Written 7/10/12
A couple hours into this transatlantic flight, I’ve reached the point of sleeplessness at which my calm veneer turns brittle and bits of unchecked emotion creep out. Almost in vain, I exert effort to stop up this leakage, but the soundless scenes on my neighbor’s in-flight movie poke me ever closer off the gangplank and into the ocean.
I also feel restless. And I feel lazy - too lazy to mention trivial details that others might find pertinent. For instance, I’d have overlooked the fact that the video screens are situated on the backs of the passenger seats. They’re touch-activated and come complete with an astonishing selection of new and old movies and TV shows, news, games, a radio, and I don’t know what else. (So far I’ve enjoyed the pilot of Veep and episode 3 of Girls. Both are definitely worth your time but the former is better and almost great.) The screens seem tailored to fit the whims of every man, woman, or child who happens to find him/herself in one of these seats (although, you wouldn’t know it, listening to the complaints of my dad and brother: “Where’s the HD!? Man, Air Canada is cheap…”)
A few weeks ago I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey with the same brother. This movie, released in 1968, is ahead of its time in a lot of ways. Take one of the opening scenes. Well, I mean after all of the ape-man business, after it fast-forwards to the time in human history (2001) when traveling to the moon for pleasure or business is commonplace. "The Blue Danube" plays in this scene while a passenger relaxes in a commercial shuttle headed for the moon. Eyes closed, he and his pen float in minimal gravity, and this man doesn’t pay attention to the screen on the rear of the seat before him. It’s there for his enjoyment, but he doesn’t feel like using it just then. Such a depiction of technology is almost prophetic. (Or maybe it’s where the idea originated. I also noticed something like a web cam.)
But the film gets something else right, too. One of its dominant themes involves man’s gradual, excessive, and detrimental reliance on tools/technology throughout history. As the movie progresses, we see that communication among characters is either non-existent or superficial. In fact, one of the main players is HAL 9000, a murderous supercomputer in charge of all operations aboard the “odyssey” to Jupiter. If anything, 2001 correctly predicts the isolation of present-day socialization.
The breakdown of “real” communication seems pervasive in our world. Amid texting and Facebook, or anything else that impedes direct contact, emotion barely breaks through. We are mired in screens; we take care with our veils. God forbid they should come to any harm. (Really, though, the scratches on my phone piss. me. off.)
I can’t help looking at these strangers’ screens. Is it really so perverse to want to feel what they’re feeling? I want to know what they’re feeling, yes. But I wouldn’t mind sharing, either.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
At Café Brazil
Kotaro Yumi decided to free her phone of the men who made no impact. She sat under one of Café Brazil's umbrellas and let her Mexican Mocha cool. While she hunched over the screen between her legs, her hair hung down and provided a shield from the passersby. They were not looking at her. Yet, waiting there, she took pleasure in the certainty of the boy's instantly recognizing the red shock that covered her face.
In the daylight, Yumi's eyes squinted back through the smudges on the screen. She opted first to clear the device of memories and watched the photos before her slide into the trashcan. She would soon move on to her contacts, most of which were friends, family, or colleagues with first and last names listed. However, the men she saw regularly had no last names. They floated around in her head and begged to land on their feet; they asked to stay grounded. It seemed they were always demanding that she put them first. Only one of them never wanted anything, and his last name was Kuroda.
Kuroda was not among the ones she wanted to erase. The men she intended to delete took her months to engrave on her mind, for she always had trouble remembering a new countenance. Even after the third date, weeks after the first meeting, Yumi lay awake at night and strained to recall the contours of their faces. She mistook the lines and curves for someone else's and cursed the holes in her memory. After she checked the phone, she relaxed and thought of how photos were relative but never wrong.
When she hovered over those faces, she tried to memorize them. Sometimes the men pierced her eyes, and when she leaned in she could see her own judgment. The feeling was wrong, and the fault was mutual, she thought when the contours contorted. The kiss wasn't enough; neither of us got it right. So, one by one, they slipped away into the trash icon.
Yumi smacked her lips and set the empty cup on the table. The combination of Mexican chocolate and cinnamon left sweetness in her mouth, but its aftertaste was unpleasant. She grew disgusted with her task and dropped her phone, which bounced beneath the rail. Horrified, she scrambled to retrieve it when a shadow covered her body. Kuroda's face was blocking the sun, and Yumi could hardly see his features. He laughed at her grimace. "John, you ass!" she screamed, "You make me wait!" She stood up, punched him on the arm and stumbled inside with her bag, red-faced.
