goodbye.

The day has come, I’ve decided. I’m sorry.

You sprawl there, stripped and defenseless, lying in anxious angularity on the floor of the room that we are currently renting just for you. Although you try, like a faithful dog awaiting its next walk, to stay in the corner and out of the way, you cover half of the floorboards in your luxuriant vastness. You beckon to me, your faint polyester sheen and garden of imaginary flowers combining with the sinewy lines of your seams to put me into a somnolent trance. I resist. I look away, at the rest of the room, the room we pay hundreds for each month and which is supposed to serve as our writing room, studio, something, anything but a repository for unused things which we cannot bear to part with. When I walk through here, I always feel guilty. Am I too busy for a little nap? Couldn’t I just bring my book in here, sprawl out and read a chapter or two, my propped elbows perfectly supported, my feet nowhere near the edge?

I can’t. I don’t have the time, I don’t live in here. I tried to sleep in here a few nights, when my lover was sick, but the highway noise too easily invades this room. Still, after I’d rumpled those bedclothes a bit, you were all the more appealing to me in the days that followed. The memory foam my lover brought here, the one in the other room, seems so impersonal in its luxury, in its ease. You have a a few springs close to the surface, but of course I could always slide over to another part of you, cool and inviting and smooth. I know you intimately, where your hills and valleys are, and those knobby parts, and the softer ones that I’ve created with the knobby parts of myself.

We’ve hosted a few people, you and I, and each one of them has been impressed by you, by your size and your gentle support. Although you’d be there with us, you gave us all the room we wanted. And when I’d go elsewhere for a night or a few, myself the third part of a trio, you’d be there waiting for me, low to the ground, smelling of us, ready to soothe the aches I’d gained from straying.

But the time has come. You and I have outlasted many of my partnerships, but I cannot keep you here, ignoring you night after night, half-wishing I could put a desk where you are, give my books a place to rest and my hands a place to work. Were I to do nothing, you would wait there forever.

So I’m going to do what I should have done months ago. I’m going to see if I can find someone else who will appreciate you as I have, and who has space for all that you have to give. I hope you understand.

Hope

It's election day and I can hardly stand it. I've been working sporadically, and even that has taken an inordinate amount of concentration. I've been wandering around the internet, but there's so much coverage that I am quickly overwhelmed. I tried to waste some time getting the house in order for the new era that will begin tomorrow (whether it be an era of change, or one in which we reach new lows of dejection and pessimism, I'd like for the place to start out organized). But then I felt I should be writing about this undeniably historic moment. And now I find myself with too much to say, and too little to say, all at once, and the words for this state of anticipation are eluding me.
I've gone from someone thoroughly cynical about the political process to someone who nearly swoons at the thought of Obama as president. Imagine, a president that we can not only respect, but who we can actually get behind? Someone who we will support and cheer on, someone who seems to have something to do with us. And by "we" here I mean not only my like-minded fellow very-liberals, but decent, moderate people who would be characterized by the evangelists and billionaires who have taken over in recent years as liberal, too. Because that's another part of what makes the possibility of an Obama win so exciting - that it might present some chance for a wider section of society to be represented, and, thereby, for some actual social change to occur.
I'm not under any illusions about everything being fixed this year if Obama wins, or even this term. But as someone who's spent her entire adult life with W as president, I'm pretty damn excited about the change that so many are hoping for.

dream report: synchronicity

I found myself at a large indoor public pool, part of a swimming class whose other students were children, around ten years old. I couldn't figure out why no one noticed that I was an adult. We were all standing up on blocks, and there was a pipe running the length of the pool, below our feet and just above the water. We were instructed to reach down to the pipe. All the children could reach, but I came nowhere near. My hands dangled uselessly, and I began to notice how thick the chlorinated air was, and how many people there were, poised over this pipe that ran the length of the pool. There were hundreds of us, and the line of students disappeared somewhere in the mist.
We were then told to let go of the pipe, but dive into the water, keeping as close to the pipe as possible. I couldn't see how this would work out without us cracking our skulls, but when I tried it, I slipped into the water in a perfect, splashless dive. But when I reached the bottom of the pool, it was so disgustingly murky I hesitated to push off from the bottom, even though it was the only way I'd make it back up to the air in time.
Over coffee, Ari told me that he'd dreamed he was on a synchronized diving team, and that he kept executing these perfect dives. We haven't been talking about swimming or diving lately, synchronized or otherwise, so this is another instance that makes me wonder if we talk to each other in our sleep.

