15 August 2008
14 August 2008
re-visiting the toast
A little over two years ago, I gave a decent toast at the EDS-MA(T)S nuptials in Carlisle, PA. It was one of those grand events (the wedding, not my toast) – perfect weather, perfect ceremony, everyone in high spirits. I suspect we all felt very young and very old simultaneously – vibrant but still experienced enough, or something like that.
Every time I try to do or say something heartfelt, I end up regretting it shortly thereafter. This is why I absolutely empathized with my dad when he told me that he cringes when he thinks back to the toast he gave at my wedding because it’s the same for me. What was said is frozen in time, and by saying it you more or less record one facet of reality, but the record is inflexible. You keep wanting to go back and edit it, and the fact that you can’t makes what you said seem untrue or less-than-artful.
The toast I gave at the wedding in Carlisle doesn’t quite fit into that category for me – I was happy with it at the time, I thought the couple enjoyed it, and I think the guests did too. If there’s not much I would take back, it’s maybe because in the end I may have said very little. And now, two years later, I see that one of my main points was completely inaccurate.
See, I told the story of how EDS and I had tried to come up with a poem for the occasion, or a good reading at least. And we turned to our usual sources – poets, songwriters, mystics and bearded fellows – but came up empty. Not empty, exactly, because there are good poems and excerpts that fit the wedding-day bill, but they’re a little hackneyed. A lot hackneyed, in fact.
Finding something both appropriate and original was a challenge. I’d look back to a poem that filled me with a strong sense of joy or purpose and find out that it had a couple of ugly passages about how in the end, we’re all alone, or the poems said something about death, or genocide, or god knows what else. Not things I wanted coming out of my mouth at such a joyous occasion.
Thinking about this, I had concluded that true love had this wonderful finality – that once it’s there, there’s very little to say about it, because it becomes a fact. What do you say about the fact that you have five fingers, or that a ball is round? Nothing – the fingers are there, and the ball bounces. With love, I reasoned, it must be the same – we talk about imperfect things, but we have little to say about things that are exactly right.
But I realize now I was confusing facts with objects. Facts may be static, but objects are not. Gravity is a fact; it doesn’t change. But the feeling I get when I see my street on an early morning does. The street is immutable, like Holden Caulfield's Museum of Natural History, but I get to invent it anew every time I look at it.
My moods end up painted all over my street. They are in the rearview mirrors of parked cars and they frame the angled doorways. A little over a year into my marriage, and many more years than that into the great love of my life, it has only now occurred to me that the story keeps getting told over and over again. I once wrote a very good line, if I can brag for a second - something casting a relationship as a recurring improbability, staving off estrangement one day at a time. This seems right.
And it seems wrong to say that there's nothing to say about love. I may be better suited to capture a peculiar, borderline-desperate kind of mood (I am); and I may feel more alive when I'm at my most wretched (I do).
But that's my own failure, and I know that I am only me when I am living out the story of the two of us, even though sometimes the story is stifling, and though sometimes it ends in a sullen fight. I am probably more addicted to our story, more willing to submit to its chemical alterations of my psyche, than I am to any other facet of my life.
Two years on, I am thinking back on myself giving that toast, wondering how many older people there already knew what I've only now come to realize - that love, far from being final, is a canvas that never gets filled completely, it's a picture that is still slowly developing throughout and even after our relatively short lives, but we see hints of the final product here and there, knowing of course that the work is never really finished, just as a sculpture will continuously change, erode, seemingly standing idle while its features grow softer, massaged into abstraction by the firm hands of time. The process is hypnotic if your mechanism of perception is tuned correctly.
And that's what I might say if I were this smart two years ago.
Every time I try to do or say something heartfelt, I end up regretting it shortly thereafter. This is why I absolutely empathized with my dad when he told me that he cringes when he thinks back to the toast he gave at my wedding because it’s the same for me. What was said is frozen in time, and by saying it you more or less record one facet of reality, but the record is inflexible. You keep wanting to go back and edit it, and the fact that you can’t makes what you said seem untrue or less-than-artful.
The toast I gave at the wedding in Carlisle doesn’t quite fit into that category for me – I was happy with it at the time, I thought the couple enjoyed it, and I think the guests did too. If there’s not much I would take back, it’s maybe because in the end I may have said very little. And now, two years later, I see that one of my main points was completely inaccurate.
See, I told the story of how EDS and I had tried to come up with a poem for the occasion, or a good reading at least. And we turned to our usual sources – poets, songwriters, mystics and bearded fellows – but came up empty. Not empty, exactly, because there are good poems and excerpts that fit the wedding-day bill, but they’re a little hackneyed. A lot hackneyed, in fact.
Finding something both appropriate and original was a challenge. I’d look back to a poem that filled me with a strong sense of joy or purpose and find out that it had a couple of ugly passages about how in the end, we’re all alone, or the poems said something about death, or genocide, or god knows what else. Not things I wanted coming out of my mouth at such a joyous occasion.
Thinking about this, I had concluded that true love had this wonderful finality – that once it’s there, there’s very little to say about it, because it becomes a fact. What do you say about the fact that you have five fingers, or that a ball is round? Nothing – the fingers are there, and the ball bounces. With love, I reasoned, it must be the same – we talk about imperfect things, but we have little to say about things that are exactly right.
But I realize now I was confusing facts with objects. Facts may be static, but objects are not. Gravity is a fact; it doesn’t change. But the feeling I get when I see my street on an early morning does. The street is immutable, like Holden Caulfield's Museum of Natural History, but I get to invent it anew every time I look at it.
My moods end up painted all over my street. They are in the rearview mirrors of parked cars and they frame the angled doorways. A little over a year into my marriage, and many more years than that into the great love of my life, it has only now occurred to me that the story keeps getting told over and over again. I once wrote a very good line, if I can brag for a second - something casting a relationship as a recurring improbability, staving off estrangement one day at a time. This seems right.
