Saturday, December 22
A day of transition, activity to inactivity to activity, company to solitude to company; or actually the beginning of a transition, which might work or not. I'm sort of just anxious to get back to the solitude and inactivity. But I'll find a way to enjoy this in the interim. Here I am in Scarsdale writing on Dan's month-old spankin' iBook, which has been tied up for the last hour and a half by people playing with Dan's new (this afternoon) digital camera, an Elph. They just figured out that you can take pictures and have them appear immediately on the computer screen. Each grandparent or parent who comes in the room has their response of confusion or curiosity, and then Dan explains it again. It's the sort of thing that happens here.
I had an enjoyably leisurely morning, after waking up at eight to "Beetlebum," of intermittently picking stuff up and lying on the naked bed in the sunlight, with Monster, Let's Go, El Oso, and the like. Wrote two pages for Ester flowing from a year-old limerick to our consensus on friendship. More odd jobs, and she wanted to drag me to Sharples again, but I suggested eating somewhere off campus. So after some hassle Sorelle drove Zabby and us to Country Side, where after debating whether or not to order the sandwich that I always order that always disappoints me, I did. And, after we rushed out stealing forks and drinks (that had already been paid for), just in time for me to catch the 12:27, it didn't disappoint. Maybe because I was prepared for that eventuality. I'm not sure why I had been so let down by it earlier, except that it does get cloying by the end of the second half. Still, the Kolhberg Hall: stilton, granny smith slices, and turkey pastrami on brown bread, is a darn tasty sandwich. Hank's root beer was definitely better to wash it down with than their insidious suspect peach smoothies (never order one). The goodbyes had been adequate if hurried, at least considering that I can't really comprehend that I won't see Ester for months and months. She is, I realized while inscribing her notebook, my best friend. Not the only one, because there can be bests in different ways (incidentally, did you know that next is the superlative form of night? cool, huh) but in her way, it. I have to stop myself from writing this kind of stuff here now and just stick to the narrative. I'm too tired and there's too much to say, and this paragraph and the next have already been erased and rewritten from scratch.
I sat in 30th street station across from a yuppie couple with their preposterous-looking dog, the scrawniest thing I've ever seen. It was literally four inches tall, maybe an inch in circumference, with an American flag ribbon in her hair. They were sitting next to an annoying dumb woman who fawned over it and pestered them with questions, but they were too rapt by Pebbles to show much distaste. I gave some money to a panhandler and read most of "Buses and Cameos," Rae's 'zine (I still can't use that word without a twinge of irony) about her travels around the country one summer. Funny to read, because, even though it was entertaining and inspiring and all that, it was kind of difficult reconciling it with Rae. The writing tended to get much cutesier than I think of her voice now. Actually, I can very easily imagine it as her voice from a few years ago, when she was less jaded, willing to express her enthusiasms (for public transportation, culinary juxtaposition, cute gay boys, new experiences in general, from trail work to shooting to welding) in more unambiguous turns of phrase. I wonder if this is also something that comes through in her writing; a lot of the difference relates to the manner of her speech, not the content so much. Part of what intrigues me about her is the way that aspects of her childhood and adolescence and maturation are apparent from who she is now; her speech, her room, her record collection, her mannerisms. I guess that's true with a lot of people, that you can see what they must have been like when they were younger, and even the ways they have and haven't changed and the reasons for it. She just presents a particularly appealing set of incongruities and resolutions; the self-awareness and impetuosity to write of "a wispy, elegant voice, rivaling even my own in sultriness." It was a good thing to read while travelling, made me think about how travelling alone is in some ways less boring than travelling with someone else. I really enjoy days of travel like this; unless I have something else much better to do, they're an excellent way to preserve a minimal level of requisite mental and physical activity that doesn't really amount to anything, with the bulk of the time free for reflection and bemusement, quietly observing, the blessed quiet of strangers, even noisy obnoxious strangers. Keep the inner monologue going or just let it drift. Be tired and content.
