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reader, writer, unregenerate comma-splicer |
I recently watched the Buffy episode where she runs around singing the Village People song “Macho Man.” And then today I saw this homeless guy standing on his head on the corner and he was singing “Macho Man.”
I love these days where everything comes together so beautifully.
Actually, Michele said “What about Breakfast at Tiffany’s?” We all concurred, kinda remembering the film, and so that is what Finer Things read this month.
Photo lovers, knock yourselves out.
To get to the parking lot from Warwick Castle, you walk a quiet footpath enclosed in green and the occasional peacock. Walking this path, we were following two little English boys of about seven years old. They walked close together, obviously with the sense that they were the only people in the world.
“I don’t care about anything,” one said. “Do you?”
“I care about some things,” the other said, after a moment’s thought. “I care about you.”
They will both forget this conversation, and the men they grow up to be will forget they were once these boys, but I will remember.
Gene: One of my friends really likes this wine.
Me: Whom? [blinks] Wait, I can’t say ‘whom’ there.
Graham: No, certainly not. ‘Whom’ is the accusative case.
Me: But that’s how one ought to address one’s boyfriend. In the accusative.
Example:
WHOM YOU BEEN JEEPIN’ WITH, BOYFRIEND?
The grammar queen. Aw yeah.
The cough is on the mend and my mind can turn to different, less germy ideas.
Though we had agreed not to get one another Christmas presents this year, Gene and I both cheated. Using one of Hope’s connections, he got me tickets to the Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of Hamlet, starring Patrick Stewart as Claudius, a sold-out show that I would have given every one of my teeth to see. Thanks to Hope (oh thank you, Hope, thank you, Hope), we saw it from the best seats in the house, front-row center of the dress circle, and for free.
On top of this being the best company I’d ever seen, the best seats I’ve ever seen a show from, and the best play in the English language, it was also the best show I’ve ever been to (and that includes the Color Me Bad concert at Great America). Some highlights:
– The closet scene was not played on Freudian lines, the first time I’ve ever seen the closet scene not played that way. It is remarkable how much more sense the rest of the play makes when Hamlet is not secretly in love with his mum.
– Ophelia has always been a problem for me, because she’s often played so mealy-mouthed that you can’t imagine what, if anything, Hamlet ever saw in her. In this production, she and Hamlet had actual chemistry, and it was clear that their relationship went off the rails due to the constant observation Hamlet was under (a theme underscored by the staging, which consisted for most of the play of giant mirrors and no props).
I also usually hate her madness scene, because she talks too much; it makes her madness much less scary than I think it ought to be. But in this case, when she sings “Quoth she, before you tumbled me, you promised me to wed,” she looks with great significance at Claudius, who immediately looks guilty, as if he really had tumbled her. And later on he seems very eager to put her madness down to her father’s death, as if disclaiming any personal responsibility. It was an interesting little subtext that put a whole new face on her breakdown — and really makes you wonder what Gertrude’s been up to when, after one startled understanding glance at Claudius, she later describes with eerie accuracy the way that Ophelia died.
– Patrick Stewart was so amazing that it wasn’t until the curtain call that I realized, holy shit, Patrick Stewart is standing right in front of me. Up until then he’d been Claudius.
To sum up, this was the most amazing gift I’ve ever gotten, and one of the best nights of my life. I would move to London just to get season tickets to the RSC’s productions. I would move to London just to hang around outside this theater and relive my glory evening.
If you are wondering, I got him a sweater for Christmas.
Three weeks in Europe and not a blog entry to show for it. And you’re not getting one now.
It was wonderful. Don’t mistake me. But I caught a cold abroad, and that’s pretty much what I’m thinking about these days. Because the cold soon passed into a dry cough, which then passed into a horrible wet cough that makes me sound like a tuberculosis victim in her final days, and that cough lingers and lingers and lingers. (I was great fun at Thomas’s New Year’s Eve party, let me tell you.)
