The weather on my second day in Amsterdam started out gray and misty. Not long after sunrise I left the Easy Hotel and finished an easy walk before it was time to...walk to the Van Gogh Museum in the Museum District. Though my map-reading skills would abandon me several times in the next couple of days, on this morning the map and I worked fairly well together as I pieced together my route: turn right, turn left, go over the canal, turn right, go straight for a bit, turn left, then do some squiggly stuff until I found the museum itself. On the way I also found the Concertgebou (concert building), which Paul McCartney mentions in one of his terrible songs (and, yes, I know that could be any song he wrote after about 1970).
Because we were smart tourists, those of us who were in line for tickets before the museum opened were proud of our "beat the crowd" mentality. We stood in what had become a light drizzle until opening time, and some of us were a bit deflated when those who had purchased tickets in advance got through the doors before we did. They were, I guess, the crowd that beat the crowd that beat the crowd.
Inside, of course, I was both overwhelmed and humbled, just as I have been while visiting art museums in London, Scotland, and Chicago. As someone with very little creative ability, I have always admired artists for their ability to, well, create. Beside each of the museum's pieces are brief descriptions of such things as where and when they were created, what Van Gogh was doing at the time, and where he was in his development. I enjoyed reading each description, though I also was further humbled when I read something such as "As is evident in the painting, Van Gogh had not yet mastered perspective," or, "Van Gogh was obviously still developing a style." I'd stare at the works and see nothing wrong with either the perspective or the style.
After nearly 3 hours of ambling from floor to floor and room to room, I headed to the exit and had to work my way through the main contingent of the daily pilgrimage: dozens and dozens of people lined up to get inside.
The day's hours of artistic Dutch high culture ended with a couple glasses of beer at a bar where the bartender pegged me as an American and then asked which team I wanted to wind the World Series. He was a Yankees fan, he said, and I told him there are worse things in life. We talked a bit about baseball and American hockey as he introduced me to a "genuine" Dutch beer that was also organic.
Outside, I sat at a small table and let the evening do what it had to do as I thought, "Damn--I'm in Amsterdam!" This wasn't an epiphany, by any means, but when I travel I sometimes get so caught up in movement I need to stay out of traffic and resettle myself. The night was cool. Bike riders jockeyed fearlessly and confidently down the street. Robert De Niro's character in The Deer Hunter repeats the line "This is this" when he's trying to make a point, and it's a good line to remember when you're trying to forget the past and future both.
The next day, also early, I once again made my way to the Museum District, this time to the Rijksmuseum where Rembrandt rules. Not bad. Once while at the Art Institute in Chicago, I sat on a small chair and wondered if the disinterested security staff appreciated what surrounded them. And at the Rijksmuseum, surrounded by Rembrandt and the Dutch Masters, I thought that I'd be quite happy to sit there forever and let the art roll over me.
And that night? A culture of a different sort.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Easy Living in Amsterdam's Easy Hotel
For my most recent trip to Europe, I stayed in 3 versions of the Easy Hotel, a no-nonsense kind of place with the most basic of rooms that are suited to those who don't spend much time in hotel rooms while traveling. I'd stayed in an Easy Hotel in London once before, and I found it clean and inexpensive enough. You want to watch TV at an Easy Hotel, you rent the remote control. Wif-fi access? That'll cost you, too. You want extra towels or your bed made? You pay extra for that. But, how many solo travelers need more than 2 towels or care about their bed being made?
The Amsterdam version had been open only a week or so when I arrived and was met by Charlie, a young Englishman who was taking a "break from university because I wanted to work." He let me know that as a sort of welcoming gift from Easy Hotel, I would have free television and wi-fi access for my entire stay. A nice touch. I'd find out that night that some of the movie channels in Amsterdam aren't quite the same as the ones I was accustomed to back home--a bit more, oh, graphic. Then again, maybe those channels are available on TVs in hotels all over the world and I'm just dumb enough not to have noticed.
I was proud of myself for having found the hotel in the first place. From the train station I'd taken tram line 25 into a new city, but I managed to get off at the correct stop and after a few wrong turns made my way to the hotel itself. Good for me. So, I was happy to get the key to my room, and even slightly amused when the key opened the door to a room that was already occupied. I think Charlie and I were both lucky that nobody was in the room. Charlie was quite apologetic, and soon enough I was in the right room and busy cancelling the credit card I thought I'd lost but would find shortly after getting off the phone with my bank.
Settled and eager to get outside again, I bid Charlie goodbye and began walking around Amsterdam. I walked as much as I could, trying to get oriented, and just before dark I found a restaurant called Der Pizza Kamer. The waitress/bartender told me that the menu was in Dutch and that she would translate, but "lasagna" seems to work in nearly any language and I ordered that with a glass of wine. The lasagna was fair; the wine was average; but I was happy to have actually gotten food and drink in a new place, a somewhat major accomplishment given my aversion to going into any kind of dining establishment alone.
The first day had been a good one: I'd encountered and solved a few problems along the way, and I'd found shelter and food. I was looking forward to an early morning and getting to the Van Gogh Museum.
The Amsterdam version had been open only a week or so when I arrived and was met by Charlie, a young Englishman who was taking a "break from university because I wanted to work." He let me know that as a sort of welcoming gift from Easy Hotel, I would have free television and wi-fi access for my entire stay. A nice touch. I'd find out that night that some of the movie channels in Amsterdam aren't quite the same as the ones I was accustomed to back home--a bit more, oh, graphic. Then again, maybe those channels are available on TVs in hotels all over the world and I'm just dumb enough not to have noticed.
I was proud of myself for having found the hotel in the first place. From the train station I'd taken tram line 25 into a new city, but I managed to get off at the correct stop and after a few wrong turns made my way to the hotel itself. Good for me. So, I was happy to get the key to my room, and even slightly amused when the key opened the door to a room that was already occupied. I think Charlie and I were both lucky that nobody was in the room. Charlie was quite apologetic, and soon enough I was in the right room and busy cancelling the credit card I thought I'd lost but would find shortly after getting off the phone with my bank.
Settled and eager to get outside again, I bid Charlie goodbye and began walking around Amsterdam. I walked as much as I could, trying to get oriented, and just before dark I found a restaurant called Der Pizza Kamer. The waitress/bartender told me that the menu was in Dutch and that she would translate, but "lasagna" seems to work in nearly any language and I ordered that with a glass of wine. The lasagna was fair; the wine was average; but I was happy to have actually gotten food and drink in a new place, a somewhat major accomplishment given my aversion to going into any kind of dining establishment alone.
The first day had been a good one: I'd encountered and solved a few problems along the way, and I'd found shelter and food. I was looking forward to an early morning and getting to the Van Gogh Museum.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Holland Days
While listening to Yo-Yo Ma....
Flying over the North Sea from London to Amsterdam, I remembered how I felt the first time I truly traveled on my own from California to Pensacola, Florida. I'd end up doing a lot of foolish things in Pensacola, but the night I landed at the 4-gate airport on my way to the school the U.S. Navy had found fit to send me to, I walked out onto the tarmac, made my way into the terminal, and found that my official orders were missing a piece of information: just where that school was within Pensacola. Though I finally solved the riddle with the help of some people who must have pitied me as I stood alone and confused in my dress-blue uniform, I didn't feel comfortable until I'd gotten to the school itself and could fall back on the training I'd received in the previous 9 weeks of basic training: Do what you're told and shut up. The military is good for people who need the type of direction that prescribes what to wear, where to go, and when to eat, and though I'd eventually find I didn't need that direction, on that first night I found comfort in it.
I'd been to England 3 times over the years, but this was my first trip to Holland. I was apprehensive about what I would face after getting off the plane, not only as I was nervous when I landed in Pensacola, but also the first time I went to London and exited the train in London's Victoria Station. Up until that point everything was easy enough--a couple of airports, finding my way from Gatwick to London--but in the expanse of Victoria Station, I realized that I was now truly on my own and had to figure out how to get to my hotel. A gentleman at the information desk in Victoria Station suggested that I simply take a cab, but being both stubborn and frugal, I opted to walk. I had my map, after all, and the distance did not seem great. Very little of London, however, is constructed on grid--streets start, end, curve, swerve, and sometimes simply disappear. Street signs themselves are often attached to fences, but they are more often attached to the sides of buildings above our line of sight. (Knowing this has made navigating London much easier in subsequent visits.) After a couple hours of walking that were interrupted by a brief rest in Hyde Park, where I sat on a bench in a slight mist and ate a bread roll left over from the plane ride, I eventually found my hotel and felt much more comfortable.
On my second visit to Europe, I spent 2 days in Brussels, and there in search of my hotel I managed to get onto the right trolley but went in the wrong direction. The trolley stopped, everyone got off, and I was again alone and lost in a city until the trolley started up again and headed back the way it came. Once more I had to search for my hotel, but also once more things worked out as they should have.
In Amsterdam, then, getting through Customs and into the terminal itself was fairly easy since nearly all signage is in both Dutch and English. I knew I had to take a train from the airport to Amsterdam proper, but after spending 20 minutes trying to get a kiosk to accept my credit card or debit card, I gave up and went to stand in a long line of people who seemed to be buying tickets from real people. (Aside: I had lost one of my credit cards somewhere in London before heading to Amsterdam, and I wondered if that lost credit card would've worked at the kiosk.) The woman who ended up selling me a ticket also told me that neither my credit card nor my debit card would work at kiosks in Amsterdam because the cards did not have the requisite security built into them.
Then, in Amsterdam, I once again walked out of a large railway station and into a new city filled with large crowds and unfamiliar terrain. I felt, though, less nervous and lost than I had that night in Pensacola, the first morning in London, or when arriving in Brussels. Still, I had to figure out 2 more things: how and where to buy tickets for the tram to my hotel. Across the street from the station I located yet another ticket office, where I once again had to bypass a kiosk and speak to a person, a woman who was very helpful and patient. Since leaving London I tried to focus on one thing at a time, and this helped me solve the small problems I'd encountered. Not many years ago while traveling to the Midwest, I lost my wallet, which contained my money, my identification, and my debit/credit cards. As I sat in my hotel room and tried to reason things out, I knew that I had relatives not too far away who could lend me money, and I would soon be meeting coworkers for a training course we were attending, so they could pay for my hotel room and meals with their company credit cards. I also knew that my wife could FedEx my passport to me so I would have the identification I would need the following week when I was to fly home. I went to a local bank to see if there was any way to get money transferred from my bank in California, but the people there said it just wouldn't work out. I happened to say, "If there were a Bank of America around here, maybe I could get help there." I was lucky then that one of women I spoke with told me there was such a bank about 20 miles away. I found my way to the bank, and after proving that I was who I said I was by logging onto my bank account there, I was able to withdraw cash. The stupid thing? An hour later when I was back at my hotel, I once more searched through my luggage and found...my wallet. After I'd cancelled my debit card and credit card. I'd wanted to panic the entire time, but focusing on solving each problem (the money, the ID, the logistics) helped me stay fairly level-headed.
One of the first things I did at my hotel room in Amsterdam was call my credit card company to let them know that I'd lost my credit card in London. Then, not a minute later, I reached into my rucksack and found...the credit card I'd just cancelled. The problem I still faced, though, was how to pay for things using my debit card or remaining credit card to buy such things as food. I had enough Euros to get me through most of the trip as long as I didn't eat or do anything fancy. But, on a whim, I returned to the train station the next day to see if I could use my credit card to get a cash advance at one of the currency exchange windows. And, for a fee, I was indeed able to. So, money problem was solved.
Not much in this post, though, is especially meaningful, but I've been thinking about writing and writers lately, and even more than ever I'm convinced that anyone who calls him- or herself a writer needs to get into the world a little bit, that we can't be realistic unless we do. I think this might be why Dickens, Twain, and Hemingway resonate with so many people: They didn't simply write about what they knew, they wrote about what they lived. And if I were more of a writer, I'd probably be able to back that all up.
Flying over the North Sea from London to Amsterdam, I remembered how I felt the first time I truly traveled on my own from California to Pensacola, Florida. I'd end up doing a lot of foolish things in Pensacola, but the night I landed at the 4-gate airport on my way to the school the U.S. Navy had found fit to send me to, I walked out onto the tarmac, made my way into the terminal, and found that my official orders were missing a piece of information: just where that school was within Pensacola. Though I finally solved the riddle with the help of some people who must have pitied me as I stood alone and confused in my dress-blue uniform, I didn't feel comfortable until I'd gotten to the school itself and could fall back on the training I'd received in the previous 9 weeks of basic training: Do what you're told and shut up. The military is good for people who need the type of direction that prescribes what to wear, where to go, and when to eat, and though I'd eventually find I didn't need that direction, on that first night I found comfort in it.