The train was impossibly crowded, at least we moved along at a decent pace, less than an hour and a half to Penn Station. I stood in the aisle, and eventually sat down, next to a pair of mop-topped olive-skinned green-t-shirted rambuncts, who quarelled over which would get to sit on the floor, whether their stuffed black pterodactyl would eat a pretzel that one of them had already bitten into, what the next stop was. Nate (9) showed me a magic card trick, and discussed the correct pronunciation of Salamandastron; Gabe (6?) wanted me to help him in his tray-table hiding/slamming mischief; their mother exhaustedly pointed out the zoo, explained that Elvis Costello came somewhere between her generation and theirs, repeatedly asked them to stop squirming in their seats and pestering me, took Gabe onto her lap to place stickers into a Star Wars book and offered me his skittle-wrappered pretzel crumbed seat. I enjoyed the whole interaction; even if I often can't be bothered to adopt that grinningly bemused patois that enthusiastic teenagers and grandmothers use to talk to kids, I enjoy talking to them in my own level, similarly bemused but begrudging intonation, speaking as if I expect rational response. Their parents I think are always somewhat shocked and glad to see a sober-looking college boy like me deigning to engage their prattling progeny. Well, it made the trip a bit more entertaining than just being cramped on the floor while people stepped on me and scuffed Lydia Davis.
After we pulled into Penn, I wandered confusedly about the station a little, referenced an oversize map on the wall of Staples to double-check the direction, where the clerk had to ask several people before they could confirm. She recommended the train of course, but I continued my tradition by walking the ten blocks up, six or so over to Grand Central. It's a nice way to experience a little bit of New York, which is always so tantalizing and makes me want to spent some good solid days or years just doing that, checking out "the greatest city in the world" (said the conductor.) It was made a little less pleasurable by the weight hanging on my shoulder and the ridged handle of my suitcase-pull, which abraded my palms no matter how I held it. North first, along Times Square, and a charming sunset down 42nd St. Made it to the station with time before the next Harlem line departure to call Delia and buy myself a coconut-pineapple-white chocolate Haagen Dazs bar (didn't quite quench my thirst.) Finished the Solomon and read more of the Davis on the way up, chuckled to myself about some perfectly stereotyped Sarah Lawrence girls (isn't there a great bit in Salinger about that, on a train?)
Mike and Dede were there as promised to pick me up; scruffy Bob, blond-tinged Dan, and finger-bandaged Mami in the kitchen, digging into some brisket and cole slaw. I was the quiet, meekly curt, shell-shocked self I usually am at these first re-encounters with family, these first re-encounters with the known world after a day of travel, these re-emergences from the insular glory of Swarthmore, these first times when I don't feel compelled to make myself interesting for these people, when I can force them to let me be as sullen and detached as I want. Because what I really want is just to have a good long time to myself, to think and mostly to laze, or maybe in dialogue with someone who's willing to drop their schtick and be as mellow and unmoved as I am. But not these inanely looping impossible conversations, where everyone says exactly what you would expect, they disagree and misunderstand and poke fun at each other in the ways that have been practiced for so many years. Everyone's good-natured neuroses and forced jokes are predictable, and comforting too, in that way, but I don't need to play a bigger part in it than I want to. I'll answer their questions, more briefly if it suits me, smile to myself and feel my love for them even while I put on the easier face of ribbed aloofness, gently decline their "knowing" offers of alcohol, play along or not. Dinner was great, preprepared of course and thus containing some little inexplicabilities that come from outside food: cold salmon steak covered with cucumbers and lemon, with a delicious dill sauce; health salad, cole slaw, bread and butter; apple pie cake, a preposterous conversation: debates about the recapping of beer bottles and the political autonomy of Okinawa (he thought we meant Korea, no wonder the argument was so heated), and freely ranging DeLillo-esque non-sequitur sessions of choral harmony and semiotics and beer and golf and college and ice cream, where nobody was really listening to anyone else, or if they were they would be quickly distracted and interrupted.
I was able to be a bit more serious and accepting when my real family arrived. Martha, mommy, daddy, they all look good (even if she was wearing a ridiculous shirt, something I would probably wear), sound happy (Mom barely got to speak to me except to fawn and then bark and remind preemptively, which makes me bristle and I know we'll clear it up later). We went through another round of the same dinner, putting back all the dishes we had just cleared away, and this time the talk was about the economics of car maintenance, and an update on Alex's gizmos. After Ella and Lily arrived, Oak and Beaner lost some of their cuteness in comparison. I don't get why there's so much about parents turning their attention away from the first child after the second is born - a three year old is no less cute just because she suddenly has a five-week old sister. 3 is a more cute age anyway, to me; she's a little more like a miniature human, less a needy blob. Well, there was some hilarity and cocktails in the other room as I wrote this, but it's all died down now and they're all off to bed, and I better join them. It's not that I don't like being here, I really do, I just need some time to adjust. It's okay. If you're reading this comment or e-mail me. Thanks.