And it seems wrong to say that there's nothing to say about love. I may be better suited to capture a peculiar, borderline-desperate kind of mood (I am); and I may feel more alive when I'm at my most wretched (I do).
But that's my own failure, and I know that I am only me when I am living out the story of the two of us, even though sometimes the story is stifling, and though sometimes it ends in a sullen fight. I am probably more addicted to our story, more willing to submit to its chemical alterations of my psyche, than I am to any other facet of my life.
Two years on, I am thinking back on myself giving that toast, wondering how many older people there already knew what I've only now come to realize - that love, far from being final, is a canvas that never gets filled completely, it's a picture that is still slowly developing throughout and even after our relatively short lives, but we see hints of the final product here and there, knowing of course that the work is never really finished, just as a sculpture will continuously change, erode, seemingly standing idle while its features grow softer, massaged into abstraction by the firm hands of time. The process is hypnotic if your mechanism of perception is tuned correctly.
And that's what I might say if I were this smart two years ago.
At "Screen on the green" earlier this week
At Screen on the Green on the Mall, shortly before being mystified by the “HBO dance” that people seem to really enjoy doing. (Describing it as a 20-second rave is about right.)
Ms AC: What’s the Capitol made of?
Me: Um, marble? Granite? Granite doesn’t make sense, does it?
Ms AC: No, granite definitely doesn’t. Marble does.
Me: It used to not have a dome. And it was made of wood. The British burned it down in…1812?
Ms AC: Well, it seems like you’re asking for that to happen if you build it out of wood.
Me: I guess so. They decide to go with whatever that is – marble? – afterwards, I suspect.
[pause]
Ms AC: Marble. And yet – marbles are made out of glass. Think on that for a minute.
Me: I think I have to.
Ms AC: What’s the Capitol made of?
Me: Um, marble? Granite? Granite doesn’t make sense, does it?
Ms AC: No, granite definitely doesn’t. Marble does.
Me: It used to not have a dome. And it was made of wood. The British burned it down in…1812?
Ms AC: Well, it seems like you’re asking for that to happen if you build it out of wood.
Me: I guess so. They decide to go with whatever that is – marble? – afterwards, I suspect.
[pause]
Ms AC: Marble. And yet – marbles are made out of glass. Think on that for a minute.
Me: I think I have to.
12 August 2008
Of governments and forms
The Abstract Citizen's tentacles are plunging into a number of different governmental cauldrons. In the homeland, there are issues having to do with my taxpayer id that were thankfully solved over the phone - without requiring the Abstract Citizen to manifest himself concretely, in other words.
But alas, this is not the case when it comes to Uncle Sam and Uncle Canada. (Uncle Maple?) An unsuccessful trip to the Social Security Adminsitration office on M street hinges on a contentious debate between Mr. Clerk and myself.
You see, for many years, I had to apply for a work visa on an annual basis. This resulted in a nice stamp that takes up a whole page of my passport. It clearly says I can work, and the date until which the visa is valid. It is the opposite of abstract. Ever since entering the green card process, though, I've noticed that everything is nebulous. Basically, as an applicant for adjustment of status, my case is in a broadly-defined "pending status" that has no expiration. I can pend for years, I suppose.
Furthermore, the only paperwork you get that tells you anything is a letter indicating that U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services has received your application. You get a receipt number, which is the most important alphanumeric identifier in your life during this process; and that's about it. Nothing saying, "this letter grants you the right to remain in the U.S. until x/x/xx." I assume this gets them out of having to move application forward in a timely manner, since they would then have to create a process to allow for people who have been in a pending status for too long to obtain extensions to their letter, etc. So, maybe it's a good policy.
Understand, though, that this is all distinct from employment authorization, which is what caused the whole hullabaloo earlier. The employment authorization card simply allows me to work for the next calendar year. But supposing that my application were to be denied tomorrow, I doubt they would show up and take the card from me. I could come back on a tourist visa and use the card to work - not that I would, but I just want to illustrate the difference between the legal ability to work and the ability to remain in the country.
So, to apply for a new social security card - I lost my old one, not to mention the fact that it is (was?) unflatteringly stamped with a sternly phrased warning - "NOT VALID FOR EMPLOYMENT" which seems a bit outdated - but back to the stem of my sentence, to apply for a new card, you are told to bring proof of your status in the U.S. To me, the only document encompassed by that description is the proof that I have an application for adjustment of status pending (but note the bureaucratic flaw here - I could subsequently have received a notice that my case has been denied, but simply opt not to present the second document whenever I need to get something done.) In any case, evidently, Mr. Clerk didn't quite agree with my understanding of the legal subtleties of my case.
Sigh. On to my second errand - a trip to the Canadian consular/visa section on Penn and 5th. I figure it's ok to run this errand second because, come on, what kind of a rush is there on tourist visas to Canada?
Lord waS I wrong about that. Indians and Pakistanis, West Africans and Brazilians, Eastern Europeans and Asians. It's a veritable Ellis Island being run by two security guards whose crowd control skills are limited. They drive the Kenyan lady who was my partner in crime for most of the day to remark that "American blacks never leave the country unless it's on a cruise. They don't even know what a visa is, probably. This process was much more civilized in Dusseldorf."
Well, in I go. Stand in line for 45 minutes. The guards are trying to keep people in line from filling out forms while they wait, but most people ignore them. (The Abstract Citizen had his paperwork filled out in advance, so he alternated between reading Roberto Bolano's The Savage Detectives - a pretty racy scene, at that - and talking with his new Kenyan friend who works at the World Bank.)