I'd been to England 3 times over the years, but this was my first trip to Holland. I was apprehensive about what I would face after getting off the plane, not only as I was nervous when I landed in Pensacola, but also the first time I went to London and exited the train in London's Victoria Station. Up until that point everything was easy enough--a couple of airports, finding my way from Gatwick to London--but in the expanse of Victoria Station, I realized that I was now truly on my own and had to figure out how to get to my hotel. A gentleman at the information desk in Victoria Station suggested that I simply take a cab, but being both stubborn and frugal, I opted to walk. I had my map, after all, and the distance did not seem great. Very little of London, however, is constructed on grid--streets start, end, curve, swerve, and sometimes simply disappear. Street signs themselves are often attached to fences, but they are more often attached to the sides of buildings above our line of sight. (Knowing this has made navigating London much easier in subsequent visits.) After a couple hours of walking that were interrupted by a brief rest in Hyde Park, where I sat on a bench in a slight mist and ate a bread roll left over from the plane ride, I eventually found my hotel and felt much more comfortable.
On my second visit to Europe, I spent 2 days in Brussels, and there in search of my hotel I managed to get onto the right trolley but went in the wrong direction. The trolley stopped, everyone got off, and I was again alone and lost in a city until the trolley started up again and headed back the way it came. Once more I had to search for my hotel, but also once more things worked out as they should have.
In Amsterdam, then, getting through Customs and into the terminal itself was fairly easy since nearly all signage is in both Dutch and English. I knew I had to take a train from the airport to Amsterdam proper, but after spending 20 minutes trying to get a kiosk to accept my credit card or debit card, I gave up and went to stand in a long line of people who seemed to be buying tickets from real people. (Aside: I had lost one of my credit cards somewhere in London before heading to Amsterdam, and I wondered if that lost credit card would've worked at the kiosk.) The woman who ended up selling me a ticket also told me that neither my credit card nor my debit card would work at kiosks in Amsterdam because the cards did not have the requisite security built into them.
Then, in Amsterdam, I once again walked out of a large railway station and into a new city filled with large crowds and unfamiliar terrain. I felt, though, less nervous and lost than I had that night in Pensacola, the first morning in London, or when arriving in Brussels. Still, I had to figure out 2 more things: how and where to buy tickets for the tram to my hotel. Across the street from the station I located yet another ticket office, where I once again had to bypass a kiosk and speak to a person, a woman who was very helpful and patient. Since leaving London I tried to focus on one thing at a time, and this helped me solve the small problems I'd encountered. Not many years ago while traveling to the Midwest, I lost my wallet, which contained my money, my identification, and my debit/credit cards. As I sat in my hotel room and tried to reason things out, I knew that I had relatives not too far away who could lend me money, and I would soon be meeting coworkers for a training course we were attending, so they could pay for my hotel room and meals with their company credit cards. I also knew that my wife could FedEx my passport to me so I would have the identification I would need the following week when I was to fly home. I went to a local bank to see if there was any way to get money transferred from my bank in California, but the people there said it just wouldn't work out. I happened to say, "If there were a Bank of America around here, maybe I could get help there." I was lucky then that one of women I spoke with told me there was such a bank about 20 miles away. I found my way to the bank, and after proving that I was who I said I was by logging onto my bank account there, I was able to withdraw cash. The stupid thing? An hour later when I was back at my hotel, I once more searched through my luggage and found...my wallet. After I'd cancelled my debit card and credit card. I'd wanted to panic the entire time, but focusing on solving each problem (the money, the ID, the logistics) helped me stay fairly level-headed.
One of the first things I did at my hotel room in Amsterdam was call my credit card company to let them know that I'd lost my credit card in London. Then, not a minute later, I reached into my rucksack and found...the credit card I'd just cancelled. The problem I still faced, though, was how to pay for things using my debit card or remaining credit card to buy such things as food. I had enough Euros to get me through most of the trip as long as I didn't eat or do anything fancy. But, on a whim, I returned to the train station the next day to see if I could use my credit card to get a cash advance at one of the currency exchange windows. And, for a fee, I was indeed able to. So, money problem was solved.
Not much in this post, though, is especially meaningful, but I've been thinking about writing and writers lately, and even more than ever I'm convinced that anyone who calls him- or herself a writer needs to get into the world a little bit, that we can't be realistic unless we do. I think this might be why Dickens, Twain, and Hemingway resonate with so many people: They didn't simply write about what they knew, they wrote about what they lived. And if I were more of a writer, I'd probably be able to back that all up.
Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #12
At some point you have to remember I'm not that kind of person.
Everything--and everyone--was now neatly divided. The objects had been easier than the people, some of whom might have struggled when deciding. Looking over the list of guests who had attended her wedding, Cindy found few surprises among the friends she and Chris had once shared. Her friends, naturally, had swung easily to her side, and Chris' friends had done the same. Their mutual friends seemed to have taken one of two routes: Some abandoned her and Chris all together, while others declared allegiance to one side or another.
She and Chris had not spoken in months; they had not even crossed paths though they still lived near to one another. The morning of his birthday she woke up and, still drowsy, found herself considering what type of cake to make. She wondered if she would ever forget his birthday or their anniversary. But, she was happy that the "daze and malaise" had passed, though with her wedding guest list on the table in front of her, she knew she had not severed everything completely. And in the box at her feet were the wedding pictures, the major part of any archaeological record that she and Chris had been married. He had not asked about them, and she did not know what to do with them.
Their last encounter had been in front of Stiller's Ice Cream Emporium. It was a place they'd both frequented before they'd even met, so she did not find it odd that they would meet there. Chris was sitting at a table on the patio, and she had seen him from inside. It would have been easy for her to leave without talking to him, but she no longer felt that she needed to avoid him.
"Vanilla?" she asked. He seemed neither surprised nor perturbed by her presence. She sat across from him.
"I'm a vanilla kind of guy," he said. "Strawberry?"
"Habitually," she said. "How are things?"
He shrugged. "Things are things. My mom died."
"Oh...Chris! I'm sorry. When?"
"Last month."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"Why should I call you?"
"To be considerate. I loved your mother."
He didn't say anything, and she didn't think he was especially pleased by her presence.
"How's your dad?"
"He's fine," Chris said.
"You sound bitter."
"Bitter?"
"Yeah. Bitter. You finally angry with me?"
"Which do you want me to be--angry, or bitter? Take your pick."
"Can't we be pleasant, at least?"
"We could be. We could be pleasant. But I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"That doesn't make any sense, Chris. You told me a long time ago that you weren't angry, that you were doing fine. Why the change?"
He wiped ice cream from his fingertips. "Maybe you've convinced me that I just need to start being honest."
"With you, or with me?"
"Both."
"It sounds like something that counselor told us."
"It could be. I'm seeing 'that counselor' again."
"Why?"
"Just to talk. To have someone tell me that I'm not the reason for all this. At least, not the only reason."
"I never said that you were. Did I? Did I ever say that?"
"No. But it's what you thought--I could tell. I know I wasn't a good husband in a lot of ways, and maybe now I'd be a better one. Little things don't bother me as much as they used to, and I think I understand you more now than I did when we were married."
"Good lord...you really have been getting counseling, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"I've thought about a lot of things too, Chris. I told you all along that you are not to blame. Why didn't you believe me. Why couldn't you believe what I said?"
She watched his eyes as he seemed to consider several answers. His face had changed.
"You never told me that. You should've told me then. I might've believed you then," he finally said.
"Maybe I didn't use those words, but I said it in different ways. At some point you have to remember I'm not that kind of person.
"Which kind of person?"
"The kind of person who would blame you for everything."
"You chose to end things."
"Oh, stop."
"And maybe you should go talk to someone."
"I've got friends to talk to."
"So do I, Cindy. But maybe you need someone to tell you things you don't see and don't want to hear."
"It sounds as though you're blaming me for something."
"I'm not."
"I wish that I hadn't come out here to talk to you. I didn't want this. I don't want this again." With that, she finished her ice cream cone and left.
She dropped the guest list into the box that held the wedding album, set the lid in place, slid the box back into the closet. She thought that she would send the entire box to Chris, that he could carry that burden for awhile. Things had to change some more; she saw that now.
Everything--and everyone--was now neatly divided. The objects had been easier than the people, some of whom might have struggled when deciding. Looking over the list of guests who had attended her wedding, Cindy found few surprises among the friends she and Chris had once shared. Her friends, naturally, had swung easily to her side, and Chris' friends had done the same. Their mutual friends seemed to have taken one of two routes: Some abandoned her and Chris all together, while others declared allegiance to one side or another.
She and Chris had not spoken in months; they had not even crossed paths though they still lived near to one another. The morning of his birthday she woke up and, still drowsy, found herself considering what type of cake to make. She wondered if she would ever forget his birthday or their anniversary. But, she was happy that the "daze and malaise" had passed, though with her wedding guest list on the table in front of her, she knew she had not severed everything completely. And in the box at her feet were the wedding pictures, the major part of any archaeological record that she and Chris had been married. He had not asked about them, and she did not know what to do with them.
Their last encounter had been in front of Stiller's Ice Cream Emporium. It was a place they'd both frequented before they'd even met, so she did not find it odd that they would meet there. Chris was sitting at a table on the patio, and she had seen him from inside. It would have been easy for her to leave without talking to him, but she no longer felt that she needed to avoid him.
"Vanilla?" she asked. He seemed neither surprised nor perturbed by her presence. She sat across from him.
"I'm a vanilla kind of guy," he said. "Strawberry?"
"Habitually," she said. "How are things?"
He shrugged. "Things are things. My mom died."
"Oh...Chris! I'm sorry. When?"
"Last month."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"Why should I call you?"
"To be considerate. I loved your mother."
He didn't say anything, and she didn't think he was especially pleased by her presence.
"How's your dad?"
"He's fine," Chris said.
"You sound bitter."
"Bitter?"
"Yeah. Bitter. You finally angry with me?"
"Which do you want me to be--angry, or bitter? Take your pick."
"Can't we be pleasant, at least?"
"We could be. We could be pleasant. But I don't know if I'm ready for that."
"That doesn't make any sense, Chris. You told me a long time ago that you weren't angry, that you were doing fine. Why the change?"
He wiped ice cream from his fingertips. "Maybe you've convinced me that I just need to start being honest."
"With you, or with me?"
"Both."
"It sounds like something that counselor told us."
"It could be. I'm seeing 'that counselor' again."
"Why?"
"Just to talk. To have someone tell me that I'm not the reason for all this. At least, not the only reason."
"I never said that you were. Did I? Did I ever say that?"
"No. But it's what you thought--I could tell. I know I wasn't a good husband in a lot of ways, and maybe now I'd be a better one. Little things don't bother me as much as they used to, and I think I understand you more now than I did when we were married."
"Good lord...you really have been getting counseling, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"I've thought about a lot of things too, Chris. I told you all along that you are not to blame. Why didn't you believe me. Why couldn't you believe what I said?"
She watched his eyes as he seemed to consider several answers. His face had changed.
"You never told me that. You should've told me then. I might've believed you then," he finally said.
"Maybe I didn't use those words, but I said it in different ways. At some point you have to remember I'm not that kind of person.
"Which kind of person?"
"The kind of person who would blame you for everything."
"You chose to end things."
"Oh, stop."
"And maybe you should go talk to someone."
"I've got friends to talk to."
"So do I, Cindy. But maybe you need someone to tell you things you don't see and don't want to hear."
"It sounds as though you're blaming me for something."
"I'm not."
"I wish that I hadn't come out here to talk to you. I didn't want this. I don't want this again." With that, she finished her ice cream cone and left.
She dropped the guest list into the box that held the wedding album, set the lid in place, slid the box back into the closet. She thought that she would send the entire box to Chris, that he could carry that burden for awhile. Things had to change some more; she saw that now.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Serenity in Yosemite
I often think that, when it comes to writing, procrastination is really just figuring out what to say. So, having sold myself on that, I'm putting off what I should be working on and instead spending time here. What the hell.
Taking advantage of a loose leash late last week, I packed some cold-weather clothing and headed the car south and east to the Yosemite Valley. My friend Tom introduced the place to me not many years ago, and I've been returning as regularly as possible. And because I'm getting fatter and older and lazier, I opted to rent one of the tent cabins at Curry Village, a shelter from potential storms that meant I wouldn't have to set up my own tent and sleep on the ground.
Arriving at Curry Village around noon after a long but enjoyable drive that included the discovery of a small coffee shop in the small town of Mariposa, which I found not because I was looking but because I saw 2 men walking up from a side street, a paper coffee cup in their hands. I parked the car and walked down that same side street, found the shop, and walked away with something called an Oregon Chai. Maybe it's similar to Starbucks chai latte. Tasted good enough that I would also stop on the way home 2 days later. I talked to the owner about how long he'd been there (6 years), about the science of advertising his business (his wife says he has "sign anxiety"), and the number of people he employs (5). Amazing how much a person can learn in a 2-minute conversation.
Anyway. Arriving at the desk 5 hours before the official check-in time, I was given keys to a tent because "we just happen to have one available." I had to wonder just how many unheated tent cabins would actually be occupied that night (though it would turn out to be quite a few, including the one beside me, one in which an man older and fatter than I slept well and snored loudly). The desk-clerk asked if I was there "for the conference," and I assured him that I was not. After stowing my pack of clothing I simply started walking--I'd say "hiking," but I'd be more accurate saying "strolling." All of the walkways and common tourists areas were filled with visitors, and most of them had white nametags hanging from their necks.