Trains, Trains, Trains!

...the conductors that chug through Baton Rouge at 3 a.m. are, to say the least, excessively scrupulous in letting us know they are present. The other night, one of them hit that horn every two seconds for about a full hour. No evident forward progress of said train, no Doppler effect whatsoever.
Whoever's on the tracks at 3 a.m. can fend for themselves after the first ten minutes of honking, if you ask me. All I could do was lay there and fume helplessly, as I pictured myself out there in the dark, throwing rocks at the boxcars and ineffectually screaming out my rage.
But, to tell the truth, things have been quieter for the past couple of nights. I just wanted to break my silence on here with a rant. I'm afraid time took the sting off it, though.
I'm sure something else will produce a better tirade soon.

running update

I am steadily gaining faith in my ability to do this half-marathon thing, and while I wouldn't say each run is easier, I can feel myself growing in strength and mental fortitude. I can see myself running the 2.5 hours it will probably take me to do the 13.1 miles - albeit probably slowly. I ran a nice fast (for me) 3.5 miles the other day - a pace of 9:20 min per mile, to my usual 12.00 min. Speed isn't the goal, but the spike was encouraging - although I'm not sure where it came from.
Meanwhile, I haven't been all that productive in the writing department in the past couple of weeks - I try to plod along but become discouraged or distracted, or veins that seem promising dry up on me too soon to become much. But I can't help but treat running as a constant, physical metaphor for writing - I'm in training and just need to learn how to make those encouraging spikes happen more often. I'm trying to pay more attention to what makes them come.

dream report #2

Sarah Palin's motorcade was scheduled to come through Baton Rouge, along our street (as Bush's had nearly done during Gustav). Somehow, I managed to infiltrate her squad of security officers and gain access to the slick black vehicle that was to bring her through. I was dressed all in black, and wore scuffed combat boots with all manner of huge buckles and straps - no one suspected me. I was armed with a semi-automatic, but instead of using it to take out the vicious hockey mom, I set up a unique sort of bomb: When Palin got into the car, trapped securely behind the tinted bulletproof glass, a tampon saturated with liquid explosive would descend from the car's roof, and detonate in her face.
Horrifyingly violent, I know, but to my credit, I did make sure that the explosion would be so powerful as to wipe her out instantly. And in the reality of the dream, she didn't die, she simply ceased to have ever existed.
This situation is getting out of hand.

sense of foreboding.