In the daylight, Yumi's eyes squinted back through the smudges on the screen. She opted first to clear the device of memories and watched the photos before her slide into the trashcan. She would soon move on to her contacts, most of which were friends, family, or colleagues with first and last names listed. However, the men she saw regularly had no last names. They floated around in her head and begged to land on their feet; they asked to stay grounded. It seemed they were always demanding that she put them first. Only one of them never wanted anything, and his last name was Kuroda.
Kuroda was not among the ones she wanted to erase. The men she intended to delete took her months to engrave on her mind, for she always had trouble remembering a new countenance. Even after the third date, weeks after the first meeting, Yumi lay awake at night and strained to recall the contours of their faces. She mistook the lines and curves for someone else's and cursed the holes in her memory. After she checked the phone, she relaxed and thought of how photos were relative but never wrong.
When she hovered over those faces, she tried to memorize them. Sometimes the men pierced her eyes, and when she leaned in she could see her own judgment. The feeling was wrong, and the fault was mutual, she thought when the contours contorted. The kiss wasn't enough; neither of us got it right. So, one by one, they slipped away into the trash icon.
Yumi smacked her lips and set the empty cup on the table. The combination of Mexican chocolate and cinnamon left sweetness in her mouth, but its aftertaste was unpleasant. She grew disgusted with her task and dropped her phone, which bounced beneath the rail. Horrified, she scrambled to retrieve it when a shadow covered her body. Kuroda's face was blocking the sun, and Yumi could hardly see his features. He laughed at her grimace. "John, you ass!" she screamed, "You make me wait!" She stood up, punched him on the arm and stumbled inside with her bag, red-faced.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
The Golden Age: Part I
Eleven years ago this summer my dad and I took a trip to Guyana, where he grew up. We flew into Georgetown, the capital, before driving for a couple hours to his parents' house in the country. Since this was my first journey to another continent, I built up my hopes.
I also prepared myself for disappointment. Pieces of conversation between my parents had floated through open doors. They talked of how the country had changed since it gained independence from Britain in 1966. Over the years, political corruption and social upheaval twisted the state into something unrecognizable. The place my parents had loved no longer existed.
When we landed, I thought of how I'd never been so immersed in such tropical environs. However, I was thirteen and childish; the intrigue wore off quickly, and discomfort replaced it. The rhythm and syncopation of the Caribbean accent, with which I was so familiar from home, surrounded and pushed me with its heaviness. All the cars were the same, and all the whitewashed buildings in the city had turned brown with shabbiness. Breathing was a chore; the air was hot, moist and saturated with odors of fish and urine. Every few seconds I felt a prick on my skin and scratched madly all the while. My dad scowled at everything, and I kept quiet.
I was relieved when we arrived at my grandparents' home. The sky seemed a bit bluer, the grass a little greener. The actual house has faded from my memory, but my recollection of the small convenience shop in the garage isn't as tarnished. It was stocked with soda, unfamiliar fruit juices, and foreign candies. Stray cats roamed the floors while fleas danced on their fur, and there was a snow cone machine on the counter with the register.
When my dad was growing up in the 50s and 60s, that shop was the envy of Sixty-Four Village. Kids from the primary school across the field lined up outside the house, sweating in their uniforms, gossiping and goofing. My mom, over from Seventy-Two Village, even frequented the house for ice cream. "She was so pretty," my grandmother said, "and just right." She had my mom pegged.
For my parents, this was the golden age. Nothing needed to change.
I also prepared myself for disappointment. Pieces of conversation between my parents had floated through open doors. They talked of how the country had changed since it gained independence from Britain in 1966. Over the years, political corruption and social upheaval twisted the state into something unrecognizable. The place my parents had loved no longer existed.
When we landed, I thought of how I'd never been so immersed in such tropical environs. However, I was thirteen and childish; the intrigue wore off quickly, and discomfort replaced it. The rhythm and syncopation of the Caribbean accent, with which I was so familiar from home, surrounded and pushed me with its heaviness. All the cars were the same, and all the whitewashed buildings in the city had turned brown with shabbiness. Breathing was a chore; the air was hot, moist and saturated with odors of fish and urine. Every few seconds I felt a prick on my skin and scratched madly all the while. My dad scowled at everything, and I kept quiet.
I was relieved when we arrived at my grandparents' home. The sky seemed a bit bluer, the grass a little greener. The actual house has faded from my memory, but my recollection of the small convenience shop in the garage isn't as tarnished. It was stocked with soda, unfamiliar fruit juices, and foreign candies. Stray cats roamed the floors while fleas danced on their fur, and there was a snow cone machine on the counter with the register.