I love cities, their commotion and energy, but I also very much enjoy being anywhere else. The air was cold and fresh, and that first night was cold enough that 6 wool blankets laid over me weren't enough to keep me warm. But, warmth would've cost me $65 more a night, and I thought it was a fair tradeoff. The next day got a late start but managed a hike (certainly not a stroll) to the top of Vernal Falls where several months ago 3 young people walked around a guardrail, slipped into the water, and tumbled over the falls: a 25-foot float that led to a 300-foot fall that ended in a sudden stop in the rock-filled pool of water below. I looked at the waterfall and tried to imagine their terror at realizing what was going to happen. If we're lucky we die without such terror, though perhaps if we take our time dying that terror is longer.
Eating an apple and drinking some water at the top of the falls, I watched some clouds move in and realized how cold I had become: the sweat on my layers of long underwear wasn't drying, so I started hiking down just to regain some body heat. (Every see the movie Body Heat? It's kind of old, a little racy; I wrote a college paper on the opening scene, which I must've watched 20 times.) When I got to the road, I found the bus stop, intending to ride to the Valley's small deli where I could pick up a sandwich. After a few minutes I was joined by a man who was toting a fair amount of good camera equipment. I had camera-envy. "You hike to the Falls?" he asked. "I did," I told him. "You here for the conference?" "No," I said, and I let it hang there for a moment. "Which conference is that?" He looked at me. "The Al-Anon conference," he told me. "Nope," I said. I couldn't tell if he was sad. Maybe he had camera-envy, too. "I didn't mean to imply anything," he said, and I assured him that no offense was taken and no apology was necessary. "It's called 'Serenity in Yosemite'," he said, and we talked about the Valley's beauty.
We both eventually got on the shuttle bus, and though I was still quite chilled, I got off at the deli as he continued on. When I got my sandwich, I came outside to find another shuttle that would take me to Curry Village. The man was still on the bus, and we exchanged greetings. It's sometimes nice to see a friendly face.
Back at my tent, I ate the sandwich and shivered. When the sandwich was gone I walked to the showers and let hot water warm me up. After reading in my tent for awhile, I started walking again, making my way to a bar near Yosemite Lodge where I was charged $10.50 for a simple gin and tonic. The bar wasn't crowded--at least, I didn't see anyone wearing nametags. Toward dark and wandering around Curry Village, I found that 2 buildings were full of people watching some type of video: Al-Anons watching that night's keynote presentation. I found a dark corner outside one building where I could hear the speaker through the window. She was a comely blonde woman who interspersed "shit" and "fucking" quite well into a somewhat humorous personal story about her own journey into the group. Finally, when my feet were called, I sauntered back to my tent, read some more, and finally went to sleep with my blankets over me and the tent-neighbor snoring happily.
That second night was warmer than the first, or I was more tired and more acclimated to the cold. The next day I awoke to a light rain. I packed my things and loaded my car. I walked to the cafeteria for some hot oatmeal, and as I sat among many Al-Anons again, snow started to fall--big, wet snowflakes. I drove through snow until leaving the Valley, then drove through rain, then drove beneath sunshine for the rest of the way home. There I settled into the sofa and turned my attention to my students' papers and questions, trying hard to not lose what I'd gained over the previous couple of days.
Taking advantage of a loose leash late last week, I packed some cold-weather clothing and headed the car south and east to the Yosemite Valley. My friend Tom introduced the place to me not many years ago, and I've been returning as regularly as possible. And because I'm getting fatter and older and lazier, I opted to rent one of the tent cabins at Curry Village, a shelter from potential storms that meant I wouldn't have to set up my own tent and sleep on the ground.
Arriving at Curry Village around noon after a long but enjoyable drive that included the discovery of a small coffee shop in the small town of Mariposa, which I found not because I was looking but because I saw 2 men walking up from a side street, a paper coffee cup in their hands. I parked the car and walked down that same side street, found the shop, and walked away with something called an Oregon Chai. Maybe it's similar to Starbucks chai latte. Tasted good enough that I would also stop on the way home 2 days later. I talked to the owner about how long he'd been there (6 years), about the science of advertising his business (his wife says he has "sign anxiety"), and the number of people he employs (5). Amazing how much a person can learn in a 2-minute conversation.
Anyway. Arriving at the desk 5 hours before the official check-in time, I was given keys to a tent because "we just happen to have one available." I had to wonder just how many unheated tent cabins would actually be occupied that night (though it would turn out to be quite a few, including the one beside me, one in which an man older and fatter than I slept well and snored loudly). The desk-clerk asked if I was there "for the conference," and I assured him that I was not. After stowing my pack of clothing I simply started walking--I'd say "hiking," but I'd be more accurate saying "strolling." All of the walkways and common tourists areas were filled with visitors, and most of them had white nametags hanging from their necks.
I love cities, their commotion and energy, but I also very much enjoy being anywhere else. The air was cold and fresh, and that first night was cold enough that 6 wool blankets laid over me weren't enough to keep me warm. But, warmth would've cost me $65 more a night, and I thought it was a fair tradeoff. The next day got a late start but managed a hike (certainly not a stroll) to the top of Vernal Falls where several months ago 3 young people walked around a guardrail, slipped into the water, and tumbled over the falls: a 25-foot float that led to a 300-foot fall that ended in a sudden stop in the rock-filled pool of water below. I looked at the waterfall and tried to imagine their terror at realizing what was going to happen. If we're lucky we die without such terror, though perhaps if we take our time dying that terror is longer.
Eating an apple and drinking some water at the top of the falls, I watched some clouds move in and realized how cold I had become: the sweat on my layers of long underwear wasn't drying, so I started hiking down just to regain some body heat. (Every see the movie Body Heat? It's kind of old, a little racy; I wrote a college paper on the opening scene, which I must've watched 20 times.) When I got to the road, I found the bus stop, intending to ride to the Valley's small deli where I could pick up a sandwich. After a few minutes I was joined by a man who was toting a fair amount of good camera equipment. I had camera-envy. "You hike to the Falls?" he asked. "I did," I told him. "You here for the conference?" "No," I said, and I let it hang there for a moment. "Which conference is that?" He looked at me. "The Al-Anon conference," he told me. "Nope," I said. I couldn't tell if he was sad. Maybe he had camera-envy, too. "I didn't mean to imply anything," he said, and I assured him that no offense was taken and no apology was necessary. "It's called 'Serenity in Yosemite'," he said, and we talked about the Valley's beauty.
We both eventually got on the shuttle bus, and though I was still quite chilled, I got off at the deli as he continued on. When I got my sandwich, I came outside to find another shuttle that would take me to Curry Village. The man was still on the bus, and we exchanged greetings. It's sometimes nice to see a friendly face.
Back at my tent, I ate the sandwich and shivered. When the sandwich was gone I walked to the showers and let hot water warm me up. After reading in my tent for awhile, I started walking again, making my way to a bar near Yosemite Lodge where I was charged $10.50 for a simple gin and tonic. The bar wasn't crowded--at least, I didn't see anyone wearing nametags. Toward dark and wandering around Curry Village, I found that 2 buildings were full of people watching some type of video: Al-Anons watching that night's keynote presentation. I found a dark corner outside one building where I could hear the speaker through the window. She was a comely blonde woman who interspersed "shit" and "fucking" quite well into a somewhat humorous personal story about her own journey into the group. Finally, when my feet were called, I sauntered back to my tent, read some more, and finally went to sleep with my blankets over me and the tent-neighbor snoring happily.
That second night was warmer than the first, or I was more tired and more acclimated to the cold. The next day I awoke to a light rain. I packed my things and loaded my car. I walked to the cafeteria for some hot oatmeal, and as I sat among many Al-Anons again, snow started to fall--big, wet snowflakes. I drove through snow until leaving the Valley, then drove through rain, then drove beneath sunshine for the rest of the way home. There I settled into the sofa and turned my attention to my students' papers and questions, trying hard to not lose what I'd gained over the previous couple of days.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Home Again
That was fun.
Home again after 10 days of being outside the U.S. London was as welcoming as it always is, and this trip also included 3 days in Amsterdam.
Travel is a good thing, though "The farther you go, the less you know" (a slightly inaccurate bit from the Tao Te Ching) is always in the back of my mind whenever I venture beyond familiar terrain. Then again, at least parts of London have become familiar enough that during the last trip I was able to provide directions to a couple of tourists.
I am always surprised at people I meet and how willing they are to talk. Here are the highlights, some of which may be expanded upon at a later date.
****
The trip wasn't just talking to people, certainly.
First, I owe Kominski many thanks, for instance, for suggesting that I take the accumulated episodes of "Things We Didn't Say Yesterday" along with me for some reading/editing. Not only did I find typos and inconsistencies, I also discovered that I'd basically written the same episode 3 times. How stupid. I'd written them all with no planning or thought, really, so I could've expected a recurrence of themes and language. But the same episode? Goodness.
Second, somewhere over the Atlantic I believe I found a solution to a problem with plot/structure in the novel I thought was done. So, this will, I hope, be addressed soon.
Third, though the Muse has not yet seen fit to allow me to see the ending to a screenplay I've been writing, I was allowed to see bits of dialog and theme that should be developed further. I am thankful for these gifts.
Home again after 10 days of being outside the U.S. London was as welcoming as it always is, and this trip also included 3 days in Amsterdam.
Travel is a good thing, though "The farther you go, the less you know" (a slightly inaccurate bit from the Tao Te Ching) is always in the back of my mind whenever I venture beyond familiar terrain. Then again, at least parts of London have become familiar enough that during the last trip I was able to provide directions to a couple of tourists.
I am always surprised at people I meet and how willing they are to talk. Here are the highlights, some of which may be expanded upon at a later date.
- Charlie, the young Englishman who was working the desk when I checked into my hotel in Amsterdam. He gave me a key to a room that was already occupied, and when I returned from actually entering that room, he seemed relived that I was neither upset nor impatient.
- The bartender in Amsterdam who enjoyed conversing about hockey and American baseball (I forgave his being a fan of the Yankees).
- Bill, the Canadian I sat beside on the flight from Amsterdam to London and with whom I talked about economics; Canadian and American lifestyles; global warming; his favorite restaurants in Houston, Texas; snow skiing; and living in Amsterdam. Our conversation started when he glanced at the small watercolors I'd purchased from a street-artist in Amsterdam, one of which depicts an apartment building next to a canal: "I used to live right there," he said, pointing to the top apartment.
- Carmelita, the cheerful woman who sat beside me in Amsterdam's airport gave me a short history lesson of both Holland and Suriname, and who told me that the next time I am in Holland, I should call her and visit her small coastal town (with my wife, of course). We compared notes about our children, and she even took control of my notebook to write down her name, address, and phone number.
- The 2 docents at Christ Church in Oxford who seemed pleased that I could discuss a bit of English history with the, including history of the church itself.
- The young New Zealander employed as a bartender at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese in London. He'd been working in London for 6 months and in a couple of days was on his way to Boston where his girlfriend lives.
- The Hungarian bartender near London's Covent Garden who pegged me as an American by the way I pronounced the "r" in "beer." She told me of how she learned English, which was actually quite good.
- The woman on the express train from London to Heathrow Airport, who was on the way to Kenya to work on disease eradication (and who was born in Kentucky, as was my father).
- The man I sat next to on the flight from London to Chicago, whose wife has Parkinson's and uses voice recognition programs to help her use computers.
- The woman I met in Chicago's O'Hare field who works for a California pharmaceutical company that is working on drugs to extend the lives of children afflicted with rare diseases.
- Dave, on the airplane from Chicago to Sacramento, who coaches trainers and other coaches around the world and who was on his way home to California. He sold a company at age 42 and found that retirement wasn't as much fun as he'd hoped. "Coach Dave" was embroidered on his rucksack.
****
The trip wasn't just talking to people, certainly.
First, I owe Kominski many thanks, for instance, for suggesting that I take the accumulated episodes of "Things We Didn't Say Yesterday" along with me for some reading/editing. Not only did I find typos and inconsistencies, I also discovered that I'd basically written the same episode 3 times. How stupid. I'd written them all with no planning or thought, really, so I could've expected a recurrence of themes and language. But the same episode? Goodness.
Second, somewhere over the Atlantic I believe I found a solution to a problem with plot/structure in the novel I thought was done. So, this will, I hope, be addressed soon.
Third, though the Muse has not yet seen fit to allow me to see the ending to a screenplay I've been writing, I was allowed to see bits of dialog and theme that should be developed further. I am thankful for these gifts.
Friday, October 21, 2011
The Art of Dining Alone
During a recent 2-week-long stint working and living alone in the Pacific Northwest, for the first time in many years I had to both shop for groceries and prepare all of my meals. I've made my own breakfast and lunch for decades (and why not?) but have been fortunate enough to benefit from someone else's culinary expertise for most dinners ("suppers" if you're from the Midwest, as I am). And while I am certainly able to prepare many things other than oatmeal, sandwiches, and salads, doing so is not something I'm particularly motivated to do.
