(sic)

further evidence to support literacy

From a fifth grade student, verbal and bright, not an ESL learner:

Describe your painting:
bigigs and a sunset at look rar down.

How did you make it:
i uesh vrdell linsh for the bidish.

What does it show?
bidigs with lost of widosh.

What part do you like best about it?
the sunset in the mithe of the bidish

What was your favorite part of Art class?
droging

back to bahstahn

I’ve been anticipating this trip home since I bought the tickets four months ago. Really not so much homecoming, but home-visiting. As each day passes in California, the chances of me returning to Boston grow more slim. The man in my life will be arriving in a few days. He will see the city that structured me, the ‘East coast’ side of me that he nudges and laughs at and, I suspect, that he loves.

Flying across the country today, looking down on the mountains of California, the flatness of Texas, I puzzled over how different people are at both coasts, and as I witnessed in Kansas this summer, in the middle of the country too. Just more than and hour from our destination and the pilot informed us we were flying over West Virginia. Lights of roads and towns beneath me revealed themselves to be organic shapes, spreading outward and hugging the terrain, sparkling jellyfish on a dark ocean floor. Here, like at home, it looks as though the streets could have been paved by an actual person. Paved perhaps by the person whose name the street bears. Not the impossibly long, wide and endless roads of the west, whose names are as bland as the straight line they make across the earth.

Even though I have come to adore the west, the space, the climate, the openness that makes for a pillow of sorts around your soul; certain things, like baseball, books, necessity of wit, fondness for a sharp tongue and other ‘east coast’ identifiers, will never leave me.




I passed two uniformed officers from the Dallas/Forth Worth Police Department in the first class cabin. The voice of the pilot crackled on the speakers. He informed us that they were here to accompany another officer who had fallen in the line of duty. They were bringing him home. It took me a minute to realize this meant that his body was sharing the storage compartment with the rest of our holiday luggage. A different and grave return, one that was dreadfully anticipated by his family. Our plane was escorted to the edge of the runway by four police cars, before we were given a water canon salute. The plane rolled between two fire trucks bathing us with water. It felt a little like a solemn car wash. It seemed appropriate to be washed clean, in unison, this plane full of holiday travelers. Later I watched the flag draped coffin being unwrapped of it protective plastic, and loaded into a waiting ambulance.



On one of my first days of work ever, a man who walked up to the front desk and asked irritably, “Where is your grievance department?” As a fourteen year old, he seemed ridiculous, but now I am that person. Feeling quite free to offer up complaints or suggestions to run things more smoothly. Airports bring it out in me. Why can’t they fill the plane up from the back? It would move so much faster.

Somewhere over West Virginia, I lost my r's, and I was home again.

they thought we were craft pirates

Sunday, we drove into the mountains, to a town called Ramona. Knowing nothing, but thinking of Beverly Cleary, I hoped to find something charming or funny or possibly both. I had my camera, and Trent his notebook. We were out to capture our take on the town.

Leading the way into town were signs for a 'craft and antique faire.' These were pink signs along the main road, leading towards a dusty, dry parking lot with a trickle of white topped booths winding alongside of highschool sportfields. My camera hanging around my neck, Trent with his notebook and pen tucked under his arm, we walked in. The crafts tickled me, particularly because there were loads of references to snow, snowmen, the cold weather, and sweaters to keep warm on those chilly christmas eves. There was an entire basket to 'Let it Snow' pillows against the backdrop of the southern California desert, which brought my lens up to my eye. But I was stopped by an older gentleman who asked me not to take any pictures. I was surprised, but conceded and kept walking.

I'll try shooting from the hip, then, since it is a rangefinder. But then I was stopped again, and told to put my camera back inthe car, this time by a firmer speaking younger woman. I turned my camera around so that the lens faced my chest. That should do it, right?

She followed me to where Trent was seated, writing in his notebook. "The crafters want to know what you are sketching," she said. In typcial Trent response he flashed his notebook, "Does this look like a sketch to you?" She then escorted us out of the faire. and watched us walk to the car.