We finally make it to the the head of the snaky line, having discussed a number of current issues du jour. We also confirm our understanding that the Canadian Embassy Web site, while vague, suggests that payments can be made by credit card. One of my pet peeves dealing with them early in the process is that they simply refuse to take questions over the phone - something unheard of, in my experience. US Embassies abroad may charge you per minute (which they do), but at least you have the option of talking to someone before showing up in person.
So, there am I, finally in front of the visa teller window, explaining the purpose of my trip. She is ready to accept the paperwork, but mentions that a fee of exactly $75 is due, and that it must be paid in cash or by cashier's check. That I will have to sand in line again. I almost get annoyed, but simply huff and tell her that I know it's not her fault. So, great. I'm off to find an ATM. I wish my Kenyan friend luck, and head back out into the relatively dry late-morning weather.
Chevy Chase bank ATM + Starbucks (ugh) and I've got the exact amount she needs. Though I noticed that she wasn't quite that exacting with the exchange rate but I had already annoyed one clerk-y type that morning and damn if I going was for two.
I get back, and the security guards are now in full-on literal interpretation mode. For example, there's a sign posted that says that electronic devices must be turned off before entering the building. I left my cell phone on, and only remembered after going through their luggage-check device. I showed them I'd forgotten and turned it off, but one of them made me stop what I was doing, look at him, and he told me, "Sir. Please understand. That device needed to be turned off before you stepped in here. Next time, I'm going to ask you to be more careful." I think, "Next time? Good riddance." I also point out that there is nothing posted about food and drink and that while I'm not crazy about Starbucks coffee, it would have been nice if they'd let me finish it, but again, I'm really trying to choose my battles.
Back in line, back to the racy scene in Bolano's book (that Maria Font! She really gets around!) until I get unexpetedly tapped on the knee a few minutes later. It's my Kenyan buddy. We compare notes, and continue to make agreeable chit chat about all kinds of things. She needles American Blacks a couple more times, something that I'm only now fully digesting, but the conversation is earnest and intelligent and I hope I'm not painting her in an unflattering light here. This was someone who would be as comfortable driving on a clay road from Maputo to South Africa as she would be at Wolftrap, where she does volunteer work. So, we both get through the teller test this time, and end up standing around in the mini-Ellis Island area, waiting for our numbers to be called.
She asks about carnaval in Rio, and a guy next to me chimes in with something about Buzios. He is American, but the two women next to him are Brazilian, as are the 4 guys with large backpacks in another corner. The west African family who was so unwilling to yield their place in line while they filled out paperwork is still here. Every time I turn around, there is a short woman asking to be let by. I watch as, seemingly in slow motion, a small Indian child drops four feet to the floor and lands on his back, the base of his skull producing a deep and sickening thud on contact with the tile that arrests conversations.
The security guard chimes in, "Folks - you gotta watch your kids." THe child is wailing, and I wonder if the parents know that the boy should probably not take a nap in the next few hours. I found out later they didn't. Gradually, the room livens back up. My Kenyan friend gets called and comes over to celebrate her visa. We say an awkward goodbye, without exchanging names. I finally get called up, only to discover that paystubs are not considered by the Canadian to be proof of my employment. They need a letter on letterhead. I want to ask, "If you think I created that business card and those paystubs at home, why would creating letterhead be such a challenge?" but I don't.
It's now close to 1 p.m., and any illusion that I can make it into the office and be productive is just that - an illusion. I opt instead to go home, spend a few hours on email, and hop on my bike to get back down to the Social Security Administration ofice - hoping to get at least get one of my tasks for the day done.
I learn a few things during my second visit. First, more Brazilians! Next to me! Again! As we say, we're like weeds. We grow everywhere. But chief among the things I learn is the fact that a data entry error made way back whenever I got my social security number means that my middle name is "Oliver" and that I was born in Rio de Sanei. But more importantly, I learn that Immigration has not updated their databse to reflect my employment authorization card which is now about two months old - all your info is supposed to be current within 10 days of an event - and that my new card will take considerably longer becuase they will have a harder time verifiny the documentation I provided them. Fantastic.
At home, I'm feeling somewhat battered, but the Hendrick's gin in my martini is deliciously unbruised. Turning to the Olympics and thinking abot my day, I am reminded of the Bob Dylan song "Black Diamond Bay," though I'm not sure of why. The first several verses are a tale of gripping intrigue in a far-off land - the kind of terrain he handles so well in "Angelina," the best eulogy for a fictional Evita that was ever written, and the vastly underappreciated "Changing of the Guard." Black Diamond Bay it will eventually be engulfed by an earthquake, though we din't find this out till after the story climaxes. The narrative shifts thusly in the last verse, going from a third person narration to the following:
On to Wednesday, aka, "God's joke on the working man." (hat tip to Gordon on that.)
But alas, this is not the case when it comes to Uncle Sam and Uncle Canada. (Uncle Maple?) An unsuccessful trip to the Social Security Adminsitration office on M street hinges on a contentious debate between Mr. Clerk and myself.
You see, for many years, I had to apply for a work visa on an annual basis. This resulted in a nice stamp that takes up a whole page of my passport. It clearly says I can work, and the date until which the visa is valid. It is the opposite of abstract. Ever since entering the green card process, though, I've noticed that everything is nebulous. Basically, as an applicant for adjustment of status, my case is in a broadly-defined "pending status" that has no expiration. I can pend for years, I suppose.
Furthermore, the only paperwork you get that tells you anything is a letter indicating that U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services has received your application. You get a receipt number, which is the most important alphanumeric identifier in your life during this process; and that's about it. Nothing saying, "this letter grants you the right to remain in the U.S. until x/x/xx." I assume this gets them out of having to move application forward in a timely manner, since they would then have to create a process to allow for people who have been in a pending status for too long to obtain extensions to their letter, etc. So, maybe it's a good policy.