When my dad was growing up in the 50s and 60s, that shop was the envy of Sixty-Four Village. Kids from the primary school across the field lined up outside the house, sweating in their uniforms, gossiping and goofing. My mom, over from Seventy-Two Village, even frequented the house for ice cream. "She was so pretty," my grandmother said, "and just right." She had my mom pegged.
For my parents, this was the golden age. Nothing needed to change.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Regressing to a Walk
Before we start on our walks, my legs feel elastic because I stretch them more than I need to. Saffron runs around the yard and rolls in the grass; he barks with joy while I assume the familiar positions and make a note of the time we begin. He's already exhausted and saves his bowel movement until we're about an eighth of a mile in, but I've long since overcome the frustration this habit used to induce. Now, I act surprised when we stop in his favorite spots. This pause yields good opportunity for whistle practice, and I hone my skills on the violin climax of a song from The Goat Rodeo Sessions, for example, before we continue our brisk movement. My feet align perfectly to the quick beat of the next shuffled song, and the hems of my blue shorts sway madly.
I'm sure that both Saffron and those blue shorts have reached iconic heights for some in the neighborhood because I wear them every time we go out. They're athletic, but they also have pockets for anything from treats to shit bags to my old Ipod Nano, in which I've invested sentiment.
"Nano" helps to stifle my embarrassment when Saffron decides to lunge at the yapping, rat-sized dogs we pass on the sidewalk along the creek by my elementary school. We pass girls and boys exploring that creek, which runs under tunnels beneath the ground. I think vaguely of how those tunnels are hotbeds for young imaginations and how small they would seem to me now. Every so often, I hear the children's shouts to one another over the music, so I increase the volume and begin to jog.
I can't keep it up for long, and Saffron knows. In the periphery of my vision, I see him looking up at me before he starts to lag behind. At this point we regress to a walk as we enter the neighborhoods past Southdowns Park, where I used to play in the woods. Sometimes, however, I tug him along; he runs through the grass again by my side. His tongue dangles along our route past my old middle school to our left and a small lake to the right. I like to run the short length of the lake, my feet still slamming the ground to the beat while I glance at the geese and the sunset's reflection.
The walk down Mur-Len and then 151st gives us time to think and return to a mellow state. I'm careful to never let Saffron get ahead of me. He knows his place is by my right side.
We both turn left on Lindenwood, and I see my high school in the distance. I haven't been inside to see all of the new construction and don't want to. If it's early enough, their cross-country kids run around and pass us by. We're near enough again to the bike trail that cyclers pass as well, and I'm glad that he's too tired to give a damn. It's back along the creek toward home, and by the time I walk through the door I'm tired, too, and irritable. An hour has passed, but at least he's happy. That's all I wanted.
I'm sure that both Saffron and those blue shorts have reached iconic heights for some in the neighborhood because I wear them every time we go out. They're athletic, but they also have pockets for anything from treats to shit bags to my old Ipod Nano, in which I've invested sentiment.
"Nano" helps to stifle my embarrassment when Saffron decides to lunge at the yapping, rat-sized dogs we pass on the sidewalk along the creek by my elementary school. We pass girls and boys exploring that creek, which runs under tunnels beneath the ground. I think vaguely of how those tunnels are hotbeds for young imaginations and how small they would seem to me now. Every so often, I hear the children's shouts to one another over the music, so I increase the volume and begin to jog.
I can't keep it up for long, and Saffron knows. In the periphery of my vision, I see him looking up at me before he starts to lag behind. At this point we regress to a walk as we enter the neighborhoods past Southdowns Park, where I used to play in the woods. Sometimes, however, I tug him along; he runs through the grass again by my side. His tongue dangles along our route past my old middle school to our left and a small lake to the right. I like to run the short length of the lake, my feet still slamming the ground to the beat while I glance at the geese and the sunset's reflection.
The walk down Mur-Len and then 151st gives us time to think and return to a mellow state. I'm careful to never let Saffron get ahead of me. He knows his place is by my right side.
We both turn left on Lindenwood, and I see my high school in the distance. I haven't been inside to see all of the new construction and don't want to. If it's early enough, their cross-country kids run around and pass us by. We're near enough again to the bike trail that cyclers pass as well, and I'm glad that he's too tired to give a damn. It's back along the creek toward home, and by the time I walk through the door I'm tired, too, and irritable. An hour has passed, but at least he's happy. That's all I wanted.