Last night, I dreamed a Christian fundamentalist regime had overtaken America, one considerably more fascist and successful than the current one. Everyone I knew - all those intellectuals, artists, dissenters, queers, Jews, etc. - was rounded up and herded into camps. I can still clearly see the high barbed-wire fences and feel my sense of despair when Ari was separated from me. I knew he offended said regime even more than most of us, and that I would not see him again. But after a time, I joined with a few others, and then a few more, and then a few more, to overtake the camp and liberate our people and, in the process, freedom and independent thought. I was, quite uncharacteristically, the co-leader of the revolution, along with a brunette woman I can still clearly see in my head, but who doesn't resemble anyone I know.
Our struggle was, sadly, a bloody one, but I didn't so much participate as watch myself do so through a lens of conventional Hollywood flashiness. There were explosions and gore, and probably a rousing soundtrack. It was all quite glamorous, and upon our victory, those of us who remained walked free from the camp amid drifting smoke.
The dream then flashed forward a few years - maybe five? - and I was back in college, and knew somehow that all my former compatriots were, too. I must have been a graduate student, because I was asked to lecture to a classroom full of younger people. I arrived at said classroom - a cramped, flourescent-lit space, and whoever brought me there started explaining that I could use the sheet they proffered to cover myself as I undressed. I met this with confusion, but it slowly dawned on me that the lecture was next week, and here, I'd been asked to pose nude for a drawing class.
The nude as a basis for artmaking and artistic apprenticeship had been thoroughly suppressed during the days of the repressive Christian regime, as had all forms of sexual expression and anything else deemed immoral by our leaders, who we had at first elected but had gotten wildly out of hand, steadfastly refusing to relinquish power when the time came. The rights of women to police their own bodies had, predictably, disappeared during that time, and society was still recovering from this mental damage. The people in this class - freshman and sophomores - had lived childhoods permeated by this conservatism, and I and my former revolutionaries were doing whatever we could to free them from the repressive ideologies on which the former state was based. So, after thinking for a moment, I cheerfully agreed to strip down and celebrate the freedom for which we had all struggled, and to serve as an example to these younger individuals, to let them know that art was ok and beautiful, and thought was ok and beautiful, and, ultimately, no one could take those things away from us.
Then the dream did one of those dream-morph things, and I found myself not only in a tightly-packed classroom but also on a dimly-lit stage, all at once. The students stared up at me from red velour theatre seats, and the wood planks of the stage were cold beneath my feet. There were three or four other models onstage, also nude, and the professor was dictating our poses to a high degree of specificity. It slowly dawned on me that he was a former leader in the regime, and I thought it strange that he would even engage in such a profession. He was a squat, balding man wearing a tight jacket, sort of a turn-of-the-century Wall Street baron type, an old-fashioned fat cat. Only when he handed me a rough wooden railroad tie, settled it upon my shoulders and ordered me to draped my arms over each end, did I realize that we models were being compelled to act out scenes from the life of Christ. Somehow, this meant that the rumors about the former dictators re-organizing themselves and regaining power were true. I did know that even though we had regained a great level of freedom, certain forms of protest were becoming dangerous once more. But I wouldn't have it; I wouldn't participate in the indoctrinization of these students - 0ne of which, sadly, was my former co-leader from the camps. So, as the stage shrunk back down to the classroom, I set my wooden burden down and walked out, totally naked.
****
I'm not posting this totally whacked-out dream for any specific reason (least of all to share the rather embarrassing glorification therein of my own character), but I do think that the fact that I even had it is telling. I am, by nature, totally jaded about politics. George Bush has been president for the entirety of my adult life, and although I support Obama, I find it difficult to truly HOPE that things can get better. We elected Bush - twice! - and it is hard to get over the discouragementand disappointment I have felt about that. I'm not so staunchly anti-religion as my dream would imply (and hope I haven't offended any Christian or otherwise spiritual friends). I try to respect that people need religion, I try to remember that it is truly important to many, that it is a of deep significance to them - I don't presume to understand what that is all about. But a repressive regime based upon misuses and exaggerations of Christian doctrine is exactly what I fear we may end up with if McCain/Palin win this election. If they don't accomplish said nightmare during their tenure, they can certainly lay the foundation. I do not think this country has the capacity to devolve into the kind of post-apocalyptic/anachronistic state in my dream - we as a people are, despite the apparently pervasive ignorance of the last eight years, ultimately too kind, too generous, too accepting of each other as individuals to allow the return of such things as labor camps for dissenters and "fringe" populations (although the relatively recent Japanese internment camps do come to mind). But I do fear that we could lose traction on so many things that have, in the past fifty years or so, helped this country move closer to its great potential as a land where so many people can live in harmony. (Look how patriotic this whole freakshow of an election is making me!) As just one example, I submit the very real possibility of Roe v. Wade being overturned, something that, ten years ago, we could not have dreamed possible. But, maybe there were those who dreamed it - maybe I've always been trapped in a elitist liberal bubble.
I don't presume, honestly, to be an educated follower of politics, or of social and financial and racial issues in America - I had plugged my jaded ears to all of it for so long, I'm having a hell of a time catching up. And I admit the doomsday quality of my dream, combined with the flat, grey, dreary sky, is infusing my day and making everything seem a bit more dramatic and abstract than usual. But now, I do want to get fired up - I want to rescind my former lack of engagement and try to support those who would bring much-needed change to this country. Part of the problem, I think, is that said involvement lacks the glamour of the rebel struggle, particularly in a flamingly red state such as ours. Ari reported that the two people who organize for Obama in Baton Rouge - young, direct dispatches from Chicago - were, as of a month ago, already resigned to the hopelessness of their task. But I'm considering helping them out, regardless. For my own sense of dignity.
I'll conclude my ramble here, and will update on any political involvement I manage to propel myself into.