Understand, though, that this is all distinct from employment authorization, which is what caused the whole hullabaloo earlier. The employment authorization card simply allows me to work for the next calendar year. But supposing that my application were to be denied tomorrow, I doubt they would show up and take the card from me. I could come back on a tourist visa and use the card to work - not that I would, but I just want to illustrate the difference between the legal ability to work and the ability to remain in the country.
So, to apply for a new social security card - I lost my old one, not to mention the fact that it is (was?) unflatteringly stamped with a sternly phrased warning - "NOT VALID FOR EMPLOYMENT" which seems a bit outdated - but back to the stem of my sentence, to apply for a new card, you are told to bring proof of your status in the U.S. To me, the only document encompassed by that description is the proof that I have an application for adjustment of status pending (but note the bureaucratic flaw here - I could subsequently have received a notice that my case has been denied, but simply opt not to present the second document whenever I need to get something done.) In any case, evidently, Mr. Clerk didn't quite agree with my understanding of the legal subtleties of my case.
Him: What is this? This is correspondence. We don't issue cards based on correspondence.
Me: No, this letter indicates that my case is pending. It's what gives me legal authority to remain here. And I may need my card for the interview.
Him: Well, come back after your interview. When you have a green card, we can issue you a new social security card. Or when when you have your employment authorization card. Either one, ok?
Me: But..that card is about the right to work. Not about the fact that I'm here legally. Besides, I've had a social security number since 1979 or so, and I've only been able to work in a limited capacity here since 1995, when I became a visiting student...
Him: NO. THAT card is what shows you are here legally. Bring it back and we will initiate the renewal.
Me: I'm happy to do that, but - just so you know - that card shows nothing about my status. Your Web site says to bring proof of my status, which I did. If you want an employment authorization card, you should say that.
Him: That card is your status.
Me: I'm leaving now, but - it's NOT my status. Ok? It's just not. Have a nice day.
Sigh. On to my second errand - a trip to the Canadian consular/visa section on Penn and 5th. I figure it's ok to run this errand second because, come on, what kind of a rush is there on tourist visas to Canada?
Lord waS I wrong about that. Indians and Pakistanis, West Africans and Brazilians, Eastern Europeans and Asians. It's a veritable Ellis Island being run by two security guards whose crowd control skills are limited. They drive the Kenyan lady who was my partner in crime for most of the day to remark that "American blacks never leave the country unless it's on a cruise. They don't even know what a visa is, probably. This process was much more civilized in Dusseldorf."
Well, in I go. Stand in line for 45 minutes. The guards are trying to keep people in line from filling out forms while they wait, but most people ignore them. (The Abstract Citizen had his paperwork filled out in advance, so he alternated between reading Roberto Bolano's The Savage Detectives - a pretty racy scene, at that - and talking with his new Kenyan friend who works at the World Bank.)
We finally make it to the the head of the snaky line, having discussed a number of current issues du jour. We also confirm our understanding that the Canadian Embassy Web site, while vague, suggests that payments can be made by credit card. One of my pet peeves dealing with them early in the process is that they simply refuse to take questions over the phone - something unheard of, in my experience. US Embassies abroad may charge you per minute (which they do), but at least you have the option of talking to someone before showing up in person.
So, there am I, finally in front of the visa teller window, explaining the purpose of my trip. She is ready to accept the paperwork, but mentions that a fee of exactly $75 is due, and that it must be paid in cash or by cashier's check. That I will have to sand in line again. I almost get annoyed, but simply huff and tell her that I know it's not her fault. So, great. I'm off to find an ATM. I wish my Kenyan friend luck, and head back out into the relatively dry late-morning weather.
Chevy Chase bank ATM + Starbucks (ugh) and I've got the exact amount she needs. Though I noticed that she wasn't quite that exacting with the exchange rate but I had already annoyed one clerk-y type that morning and damn if I going was for two.
I get back, and the security guards are now in full-on literal interpretation mode. For example, there's a sign posted that says that electronic devices must be turned off before entering the building. I left my cell phone on, and only remembered after going through their luggage-check device. I showed them I'd forgotten and turned it off, but one of them made me stop what I was doing, look at him, and he told me, "Sir. Please understand. That device needed to be turned off before you stepped in here. Next time, I'm going to ask you to be more careful." I think, "Next time? Good riddance." I also point out that there is nothing posted about food and drink and that while I'm not crazy about Starbucks coffee, it would have been nice if they'd let me finish it, but again, I'm really trying to choose my battles.
Back in line, back to the racy scene in Bolano's book (that Maria Font! She really gets around!) until I get unexpetedly tapped on the knee a few minutes later. It's my Kenyan buddy. We compare notes, and continue to make agreeable chit chat about all kinds of things. She needles American Blacks a couple more times, something that I'm only now fully digesting, but the conversation is earnest and intelligent and I hope I'm not painting her in an unflattering light here. This was someone who would be as comfortable driving on a clay road from Maputo to South Africa as she would be at Wolftrap, where she does volunteer work. So, we both get through the teller test this time, and end up standing around in the mini-Ellis Island area, waiting for our numbers to be called.
She asks about carnaval in Rio, and a guy next to me chimes in with something about Buzios. He is American, but the two women next to him are Brazilian, as are the 4 guys with large backpacks in another corner. The west African family who was so unwilling to yield their place in line while they filled out paperwork is still here. Every time I turn around, there is a short woman asking to be let by. I watch as, seemingly in slow motion, a small Indian child drops four feet to the floor and lands on his back, the base of his skull producing a deep and sickening thud on contact with the tile that arrests conversations.
The security guard chimes in, "Folks - you gotta watch your kids." THe child is wailing, and I wonder if the parents know that the boy should probably not take a nap in the next few hours. I found out later they didn't. Gradually, the room livens back up. My Kenyan friend gets called and comes over to celebrate her visa. We say an awkward goodbye, without exchanging names. I finally get called up, only to discover that paystubs are not considered by the Canadian to be proof of my employment. They need a letter on letterhead. I want to ask, "If you think I created that business card and those paystubs at home, why would creating letterhead be such a challenge?" but I don't.