Monday, June 11, 2012
“Jinx,” America
Written 6/9/12
We're in Jenks, America. Here in OK, they call it that because it's the only city in the U.S. with such a name. More specifically, we're in the "House of Knick-knacks." This title comes from the owner's daughter, whose daughter brought me here because she wanted to share with me the magic of her childhood.
Collections abound in this ranch house that sits on four acres of rolling plain, the birthplace of my friend's enviable imagination. Rabbits of all kinds peek from the walls and surfaces. They are sleepy and fat, playful and lithe. Some open as glass containers or rest as babies on leafy beds of porcelain. Others sniff at miniature girls' feet, which are positioned uniformly against the mirror on the dresser in this bedroom and which number up to thirty. Depending on the angle of my head, resting here on the queen, one girl's face changes like a holograph. Now, she's bored; now, she's prepared to care.
Built in the 70s by a couple whose boy met a tragic end and who consequently put it up for sale, this house has seen forty years of near-happiness. The architecture is unique and sprawling. Slanted cedar beams loom over three bathrooms and three bedrooms, one of which has stairs, an outside balcony, and green carpet that brushes high against the insides of my toes.
The barn outside has been home to chickens and sheep that were pets more than they were livestock. Their names have rung over fields that house oversized crawdads, on which crows frequently feast. (The crows, too, have names: Harold and Henry, or some such. They also survive on not-so-healthy diets of leftover human meals). We walk over the land and spy blue-gray pincers still clutching to blades of grass. We remove the dead heads of the marigolds in the garden. Their green perfume lingers on my fingertips, and I think of how they'll flourish throughout the summer. Wisteria, hollyhocks, periwinkles, tomatoes, and corn already thrive everywhere.
There's wistful grief over the loss of a couple dogs and a beloved bunny - all killed by cars and canines, respectively. Sitting on the swing, we see two black horses in the distance. Their tails swish, and I muse on the endurance of a "love almost at first sight." This sometimes tumultuous marriage culminates today in solid affection. They embrace before us like some of the girls on the dresser and brazenly defy cynicism. This House of Knick-knacks exists now in a sort of "Neverland," where love of life keeps it.
We're in Jenks, America. Here in OK, they call it that because it's the only city in the U.S. with such a name. More specifically, we're in the "House of Knick-knacks." This title comes from the owner's daughter, whose daughter brought me here because she wanted to share with me the magic of her childhood.
Collections abound in this ranch house that sits on four acres of rolling plain, the birthplace of my friend's enviable imagination. Rabbits of all kinds peek from the walls and surfaces. They are sleepy and fat, playful and lithe. Some open as glass containers or rest as babies on leafy beds of porcelain. Others sniff at miniature girls' feet, which are positioned uniformly against the mirror on the dresser in this bedroom and which number up to thirty. Depending on the angle of my head, resting here on the queen, one girl's face changes like a holograph. Now, she's bored; now, she's prepared to care.
Built in the 70s by a couple whose boy met a tragic end and who consequently put it up for sale, this house has seen forty years of near-happiness. The architecture is unique and sprawling. Slanted cedar beams loom over three bathrooms and three bedrooms, one of which has stairs, an outside balcony, and green carpet that brushes high against the insides of my toes.
The barn outside has been home to chickens and sheep that were pets more than they were livestock. Their names have rung over fields that house oversized crawdads, on which crows frequently feast. (The crows, too, have names: Harold and Henry, or some such. They also survive on not-so-healthy diets of leftover human meals). We walk over the land and spy blue-gray pincers still clutching to blades of grass. We remove the dead heads of the marigolds in the garden. Their green perfume lingers on my fingertips, and I think of how they'll flourish throughout the summer. Wisteria, hollyhocks, periwinkles, tomatoes, and corn already thrive everywhere.
There's wistful grief over the loss of a couple dogs and a beloved bunny - all killed by cars and canines, respectively. Sitting on the swing, we see two black horses in the distance. Their tails swish, and I muse on the endurance of a "love almost at first sight." This sometimes tumultuous marriage culminates today in solid affection. They embrace before us like some of the girls on the dresser and brazenly defy cynicism. This House of Knick-knacks exists now in a sort of "Neverland," where love of life keeps it.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Their Special Relationship
I remember my early ambition. During my formative years, in middle and high school, I was consumed with pictures of success and stereotypical dreams. It didn't matter that I sacrificed relationships in my strivings to be the best. This top position required diligence, originality, and a mask of sweetness; I was conniving, and I knew that concealing my ambition was key.