It is funny how many cough remedies there are out there, and how many people want to tell you about them. Special teas, whiskey drinks, medicines, vapor rubs, willpower. One guy very earnestly suggested I just try breathing IN once in a while. After a while, you stop hearing the separate remedies and start hearing everyone saying the same thing: “Can you just try…NOT being so fucking sick around me?” I really can’t blame them; I sound like Pestilence’s girlfriend.
But anyhow, I am back here in the home, where the air is warm and the couch is soft and the herbal teas are plentiful and the doctor gave me an inhaler. Plus, all my clothes are here, so at least I can look cute while I’m expelling lung bits. (Yeah, you think this is gross, but just be grateful I’m not coming to visit, okay?) And once I’ve curled up with this inhaler a few times, I will surely start to mend, and then I’ll write about things other than my foul contagion, like what a great time we had on the trip and all the things we saw and did.
Meanwhile…
HACK HACK COUGH WHEEEEEEZE
Back to the couch.
Leaving for the airport soon. It will be a 10.5 hour flight, nonstop, which is actually great because I am way behind on my annual goal of playing one hundred consecutive games of solitaire while listening to Rihanna and The Muppets. (Different artists, not a weird new cover band. Though I would pay good money to hear Miss Piggy cover “Disturbia.”)
I’m looking around the apartment now, trying to decide what I might hate myself for in three weeks. If I come home to an un-vacuumed living room, will I mind? Probably not. The milk, on the other hand, could be a real problem.
I already kind of miss my coffee cups. I’m considering having another cup of coffee now just to enjoy them again. Too bad I just threw out the milk between paragraphs.
People like to ask how my writing is going. It’s polite and supportive, a nod to my chosen profession rather than an embrace of the totally valid other opinion (that I am a dilettante with no chosen profession who can’t get it together).
Still, it’s a hard question for me to answer. I think it’s tough in any job — think about what you did at work this morning; how much of it was “ate half a stale bagel, checked email obsessively, accidentally threw out an important paper,” and how much of it was stuff that could be made into an interesting anecdote or one-line response? That percentage goes down even more for me; I work alone, in my house, so my stories are at a minimum. I only have quirky co-workers when I forget and start talking to myself out loud.
The other reason this gets asked is that this struggle with my writing is one of the few things most people know about me, because I could not shut up about my own self-loathing and insecurity in re: this choice of work for about a year after I started. And no one wants to ask “So, still loathing yourself?” So they ask about the writing instead.
But, as I say, I never know how to respond. “It’s going well” seems dismissively abrupt, but a longer answer is boring. Every now and then I can say something like “I interviewed Timmy from the original Lassie show,” (which I did; he was a lovely person), but mostly I don’t have those answers.
If I could choose, I’d much rather be asked what I’m reading. That begins a dialogue and a round of the “have you read…” game. For that question I always have an answer.
Yi cin reads, arsk me howe!!
Eight days before we were scheduled to fly to Europe, I realized my passport was missing.
Three days before we fly out, I have a new passport in hand.
How did this miracle occur? For those in a similar position, or for the merely curious, I’m posting my experience.
WHAT TO DO IF YOU
-LOSE YOUR PASSPORT
-ARE LEAVING THE COUNTRY IN 14 DAYS OR LESS
AND
-LIVE IN THE BAY AREA.
Should I use a rush provider?
There are dozens of services on the web that promise to get you a passport before your departure date. (RushMyPassport.com, PriorityPassports.com, etc.) I do not advise using these services. I do know people who have used them successfully, but there are also plenty of warning stories online about people who paid their money and still didn’t get their passports in time. In addition, it will cost you around $300 on top of the $160 fee you pay to get a new passport in a hurry.
Should I go through the State Department’s Passport Agency?
Yes!
If you’ve done your homework, you’ve found the official State Department page about losing your passport, which introduces you to the Passport Agency. I was dubious about this service at first. I used the automated phone system to make an appointment, and the first available one was on the morning of the day we were leaving. (We fly out in the late afternoon.) My concerns were:
– I wouldn’t be a priority.