It's now close to 1 p.m., and any illusion that I can make it into the office and be productive is just that - an illusion. I opt instead to go home, spend a few hours on email, and hop on my bike to get back down to the Social Security Administration ofice - hoping to get at least get one of my tasks for the day done.
I learn a few things during my second visit. First, more Brazilians! Next to me! Again! As we say, we're like weeds. We grow everywhere. But chief among the things I learn is the fact that a data entry error made way back whenever I got my social security number means that my middle name is "Oliver" and that I was born in Rio de Sanei. But more importantly, I learn that Immigration has not updated their databse to reflect my employment authorization card which is now about two months old - all your info is supposed to be current within 10 days of an event - and that my new card will take considerably longer becuase they will have a harder time verifiny the documentation I provided them. Fantastic.
At home, I'm feeling somewhat battered, but the Hendrick's gin in my martini is deliciously unbruised. Turning to the Olympics and thinking abot my day, I am reminded of the Bob Dylan song "Black Diamond Bay," though I'm not sure of why. The first several verses are a tale of gripping intrigue in a far-off land - the kind of terrain he handles so well in "Angelina," the best eulogy for a fictional Evita that was ever written, and the vastly underappreciated "Changing of the Guard." Black Diamond Bay it will eventually be engulfed by an earthquake, though we din't find this out till after the story climaxes. The narrative shifts thusly in the last verse, going from a third person narration to the following:
I was sittin' home alone one night in L.A.,
Watchin' old Cronkite on the seven o'clock news.
It seems there was an earthquake that
Left nothin' but a Panama hat
And a pair of old Greek shoes.
Didn't seem like much was happenin',
So I turned it off and went to grab another beer.
Seems like every time you turn around
There's another hard-luck story that you're gonna hear
And there's really nothin' anyone can say
And I never did plan to go anyway
To Black Diamond Bay.
On to Wednesday, aka, "God's joke on the working man." (hat tip to Gordon on that.)
07 August 2008
An argument against traveling in the kinds of tony circles that I do
How is it possible that I had never heard Florida described as "God's waiting room" until this past Wednesday?
06 August 2008
summer doldrums
I think it's that irritable portion of the summer. Thunderstorms threaten to arrive, but never do. Drum up some enthusiasm but it quickly melts away. I'm irritable, while people seem, more than ever, to be motivated by their own selfishness, and even the cats sound mean-spirited and grumbly. The day stretches out like an obstacle course, and before the sun sets, very little will change. On a Thursday mornig, I am reminded that sometimes being slightl hungover is its own reward.
And remembering a day in the fall of 1995, my first semester at college. I'm on my way to a 2 p.m. class, and that semester I worked the lunch shift in the cafeteria three times a week. This was before the E/E tandem took over Kittredge on weekday evenings, so it was a somewhat lonely few shifts for me.
A few other students worked there, but the skeleton of the shift was people who should rightfully have been retired or in the state's care, but instead found themselves working breakfast at the high school cafeteria, lunch at the college, with no health insurance and nary a prospect of slowing down. Jehovah's Witnesses, mean old ladies, and middle-aged men who would never find their way out of the closet. There was Tim Brubaker, who was very kind, and very simple. Jon Fowler had Down's syndrome, and he was always inviting us to his wedding, at least 3 times that I can recall. He was easily the best pots and pans guy that kitchen had seen.
I leave the cafeteria, having struggled to end my shift early enough to run down to Drug Mart and still make it to class on time. Minimum wage was $4.25 at the time, if I recall correctly, though it may have been $4.15. I had just made about 9 dollars, before taxes, and wanted to spend a buck-eighty on a pack of marloboro mediums. Few things were as joyous as that post-shift cigarette.
Making my way out of Drug Mart, I turn right on Beall, my hair thick and likely in a pony tail, coarse from the chemicals used to wash down the inside of the salad cart. I am young, angry, and full of contempt. A loathsome person, in short.
Walking towards me in the opposite direction direction is an old man, hunched over, still wearing his food services smock. Shoes worn thin, pants too short. He works at the other cafeteria on campus - I don't know him, but I instantly despise his simplicity, his willingness to wear the smock outside of the kitchen, and his inexplicably happy demeanor. I notice he is stopping occasionally and bending over, and as we get closer to each other, I see that he is picking up trash.
He is picking up trash on his walk home from a shitty job. Trash left by spoiled college kids or goateed men in muscle cars, trash left by people like me, people who instantly despised him for no good reason. As he finally passes me, I shudder and cry, quietly at first but then loudly. To this day, the image of him finds me unexpectedly and leaves me rocking back and forth, confused and ashamed.
And remembering a day in the fall of 1995, my first semester at college. I'm on my way to a 2 p.m. class, and that semester I worked the lunch shift in the cafeteria three times a week. This was before the E/E tandem took over Kittredge on weekday evenings, so it was a somewhat lonely few shifts for me.
A few other students worked there, but the skeleton of the shift was people who should rightfully have been retired or in the state's care, but instead found themselves working breakfast at the high school cafeteria, lunch at the college, with no health insurance and nary a prospect of slowing down. Jehovah's Witnesses, mean old ladies, and middle-aged men who would never find their way out of the closet. There was Tim Brubaker, who was very kind, and very simple. Jon Fowler had Down's syndrome, and he was always inviting us to his wedding, at least 3 times that I can recall. He was easily the best pots and pans guy that kitchen had seen.
I leave the cafeteria, having struggled to end my shift early enough to run down to Drug Mart and still make it to class on time. Minimum wage was $4.25 at the time, if I recall correctly, though it may have been $4.15. I had just made about 9 dollars, before taxes, and wanted to spend a buck-eighty on a pack of marloboro mediums. Few things were as joyous as that post-shift cigarette.
