ziploc bags and a staggering concretion that I was right all along. The news truly is just another reality show, scripted to fit but ultimately false.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday, January 14, 2012
All the Pages Turn, Turn, Turn...
Since coming home December 25th, I've been on a reading rampage. Mostly junky stuff like the Jurassic Park series (yo mathematicians, you might like the mathematician character Ian Malcolm-just putting that out there-unless Chaos Theory pisses you off in which case never mind because there's a lot of useless ranting in that genre)and other made-for-movies books like the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo trilogy. Now I'm finishing up the strue story, 3,096 days in Captivity which is about some Swedish chick who got kidnapped at age 10 and managed to escape 8 years later. We're the same age which is kinda trippy, I'm used to authors being dead by the time I get to their stuff. I believe she currently has her own talk show.
After that particular morsel, I'm reading something my dad oh so gently nudged in my direction, A Conflict of Visions, Ideological Origins of Political Struggles. Sounds boring but it seems to be written well so I guess we'll see.
I suppose all this book-related talk should go in the book blog but the blog's so rarely used that I'm likely going to just delete it.
Now the point of all this book stuff is, I guess, to recommend all the aforementioned books, because they WERE good, but also to drift along a bit on the idea of getting out of a book. See when I read, a train can come crashing through my room and chances are I'll look up but not even realize what I'm seeing, shrug, and resume reading. In other words, I get absorbed. And I toddle along with the main characters and villains and other characters and get so lost in their world that my own life becomes more and more uneventful. Think of a sloth. Now give that sloth a book.
That's me.
So when I come out of a book it's like the whole Cave scenario Plato goes on about, getting out of the cave, seeing reality and going, "nah, that can't be right. Gawd it's bright out here." I have forgotten how to live, how to get up and do things because for the past week I've been sitting in one chair, smoking my mom's e-cig (which I like to compare to an opium pipe), and reading.
People love books, worship books like a tangible version of knowledge they so admire and that all very nice. But if getting lost in them means you're own life goes to shit, it's kinda sad...right? Maybe it's only sad if you read books like Jurassic Park.
Gosh I love raptors. Even if ol' Michael Crichton made up most of their behavioral tendencies.
After that particular morsel, I'm reading something my dad oh so gently nudged in my direction, A Conflict of Visions, Ideological Origins of Political Struggles. Sounds boring but it seems to be written well so I guess we'll see.
I suppose all this book-related talk should go in the book blog but the blog's so rarely used that I'm likely going to just delete it.
Now the point of all this book stuff is, I guess, to recommend all the aforementioned books, because they WERE good, but also to drift along a bit on the idea of getting out of a book. See when I read, a train can come crashing through my room and chances are I'll look up but not even realize what I'm seeing, shrug, and resume reading. In other words, I get absorbed. And I toddle along with the main characters and villains and other characters and get so lost in their world that my own life becomes more and more uneventful. Think of a sloth. Now give that sloth a book.
That's me.
So when I come out of a book it's like the whole Cave scenario Plato goes on about, getting out of the cave, seeing reality and going, "nah, that can't be right. Gawd it's bright out here." I have forgotten how to live, how to get up and do things because for the past week I've been sitting in one chair, smoking my mom's e-cig (which I like to compare to an opium pipe), and reading.
People love books, worship books like a tangible version of knowledge they so admire and that all very nice. But if getting lost in them means you're own life goes to shit, it's kinda sad...right? Maybe it's only sad if you read books like Jurassic Park.
Gosh I love raptors. Even if ol' Michael Crichton made up most of their behavioral tendencies.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
"Songs of Exile, Songs of Chess"
On christmas, Jews eat chinese food and play chess. Here's something I found online, supposedly written by Ibn Ezra:
I will sing a song of battle
Planned in days long past and over.
Men of skill and science set it
On a plain of eight divisions,
And designed in squares all chequered.