During my 2-weeks alone, however, I actually had to plan ahead: Breakfasts and lunches were both easy and consistent, but dinners were another matter. I tried to choose well: turkey burgers, fish, different turkey burgers, different fish. What was different about these meals, I think, was not just the food itself, but the fact that I was dining alone. Dinner is the only meal that I consume in the presence of other people; breakfast is always alone (and usually at the office), and lunches are most often taken in the dismal confines of my corporate cubicle. Dinner, however, more often than not finds me with spouse and children: an end-of-day commotion. So, without the family, I often communed with the television, which seemed to lecture me more than communicate.
This is not, though, a story of sadness. Rather, it comes to mind now because I will soon be spending a little over a week traveling alone, and during that time I'll be fairly itinerant without even a refrigerator to keep things cold or a stove to make things hot. Again, though, breakfasts and lunches will be easily managed grab-at-the-chance type of meals. Dinners will be different, and I probably will not even have a television set to keep me company. In previous journeys, as a rule I picked up a sandwich at a grocery store, then consumed it in my hotel room or in a park. During a trip to Brussels a couple years ago, I did force myself to dine at a couple of restaurants (sitting outside both times), but always had the feeling that breaking bread even with a stranger would have been nice. I have had good luck at bed and breakfasts: In London once I shared a table with 2 elderly English women who shared their experiences living during and after World War II, and in a pub in Edinburgh, Scotland, I shared a couple of beers with a drunk Swede who told great stories. On my first trip to London, I went into exactly one restaurant for dinner: a bright Italian place in which I first tasted Pinot Grigio. It had been a long day of walking, and the wine is what I remember the most.
This is not, though, a story of sadness. Rather, it comes to mind now because I will soon be spending a little over a week traveling alone, and during that time I'll be fairly itinerant without even a refrigerator to keep things cold or a stove to make things hot. Again, though, breakfasts and lunches will be easily managed grab-at-the-chance type of meals. Dinners will be different, and I probably will not even have a television set to keep me company. In previous journeys, as a rule I picked up a sandwich at a grocery store, then consumed it in my hotel room or in a park. During a trip to Brussels a couple years ago, I did force myself to dine at a couple of restaurants (sitting outside both times), but always had the feeling that breaking bread even with a stranger would have been nice. I have had good luck at bed and breakfasts: In London once I shared a table with 2 elderly English women who shared their experiences living during and after World War II, and in a pub in Edinburgh, Scotland, I shared a couple of beers with a drunk Swede who told great stories. On my first trip to London, I went into exactly one restaurant for dinner: a bright Italian place in which I first tasted Pinot Grigio. It had been a long day of walking, and the wine is what I remember the most.
On my upcoming trip, I will be heading into new places, and I hope to be brave enough to venture into more than one restaurant, for I've always advocated that we learn a lot about people and cultures through a couple of things: their cemeteries and their food. We'll see what I learn most from during this trip.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Autumnal Suite
Prelude
Out riding my bike recently while at the same time doing my best to avoid getting squashed beneath one motorized vehicle or another, I for some reason thought about The Grand Canyon Suite, something I remember listening to often while in grade school. Which means, of course, that I've not listened to it in many decades. Go figure. I recall only bits of the work itself, but with "suite" in mind I naturally thought of the song "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes," a slightly more contemporary work and one with which I can actually sing along.
It was just a few days after the start of autumn, a day on which the light switches from "changing" to "changed." Long bike rides--like long hikes and runs--are good for letting the mind open a bit, a coward's version of LSD, perhaps. Problems often resolve themselves when they are ignored for a little while. I only wish that drivers would not cut in front of me.
Happy Birthday, Dad
About a week after autumn starts is (or would be?) my father's birthday. Always since he died I've felt a slight draping of melancholy settle over me a few days before the date itself; often I don't realize why until I stop to think--or think while on my bike--about what's going on. Perhaps hat he died in the autumn of his life more than his winter makes me sense that I am in my own autumn, though it has been many years since I not only came to terms with mortality, but also stopped regretting senseless acts and stupid reactions. Understanding that I have moved from "aging" to "old" is somewhat liberating.
I am also glad to have come to understand that my father never needed to be forgiven for how he dealt (or didn't deal) with me. The more I have learned about his life and his father, the more I've seen that he did a damned fine job. My grandfather wasn't always nice to his wife and children, though he always treated me well. He, too, must have worked with whatever he was given, and I do not think my father ever spoke poorly of his own father.
"My son is a Marine, and he came home a mess."
One of my students didn't show up for class a couple nights ago, a week after letting me know that she had personal things to deal with. The day after missing class she sent me an email to let me know that she had to drop the course. I sent her a note in response and asked what I could do to help, that perhaps we could find a way for her to both deal with her personal life and remain in the course. Today we talked on the phone. She told me that her son, a Marine, is having trouble with things. Years ago I would have let her drop the course and probably would not have given things a second thought. The school at which I teach has rules, and we are always cautioned against treating students differently, against giving anyone special treatment that might cause another student to complain.
These days, though, I'm more willing to address such things head-on, to adjust the rules to fit the situation. My experience with this woman, in fact, comes just a day after a student in another course confided that he is a both schizophrenic and bi-polar. He said that he has never told his teachers this, but now feels that I should know. And, again years ago, I would not have offered to help, probably would not have listened. But these days I remember more of the people who in small and too often unacknowledged ways have helped me: Friends I have now, friends whom I've let drift away; teachers who have guided me; bosses and co-workers who have listened to my petty complaints and ignored my insensitive comments and overall aloofness.
The student who wants to drop told me that she will continue and finish the course, and I am happy about that. Things could change before our next meeting, I know, but at the moment I am hopeful she will indeed return.
I am comfortable with forgiveness, glad for hope.
Out riding my bike recently while at the same time doing my best to avoid getting squashed beneath one motorized vehicle or another, I for some reason thought about The Grand Canyon Suite, something I remember listening to often while in grade school. Which means, of course, that I've not listened to it in many decades. Go figure. I recall only bits of the work itself, but with "suite" in mind I naturally thought of the song "Suite: Judy Blue Eyes," a slightly more contemporary work and one with which I can actually sing along.
It was just a few days after the start of autumn, a day on which the light switches from "changing" to "changed." Long bike rides--like long hikes and runs--are good for letting the mind open a bit, a coward's version of LSD, perhaps. Problems often resolve themselves when they are ignored for a little while. I only wish that drivers would not cut in front of me.
Happy Birthday, Dad
About a week after autumn starts is (or would be?) my father's birthday. Always since he died I've felt a slight draping of melancholy settle over me a few days before the date itself; often I don't realize why until I stop to think--or think while on my bike--about what's going on. Perhaps hat he died in the autumn of his life more than his winter makes me sense that I am in my own autumn, though it has been many years since I not only came to terms with mortality, but also stopped regretting senseless acts and stupid reactions. Understanding that I have moved from "aging" to "old" is somewhat liberating.
I am also glad to have come to understand that my father never needed to be forgiven for how he dealt (or didn't deal) with me. The more I have learned about his life and his father, the more I've seen that he did a damned fine job. My grandfather wasn't always nice to his wife and children, though he always treated me well. He, too, must have worked with whatever he was given, and I do not think my father ever spoke poorly of his own father.
"My son is a Marine, and he came home a mess."
One of my students didn't show up for class a couple nights ago, a week after letting me know that she had personal things to deal with. The day after missing class she sent me an email to let me know that she had to drop the course. I sent her a note in response and asked what I could do to help, that perhaps we could find a way for her to both deal with her personal life and remain in the course. Today we talked on the phone. She told me that her son, a Marine, is having trouble with things. Years ago I would have let her drop the course and probably would not have given things a second thought. The school at which I teach has rules, and we are always cautioned against treating students differently, against giving anyone special treatment that might cause another student to complain.
These days, though, I'm more willing to address such things head-on, to adjust the rules to fit the situation. My experience with this woman, in fact, comes just a day after a student in another course confided that he is a both schizophrenic and bi-polar. He said that he has never told his teachers this, but now feels that I should know. And, again years ago, I would not have offered to help, probably would not have listened. But these days I remember more of the people who in small and too often unacknowledged ways have helped me: Friends I have now, friends whom I've let drift away; teachers who have guided me; bosses and co-workers who have listened to my petty complaints and ignored my insensitive comments and overall aloofness.
The student who wants to drop told me that she will continue and finish the course, and I am happy about that. Things could change before our next meeting, I know, but at the moment I am hopeful she will indeed return.
I am comfortable with forgiveness, glad for hope.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #11
It's like happiness
But there were good memories, too.
He was driving toward the park--a neutral location--where they'd decided to meet to exchange rings yet again: his to her, hers to him. A simple reversal. They could then do whatever they wished with the rings. Final dusk was just minutes away, and the western horizon was clear so that long lengths of sunlight could enter through the passenger-side window and illuminate the dashboard. The moon roof was open all the way, and the cool air washed across his face and forehead. As he passed the high school, the cadence of a marching band became loud, then faded. He wasn't sure of how to feel as the high school dropped behind him, but he didn't feel anger. It was more of that post-coital feeling of blended contentment and melancholy. It was an odd feeling that soon enough was gone.
Now, driving, he remembered their first meeting, how a mutual but now-dead friend had thought it would be a good idea if they met at a local artist's showing of nature photography. And it was a good idea. Roxie, the friend who also owned the studio, had left them alone for a few minutes not long after the introduction. "Talk about something," she said.
Chris didn't remember what they'd talked about, but he remembered the first time he saw her. She was almost as tall as he was, and blond in a good way. One corner of her mouth turned a bit upward when she smiled, and he'd always found that attractive. Roxie returned soon enough, and she told them both that she hoped they hadn't talked about sports or the weather.
He'd often wondered at how easily the good memories had become subservient to bad experiences. Or, maybe they were simply subsumed.
He saw her as soon as he turned into the park. For most of the day he'd hoped that this exchange would be more difficult than he now realized it would be. She was sitting on top of a picnic table. Across the park a group of young men played soccer. She watched him walk from his car to the table, and he knew her smile was false because the corners of her mouth stayed at the same level.
"Hi," she said. She opened her palm to reveal her silver wedding ring and its single diamond.
"Hi."
"You ready to do this?"
"Yeah, I am. It doesn't seem as bad as signing all the papers, does it?"
She shook her head. "No, it doesn't."
He removed his wedding band from his finger. He looked at it and the indentation that it left behind.
"You never took it off?" she asked.
"A few times. It just seemed easier to keep the thing on my finger, you know? So it didn't get lost."
"A good idea." She stretched her arm and her open palm to him. "Here."
When he pinched the ring between his fingers, he felt the familiar softness of her hand. He dropped his ring into the same palm, and she closed her fingers tightly and withdrew her hand.
"A piece of cake," she said.
"I want to tell you something, Cindy."
"Are you going to yell?"
"No."
"Okay. What?"
"Your smile. I always liked it. It's what attracted me to you."
"You never told me that, did you."
"I don't know. I think I did. If not, I should have. It's like happiness."
She seemed confused. "It's like happiness? A smile is happiness, isn't it?"
"Maybe I didn't think it through, but it's what I was thinking nonetheless."
"That's a strange note to end all of this on, isn't it?
"How can the ending of 'all this' be any stranger than it started?"
She looked across the park to the soccer game. "I've got to go." She got down from the table, looked at the ring in her hand, then pocketed it and strode off.
But there were good memories, too.
He was driving toward the park--a neutral location--where they'd decided to meet to exchange rings yet again: his to her, hers to him. A simple reversal. They could then do whatever they wished with the rings. Final dusk was just minutes away, and the western horizon was clear so that long lengths of sunlight could enter through the passenger-side window and illuminate the dashboard. The moon roof was open all the way, and the cool air washed across his face and forehead. As he passed the high school, the cadence of a marching band became loud, then faded. He wasn't sure of how to feel as the high school dropped behind him, but he didn't feel anger. It was more of that post-coital feeling of blended contentment and melancholy. It was an odd feeling that soon enough was gone.
Now, driving, he remembered their first meeting, how a mutual but now-dead friend had thought it would be a good idea if they met at a local artist's showing of nature photography. And it was a good idea. Roxie, the friend who also owned the studio, had left them alone for a few minutes not long after the introduction. "Talk about something," she said.
Chris didn't remember what they'd talked about, but he remembered the first time he saw her. She was almost as tall as he was, and blond in a good way. One corner of her mouth turned a bit upward when she smiled, and he'd always found that attractive. Roxie returned soon enough, and she told them both that she hoped they hadn't talked about sports or the weather.
He'd often wondered at how easily the good memories had become subservient to bad experiences. Or, maybe they were simply subsumed.
He saw her as soon as he turned into the park. For most of the day he'd hoped that this exchange would be more difficult than he now realized it would be. She was sitting on top of a picnic table. Across the park a group of young men played soccer. She watched him walk from his car to the table, and he knew her smile was false because the corners of her mouth stayed at the same level.