Making my way out of Drug Mart, I turn right on Beall, my hair thick and likely in a pony tail, coarse from the chemicals used to wash down the inside of the salad cart. I am young, angry, and full of contempt. A loathsome person, in short.
Walking towards me in the opposite direction direction is an old man, hunched over, still wearing his food services smock. Shoes worn thin, pants too short. He works at the other cafeteria on campus - I don't know him, but I instantly despise his simplicity, his willingness to wear the smock outside of the kitchen, and his inexplicably happy demeanor. I notice he is stopping occasionally and bending over, and as we get closer to each other, I see that he is picking up trash.
He is picking up trash on his walk home from a shitty job. Trash left by spoiled college kids or goateed men in muscle cars, trash left by people like me, people who instantly despised him for no good reason. As he finally passes me, I shudder and cry, quietly at first but then loudly. To this day, the image of him finds me unexpectedly and leaves me rocking back and forth, confused and ashamed.
03 August 2008
The joy of reading...about cooking
Despite my titular abstractness, it is a well know fact that here, at Abstract Citizen HQ, we don't survive on abstractions alone. A smarter and distinctly more German man than I - Bertolt Brecht - wisely had a character say, "Grub first, then ethics." Accordingly, here's a plug for a book that I recently came across.
One of the nice things about knowing a chef is that at some point during our visit, he will pull his most recent food-related books down from the shelf, and we get to come away with a long list of must-buy books. One such book was the Food Lover's Companion, currently in its 4th edition.
It's hard to overstate how much information this book contains. It's like the Norton Anthology of food. Of course, The Joy of Cooking is probably more essential, but I would argue that the Food Lover's Companion should probably take up permanent residence right next to it on your bookshelf.
Set up as a food encyclopedia, the FLC can probably answer any food-related question you might have. And despite the obvious pitfalls of trying to capture this much information in a concise and user-friendly format, the FLC is actually a joy to read - certainly much more so than The Joy of Cooking, which has all the actual joy of a Del Boca Vista salsa class.
The writing is crisp, with just the right amount of literary license. Anyone who has tried to describe flavors or odors in more than a passing way knows how hard this can be. Imagine describing a color without making references to other objects - how would you describe the color blue without referencing the sky? Flavor is sort of like that to me. Even really intelligent people on the teevee - your Bourdains, your Colicchios, your America's Test Kitcheners - fall into linguistic ruts, often repeating simlar variations of a stock phrase to describe flavors. (Colicchio: "This is under-seasoned" or, its corollary, "This was perfectly seasoned." Bourdain: "You know why this _____ is so good? It was made by someone who spent their entire adult life doing nothing but making ____.") Describing flavors with precision and originality is so hard that the existence of a fifth flavor category, which was only relatively recently established - umami - is often rendered as "tastiness."
Compare our general vagueness as a species to the entry for "martini" in the FLC - which tells you that the drink probably descends from the Martinez, created in the eponymously named city in California, and that it therefore belongs to the Manhattan family tree. But most elegantly,it tells you that over time, martinis have become drier and that this "replaces its predecessor's slight sweetness with an icy austerity." The entry for "mulligatawny soup" tells you that the name of the soup derives from the Tamil word for "pepper water." And the entry for "peppadew" tells you that these peppers are "purported to be the first new fruit introduced to the world since the kiwi's debut some thirty years ago."
The appendices include a pasta glossary, a wealth of technical information ranging from nutritional data to metric conversions and smoke-points for different kinds of oil, and lots more. So, don't sit around wondering what a "weakfish" is. Go get this book and find out.
One of the nice things about knowing a chef is that at some point during our visit, he will pull his most recent food-related books down from the shelf, and we get to come away with a long list of must-buy books. One such book was the Food Lover's Companion, currently in its 4th edition.
It's hard to overstate how much information this book contains. It's like the Norton Anthology of food. Of course, The Joy of Cooking is probably more essential, but I would argue that the Food Lover's Companion should probably take up permanent residence right next to it on your bookshelf.
Set up as a food encyclopedia, the FLC can probably answer any food-related question you might have. And despite the obvious pitfalls of trying to capture this much information in a concise and user-friendly format, the FLC is actually a joy to read - certainly much more so than The Joy of Cooking, which has all the actual joy of a Del Boca Vista salsa class.
The writing is crisp, with just the right amount of literary license. Anyone who has tried to describe flavors or odors in more than a passing way knows how hard this can be. Imagine describing a color without making references to other objects - how would you describe the color blue without referencing the sky? Flavor is sort of like that to me. Even really intelligent people on the teevee - your Bourdains, your Colicchios, your America's Test Kitcheners - fall into linguistic ruts, often repeating simlar variations of a stock phrase to describe flavors. (Colicchio: "This is under-seasoned" or, its corollary, "This was perfectly seasoned." Bourdain: "You know why this _____ is so good? It was made by someone who spent their entire adult life doing nothing but making ____.") Describing flavors with precision and originality is so hard that the existence of a fifth flavor category, which was only relatively recently established - umami - is often rendered as "tastiness."
Compare our general vagueness as a species to the entry for "martini" in the FLC - which tells you that the drink probably descends from the Martinez, created in the eponymously named city in California, and that it therefore belongs to the Manhattan family tree. But most elegantly,it tells you that over time, martinis have become drier and that this "replaces its predecessor's slight sweetness with an icy austerity." The entry for "mulligatawny soup" tells you that the name of the soup derives from the Tamil word for "pepper water." And the entry for "peppadew" tells you that these peppers are "purported to be the first new fruit introduced to the world since the kiwi's debut some thirty years ago."