Two camps face each one the other,
And the kings stand by for battle,
And twixt these two is the fighting.
Bent on war the face of each is,
Ever moving or encamping,
Yet no swords are drawn in warfare,
For a war of thoughts their war is.
They are known by signs and tokens
Sealed and written on their bodies;
And a man who sees them thinketh,
Edomites and Ethiopians
Are these two that fight together.
And the Ethiopian forces
Overspread the field of battle,
And the Edomites pursue them.
First in battle the foot-soldier
Comes to fight upon the highway,
Ever marching straight before him,
But to capture moving sideways,
Straying not from off his pathway,
Neither do his steps go backwards;
He may leap at the beginning
Anywhere within three chequers.
Should he take his steps in battle
Far away unto the eighth row,
Then a Queen to all appearance
He becomes and fights as she does.
And the Queen directs her moving
As she will to any quarter.
Backs the elephant or advances,
Stands aside as 'twere an ambush;
As the Queen's way, so is his way,
But o'er him she hath advantage,
He stands only in the third rank.
Swift the horse is in the battle,
Moving on a crooked pathway;
Ways of his are ever crooked;
Mid the Squares, three form his limit.
Straight the Wind moves o'er the war-path
In the field across or lengthwise;
Ways of crookedness he seeks not,
But straight paths without perverseness.
Turning every way the King goes,
Giving aid unto his subjects;
In his actions he is cautious,
Whether fighting or encamping.
If his foe come to dismay him,
From his place he flees in terror,
Or the Wind can give him refuge.
Sometimes he must flee before him;
Multitudes at times support him;
And all slaughter each the other,
Wasting with great wrath each other.
Mighty men of both the sovereigns
Slaughtered fall, with yet no bloodshed.
Ethiopia sometimes triumphs,
Edom flees away before her;
Now victorious is Edom;
Ethiopia and her sovereign
Are destroyed in battle.
Should a king in the destruction
Fall within the foeman's power,
He is never granted mercy,
Neither refuge nor deliv'rance,
Nor a flight to refuge-city.
Judged by foes, and lacking rescue,
Though not slain he is checkmated.
Hosts about him all are slaughtered,
Giving life for his deliverance.
Quenched and vanished is their glory,
For they see their lord is smitten;
Yet they fight again this battle,
For in death is resurrection.
SOURCE
Merry Christmas Everyone
I will sing a song of battle
Planned in days long past and over.
Men of skill and science set it
On a plain of eight divisions,
And designed in squares all chequered.
Two camps face each one the other,
And the kings stand by for battle,
And twixt these two is the fighting.
Bent on war the face of each is,
Ever moving or encamping,
Yet no swords are drawn in warfare,
For a war of thoughts their war is.
They are known by signs and tokens
Sealed and written on their bodies;
And a man who sees them thinketh,
Edomites and Ethiopians
Are these two that fight together.
And the Ethiopian forces
Overspread the field of battle,
And the Edomites pursue them.
First in battle the foot-soldier
Comes to fight upon the highway,
Ever marching straight before him,
But to capture moving sideways,
Straying not from off his pathway,
Neither do his steps go backwards;
He may leap at the beginning
Anywhere within three chequers.
Should he take his steps in battle
Far away unto the eighth row,
Then a Queen to all appearance
He becomes and fights as she does.
And the Queen directs her moving
As she will to any quarter.
Backs the elephant or advances,
Stands aside as 'twere an ambush;
As the Queen's way, so is his way,
But o'er him she hath advantage,
He stands only in the third rank.
Swift the horse is in the battle,
Moving on a crooked pathway;
Ways of his are ever crooked;
Mid the Squares, three form his limit.
Straight the Wind moves o'er the war-path
In the field across or lengthwise;
Ways of crookedness he seeks not,
But straight paths without perverseness.
Turning every way the King goes,
Giving aid unto his subjects;
In his actions he is cautious,
Whether fighting or encamping.