"Hi," she said. She opened her palm to reveal her silver wedding ring and its single diamond.
"Hi."
"You ready to do this?"
"Yeah, I am. It doesn't seem as bad as signing all the papers, does it?"
She shook her head. "No, it doesn't."
He removed his wedding band from his finger. He looked at it and the indentation that it left behind.
"You never took it off?" she asked.
"A few times. It just seemed easier to keep the thing on my finger, you know? So it didn't get lost."
"A good idea." She stretched her arm and her open palm to him. "Here."
When he pinched the ring between his fingers, he felt the familiar softness of her hand. He dropped his ring into the same palm, and she closed her fingers tightly and withdrew her hand.
"A piece of cake," she said.
"I want to tell you something, Cindy."
"Are you going to yell?"
"No."
"Okay. What?"
"Your smile. I always liked it. It's what attracted me to you."
"You never told me that, did you."
"I don't know. I think I did. If not, I should have. It's like happiness."
She seemed confused. "It's like happiness? A smile is happiness, isn't it?"
"Maybe I didn't think it through, but it's what I was thinking nonetheless."
"That's a strange note to end all of this on, isn't it?
"How can the ending of 'all this' be any stranger than it started?"
She looked across the park to the soccer game. "I've got to go." She got down from the table, looked at the ring in her hand, then pocketed it and strode off.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #10
Bop, Bop, Bop
He remembered when they were in North Beach. The next day would be the first day of winter, but the night was warm enough that neither of them needed much more than a light sweatshirt. After dinner they'd wandered into the Tosca Cafe, having a couple of the specials--Ghiradelli Chocolate, steamed milk, brandy--served in small glasses. After a couple of drinks he'd gone to the men's restroom where he'd stood in front of several colorful posters of Marilyn Monroe. It was the only time in his life that he didn't want to leave the smell of urinal cakes behind. From there they'd gone to Vesuvio where they tried to channel Jack Kerouac, but the noise and the crowd became too much after a single drink. Standing on the sidewalk outside, he'd pulled her arm and told her they next had to go to the Condor.
"That's sick," she'd said.
"How do you know?"
"It just is, Chris. Would you want your kids to know you went to a place like that?'
He shook his head. "I don't have kids. And if I did, I don't think I'd be obliged to tell them."
"Pick someplace else."
"Larry Flynt's? The Hungri i?"
"Chris."
"Let's go back to Tosca, then. We can listen to opera."
So they'd gone back and found a booth away from the bar. This was supposed to be an attempt to get some spark back, but Cindy didn't seem eager to be anywhere, and she hadn't even seen that he wasn't serious about the Condor. Dinner at the Cafe' Zoetrope had been good, if quiet. He'd had the Linguine alle Vongole, while she had picked at the Penne all’ Arrabbiata. They'd shared a bottle of Coppola's Pinot Noir.
Chris knew that neither of them really could find that spark, just as he knew they seemed to have lost any sense of humor with each other, that everything had become literal. That's why she couldn't see that his suggestion of the Condor was a joke.
"Stop that," she finally said.
"Stop what?"
"That--that tapping on the table. It's opera--you don't tap your fingers to the beat."
"I didn't know I was doing it."
"I'm tired. I need to get to sleep."
"It's not even ten."
She looked at him, watched an elderly couple get up from their barstools and walk out the door, then looked back to him. "I'm sorry. I'm irritated, that's all."
"I know. We're both irritated. At everything."
"This isn't doing what we'd hoped for, is it."
"It's early. Maybe if we stay out awhile, something will come to us." He looked beyond her to the door to the men's restroom, and he thought maybe he should go see Marilyn Monroe for awhile. He wondered what Cindy would think if he told her about that.
"Chris! You're doing it again. Stop!"
"They're just fingers."
"It's not just fingers, Chris. It's you. It's this bop bop bop and it's driving me crazy. Every day it's like this, one thing after another. Bop bop bop. And if it's not you, it's me. We do these things to drive the other person crazy."
"Do you every wonder why?" he asked. "Why is it? I've been tapping my fingers to music since I was a kid. You used to find it endearing. Why does it bother you now?"
"I never did. I just let it go."
"You shouldn't have."
"Oh, I know. I know. Look, let's just go back to the hotel, okay? I'm tired. I don't want to end the night like this."
But they had let it end that way, he remembered. They ended the night when she returned alone to the hotel, and he stayed and listened to opera--music he neither enjoyed nor understood. Looking back, he should've told her that. But the next morning, as they were driving home, he kept the radio tuned to any music he could find, griping the steering wheel with both hands and not once letting his fingers keep time.
He remembered when they were in North Beach. The next day would be the first day of winter, but the night was warm enough that neither of them needed much more than a light sweatshirt. After dinner they'd wandered into the Tosca Cafe, having a couple of the specials--Ghiradelli Chocolate, steamed milk, brandy--served in small glasses. After a couple of drinks he'd gone to the men's restroom where he'd stood in front of several colorful posters of Marilyn Monroe. It was the only time in his life that he didn't want to leave the smell of urinal cakes behind. From there they'd gone to Vesuvio where they tried to channel Jack Kerouac, but the noise and the crowd became too much after a single drink. Standing on the sidewalk outside, he'd pulled her arm and told her they next had to go to the Condor.
"That's sick," she'd said.
"How do you know?"
"It just is, Chris. Would you want your kids to know you went to a place like that?'
He shook his head. "I don't have kids. And if I did, I don't think I'd be obliged to tell them."
"Pick someplace else."
"Larry Flynt's? The Hungri i?"
"Chris."
"Let's go back to Tosca, then. We can listen to opera."
So they'd gone back and found a booth away from the bar. This was supposed to be an attempt to get some spark back, but Cindy didn't seem eager to be anywhere, and she hadn't even seen that he wasn't serious about the Condor. Dinner at the Cafe' Zoetrope had been good, if quiet. He'd had the Linguine alle Vongole, while she had picked at the Penne all’ Arrabbiata. They'd shared a bottle of Coppola's Pinot Noir.
Chris knew that neither of them really could find that spark, just as he knew they seemed to have lost any sense of humor with each other, that everything had become literal. That's why she couldn't see that his suggestion of the Condor was a joke.
"Stop that," she finally said.
"Stop what?"
"That--that tapping on the table. It's opera--you don't tap your fingers to the beat."
"I didn't know I was doing it."
"I'm tired. I need to get to sleep."
"It's not even ten."
She looked at him, watched an elderly couple get up from their barstools and walk out the door, then looked back to him. "I'm sorry. I'm irritated, that's all."
"I know. We're both irritated. At everything."
"This isn't doing what we'd hoped for, is it."
"It's early. Maybe if we stay out awhile, something will come to us." He looked beyond her to the door to the men's restroom, and he thought maybe he should go see Marilyn Monroe for awhile. He wondered what Cindy would think if he told her about that.
"Chris! You're doing it again. Stop!"
"They're just fingers."
"It's not just fingers, Chris. It's you. It's this bop bop bop and it's driving me crazy. Every day it's like this, one thing after another. Bop bop bop. And if it's not you, it's me. We do these things to drive the other person crazy."
"Do you every wonder why?" he asked. "Why is it? I've been tapping my fingers to music since I was a kid. You used to find it endearing. Why does it bother you now?"
"I never did. I just let it go."
"You shouldn't have."
"Oh, I know. I know. Look, let's just go back to the hotel, okay? I'm tired. I don't want to end the night like this."
But they had let it end that way, he remembered. They ended the night when she returned alone to the hotel, and he stayed and listened to opera--music he neither enjoyed nor understood. Looking back, he should've told her that. But the next morning, as they were driving home, he kept the radio tuned to any music he could find, griping the steering wheel with both hands and not once letting his fingers keep time.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Practice
Writing poetry and being alone not only require practice, they also require that certain willing suspension of disbelief: Fictions have to be accepted for what they are. Writers of all ilks struggle with both--writing poetry requires such precision that it is easily abandoned, while solitude requires confrontations with demons and angels alike.
Being alone is the easier of the two when one gets beyond the initial realization that nobody's around to help. Writing poetry? One of the hardest things to do well. I have known many very good poets, and I continue to admire how they can be so precise, how their works can be multi-level structures built in just the right way.
And I am always looking for new poets, though this task is not easy. Visiting City Lights and Green Apple Books in San Francisco can be of great use, but I think I am now a greater fan of Powell's Books in Portland, where stacks and stacks of new and old collections of poetry are waiting for good homes. On my recent trip to the bookstore I selected two books: Ted Kooser's collected poems Flying at Night, and W.S Merwin's The Shadow of Sirius. Both have remained in the darkness of my knapsack for a few days. Merwin is less direct and often challenging; Kooser uses language accessible to anyone. Reading from Merwin's book, I am reminded of reading Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, Woolf's To the Lighthouse, and Morrison's Beloved--books that require a suspension of disbelief and a particular relaxation of the mind to be enjoyed.
Here's one from Merwin:
Being alone is the easier of the two when one gets beyond the initial realization that nobody's around to help. Writing poetry? One of the hardest things to do well. I have known many very good poets, and I continue to admire how they can be so precise, how their works can be multi-level structures built in just the right way.
And I am always looking for new poets, though this task is not easy. Visiting City Lights and Green Apple Books in San Francisco can be of great use, but I think I am now a greater fan of Powell's Books in Portland, where stacks and stacks of new and old collections of poetry are waiting for good homes. On my recent trip to the bookstore I selected two books: Ted Kooser's collected poems Flying at Night, and W.S Merwin's The Shadow of Sirius. Both have remained in the darkness of my knapsack for a few days. Merwin is less direct and often challenging; Kooser uses language accessible to anyone. Reading from Merwin's book, I am reminded of reading Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury, Woolf's To the Lighthouse, and Morrison's Beloved--books that require a suspension of disbelief and a particular relaxation of the mind to be enjoyed.
Here's one from Merwin:
Rain LightAnd one from Kooser:
All day the stars watch from long ago
my mother said I am going now
when you are alone you will be all right
whether or not you know you will know
look at the old house in the dawn rain
all the flowers are forms of water
the sun reminds them through a white cloud
touches the patchwork spread on the hill
the washed colors of the afterlife
that lived there long before you were born
see how they wake without a question
even though the whole world is burning
AdviceOf course, I'm no literary critic, and I don't know enough about poetry to discuss either of these intelligently (Shawn at These Rivers is one to follow, however). It's just nice to once again find poetry that I think is "good."
We go out of our way to get home,
getting lost in a rack of old clothing,
fainting in stairwells,
our pulses fluttering like moths.
We will always be
leaving our loves like old stoves
in abandoned apartments. Early in life
there are signals of how it will be--
we throw up the window one spring
and the window weights break from their ropes
and fall deep in the wall.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Navigation
For a full week now I've been residing in the Pacific Northwest, not too far from Portland. It's a wonderful place, Oregon--greener than most of California this time of year. I'm really doing little more than working my regular job in a different place for just over 2 weeks, with my commute lasting all of 10 seconds, a full minute if I go downstairs to brew tea before sitting at the computer. I have a dog and a cat to keep me company. The dog is friendly enough but misses its owners and knows that I am a mere interloper. When I leave the house, the dog greets me and then stares through the window to see if its owners are there. I take the dog for a walk each morning before work, before sunrise, and it seems happy enough. I allow it to spend much of the day on the bed I occupy at night, but we have agreed that it will sleep elsewhere at night. Dogs belong on the floor.
It is quite odd, this living alone even temporarily. Unlike travels or backpacking, I have no destination, no itinerary, no agenda. Not knowing my way around too well keeps me fairly close to "home," though I did figure out the mass transit system well enough to get me into downtown Portland and back again, and each day I pedal or walk ever-widening circles, and on a bike after work this afternoon I discovered great bushes of wonderfully ripe and sweet blackberries. I have also learned both the compass points and the sounds of local traffic patterns. Just knowing east and west allowed me to ride to places on a bike that I would feel lost in if I were driving a car. We often miss so much while driving--the sounds of things, how to tell east from west by the feel and sight of the sun.
Even walking around downtown Portland left me disoriented since I had no familiar reference points to work with. I knew a river was somewhere, and I knew that some streets divided the region into quadrants, but just as I was in Brussels a couple years ago, I was more lost with my map than I was this afternoon on a bike with only a sense of direction to guide me. And when I stopped for lunch at a brewpub in Portland, I considered such things: the feeling of being lost amid commotion, the lack of a true sense of direction. (It's not supposed to be a metaphor, though it perhaps could be.) I stared out the window of that brewpub and admired the locals' ability to turn down just the right street that would lead them where they wanted to go. Me? I needed a good hour to figure out how to find where I should catch the bus for my return trip.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #9
Everything's almost over, isn't it?
Light from the half-moon was bright enough to fill the yard. Movement through the leaves in the trees alongside the house must have been birds because whatever breeze there had been earlier was now gone. The chair she'd dragged from the shed to the patio was less comfortable than she'd remembered, but she had neither reason nor inclination to go back into the house.