The appendices include a pasta glossary, a wealth of technical information ranging from nutritional data to metric conversions and smoke-points for different kinds of oil, and lots more. So, don't sit around wondering what a "weakfish" is. Go get this book and find out.
01 August 2008
A post-racial n-word, a post-gender m-word, a post-everything everything-word
In light of having recently been called the n-word, I’ve been listening to the new Nas album with a keen sense of interest. Ditto the Wale track called “The Kramer,” which opens with Michael Richards’ awful rant after being heckled at a nightclub.
A propos of nothing - as Ambinder noted recently in his blog, which is linked below, transitions don't grow on trees - a man gave birth to a child recently. We call him a man even though he has female gear down there, and because gender is a social construct, I’m told, gender does not depend on the equipment but rather on the personality inside (or behind) said equipment. In a couple of recent conversations, I’ve heard people express alarm that if gender is up for grabs in a “it’s this because I say it’s this” kind of way, then why not race, nationality, and all the other things that we don’t choose in life?
Race has been a fluid concept for a long time, but it seems that only recently has there been this growing acceptance of the n-word as a kind of eternal human condition. It’s a reversible or revocable one, and it can be a compliment or the worst possible insult. I’m not sure if Nas is being provocative in an intelligent manner or just being intellectually lazy by trying to use it in as many different ways as possible - ditto Wale - but it’s hard to listen to the whole album, along with the aforementioned Wale track, and not come away feeling slightly muddled on the topic. I think I'm also relieved that I'm muddled.
There’s an underdog mentality that plays into group politics, particularly minority group politics – recall that Asian-American kids tell each other they are acting “white,” and certainly among Brazilians, there are unfair and rampant stereotypes about the stiffness of your typical yankee. So, it’s not like “white” is a fixed concept either (I’m not sure it’s out there on the Internet, but I highly recommend the Tracy Jordan vs Twofer debate on this topic from the first season of “30 Rock.”)
The only thing that makes me kind of – wistful, maybe? – is the idea that gets articulated in the beginning of “Gone Baby Gone.” The idea that the things you don’t choose – family, place of birth, etc – are the things that are the most central to who you are. I’ve thought about this in the context of wanting to have dual citizenship, and considered whether an American would have the right to be offended by my choice. I think he or she probably does have that right, but I also think that such a Manichean view ignores the reality that no one wants to be in the position of having to choose something that everyone else more or less inherits. Like making a Wii character (Mii?) and having to choose where your eyebrows go – this is not a decision anyone would want to make, I don’t think.
Most people are never faced with the very traumatic question of whether they were born into the right gender or not, and I can’t imagine anyone taking a dilettante’s approach to the issue and simply skirting back and forth across the line for fun. But with race or other forms of cultural identity – which, for the purposes of this thread, let’s call race just that, a cultural identity rather than a skin color or an ethnicity – most of us seem to be able to switch it around like so many hats that we wear seasonally. I can act more or less Brazilian, more or less like someone in the parking lot at a phish show, more or less like a pretentious fop, more or less like a lapsed Catholic, more or less like someone who prizes substance over style – and it’s an automatic thing rather than a conscious decision. I just emphasize different things, and the emphasis is triggered by my environment, social cues, etc.
So, if no cultural identity is fixed, why do we dislike the idea of race being so fluid? Marc Ambinder does a nice job with the recent campaign flap over who’s race-baiting whom here - and conveniently for me, includes a quote that reminds many of us that feminizing rival candidates has long been a mainstay of political discussion.
To cop words from Joanna Newsom, “the signifieds butt heads with the signifiers.” And though I try to pass myself off as being sophisticated, the truth is that I'm still getting used to living inside the product of that head-butting.
A propos of nothing - as Ambinder noted recently in his blog, which is linked below, transitions don't grow on trees - a man gave birth to a child recently. We call him a man even though he has female gear down there, and because gender is a social construct, I’m told, gender does not depend on the equipment but rather on the personality inside (or behind) said equipment. In a couple of recent conversations, I’ve heard people express alarm that if gender is up for grabs in a “it’s this because I say it’s this” kind of way, then why not race, nationality, and all the other things that we don’t choose in life?
Race has been a fluid concept for a long time, but it seems that only recently has there been this growing acceptance of the n-word as a kind of eternal human condition. It’s a reversible or revocable one, and it can be a compliment or the worst possible insult. I’m not sure if Nas is being provocative in an intelligent manner or just being intellectually lazy by trying to use it in as many different ways as possible - ditto Wale - but it’s hard to listen to the whole album, along with the aforementioned Wale track, and not come away feeling slightly muddled on the topic. I think I'm also relieved that I'm muddled.
There’s an underdog mentality that plays into group politics, particularly minority group politics – recall that Asian-American kids tell each other they are acting “white,” and certainly among Brazilians, there are unfair and rampant stereotypes about the stiffness of your typical yankee. So, it’s not like “white” is a fixed concept either (I’m not sure it’s out there on the Internet, but I highly recommend the Tracy Jordan vs Twofer debate on this topic from the first season of “30 Rock.”)
The only thing that makes me kind of – wistful, maybe? – is the idea that gets articulated in the beginning of “Gone Baby Gone.” The idea that the things you don’t choose – family, place of birth, etc – are the things that are the most central to who you are. I’ve thought about this in the context of wanting to have dual citizenship, and considered whether an American would have the right to be offended by my choice. I think he or she probably does have that right, but I also think that such a Manichean view ignores the reality that no one wants to be in the position of having to choose something that everyone else more or less inherits. Like making a Wii character (Mii?) and having to choose where your eyebrows go – this is not a decision anyone would want to make, I don’t think.