If his foe come to dismay him,
From his place he flees in terror,
Or the Wind can give him refuge.
Sometimes he must flee before him;
Multitudes at times support him;
And all slaughter each the other,
Wasting with great wrath each other.
Mighty men of both the sovereigns
Slaughtered fall, with yet no bloodshed.
Ethiopia sometimes triumphs,
Edom flees away before her;
Now victorious is Edom;
Ethiopia and her sovereign
Are destroyed in battle.
Should a king in the destruction
Fall within the foeman's power,
He is never granted mercy,
Neither refuge nor deliv'rance,
Nor a flight to refuge-city.
Judged by foes, and lacking rescue,
Though not slain he is checkmated.
Hosts about him all are slaughtered,
Giving life for his deliverance.
Quenched and vanished is their glory,
For they see their lord is smitten;
Yet they fight again this battle,
For in death is resurrection.
SOURCE
Merry Christmas Everyone
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Oh Richard
Cliche exit scene, hand on the doorknob with that straight faced serious look.
-Well Richard, it's been good.
"Richard" is still sitting on the sofa, not sure what just happened.
-What are you talking about? We didn't discuss anything. And my name's not Richard, it's Ed.
-Ed?
-Yes, Ed.
-Well, Ed, this is exactly what we've been talking about. This here is a perfect example. You can't be so negative all the time. It's simply uncouth. I mean...where would we be if all we talked about was how 2+2 can't equal 22?
-But it isn't 22...it's 4 (Ed, seems confused)
-No! No, see that's the fantastic part, 2+2 CAN equal 22! You need to see the potential of things.
-The potential...?
-Yes, precisely Richard. The potential.
-But 2+2=4 and I'm not Richard. I'm Ed.
Man standing by the door sighs and looks at him.
-Well I thought we had been making real progress but you are obviously disturbed.
-By asserting facts?
-By your lack of consideration to ideas outside of your own. You simply can't be so close-minded all the time (pause) you can't go through life like this!
-I really don't think I'm disturbed, Dr. Phil.
-Nonsense Richard. (Dr. Phil smiles kindly) Now you just march out there and tell Nancy to schedule you for another session.
-Her name's Jeanette.
Dr. Phil smiles again, this time obviously strained. It's almost a grimace.
-Alright Richard, alright. Her name's Jeanette. (He says this last part in a patronizing tone.)
Ed is exasperated, gets up and shuffles past Dr. Phil.
-Don't despair Richard, you're making great progress. Just think about what I told you and we'll talk next week.
-Well Richard, it's been good.
"Richard" is still sitting on the sofa, not sure what just happened.
-What are you talking about? We didn't discuss anything. And my name's not Richard, it's Ed.
-Ed?
-Yes, Ed.
-Well, Ed, this is exactly what we've been talking about. This here is a perfect example. You can't be so negative all the time. It's simply uncouth. I mean...where would we be if all we talked about was how 2+2 can't equal 22?
-But it isn't 22...it's 4 (Ed, seems confused)
-No! No, see that's the fantastic part, 2+2 CAN equal 22! You need to see the potential of things.
-The potential...?
-Yes, precisely Richard. The potential.
-But 2+2=4 and I'm not Richard. I'm Ed.
Man standing by the door sighs and looks at him.
-Well I thought we had been making real progress but you are obviously disturbed.
-By asserting facts?
-By your lack of consideration to ideas outside of your own. You simply can't be so close-minded all the time (pause) you can't go through life like this!
-I really don't think I'm disturbed, Dr. Phil.
-Nonsense Richard. (Dr. Phil smiles kindly) Now you just march out there and tell Nancy to schedule you for another session.
-Her name's Jeanette.
Dr. Phil smiles again, this time obviously strained. It's almost a grimace.
-Alright Richard, alright. Her name's Jeanette. (He says this last part in a patronizing tone.)
Ed is exasperated, gets up and shuffles past Dr. Phil.