Operating on this inhuman level, however, makes one ignorant of functioning emotionally. One loses touch with parts of himself kept hidden away for too long. He loses track of what he put where and begins to grow paranoid, afraid of confronting these possibly unsavory aspects. His composure checks his feelings, and most people never want to dig for them. They never know.
She never knew that her profile made a strong impression on me. She had no idea that she both elated and injured me when her attitude changed for the better or worse. When we were alone, I began to imagine scenarios in which she would punch my face. I yearned for her to shatter my mask because I suspected, at the time, that we were the same. My belief - that the things people hide within themselves notice the things hidden in others - fueled me. If she could just have punched me, then our deceptions would have ended. We might have formed a special relationship; we would have shared a secret. Our true selves should have been revealed to one another in that painful moment, our flaws mutually accepted. And then everything could have been easier.
Because of my ambition, she was a very inconvenient person in my life. I became restless, and the emotions I trapped beneath my composure were hazy. Yet, she was the reason I began to balance on a fine line of feeling. She was a part of the first creative flutter of my heart and why I sometimes forgot to breathe, teetering over the edge of the unknown. She taught me the necessity of sacrificing seemingly important things in the name of emotion.
So I'll give her my thanks now, long overdue and cryptic as it is. Even if this can mean nothing to her, it's finally out of me - the me I'm proud to be. Because of her, I set myself free.
Operating on this inhuman level, however, makes one ignorant of functioning emotionally. One loses touch with parts of himself kept hidden away for too long. He loses track of what he put where and begins to grow paranoid, afraid of confronting these possibly unsavory aspects. His composure checks his feelings, and most people never want to dig for them. They never know.
She never knew that her profile made a strong impression on me. She had no idea that she both elated and injured me when her attitude changed for the better or worse. When we were alone, I began to imagine scenarios in which she would punch my face. I yearned for her to shatter my mask because I suspected, at the time, that we were the same. My belief - that the things people hide within themselves notice the things hidden in others - fueled me. If she could just have punched me, then our deceptions would have ended. We might have formed a special relationship; we would have shared a secret. Our true selves should have been revealed to one another in that painful moment, our flaws mutually accepted. And then everything could have been easier.
Because of my ambition, she was a very inconvenient person in my life. I became restless, and the emotions I trapped beneath my composure were hazy. Yet, she was the reason I began to balance on a fine line of feeling. She was a part of the first creative flutter of my heart and why I sometimes forgot to breathe, teetering over the edge of the unknown. She taught me the necessity of sacrificing seemingly important things in the name of emotion.
So I'll give her my thanks now, long overdue and cryptic as it is. Even if this can mean nothing to her, it's finally out of me - the me I'm proud to be. Because of her, I set myself free.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Odds of Survival
I've always been cavalier when handling potting soil. These instances are few and far between, and, most times, my mom's by my side. Out in the garden, she does a great deal of fussing because I'm "too lazy to just slip on the gloves when [I'm wrist-deep] in cow shit." The sun and heat irritate her, and beneath her red whicker hat (approximately eighteen inches in diameter) I see it in her eyes. They're lidded because "[I] don't listen." Even below the hat, they squint with stubborn persistence as if battling through direct sunrays; they focus on the build-up under my nails and on my feigned ignorance. In extreme vexation, caused by forces other than the sun or heat, her nostrils flare, and her lips pucker. She even shakes her head in disapproval. When I was a kid, she often shouted outright. A true Aries.
In eighth grade, she was overwhelmed with pride when I managed to grow morning glories, plants whose vines creep and whose blossoms bloom only in the AM. I remember after they sprouted and gained a bit of height, she insisted that I remove the strongest one from its snug container and plant it beneath one of the two ten-foot-tall pine trees in the front yard. I felt anxiety, and I doubted its odds of survival; I'd put work into nurturing it and wanted (actually very desperately) for it to live. I was afraid for this seedling, afraid of the elements. But I understood that it needed breathing space. She assured me there was no need to worry, and so I didn't.
Every morning that fall when I stood at the bus stop directly in front of my house, I looked at the poor pine that suffocated under so many brilliant, blue blossoms. At thirteen and fourteen years old, at about 7:20 every day, the dreariness and drudgery lifted from my world for a few minutes, and the morning didn't seem so bad. In those moments, my breath was stolen. That's how beautiful it was.
Now, I have rows of shallots and a wealth of marigolds peeking up from the earth. I don't think the marigolds will match the robustness I saw in every one of those morning glories, but that remains to be seen. At least my mother was there by my side this time, shaking her head in disapproval.
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