Most people are never faced with the very traumatic question of whether they were born into the right gender or not, and I can’t imagine anyone taking a dilettante’s approach to the issue and simply skirting back and forth across the line for fun. But with race or other forms of cultural identity – which, for the purposes of this thread, let’s call race just that, a cultural identity rather than a skin color or an ethnicity – most of us seem to be able to switch it around like so many hats that we wear seasonally. I can act more or less Brazilian, more or less like someone in the parking lot at a phish show, more or less like a pretentious fop, more or less like a lapsed Catholic, more or less like someone who prizes substance over style – and it’s an automatic thing rather than a conscious decision. I just emphasize different things, and the emphasis is triggered by my environment, social cues, etc.
So, if no cultural identity is fixed, why do we dislike the idea of race being so fluid? Marc Ambinder does a nice job with the recent campaign flap over who’s race-baiting whom here - and conveniently for me, includes a quote that reminds many of us that feminizing rival candidates has long been a mainstay of political discussion.
To cop words from Joanna Newsom, “the signifieds butt heads with the signifiers.” And though I try to pass myself off as being sophisticated, the truth is that I'm still getting used to living inside the product of that head-butting.
Wordlessness, again
Having not seen anything for a long time,
the yellow came as a surprise. Pixels like
javelins darting into orange, red, and finally
into a dark brown, somehow blacker than black.
Virtually all of the living creatures
with which I come into contact are terrified,
truly terrified, of me. Squirrels, cats, insects.
I think the humans just regard me with a frothy mix
of apprehension and befuddlement. I tell them
it’s not my fault but the words aren’t there,
and I can’t sign or signal.
When I woke up, it felt
like I had seen my way through a fight
– I was battered, limbs in need of peeling,
the feeling that a freight of steel
was parked behind my forehead.
Concussion marks streaking the pillow.
A song I hated greeted me,
followed by a song I liked,
and I realized they were the same,
but in my dream I could only hear
the good one, a quality of sound trick.
I learned to make do with less,
until all my artwork was
white flecks on a white canvas
and all music was hi-hats.
Friends were token statements,
typed with unfocused abandon,
barely signifying the likelihood
that we were thinking of each other,
and it mattered little whether
I was thinking of the violence
that might visit them, or of how
the same violence might dissipate.
Wanting to scream, I wrote a poem
about wordlessness, knowing that
it could never say anything to anyone.
You needed reinvention,
and you had to seek it elsewhere,
and you told me this
because I imagined
your fingers curling
their way through my hair
like a life turning on itself, though
of course you had no way
of knowing that I knew.
I worked on a self-portrait
but in it my hands looked frantic,
repeatedly signaling danger, danger.
Instead I would lie awake before dawn,
when the streetlights turn off
and for a half-hour
the windows actually go black,
and somehow that stillness
darkened and delirious
was enough.
The blessing in wordlessness
was forgetting about subjunctives.
There was only the life we were all living.
Awoken from the dream of silence,
I stood up, though my eyes weren't open.
I wanted to do push-ups,
and to sleep, and to
hold time in place,
stopping the gigantic carousel
that brings us closer for a second
before orbiting away.
Now that I have words again,
they don't seem to fit in the holes
I prepared. Big ones say little,
like "contrarily." Littles ones weigh
far too much, and we don't
exchange them freely. Our currency
remains the inflicting of pain
through the use of small, pointy words,
and we still forgive - not by saying,
"You are forgiven," but with kind deeds
that say, "I recognize your realness,
and I see that behind your
temperate forehead there is a mind,
a mind not unlike mine, a mind
whose existence will never be undone,
even when all the words we know
leave us in a silent fury."
the yellow came as a surprise. Pixels like
javelins darting into orange, red, and finally
into a dark brown, somehow blacker than black.
Virtually all of the living creatures
with which I come into contact are terrified,
truly terrified, of me. Squirrels, cats, insects.
I think the humans just regard me with a frothy mix
of apprehension and befuddlement. I tell them
it’s not my fault but the words aren’t there,
and I can’t sign or signal.
When I woke up, it felt
like I had seen my way through a fight
– I was battered, limbs in need of peeling,
the feeling that a freight of steel
was parked behind my forehead.
Concussion marks streaking the pillow.
A song I hated greeted me,
followed by a song I liked,
and I realized they were the same,
but in my dream I could only hear
the good one, a quality of sound trick.
I learned to make do with less,
until all my artwork was
white flecks on a white canvas
and all music was hi-hats.
Friends were token statements,
typed with unfocused abandon,
barely signifying the likelihood
that we were thinking of each other,
and it mattered little whether
I was thinking of the violence
that might visit them, or of how
the same violence might dissipate.
Wanting to scream, I wrote a poem
about wordlessness, knowing that
it could never say anything to anyone.
You needed reinvention,
and you had to seek it elsewhere,
and you told me this
because I imagined
your fingers curling
their way through my hair
like a life turning on itself, though
of course you had no way
of knowing that I knew.
I worked on a self-portrait
but in it my hands looked frantic,
repeatedly signaling danger, danger.
Instead I would lie awake before dawn,
when the streetlights turn off
and for a half-hour
the windows actually go black,
and somehow that stillness
darkened and delirious
was enough.
The blessing in wordlessness
was forgetting about subjunctives.
There was only the life we were all living.
Awoken from the dream of silence,
I stood up, though my eyes weren't open.
I wanted to do push-ups,
and to sleep, and to
hold time in place,
stopping the gigantic carousel
that brings us closer for a second
before orbiting away.
Now that I have words again,
they don't seem to fit in the holes
I prepared. Big ones say little,
like "contrarily." Littles ones weigh
far too much, and we don't
exchange them freely. Our currency
remains the inflicting of pain
through the use of small, pointy words,
and we still forgive - not by saying,
"You are forgiven," but with kind deeds
that say, "I recognize your realness,
and I see that behind your
temperate forehead there is a mind,
a mind not unlike mine, a mind
whose existence will never be undone,
even when all the words we know
leave us in a silent fury."
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