-Don't despair Richard, you're making great progress. Just think about what I told you and we'll talk next week.
Kinda Like a Light bulb
Like a fluffy pink cloud with colorful pills and needles floating around, I've been having this bizarre and wonderful sense of elation. It's like I'm in love or on a high, neither of which being the case. I must be having some weird chemical imbalance because normally I don't wake up this happy.
Normally my alarm goes off and I start cursing. A somewhat different variation of "modeh ani." But yesterday...and today, that dreaded alarm hanging over my head started off with it's miserable jingle and then like a flash, turned into a light bulb that just turned on. (Now wouldn't it be cool to have a giant light bulb alarm clock? It shoots disco lights and plays "Staying Alive"?)But anyways, that dreaded sense of having to wake up and go about the day turned into an anticipation to get cracking on all the things I had to do, and have to do. I simply pulled out my planner and wrote a long list of writing this paper, and doing that assignment, and emailing this guy about volunteer work, and booking a flight home, and actually going to the gym again, and finally buying more groceries because literally I had just 4 eggs and some soy milk left in the fridge.
See the wonderful thing about a packed schedule is that you literally don't have time to putz around. And I'm a master procrastinator/space cadet. I will normally wake up and float around the apartment only to realize I need to leave in 10 minutes and I haven't even showered.
But now...now I just wake up and start doing things. It's not natural. I wonder how long it will last...
Anyways, short clip I have in my head:
2 men are trying to decorate their home and decide to go Oriental.
Man 1, let's call him John: I really think we should get a geisha, she would totally work with the scheme we're going with.
Man 2, let's call him Chaz: But we simply don't have room! Where will we put her? I mean really, let's be practical.
Geisha pops out of the closet, she was stuffed in there with haste so she kinda falls out with some brooms and other cleaning supplies. She looks up at them, uncertain. Chaz is shocked and looks at John who is suddenly looking very guilty.
Chaz: You got a geisha.
John: I...um.
Chaz: You got a geisha. (he's shaking his head in disbelief.)
John: Oh look at her, though. She would really add a nice touch to this place and she doesn't take up much room!
Geisha is standing up and wiping dust off her kimono, she's making a bit of a mess. John freaks out and runs to her.
John: Hey, what did I say? Go to your corner!
Geisha doesn't understand, she's upset.
John: Now don't give me that. Go to your corner geisha!
The geisha goes to a corner and settles down on the carpeting, obviously trying to make herself as small as possible. Chaz simply folds his arms and looks at John.
Chaz: I can't believe you imported a geisha. Do you realize how much responsibility this is? How much face powder she needs? I mean really, we can hardly afford the rent here.
John in response starts defending himself.
John: Oh Chaz I really thought you'd be happy. She's fairly little, we could keep her in the living room.
Chaz sighs and rubs his face.
Chaz: I don't know. No, no John we simply haven't the room. Where will the plants go if we have a geisha living here?
John thinks about this for a bit. He looks at the ground shaking his head.
John: I suppose you're right.
Chaz: You know I'm right.
John looks at the geisha and she looks back, still uncertain and smiles a little bit. Trying to redeem herself. John walks over to her and pats her arm.
John: I'm sorry, but we're going to have to send you back. We'll call immigration in the morning.
Chaz nods his head, asserting what John just said, understanding but firm.
John: You're right. What can I say, you're right.
Chaz smiles.
Chaz: Alright, enough of that. Let's go have some dinner.
They leave the living room and head for the kitchen, the geisha is left in the living room, a tiny jewel of a woman in a mess of dust and cleaning supplies.