She hated insomnia, how after so many nights of fitful sleep every small problem became large, how what seemed to be months' worth of events and conversations replayed and repeated in whichever part of the brain was processing things. Chris had left hours earlier after retrieving a few more boxes, but she still felt something of him nearby. For the most part she had let him work alone. Sequestered in the small room that had once been their shared office, she had watched through the partially opened louvers of the door as he and Phil did what they'd come to do. When the rented truck was finally loaded, Phil had driven away in his own car, leaving Chris to get a few small items. Cindy had watched for a minute as Chris looked around the room, his hands on his hips, and then she'd opened the door and made her way to the sofa that Chris was leaving behind.
"You done?" She had asked.
"I think so. I'm meeting Phil at the apartment. We've got to return the truck by five."
"The house seems so empty now."
"What'd you expect?"
"Don't be snide."
"Kind of late for that, isn't it?"
"And don't be an ass."
"What, exactly, should I be?"
"You could be civil. I wasn't trying to start anything."
"No, I'm sure you weren't."
She hadn't liked the tone in his voice. "Just stop, okay? Just let it go. At least for now."
"Let it go? What the hell does that mean?"
"Don't."
He'd turned to face her directly then, his hands still on his hips but his face full of the type of anger she hadn't seen in a long time. Even when she'd asked for the divorce he hadn't looked like this. "You play these goddamned games as though you know what's going on, that you always know how to win. You started all of this. You handed out the rules you wanted me to follow, and for the most part I've done just what you asked. We're almost at the end of things, aren't we? Everything's almost over. You think the house seems empty now, right? But you know what, it has been empty for a long time. I'm only now starting to realize it. And maybe I'm starting to see how empty you felt before this started. I keep thinking if I'd known, I might've been able to fix things. But I'm angry, too. So when you tell me you're not trying to start something, or when you tell me 'don't,' how do you think I'll react--just shut up and walk away?"
She'd stared at him, but she'd not been able to say anything for several moments. She thought about an earlier argument when she'd suggested the feelings they had for each other had been gone for a long time. This seemed like the same argument all over again. "Are you through?" she'd finally managed.
He'd looked around the house, finally dropped his hands from his hips, and nodded. "I'm through. You can have whatever's left. All of this emptiness is yours." She saw his face relax then, as though all of his anger was gone.
Now, on the patio, she listened again to the leaves moving. The moonlight seemed brighter. She leaned back in the chair, shut her eyes, and for some reason thought of the differences between "empty" and "emptiness."
Light from the half-moon was bright enough to fill the yard. Movement through the leaves in the trees alongside the house must have been birds because whatever breeze there had been earlier was now gone. The chair she'd dragged from the shed to the patio was less comfortable than she'd remembered, but she had neither reason nor inclination to go back into the house.
She hated insomnia, how after so many nights of fitful sleep every small problem became large, how what seemed to be months' worth of events and conversations replayed and repeated in whichever part of the brain was processing things. Chris had left hours earlier after retrieving a few more boxes, but she still felt something of him nearby. For the most part she had let him work alone. Sequestered in the small room that had once been their shared office, she had watched through the partially opened louvers of the door as he and Phil did what they'd come to do. When the rented truck was finally loaded, Phil had driven away in his own car, leaving Chris to get a few small items. Cindy had watched for a minute as Chris looked around the room, his hands on his hips, and then she'd opened the door and made her way to the sofa that Chris was leaving behind.
"You done?" She had asked.
"I think so. I'm meeting Phil at the apartment. We've got to return the truck by five."
"The house seems so empty now."
"What'd you expect?"
"Don't be snide."
"Kind of late for that, isn't it?"
"And don't be an ass."
"What, exactly, should I be?"
"You could be civil. I wasn't trying to start anything."
"No, I'm sure you weren't."
She hadn't liked the tone in his voice. "Just stop, okay? Just let it go. At least for now."
"Let it go? What the hell does that mean?"
"Don't."
He'd turned to face her directly then, his hands still on his hips but his face full of the type of anger she hadn't seen in a long time. Even when she'd asked for the divorce he hadn't looked like this. "You play these goddamned games as though you know what's going on, that you always know how to win. You started all of this. You handed out the rules you wanted me to follow, and for the most part I've done just what you asked. We're almost at the end of things, aren't we? Everything's almost over. You think the house seems empty now, right? But you know what, it has been empty for a long time. I'm only now starting to realize it. And maybe I'm starting to see how empty you felt before this started. I keep thinking if I'd known, I might've been able to fix things. But I'm angry, too. So when you tell me you're not trying to start something, or when you tell me 'don't,' how do you think I'll react--just shut up and walk away?"
She'd stared at him, but she'd not been able to say anything for several moments. She thought about an earlier argument when she'd suggested the feelings they had for each other had been gone for a long time. This seemed like the same argument all over again. "Are you through?" she'd finally managed.
He'd looked around the house, finally dropped his hands from his hips, and nodded. "I'm through. You can have whatever's left. All of this emptiness is yours." She saw his face relax then, as though all of his anger was gone.
Now, on the patio, she listened again to the leaves moving. The moonlight seemed brighter. She leaned back in the chair, shut her eyes, and for some reason thought of the differences between "empty" and "emptiness."
Friday, July 8, 2011
Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #8
Who said anything about touchy-feely?
He awoke one morning to the realization that she hadn't touched him in a long time. She'd always been the one to touch a shoulder or brush the stray bit of hair that wanted to linger out of place over his forehead. Before breakfast that realization transformed into a thought, one that he carried for several days before bringing it up during the familiar tension that seemed to have become their evening routine.
"I realized something the other day," he said. He knew that this might go a couple of ways: She'd poo-poo the idea and they'd continue on, or the announcement would lead to something more than just tense. Recently, or at least as recently as he could remember, they were each ensconced in their respective singularities, and even the most trite of comments was dangerous. She had once remarked that she thought he needed new shoes, and he'd shouted himself nearly hoarse saying that he certainly did not need her to select his wardrobe. He'd sheepishly told Phil about that one. "Really, Chris?" Phil had said. "She said something about your shoes, and you started toward the deep end?"
To her credit, Chris thought now--and he always gave her credit for many things--she set aside her book of poetry and turned the face of her attention to him. "What did you realize?" She sounded neither uninterested nor perturbed.
"Well, I woke up one morning, and I realized you hadn't touched me in a long time."
"Touched you?"
"Yeah. Simple touches. I always counted on you for them. Just little taps to let me know you were around, maybe even thinking of me."
He thought he saw her hand twitch toward her book, but he could not be sure. She said, "I did that?"
He nodded at her false question, but he also let it fade. "Yes. It was always nice."
"Oh." She seemed to think about it, and he wondered if she was decided whether to stay reasonable or become defensive. "I didn't know I had stopped."
So, he saw, she had known that she "did that." He listened to the traffic passing by in front of the house but refused to let the noise come between them. "I just wanted to let you know that I thought it was nice. I liked it."
She didn't hesitate this time. "But you have to know that you're not exactly touchy-feely, right? There were times I wanted to be touched, but you never seemed to understand that. Maybe I got tired of things being so one-sided."
"Who said anything about touchy-feely? That's not where I was going. I simply wanted to share that realization with you. We can still talk, right? I'm not trying to fight." He didn't like how they were sitting there and simply looking at each other. There was something between them now--not the sound of traffic, but something he couldn't yet identify. He wondered what had happened, how so many good things could vanish so quickly, so quietly. "What are you reading" he asked. She seemed relieved to have his permission to return to the book, which she grasped and opened.
"Emily Dickinson," she said.
"Short poems, right?"
"Mostly, yes."
"Read me one."
"Why?"
"I just want to hear a poem."
"You don't like poetry."
"Maybe I could learn to like it."
She turned her face toward the window, and then to the book. She bit her lower lip. She leafed through some of the pages before stopping. "Here's one," she said.
He watched her read--not listened, watched. For the life of him, he couldn't hear a thing she was saying.
He awoke one morning to the realization that she hadn't touched him in a long time. She'd always been the one to touch a shoulder or brush the stray bit of hair that wanted to linger out of place over his forehead. Before breakfast that realization transformed into a thought, one that he carried for several days before bringing it up during the familiar tension that seemed to have become their evening routine.
"I realized something the other day," he said. He knew that this might go a couple of ways: She'd poo-poo the idea and they'd continue on, or the announcement would lead to something more than just tense. Recently, or at least as recently as he could remember, they were each ensconced in their respective singularities, and even the most trite of comments was dangerous. She had once remarked that she thought he needed new shoes, and he'd shouted himself nearly hoarse saying that he certainly did not need her to select his wardrobe. He'd sheepishly told Phil about that one. "Really, Chris?" Phil had said. "She said something about your shoes, and you started toward the deep end?"
To her credit, Chris thought now--and he always gave her credit for many things--she set aside her book of poetry and turned the face of her attention to him. "What did you realize?" She sounded neither uninterested nor perturbed.
"Well, I woke up one morning, and I realized you hadn't touched me in a long time."
"Touched you?"
"Yeah. Simple touches. I always counted on you for them. Just little taps to let me know you were around, maybe even thinking of me."
He thought he saw her hand twitch toward her book, but he could not be sure. She said, "I did that?"
He nodded at her false question, but he also let it fade. "Yes. It was always nice."
"Oh." She seemed to think about it, and he wondered if she was decided whether to stay reasonable or become defensive. "I didn't know I had stopped."
So, he saw, she had known that she "did that." He listened to the traffic passing by in front of the house but refused to let the noise come between them. "I just wanted to let you know that I thought it was nice. I liked it."
She didn't hesitate this time. "But you have to know that you're not exactly touchy-feely, right? There were times I wanted to be touched, but you never seemed to understand that. Maybe I got tired of things being so one-sided."
"Who said anything about touchy-feely? That's not where I was going. I simply wanted to share that realization with you. We can still talk, right? I'm not trying to fight." He didn't like how they were sitting there and simply looking at each other. There was something between them now--not the sound of traffic, but something he couldn't yet identify. He wondered what had happened, how so many good things could vanish so quickly, so quietly. "What are you reading" he asked. She seemed relieved to have his permission to return to the book, which she grasped and opened.
"Emily Dickinson," she said.
"Short poems, right?"
"Mostly, yes."
"Read me one."
"Why?"
"I just want to hear a poem."
"You don't like poetry."
"Maybe I could learn to like it."
She turned her face toward the window, and then to the book. She bit her lower lip. She leafed through some of the pages before stopping. "Here's one," she said.
He watched her read--not listened, watched. For the life of him, he couldn't hear a thing she was saying.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #7
Maybe it was gone before it was there.
He knew she had a penchant for blurting off-the-cuff insults. It was a talent, he had often thought, as long as he wasn't on the receiving end. She could cut deeply if she wanted to, though during their arguments she needed awhile to get there.
They'd fought about money only once--not long before they'd both realized how things were pretty much over--and he'd come out shell-shocked and wounded when the battle diverged from simple economics to his own worth. He'd set her up, and he'd known it: "You can't balance on one foot, so how can I expect you to balance a checkbook?" he'd said. Part of him was trying to be funny, but that part didn't often succeed; he'd known that, too. He could tell from the way she dipped her shoulder that she was ready to swing at him. But like any good fighter, she'd considered her position and decided to strike differently.
"You're a shit, Chris," she'd said softly.
"That the best you can do?" he'd asked. "You think I don't know that already? How many times have you said that, anyway?"
"I never thought I'd say I hate you," she'd continued. "I've never said that to anyone."
"Then say it," he'd said, still keeping an eye on the shift in her shoulder.
"No. I won't."
"I'm disappointed," he'd said, but he was wondering how their argument about money had degenerated so quickly. "This is silly. Let's stop."
"Stop what, Chris? Maybe we should just have separate checking accounts, split the expenses, maybe. Then we don't have to worry about balancing anything but ourselves. Would that make you happy, Chris?"
"Maybe we should, I don't know. Everything else about us seems to be separate now, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
He had tried to be funny again. "I get the impression that you've lost that loving feeling."
Her shoulders had straightened, evened out a bit so that she was facing him head-on as though daring him to do something. He knew she hadn't seen his humor. "No, I haven't lost anything. Maybe it was gone before it was even there."
Then she'd walked out of the house and left him standing alone in the living room, the checkbook to their joint account opened wide on the antique table beside the sofa. He'd sat down, looked at the jumble of numbers in the checkbook register, and remembered to his high school boxing class, how he'd felt the time Ricky Parker nailed him in the jaw with a punch that had come out of nowhere.
He knew she had a penchant for blurting off-the-cuff insults. It was a talent, he had often thought, as long as he wasn't on the receiving end. She could cut deeply if she wanted to, though during their arguments she needed awhile to get there.
They'd fought about money only once--not long before they'd both realized how things were pretty much over--and he'd come out shell-shocked and wounded when the battle diverged from simple economics to his own worth. He'd set her up, and he'd known it: "You can't balance on one foot, so how can I expect you to balance a checkbook?" he'd said. Part of him was trying to be funny, but that part didn't often succeed; he'd known that, too. He could tell from the way she dipped her shoulder that she was ready to swing at him. But like any good fighter, she'd considered her position and decided to strike differently.