Just about what I can chew.

baton rouge beach half marathon course
Originally uploaded by ratterrell

Well, ok, I'm not up to half-marathon ability at the moment, but I plan to be by December 6. Tomorrow is the first day of the half-marathon training program run by the local Fleet Feet, and I plan to be really committed to this.
Why would I take on such insanity? Ummm. I think I just want to accomplish something that badass. I'm also doing it in memory of a special someone: my chubby childhood self, who dreaded the yearly Presidential Fitness Mile Run so much it would make me nauseated, even when it was months away. So I guess this is also for all the little bitches who called me Heifer.
Mooooooo.

Pictures of Awesomeness.

In a break from Gustav ruminations, here are photos of our apartment. Did I mention it is awesome?








View from front door













Bedroom









Kitchen (note the tower of Charles Shaw. Six cases, my friends.)









Weird-ass kitchen ceiling. Pepto pink crowning absolutely unreachable shelves. Love it.










Hall of Bikes. Future dining room, perhaps.







Okay, Blogger makes picture posting pretty difficult, and it's late, so I'll have to continue tomorrow.

Gustav

12:30 a.m.
The wind is gradually increasing, and the dark night air is filling up with moisture, as Gustav approaches land. We are all suspended in a strange sort of anticipation – Ari and I and our friends have been stocking up on water, food, pet supplies, candles – nearly everything on hurricane preparedness lists. For the past three days, we’ve gone out to the grocery store and bought a few items, then decided that there are a few more things we need, and gone out again. It seems everyone has been approaching things this way, unsure of just how concerned to be, not wanting to get hysterical, but deciding to take precautions just in case. The weather forecasts prove that it is nearly impossible to provide accurate data on when the hurricane will hit and how strong it will be, as the predicted timing and intensity seems to change every half hour.
Governor Bobby Jindal and New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin are busy doing what they can to whip up a frenzy. " ‘This is the real deal, this is not a test,’ Nagin said as he issued the [mandatory evacuation] order, warning residents that staying would be ‘one of the biggest mistakes you could make in your life.’ He emphasized that the city will not offer emergency services to anyone who chooses to stay behind.”
Nagin has, in other news coverage, claimed that the storm has a 900 mile footprint of hurricane-force winds – a claim the apparently utterly confused those at the National Weather Center. I figure some intern of his measured the clouds on a doppler map, or something. It may be that Nagin and Jindal are acting hysterical in order to scare people from the city, to keep them safe in case something happens, but I’m cynical, so I think they are both undergoing calculated efforts to make the storm bigger than it actually is, so that later they can illustrate how well they handled the emergency.
After Jindal made a particularly frenzied speech this afternoon, our friend and neighbor Brianne called us and the rest of our group of friends together to meet at her house and discuss what we were all going to do. It was really touching, and I felt fortunate to already be part of a caring knot of people who were going to help each other in any way necessary. There were six or so of us there, and we made plans for some to sleep in others’ houses – those who were likely to lose power for a while, and those who live alone and just wanted some company to ride it out. We made plans to grill any meat that would spoil, should we lose power for a significant period of time. Ari and I offered our house to anyone who needed a space, since we’re lucky enough to have a lot of room and mattresses, and our landlady Laura told us that we are on the same power grid as the Governor’s Mansion, and therefore should only be out a day or two, if at all. We called newcomers to the department who live alone and might like to join in, and, of course, we calculated how much beer and wine we all had, should we be looking at a serious respite from civilization. Hurricanes are a bit of an excuse to party, and the general idea is to be prepared and then assume a jaunty air. Brianne has a lovely pair of stylin’ “hurricane pants,” and I’m mulling over what pair I’d select.
Everyone is concerned but only a few are nervous, it seems, and only two are evacuating Baton Rouge, and they were (sort of) planning a trip anyway. As I said, there is a weird sort of anticipation, especially today, since it was so hot and still and pretty out (not overcast, not horribly humid). But the wind is moving in, and the predicted storm track certainly does indicate that we’re in for something. Meanwhile, the waiting is irritating because we’re all unsure what we’re waiting for – lots of wind and rain? A couple days without power? Or a few hours of sitting in the closet, listening to wind like a freightrain batter the house? I admit I started becoming concerned when Laura pointed out that the aforementioned closet is our safe place, should we need one.
The safe place, though, would have to be our bathroom, which is quite protected, despite the one window. The closet would be insufficient because our friends Andy and Starr have evacuated New Orleans and are staying with us, bringing three cats in tow. Starr also has a pet spider, whose name I can’t remember, which must be freaking Ari out a little, arachnaphobe he is.
It seems very strange to be designating safe spaces in the house, as well as to be planning to pack bags with emergency supplies tomorrow, should there be a need to evacuate even from here. I don’t think that is likely, but want to be ready if necessary. I do admit that if after all this preparation, the storm doesn’t do much at all, I will be kind of disappointed. Of course, I don’t want anyone hurt, but I’m ready for a serious event here.