Normally my alarm goes off and I start cursing. A somewhat different variation of "modeh ani." But yesterday...and today, that dreaded alarm hanging over my head started off with it's miserable jingle and then like a flash, turned into a light bulb that just turned on. (Now wouldn't it be cool to have a giant light bulb alarm clock? It shoots disco lights and plays "Staying Alive"?)But anyways, that dreaded sense of having to wake up and go about the day turned into an anticipation to get cracking on all the things I had to do, and have to do. I simply pulled out my planner and wrote a long list of writing this paper, and doing that assignment, and emailing this guy about volunteer work, and booking a flight home, and actually going to the gym again, and finally buying more groceries because literally I had just 4 eggs and some soy milk left in the fridge.
See the wonderful thing about a packed schedule is that you literally don't have time to putz around. And I'm a master procrastinator/space cadet. I will normally wake up and float around the apartment only to realize I need to leave in 10 minutes and I haven't even showered.
But now...now I just wake up and start doing things. It's not natural. I wonder how long it will last...
Anyways, short clip I have in my head:
2 men are trying to decorate their home and decide to go Oriental.
Man 1, let's call him John: I really think we should get a geisha, she would totally work with the scheme we're going with.
Man 2, let's call him Chaz: But we simply don't have room! Where will we put her? I mean really, let's be practical.
Geisha pops out of the closet, she was stuffed in there with haste so she kinda falls out with some brooms and other cleaning supplies. She looks up at them, uncertain. Chaz is shocked and looks at John who is suddenly looking very guilty.
Chaz: You got a geisha.
John: I...um.
Chaz: You got a geisha. (he's shaking his head in disbelief.)
John: Oh look at her, though. She would really add a nice touch to this place and she doesn't take up much room!
Geisha is standing up and wiping dust off her kimono, she's making a bit of a mess. John freaks out and runs to her.
John: Hey, what did I say? Go to your corner!
Geisha doesn't understand, she's upset.
John: Now don't give me that. Go to your corner geisha!
The geisha goes to a corner and settles down on the carpeting, obviously trying to make herself as small as possible. Chaz simply folds his arms and looks at John.
Chaz: I can't believe you imported a geisha. Do you realize how much responsibility this is? How much face powder she needs? I mean really, we can hardly afford the rent here.
John in response starts defending himself.
John: Oh Chaz I really thought you'd be happy. She's fairly little, we could keep her in the living room.
Chaz sighs and rubs his face.
Chaz: I don't know. No, no John we simply haven't the room. Where will the plants go if we have a geisha living here?
John thinks about this for a bit. He looks at the ground shaking his head.
John: I suppose you're right.
Chaz: You know I'm right.
John looks at the geisha and she looks back, still uncertain and smiles a little bit. Trying to redeem herself. John walks over to her and pats her arm.
John: I'm sorry, but we're going to have to send you back. We'll call immigration in the morning.
Chaz nods his head, asserting what John just said, understanding but firm.
John: You're right. What can I say, you're right.
Chaz smiles.
Chaz: Alright, enough of that. Let's go have some dinner.
They leave the living room and head for the kitchen, the geisha is left in the living room, a tiny jewel of a woman in a mess of dust and cleaning supplies.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Sorry, You Lost Me. Could You Say That Again?
The 2 train is pulling in and I'm adjusting the backpack that is forever slipping from my left shoulder. Never the right shoulder. And to the frustration of my constant strap adjusting. It doesn't matter though because as soon as those doors open, I'll slide in and drop the backpack to my side and forget about it. Not in the bomb-threat-I'm-leaving-my-backpack-on-the-subway-now-watch-me-walk-away-laughing-maniacally-kind-of-way. Not like that at all. The doors open and I slide onto a seat, my backpack dropping down next to me and I view the usual suspects. The token man yelling about something and smelling urine. The "gangsta." The tired faces and regular subway users. In front of me, to my right is a girl with unwashed hair, picking at her hands with nail clippers and thumbing through a book. She looks like me when I was 12. Her familiar round wire-frame glasses, uncut hair, baggy black shirt paired with men's black jeans. The only difference being that the pants I borrowed from my brother were khaki and the sneakers, bright red. But the look is familiar, it's the look of someone who reads to much and forgets about reality. Lost in a world where your only responsibility is waking up and potentially getting dressed. I vaguely wonder what she's reading. Probably fantasy. That was my drug of choice. She seems to be doing well though, using nail clippers to pick at her hands. She's not clipping her nails though, just her hands. Which are actually quite beautiful but that's not the point.