"You're a shit, Chris," she'd said softly.
"That the best you can do?" he'd asked. "You think I don't know that already? How many times have you said that, anyway?"
"I never thought I'd say I hate you," she'd continued. "I've never said that to anyone."
"Then say it," he'd said, still keeping an eye on the shift in her shoulder.
"No. I won't."
"I'm disappointed," he'd said, but he was wondering how their argument about money had degenerated so quickly. "This is silly. Let's stop."
"Stop what, Chris? Maybe we should just have separate checking accounts, split the expenses, maybe. Then we don't have to worry about balancing anything but ourselves. Would that make you happy, Chris?"
"Maybe we should, I don't know. Everything else about us seems to be separate now, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
He had tried to be funny again. "I get the impression that you've lost that loving feeling."
Her shoulders had straightened, evened out a bit so that she was facing him head-on as though daring him to do something. He knew she hadn't seen his humor. "No, I haven't lost anything. Maybe it was gone before it was even there."
Then she'd walked out of the house and left him standing alone in the living room, the checkbook to their joint account opened wide on the antique table beside the sofa. He'd sat down, looked at the jumble of numbers in the checkbook register, and remembered to his high school boxing class, how he'd felt the time Ricky Parker nailed him in the jaw with a punch that had come out of nowhere.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
A Walk in the Park
I see him before the dogs do, and I almost succeed at getting their leashes hooked to their collars before they do see him. He's walking across the park I often visit with my dogs when I need a lunchtime bite of fresh air, and he's carrying the day's newspaper. He doesn't flinch as the dogs and I reach him at the same time. "I could tell they were friendly by their body language," he says. I don't tell him that the older dog once bit a neighbor and, perhaps, killed another neighbor's dog that happened to get into our backyard. He doesn't need to hear these things.
"That dog [the old one] reminds me of a dog I used to have. It died when it was 18 years old. I've always felt bad because I made my mom put it down."
Then he introduces himself and asks my name. I tell him the truth. He then asks what I do for a living, and I tell him only half the truth, that I teach part-time at a local community college. We've never met, and he doesn't need to know the other details just as he doesn't need to hear the sordid details about the dog. He tells me he went to the same school, got his A.A. degree in criminal administration. Some day, he says, he wants to continue to get his B.A.
I ask him what he does, and he says he's on disability because of his depression. There was a time, he says without my asking, that he didn't take his medication and things weren't so good. Now, though, he's hopeful that his new medication will work better, and he assures me that he takes it as he should. He tells me about his drinking, too, how he paid the price for a DUI about 7 years ago. Now, he says, he limits himself to one beer a night, which, he learned from a class he had to take when he got the DUI, "most people can do." I ask him if that beer goes well with his medication, but he answers that he's just fine.
He then tells me other stories about his neighbor's pitbull that used to wander up and down the sidewalk and once chased his cat into his garage. He loves his cats, he says. The neighbor is better about the pit bull now, letting the dog out only as far as the driveway. He worries about his mom, though, because she's elderly. I tell him I once had a Rottweiler attack my knee as I was running around the track at the local high school.
I ask him if he comes to the park often, and he says he does, it's like a sanctuary for him, a place where he can sit and read the paper. "It is nice," I say. The young dog has been whining to get moving; she knows that being on a leash is no good if she's not walking. Our 10-minute conversation ends easily enough. He starts toward a picnic table so he can sit and read, and I start the dogs toward home. "Good luck with teaching," he says. "Some day you'll make full professor. You're certainly smart enough."
"Sure," I say, thinking that I should tell him that he's wrong, that the semester ended yesterday and I have no idea if I'll ever teach at that school again.
The sun is trying to come out after a couple days of not trying at all, and the dogs start to pull me back to computers and deadlines that never seem to go away. The young dog isn't whining now, and I wonder if in some dog-sense she's looking forward to sticking her nose through a hole in a fence we'll pass, a fence that keeps one small pit bull confined where it's supposed to be. If the pit bull's there, the young dog will bark and snarl and pretend she's a match for everything bigger.
And, sadly, I think I'll have to find a different place to walk the dogs at lunchtime.
"That dog [the old one] reminds me of a dog I used to have. It died when it was 18 years old. I've always felt bad because I made my mom put it down."
Then he introduces himself and asks my name. I tell him the truth. He then asks what I do for a living, and I tell him only half the truth, that I teach part-time at a local community college. We've never met, and he doesn't need to know the other details just as he doesn't need to hear the sordid details about the dog. He tells me he went to the same school, got his A.A. degree in criminal administration. Some day, he says, he wants to continue to get his B.A.
I ask him what he does, and he says he's on disability because of his depression. There was a time, he says without my asking, that he didn't take his medication and things weren't so good. Now, though, he's hopeful that his new medication will work better, and he assures me that he takes it as he should. He tells me about his drinking, too, how he paid the price for a DUI about 7 years ago. Now, he says, he limits himself to one beer a night, which, he learned from a class he had to take when he got the DUI, "most people can do." I ask him if that beer goes well with his medication, but he answers that he's just fine.
He then tells me other stories about his neighbor's pitbull that used to wander up and down the sidewalk and once chased his cat into his garage. He loves his cats, he says. The neighbor is better about the pit bull now, letting the dog out only as far as the driveway. He worries about his mom, though, because she's elderly. I tell him I once had a Rottweiler attack my knee as I was running around the track at the local high school.
I ask him if he comes to the park often, and he says he does, it's like a sanctuary for him, a place where he can sit and read the paper. "It is nice," I say. The young dog has been whining to get moving; she knows that being on a leash is no good if she's not walking. Our 10-minute conversation ends easily enough. He starts toward a picnic table so he can sit and read, and I start the dogs toward home. "Good luck with teaching," he says. "Some day you'll make full professor. You're certainly smart enough."
"Sure," I say, thinking that I should tell him that he's wrong, that the semester ended yesterday and I have no idea if I'll ever teach at that school again.
The sun is trying to come out after a couple days of not trying at all, and the dogs start to pull me back to computers and deadlines that never seem to go away. The young dog isn't whining now, and I wonder if in some dog-sense she's looking forward to sticking her nose through a hole in a fence we'll pass, a fence that keeps one small pit bull confined where it's supposed to be. If the pit bull's there, the young dog will bark and snarl and pretend she's a match for everything bigger.
And, sadly, I think I'll have to find a different place to walk the dogs at lunchtime.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #6
It wasn't a metaphor. It was a bed.
He tried to remember when the bed became a battlefield complete with a demilitarized zone. They'd started the marriage with a hand-me-down double-size bed that sloped from both sides to the middle. It was convenient, though, especially in the first apartment where the heater often didn't heat. She had often remarked--at least back then--that she enjoyed waking in the middle of the night to find her backside pressed against his. It was as though they reinforced each other, and each of them kept watch on one side of the bed.
A warmer apartment and a bit more cash brought a larger, queen-sized bed--this one new, without slopes, expensive, complete with headboard that kept their heads off one or another wall at night. "It's still cozy," she had said, "and I can always find you. It's nice." But though he had wondered openly about the gap between them, he also appreciated the extra open space on warm nights. Or after an argument when they both needed to sleep but didn't want to sleep next to each other. On those nights, in fact, whenever their legs would touch as one of them shifted in bed, she would jerk away as though she'd been shot.
Then, when they had finally come the point of dividing furniture when things were over, they had to consider the king-size bed, something that she had found at a Macy's sale one Friday afternoon not long after they had moved to their suburban house. The next morning he watched with some sadness as the deliverymen removed the queen and set up the king. The bed was immense; it took up nearly half the bedroom. That first night in the bed he had listened to her breath from so far away. Their lives together hadn't been smooth for the past few months, and their legs hadn't touched in a long time.
"You can have the bed," she had said as they listed what they owned, a "his" list and a "hers" list on a legal-sized yellow pad.
"No, it means too much to you," he'd said. "I've always thought that you bought the bed to get away from me at night as much as you did during the day. The space between us in that bed was a metaphor for the space between us in our relationship."
She had looked at him. "You believe that? How do you come up with this stuff, anyway? It's a bed. That's all. It was never a metaphor for anything. Do you want the bed, or not?"
He shook his head. "No. It symbolizes something I don't like."
"Now it's a symbol? Fine." She wrote "bed" on the "hers" side of the legal pad. "God, Chris, you need to grow up."
He tried to remember when the bed became a battlefield complete with a demilitarized zone. They'd started the marriage with a hand-me-down double-size bed that sloped from both sides to the middle. It was convenient, though, especially in the first apartment where the heater often didn't heat. She had often remarked--at least back then--that she enjoyed waking in the middle of the night to find her backside pressed against his. It was as though they reinforced each other, and each of them kept watch on one side of the bed.
A warmer apartment and a bit more cash brought a larger, queen-sized bed--this one new, without slopes, expensive, complete with headboard that kept their heads off one or another wall at night. "It's still cozy," she had said, "and I can always find you. It's nice." But though he had wondered openly about the gap between them, he also appreciated the extra open space on warm nights. Or after an argument when they both needed to sleep but didn't want to sleep next to each other. On those nights, in fact, whenever their legs would touch as one of them shifted in bed, she would jerk away as though she'd been shot.
Then, when they had finally come the point of dividing furniture when things were over, they had to consider the king-size bed, something that she had found at a Macy's sale one Friday afternoon not long after they had moved to their suburban house. The next morning he watched with some sadness as the deliverymen removed the queen and set up the king. The bed was immense; it took up nearly half the bedroom. That first night in the bed he had listened to her breath from so far away. Their lives together hadn't been smooth for the past few months, and their legs hadn't touched in a long time.
"You can have the bed," she had said as they listed what they owned, a "his" list and a "hers" list on a legal-sized yellow pad.
"No, it means too much to you," he'd said. "I've always thought that you bought the bed to get away from me at night as much as you did during the day. The space between us in that bed was a metaphor for the space between us in our relationship."
She had looked at him. "You believe that? How do you come up with this stuff, anyway? It's a bed. That's all. It was never a metaphor for anything. Do you want the bed, or not?"
He shook his head. "No. It symbolizes something I don't like."
"Now it's a symbol? Fine." She wrote "bed" on the "hers" side of the legal pad. "God, Chris, you need to grow up."
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Pack Up Your Troubles in an Old Kit Bag...
...and smile, smile smile.
For about 2 years I've done a pretty good job of staying close to home. Simple economics has played into this, certainly, for I find it more and more difficult to spend money I don't have. Lack of available time, too, carries weight as I try to add a cushion of vacation days to the corporate books. And, at least in part, I felt somewhat remiss in my familial role of... well, whatever that role has evolved into over the previous decades. I get the sense that I've made a lot of bad beds, some that I wasn't even aware of, and now I'm lying in them. But, as Vonnegut said, so it goes.
My last trip of any real duration was to, what, Yosemite Valley several months ago? That must be it--a couple of wonderful nights in Camp 4, cozy as a man can get in a 4-season tent with just enough beer and food to be comfortable. Before that, it must have been Yosemite 2 other times.
I can generally tell when I'm unconsciously preparing for a trip to somewhere--that gut feeling of restlessness and impatience starts gnawing. Maui is, perhaps, on the near horizon, and that will be nice since I've never been there, and I will have someone nice to travel with. It should be a grand adventure. I learned in the navy, though, that the horizon is relative, that it changes with a person's elevation. That was always the wonder of climbing trees when I was a kid, I suppose: seeing how the horizon shifted with each progressively higher limb. So, I'm looking beyond Maui, looking to England yet again, creature of habit that I am. "You've been there twice already," I've been told, and I've been told correctly. Some people like to see many places and get to know the surface of things, but I've always leaned toward seeing below the surface. I know, for instance, that after the visit to Maui, I'll want to go back.
My empty Moleskine is a reminder that I need to get out and gather, to paraphrase the writer Jim Harrison, some life-experiences. My friend Tom gave me my first Moleskine in 2004, and the first entry was written on the fourth day of March that year when I was at the small coastal cabin Tom and his wife have let me stay in several times. The final entry? In Yosemite March 12, 2011--almost exactly 7 years later. Last year I bought a new Moleskine at Powell's Books in Portland (a city I'll visit again in a bit over a month), but so far the pages are fallow. And lately, as I ponder how to pack my respective kit bags for Maui and England, and how to find a way back to Yosemite this autumn and winter, I know the Moleskine needs to get on the road as much as I do.
For about 2 years I've done a pretty good job of staying close to home. Simple economics has played into this, certainly, for I find it more and more difficult to spend money I don't have. Lack of available time, too, carries weight as I try to add a cushion of vacation days to the corporate books. And, at least in part, I felt somewhat remiss in my familial role of... well, whatever that role has evolved into over the previous decades. I get the sense that I've made a lot of bad beds, some that I wasn't even aware of, and now I'm lying in them. But, as Vonnegut said, so it goes.