signal in the sky-oh
that's when you know that you've got to fly-oh
I had an enjoyably leisurely morning, after waking up at eight to "Beetlebum," of intermittently picking stuff up and lying on the naked bed in the sunlight, with Monster, Let's Go, El Oso, and the like. Wrote two pages for Ester flowing from a year-old limerick to our consensus on friendship. More odd jobs, and she wanted to drag me to Sharples again, but I suggested eating somewhere off campus. So after some hassle Sorelle drove Zabby and us to Country Side, where after debating whether or not to order the sandwich that I always order that always disappoints me, I did. And, after we rushed out stealing forks and drinks (that had already been paid for), just in time for me to catch the 12:27, it didn't disappoint. Maybe because I was prepared for that eventuality. I'm not sure why I had been so let down by it earlier, except that it does get cloying by the end of the second half. Still, the Kolhberg Hall: stilton, granny smith slices, and turkey pastrami on brown bread, is a darn tasty sandwich. Hank's root beer was definitely better to wash it down with than their insidious suspect peach smoothies (never order one). The goodbyes had been adequate if hurried, at least considering that I can't really comprehend that I won't see Ester for months and months. She is, I realized while inscribing her notebook, my best friend. Not the only one, because there can be bests in different ways (incidentally, did you know that next is the superlative form of night? cool, huh) but in her way, it. I have to stop myself from writing this kind of stuff here now and just stick to the narrative. I'm too tired and there's too much to say, and this paragraph and the next have already been erased and rewritten from scratch.
I sat in 30th street station across from a yuppie couple with their preposterous-looking dog, the scrawniest thing I've ever seen. It was literally four inches tall, maybe an inch in circumference, with an American flag ribbon in her hair. They were sitting next to an annoying dumb woman who fawned over it and pestered them with questions, but they were too rapt by Pebbles to show much distaste. I gave some money to a panhandler and read most of "Buses and Cameos," Rae's 'zine (I still can't use that word without a twinge of irony) about her travels around the country one summer. Funny to read, because, even though it was entertaining and inspiring and all that, it was kind of difficult reconciling it with Rae. The writing tended to get much cutesier than I think of her voice now. Actually, I can very easily imagine it as her voice from a few years ago, when she was less jaded, willing to express her enthusiasms (for public transportation, culinary juxtaposition, cute gay boys, new experiences in general, from trail work to shooting to welding) in more unambiguous turns of phrase. I wonder if this is also something that comes through in her writing; a lot of the difference relates to the manner of her speech, not the content so much. Part of what intrigues me about her is the way that aspects of her childhood and adolescence and maturation are apparent from who she is now; her speech, her room, her record collection, her mannerisms. I guess that's true with a lot of people, that you can see what they must have been like when they were younger, and even the ways they have and haven't changed and the reasons for it. She just presents a particularly appealing set of incongruities and resolutions; the self-awareness and impetuosity to write of "a wispy, elegant voice, rivaling even my own in sultriness." It was a good thing to read while travelling, made me think about how travelling alone is in some ways less boring than travelling with someone else. I really enjoy days of travel like this; unless I have something else much better to do, they're an excellent way to preserve a minimal level of requisite mental and physical activity that doesn't really amount to anything, with the bulk of the time free for reflection and bemusement, quietly observing, the blessed quiet of strangers, even noisy obnoxious strangers. Keep the inner monologue going or just let it drift. Be tired and content.
The train was impossibly crowded, at least we moved along at a decent pace, less than an hour and a half to Penn Station. I stood in the aisle, and eventually sat down, next to a pair of mop-topped olive-skinned green-t-shirted rambuncts, who quarelled over which would get to sit on the floor, whether their stuffed black pterodactyl would eat a pretzel that one of them had already bitten into, what the next stop was. Nate (9) showed me a magic card trick, and discussed the correct pronunciation of Salamandastron; Gabe (6?) wanted me to help him in his tray-table hiding/slamming mischief; their mother exhaustedly pointed out the zoo, explained that Elvis Costello came somewhere between her generation and theirs, repeatedly asked them to stop squirming in their seats and pestering me, took Gabe onto her lap to place stickers into a Star Wars book and offered me his skittle-wrappered pretzel crumbed seat. I enjoyed the whole interaction; even if I often can't be bothered to adopt that grinningly bemused patois that enthusiastic teenagers and grandmothers use to talk to kids, I enjoy talking to them in my own level, similarly bemused but begrudging intonation, speaking as if I expect rational response. Their parents I think are always somewhat shocked and glad to see a sober-looking college boy like me deigning to engage their prattling progeny. Well, it made the trip a bit more entertaining than just being cramped on the floor while people stepped on me and scuffed Lydia Davis.