It was rather stunning, being accused to craft piracy. It's not often in my life that someone thinks the worst of me withoit cause. I was confused and a little angry, but I can only assume that these crafters have been burned before. And Trent and I certainly did not blend into the other shoppers.

We went on our way, stopping to give some pets to a foal and her mom. We had to get out of Ramona, and drove for what seemed forever to find a state park to have our picnic. We found instead a 'Recreation Area,' and so we parked next to the No Parking sign, along side the fence overlooking the man-made Lake Jennings, and had our picnic in the car. We digested our new roles in craft faire espionage whilst enjoying the stunning and sweeping view of a fenced-in false lake, ridged by track homes and ringed by hills topped with water towers.

mixing bliss and adventure

you are not invited

One of the socially awkward situations from high school (and remember my high school was atypically filled with nerds) was a party at Angela Bayer’s house that my friend Margot was invited to and one that I was not invited to. Margot lobbied on my behalf, and I recall her telling me not to say anything weird or comment about random things (like my previous lunchtime musings that sometimes my hair smelled of raisins, was it my shampoo?). I had to tone myself down, and sit with reserve alongside this group of people at lunch to be invited. In the end, Margot did secure me the okay to attend, and I went. The party wasn’t much fun. It certainly wasn’t worth changing my behavior to get accepted.

A decade later, I can now mostly look at my life objectively, but being not invited hurts no less, and it does get my Irish up. Last night I was not invited to dinner because a particular person was there. I was not invited and then told that “maybe” “if” after dinner they went out, I “might” get a call to meet them at a bar.

I was pissed. Reading between the lines: I was the maybe invitation, the ‘he might be able to put up with you after he’s had a few drinks’ person. And being that person, realizing that you are that unacceptable to someone else, is miserable.

It’s happened before with this same guy. To my face, he’s polite and friendly, and will even gesture to give one of those half-friendly half-armed hugs. His dislike of me is mostly hidden until I am gone. Later I am told, “I don’t know why, but he doesn’t like you.” Small bits of it have come out. I’m loud, opinionated, like baseball, say what I feel. I am, I realize, very east coast. These are all things that seem to really bother him.

I’m advised not to bring it up, to avoid conflict with him. To understand that he can only take my presence once in a while. It’s a little whisper, please go away quietly so that he doesn’t get grumpy or mad. Where’s the dignity in that? It just seems so juvenile and silly to temper myself so nothing comes to a head. It hasn’t been since high school that I’ve been in a situation like this. For the past ten years, I’ve felt fine being unapologetically me. And now I’m dating someone whose closest friend is a person I can’t be around.

I’m not used to this, being actively separated from my boyfriend’s friends. This friend’s dislike of me has to be pretty strong. Part of me, most of me, defends myself. What’s not to like. I’m great, smart and funny, and I love watching baseball. What’s wrong with him? This is entirely his problem. As I learned from Angela’s party, I’m not missing out on anything. I’m not the biggest fan of this guy either (and maybe that’s because he hates me . . .), but we share a very important person in our lives, and as adults I expect socially civil gestures toward each other.

But then there’s the horrible self-effacing part of me that worries about it, that cares what this guy thinks. What does he see that the rest of the world is missing? How have I tricked everyone else into liking me? That part of me is tiny, insignificant, it can be easily squashed, but it is exists, and this guy brings it out. Maybe that’s what really making me angry.

finally I get it

Wednesday night I had a meeting with a local photographer who is considering using me as an associate next year, which would mean that through her business I would be shooting weddings. Not the big money of doing it entirely on my own, but also not the demands and business side of things that I don't know about either. I'm pretty keen on doing this. I'll have to make a signifigant(for me) financial investment, but it suddenly became clear to me this week.

'm the only one who is stopping myself from doing what I want to do.

As artists we experience and admire the force, the complexity of life, and then attempt to make something that reflects what we live. This is a continual battle of failure, because life is larger than art, than writing, but we try regardless, because the pursuit of it it nessecary. The process of translation in the point.