My last trip of any real duration was to, what, Yosemite Valley several months ago? That must be it--a couple of wonderful nights in Camp 4, cozy as a man can get in a 4-season tent with just enough beer and food to be comfortable. Before that, it must have been Yosemite 2 other times.
I can generally tell when I'm unconsciously preparing for a trip to somewhere--that gut feeling of restlessness and impatience starts gnawing. Maui is, perhaps, on the near horizon, and that will be nice since I've never been there, and I will have someone nice to travel with. It should be a grand adventure. I learned in the navy, though, that the horizon is relative, that it changes with a person's elevation. That was always the wonder of climbing trees when I was a kid, I suppose: seeing how the horizon shifted with each progressively higher limb. So, I'm looking beyond Maui, looking to England yet again, creature of habit that I am. "You've been there twice already," I've been told, and I've been told correctly. Some people like to see many places and get to know the surface of things, but I've always leaned toward seeing below the surface. I know, for instance, that after the visit to Maui, I'll want to go back.
My empty Moleskine is a reminder that I need to get out and gather, to paraphrase the writer Jim Harrison, some life-experiences. My friend Tom gave me my first Moleskine in 2004, and the first entry was written on the fourth day of March that year when I was at the small coastal cabin Tom and his wife have let me stay in several times. The final entry? In Yosemite March 12, 2011--almost exactly 7 years later. Last year I bought a new Moleskine at Powell's Books in Portland (a city I'll visit again in a bit over a month), but so far the pages are fallow. And lately, as I ponder how to pack my respective kit bags for Maui and England, and how to find a way back to Yosemite this autumn and winter, I know the Moleskine needs to get on the road as much as I do.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #5
You know how you feel when you've never felt anything quite like what you're feeling?
"You need to relax, Chris," Phil said.
"I don't need to do anything of the sort."
"You're gonna kill yourself, you keep up like this.
Chris thought about it. "We all die at some point."
"What's that, an epiphany?" He put just enough English on the cue ball to make it brush the cushion and slide the eight-ball into the corner pocket.
"Fuck you."
"You saying that because I won?"
"Nope. Rack them up."
"I'm done. You can stay here and lose to someone else, or you can sit down and finish the beer."
"Fine." He took his final quarter off the side of the table and sat next to Phil. He was glad to see that the bartender had saved their spots at the bar.
"So what did she say this time?" Phil asked.
"Nothing that she hasn't said before." That was a lie.
"Right. You need to let her stop getting under your goat."
"Skin."
"Skin?"
"Yeah. She gets under my skin, but she gets my goat."
"Whichever way it goes, you can't let her get to you. Maybe you should start trying to get to her."
"I've tried," Chris said. "She's gotten a lot meaner since the divorce became final."
"Why do you two even stay in touch? Seems like you're both missing the entire meaning of 'divorce'."
Chris shrugged. "Usually one of us finds something that belongs to the other one. We start out with email, move on to phone messages, then finally meet in person. That's when she gets mean."
"Whatever happened to being amicably divorced?" Phil gestured for refills.
"I think that happens only in the movies. You know was Cindy says?"
"Not a clue." He paid for the beers.
"That I'm evil. Not just a shit, which is how she started. But evil."
"That's a bit over the top, isn't it? Even for a divorcee."
"She says I ruined a good portion of her life."
"Did you?"
Chris considered the idea. "I didn't think I did, but who am I to say? Maybe she's right. I wasn't always pleasant."
"Maybe she never gave you a chance."
"She gave me plenty of chances. Last week she said she couldn't even describe how I make her feel, how the thought of me makes her feel. She says she's never felt anything like it, that it's beyond hate for me and misery for herself."
"She has always been fairly dramatic."
"Yeah. She has. But now every time I try to get angry with her, I end up feeling depressed, or angry with myself. She's brainwashed me."
Phil ran his fingertips down the side of the beer bottle and picked at the label with his thumb. "Christ."
"Christ, exactly. I never thought I could have an effect like that on anyone. I once thought I made her feel something she'd never felt because she loved me."
Phil didn't say anything, just picked at the label. Finally, when the label was removed, he stood up. "You're depressing the hell out of me, Chris. Maybe you should get some help."
"I'd rather play pool. I tried 'getting help' once before."
"Your choice."
"You need to relax, Chris," Phil said.
"I don't need to do anything of the sort."
"You're gonna kill yourself, you keep up like this.
Chris thought about it. "We all die at some point."
"What's that, an epiphany?" He put just enough English on the cue ball to make it brush the cushion and slide the eight-ball into the corner pocket.
"Fuck you."
"You saying that because I won?"
"Nope. Rack them up."
"I'm done. You can stay here and lose to someone else, or you can sit down and finish the beer."
"Fine." He took his final quarter off the side of the table and sat next to Phil. He was glad to see that the bartender had saved their spots at the bar.
"So what did she say this time?" Phil asked.
"Nothing that she hasn't said before." That was a lie.
"Right. You need to let her stop getting under your goat."
"Skin."
"Skin?"
"Yeah. She gets under my skin, but she gets my goat."
"Whichever way it goes, you can't let her get to you. Maybe you should start trying to get to her."
"I've tried," Chris said. "She's gotten a lot meaner since the divorce became final."
"Why do you two even stay in touch? Seems like you're both missing the entire meaning of 'divorce'."
Chris shrugged. "Usually one of us finds something that belongs to the other one. We start out with email, move on to phone messages, then finally meet in person. That's when she gets mean."
"Whatever happened to being amicably divorced?" Phil gestured for refills.
"I think that happens only in the movies. You know was Cindy says?"
"Not a clue." He paid for the beers.
"That I'm evil. Not just a shit, which is how she started. But evil."
"That's a bit over the top, isn't it? Even for a divorcee."
"She says I ruined a good portion of her life."
"Did you?"
Chris considered the idea. "I didn't think I did, but who am I to say? Maybe she's right. I wasn't always pleasant."
"Maybe she never gave you a chance."
"She gave me plenty of chances. Last week she said she couldn't even describe how I make her feel, how the thought of me makes her feel. She says she's never felt anything like it, that it's beyond hate for me and misery for herself."
"She has always been fairly dramatic."
"Yeah. She has. But now every time I try to get angry with her, I end up feeling depressed, or angry with myself. She's brainwashed me."
Phil ran his fingertips down the side of the beer bottle and picked at the label with his thumb. "Christ."
"Christ, exactly. I never thought I could have an effect like that on anyone. I once thought I made her feel something she'd never felt because she loved me."
Phil didn't say anything, just picked at the label. Finally, when the label was removed, he stood up. "You're depressing the hell out of me, Chris. Maybe you should get some help."
"I'd rather play pool. I tried 'getting help' once before."
"Your choice."
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Things We Didn't Say Yesterday #4
All things being equal, it's mostly your fault
"That make no sense," Chris said. "It's not my fault. At least, not mostly. We were once in this together, you know." He watched Cindy to see if she'd flinch, but she didn't bat an eye. He gave her credit for that self-control.
Cindy was eating a vanilla ice cream cone. She said she'd have been on time if not for the idiot behind the counter who hadn't served plain vanilla in so long he didn't know which bucket to scoop from. "It is mostly your fault, Chris," Cindy said. "Or, now, I guess "was" is the correct word. It was mostly your fault."
"I'm the person I've always been, Cindy. How can you hate me so much now when you loved me so much then?"
Cindy concentrated on the stream of ice cream that had melted onto her thin ring finger. Chris could see that the skin beneath where the ring had been was still slightly lighter than the skin around it. He wondered how long the tan-line would take to disappear.
"I don't hate you," Cindy said. "I have never said that."
"I feel like you do."
"You feel wrong, then. And you're not the same person as you once were; that's stupid. Nobody stays the same. At least, nobody should stay the same. I'm not the same, I know that. I think that's what happened: we changed, but we didn't change together."
"We didn't give ourselves long enough. We could have...I don't know, tried to change differently."
"We've been through this. And now it's too late. We've gone our separate ways. I like things now. I feel different--better. More relaxed. We did nothing but fight for nearly two years."
"I know. But I'm angry now. I was hurt before, and now I'm just angry."
"We can't get back together."
"I didn't say I wanted that."
"I feel like you're about to say it."
"You're wrong, Cindy. Anger doesn't necessarily equal desperation."
"I'm sorry. Maybe I'm angry, too," she said when she sat across from him again.
"Why didn't you say that before, that you thought this was all my fault?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I'm stronger now."
"What does that mean, anyway--that's it's my fault? What is my fault?"
"We're not together again, are we."
"That's my fault? I'm not the one who wanted things to end."
"We've been through this."
"I'm not sure we have. Not all of it. Each time we talk, I learn something new about how you feel. Or felt."
"Chris...".
"Don't be so deadpan about this."
"I'm not. I'm tired. I don't want to keep living this over and over, Chris. Let's just do this. I want to go home."
He looked at her, and from the look on her face he could tell there was nothing else to say. He liked how the cool breeze brushed against the sweat beneath the hair on his neck.
"Here," Cindy said. She stretched her arm across the table and dropped her wedding ring into the palm of his hand.
He looked at the shiny gold and the smallish diamond. "I remember when we bought this," he said.
"I want yours," she said plainly.
"Yes, you do," he said. He pulled his ring off his finger, looked at the scratches on it, and dropped it onto the table.
She picked it up without a second glance and dropped it into her purse. "I wanted silver, you know," she said.
"Silver?"
"Rings. I never wanted gold. I wanted silver."
"What? Why didn't you say anything?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't want to hurt your feelings. You got so excited about these. It was nice."
"Silver would've been fine."
She stood up, set the strap of her purse onto her shoulder, and looked toward the parking lot. "You think these are worth anything now?"
He laughed. "They weren't worth much then. They were all we could afford."
She started walking away. "I've got to go." And she did.
Chris watched for a minute, at how here heels wobbled a bit in the high grass. He closed his fingers around the ring and thought that it seemed heavier than it did years ago.
"That make no sense," Chris said. "It's not my fault. At least, not mostly. We were once in this together, you know." He watched Cindy to see if she'd flinch, but she didn't bat an eye. He gave her credit for that self-control.
Cindy was eating a vanilla ice cream cone. She said she'd have been on time if not for the idiot behind the counter who hadn't served plain vanilla in so long he didn't know which bucket to scoop from. "It is mostly your fault, Chris," Cindy said. "Or, now, I guess "was" is the correct word. It was mostly your fault."
"I'm the person I've always been, Cindy. How can you hate me so much now when you loved me so much then?"
Cindy concentrated on the stream of ice cream that had melted onto her thin ring finger. Chris could see that the skin beneath where the ring had been was still slightly lighter than the skin around it. He wondered how long the tan-line would take to disappear.
"I don't hate you," Cindy said. "I have never said that."
"I feel like you do."
"You feel wrong, then. And you're not the same person as you once were; that's stupid. Nobody stays the same. At least, nobody should stay the same. I'm not the same, I know that. I think that's what happened: we changed, but we didn't change together."
"We didn't give ourselves long enough. We could have...I don't know, tried to change differently."
"We've been through this. And now it's too late. We've gone our separate ways. I like things now. I feel different--better. More relaxed. We did nothing but fight for nearly two years."
"I know. But I'm angry now. I was hurt before, and now I'm just angry."
"We can't get back together."
"I didn't say I wanted that."
"I feel like you're about to say it."
"You're wrong, Cindy. Anger doesn't necessarily equal desperation."
"I'm sorry. Maybe I'm angry, too," she said when she sat across from him again.
"Why didn't you say that before, that you thought this was all my fault?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I'm stronger now."
"What does that mean, anyway--that's it's my fault? What is my fault?"
"We're not together again, are we."
"That's my fault? I'm not the one who wanted things to end."
"We've been through this."
"I'm not sure we have. Not all of it. Each time we talk, I learn something new about how you feel. Or felt."
"Chris...".
"Don't be so deadpan about this."
"I'm not. I'm tired. I don't want to keep living this over and over, Chris. Let's just do this. I want to go home."
He looked at her, and from the look on her face he could tell there was nothing else to say. He liked how the cool breeze brushed against the sweat beneath the hair on his neck.
"Here," Cindy said. She stretched her arm across the table and dropped her wedding ring into the palm of his hand.
He looked at the shiny gold and the smallish diamond. "I remember when we bought this," he said.
"I want yours," she said plainly.
"Yes, you do," he said. He pulled his ring off his finger, looked at the scratches on it, and dropped it onto the table.
She picked it up without a second glance and dropped it into her purse. "I wanted silver, you know," she said.
"Silver?"
"Rings. I never wanted gold. I wanted silver."
"What? Why didn't you say anything?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't want to hurt your feelings. You got so excited about these. It was nice."
"Silver would've been fine."
She stood up, set the strap of her purse onto her shoulder, and looked toward the parking lot. "You think these are worth anything now?"
He laughed. "They weren't worth much then. They were all we could afford."
She started walking away. "I've got to go." And she did.
Chris watched for a minute, at how here heels wobbled a bit in the high grass. He closed his fingers around the ring and thought that it seemed heavier than it did years ago.
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