Not true. At this office, they look at a copy of your itinerary and prioritize the passports accordingly. If you’re leaving in a few hours, you go to the top of the stack.
– No government agency can turn something around in less than 24 hours.
Not true. There are countless reviews on Yelp from desperate people who received same-day passports. This agency exists to serve those people and it does a good job.
My experience was a little different. I went down to the agency on Monday morning, even though my appointment wasn’t until Thursday, on the off-chance they’d process me early. I told the guard at the door that I was a few days early for my appointment (I think often you need to show your appointment confirmation number), but it wasn’t too busy and he cheerfully let me through.
(Note: I do not believe this is the standard procedure. When I returned to pick up my passport, the new guard was being much pickier about only allowing in people who had appointments. I think it’s worth going before your appointment just in case they’ll let you in, but you definitely should make an appointment as well.)
Once you’re inside, you present the following documents:
– Proof of US citizenship such as birth certificate or old passport.
– Forms DS-11 and DS-64, filled out. (Find them here.)
– Two passport photos (this is a specific kind of photo; you can get them at most Kinkos or UPS stores).
– Credit card, check or money order for $160.
– Driver’s license.
– Your airline tickets or the e-ticket itinerary the airline emailed you.
You’re given a number and you sit down and wait. Bring a book and headphones if you have them. There were about 30 people in front of me, but it goes pretty fast. Still, schedule plenty of time to wait.
When your number is called, you go to the window and present your documents, and a very nice employee chats with you while she finishes your paperwork. You’re then told when you can pick up your passport — for me it was the following morning, because I’m not a same-day priority.
So did you get a passport or not?
Yup. I’m looking at it right now and it’s glorious. Europe, here I come!
One added thing…
My final note about the awesomeness of the passport office is this: it’s about a seven minute walk from the Montgomery station, so if you go on a really cold day like today then you can wear your brand new parka, which is just as cozy as you hoped it would be. Friends, I leave you with my head and a smug, passport-carrying smile.
Last night Katy and I went to hear Coleman Barks read some of his Rumi translations at the Palace of Fine Arts.
I acquired one of Barks’ Rumi books the last time I was in Europe and it stabbed me in the heart a few times, as books occasionally do. Rumi was a thirteenth century Sufi mystic; not someone you would expect to speak so clearly to a twenty-first century agnostic dog journalist, but there you have it, art is surprising. And part of the reason why the poems spoke to me — maybe the whole reason, for all I know — was Barks’ clear, simple translations.
I expected Barks to be stuffy and staid, like someone who chose to bury himself in thirteenth century poetry. Instead, he was merry and charmingly self-conscious. He made silly jokes and talked about his family. In retrospect, he was exactly the person you would expect to bury himself in the dizzy, drunken world of Rumi.
The readings were backed by a trio of musicians and accompanied by a “story dancer,” and mostly I found these accompaniments distracting rather than enhancing. But there was one poem that worked. The poem is about that moment when the sun begins to rise and you’ve been up all night talking with friends; it’s an attempt to define that state of being. And suddenly the lighting was right and the music was right and the dancer was quietly spinning instead of windmilling her arms and in my mind I saw a man coming out of a tavern into the first light of morning, and I thought about the fact that this man who spoke these words had been dead for all these centuries and here I am with my living ear catching these words, and just for a moment I had one flash of understanding of what that might mean. And I think that moment was worth the ticket price.
This lovely illustration is by Lisa Dietrich.
Incidentally, here are some of my favorite Rumi lines — not the lines that most move me, but the ones I’d like to live by:
Work. Keep digging your well.
Don’t think about getting off from work.
Water is there somewhere.
Submit to a daily practice.
Your loyalty to that
is a ring on the door.
Keep knocking, and the joy inside
will eventually open a window
and look out to see who’s there.
If ever I have a study of my own, I will paint “SUBMIT TO A DAILY PRACTICE” in big letters on the wall.