After we pulled into Penn, I wandered confusedly about the station a little, referenced an oversize map on the wall of Staples to double-check the direction, where the clerk had to ask several people before they could confirm. She recommended the train of course, but I continued my tradition by walking the ten blocks up, six or so over to Grand Central. It's a nice way to experience a little bit of New York, which is always so tantalizing and makes me want to spent some good solid days or years just doing that, checking out "the greatest city in the world" (said the conductor.) It was made a little less pleasurable by the weight hanging on my shoulder and the ridged handle of my suitcase-pull, which abraded my palms no matter how I held it. North first, along Times Square, and a charming sunset down 42nd St. Made it to the station with time before the next Harlem line departure to call Delia and buy myself a coconut-pineapple-white chocolate Haagen Dazs bar (didn't quite quench my thirst.) Finished the Solomon and read more of the Davis on the way up, chuckled to myself about some perfectly stereotyped Sarah Lawrence girls (isn't there a great bit in Salinger about that, on a train?)
Mike and Dede were there as promised to pick me up; scruffy Bob, blond-tinged Dan, and finger-bandaged Mami in the kitchen, digging into some brisket and cole slaw. I was the quiet, meekly curt, shell-shocked self I usually am at these first re-encounters with family, these first re-encounters with the known world after a day of travel, these re-emergences from the insular glory of Swarthmore, these first times when I don't feel compelled to make myself interesting for these people, when I can force them to let me be as sullen and detached as I want. Because what I really want is just to have a good long time to myself, to think and mostly to laze, or maybe in dialogue with someone who's willing to drop their schtick and be as mellow and unmoved as I am. But not these inanely looping impossible conversations, where everyone says exactly what you would expect, they disagree and misunderstand and poke fun at each other in the ways that have been practiced for so many years. Everyone's good-natured neuroses and forced jokes are predictable, and comforting too, in that way, but I don't need to play a bigger part in it than I want to. I'll answer their questions, more briefly if it suits me, smile to myself and feel my love for them even while I put on the easier face of ribbed aloofness, gently decline their "knowing" offers of alcohol, play along or not. Dinner was great, preprepared of course and thus containing some little inexplicabilities that come from outside food: cold salmon steak covered with cucumbers and lemon, with a delicious dill sauce; health salad, cole slaw, bread and butter; apple pie cake, a preposterous conversation: debates about the recapping of beer bottles and the political autonomy of Okinawa (he thought we meant Korea, no wonder the argument was so heated), and freely ranging DeLillo-esque non-sequitur sessions of choral harmony and semiotics and beer and golf and college and ice cream, where nobody was really listening to anyone else, or if they were they would be quickly distracted and interrupted.
I was able to be a bit more serious and accepting when my real family arrived. Martha, mommy, daddy, they all look good (even if she was wearing a ridiculous shirt, something I would probably wear), sound happy (Mom barely got to speak to me except to fawn and then bark and remind preemptively, which makes me bristle and I know we'll clear it up later). We went through another round of the same dinner, putting back all the dishes we had just cleared away, and this time the talk was about the economics of car maintenance, and an update on Alex's gizmos. After Ella and Lily arrived, Oak and Beaner lost some of their cuteness in comparison. I don't get why there's so much about parents turning their attention away from the first child after the second is born - a three year old is no less cute just because she suddenly has a five-week old sister. 3 is a more cute age anyway, to me; she's a little more like a miniature human, less a needy blob. Well, there was some hilarity and cocktails in the other room as I wrote this, but it's all died down now and they're all off to bed, and I better join them. It's not that I don't like being here, I really do, I just need some time to adjust. It's okay. If you're reading this comment or e-mail me. Thanks.
signal in the sky-oh
that's when you know that you've got to fly-oh