As the car moves out I focus in on her dotted socks. Thinking about the coffee I'll brew. The tomato soup I'll have when I get home. I do love me some tomato soup. From the container no less and christianed with crackers. As the car slows down at the next station my OCD kicks in and I suddenly need to know the time. I check the screen knowing already that it won't have the time up, just the station we've arrived at. I know this. But I check every time.
Without warning however, my object of fascination, this girl with the unwashed hair, becomes more interesting. She jumps up and starts doing chin-ups. I'm gawking. So is the guy next to me. The passengers flooding out and the passengers flooding in manage to walk past her flailing legs, quivering cheeks, and focused bulging eyes with absolute disinterest.
But I'm fascinated. I can't look away. She does three or four of these chin-ups, each time showing off her aged white Hanes underwear pulled up to her belly button. I couldn't do chin-ups when I was 12. Or 23 for that matter. After four chin-ups she sits back down, refolds her legs and goes back to her reading. Pausing occasionally to look at her hands and maybe roll her shoulders. Everyone ignores her, and she too takes no self-conscious glances.
At the next stop she does it again, jumping up with her flailing legs and bulging eyes, and she does this at all the stations until we reach President where I get off.
As the car moves out I focus in on her dotted socks. Thinking about the coffee I'll brew. The tomato soup I'll have when I get home. I do love me some tomato soup. From the container no less and christianed with crackers. As the car slows down at the next station my OCD kicks in and I suddenly need to know the time. I check the screen knowing already that it won't have the time up, just the station we've arrived at. I know this. But I check every time.
Without warning however, my object of fascination, this girl with the unwashed hair, becomes more interesting. She jumps up and starts doing chin-ups. I'm gawking. So is the guy next to me. The passengers flooding out and the passengers flooding in manage to walk past her flailing legs, quivering cheeks, and focused bulging eyes with absolute disinterest.
But I'm fascinated. I can't look away. She does three or four of these chin-ups, each time showing off her aged white Hanes underwear pulled up to her belly button. I couldn't do chin-ups when I was 12. Or 23 for that matter. After four chin-ups she sits back down, refolds her legs and goes back to her reading. Pausing occasionally to look at her hands and maybe roll her shoulders. Everyone ignores her, and she too takes no self-conscious glances.
At the next stop she does it again, jumping up with her flailing legs and bulging eyes, and she does this at all the stations until we reach President where I get off.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Oh the Irony
This was originally a FB status (I do those sometimes) but it was too long so I'm just gonna put it here.
Thoughts on irony:
Do people really know what "irony" means when they say they mean or do something ironically?
Why is wearing a G.I. Joe t-shirt from Target only cool when you're wearing it ironically? I love G.I. Joe. I'm not being ironic. I wear my t-shirt in earnest.
Maybe people are secretly being earnest when they say they love something but cover it up by saying they love that thing ironically. You know, to be cool.
Can irony be used ironically?
Since being ironic is now the cool thing, and every one's doing it, maybe being earnest can be the new cool.
I already know that the earnest fad won't last.
That's all.
Thoughts on irony:
Do people really know what "irony" means when they say they mean or do something ironically?
Why is wearing a G.I. Joe t-shirt from Target only cool when you're wearing it ironically? I love G.I. Joe. I'm not being ironic. I wear my t-shirt in earnest.
Maybe people are secretly being earnest when they say they love something but cover it up by saying they love that thing ironically. You know, to be cool.
Can irony be used ironically?
Since being ironic is now the cool thing, and every one's doing it, maybe being earnest can be the new cool.
I already know that the earnest fad won't last.
That's all.
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