Dare.

I was writing about adolescence today and I came out with this: Hormones are chemicals and chemicals are drugs and there's no opportunity to just say no.
I thought it pithy.

tuning back in

Okay, time to haul this thing off the procrastination pile before it dies a swift death. Were all those initial postings in the same day? Probably. I figure the first blog-remission is most often the fatal one, so I have high hopes that this particular post means I'm ready to get into the habit.
(Yes, I understand that the very nature of a remission, as it is usually conceived, means that said disease is not, at that time, fatal. I'm mixing metaphors or something. It's a late morning on a work day, though, so you can't expect much.)
I've leapt back on here because I just HAD to share this. Yes, sir: it's a breakfast manifesto about cereal. I found it while eating Cheerios with Ari and opining about the merits of Fiber One.
But seriously, people, it's pretty funny.
Cereal ruminations aside, Baton Rouge is being pretty welcoming this week. Yesterday I had my first banjo lesson, and it was really fun and not at all discouraging. I found my teacher, Garrett "Doc" McCutchan (described here as a "Cajun Santa Claus") while browsing at Circa 1857, a sprawling conglomeration of six shops arranged in a sort of courtyard, covering antiques, jewelry, cheaper junk furniture, a great cafe, and, perhaps best of all, fabulous architectural pieces salvaged from stately Southern homes, theatres, etc. There are all these huge windows, doors, fireplace mantels, and all kinds of weird random stuff just piled up outside (concrete alligators and flamingos by the dozen). It's crazy to think of all those amazing buildings torn down to make way for, probably, concrete Days Inns and such. Then again, there were probably homeless people peeing in a lot of them.
Anyway, 1857 is, on the whole, like a Cajun 305 South. We didn't find anything, but had fun exploring, and as we wound through one building a banjo started up. We found this older man playing at the speed of craziness, and perfectly looking the part of the banjo teacher I'd imagined. I waited behind the couple he was wowing, and then introduced myself and have now landed weekly appointments. He's $40/hour, which isn't bad. Yesterday's lesson lasted nearly two hours, in fact, and he still charged for only one. I'm hoping he maintains the habit of running over, as the trainer I shared with Mindy often did.
The lesson itself was actually held in the 1857 cafe (after closing). Doc told me some crazy stories and gave me some tips about music festivals both in town and outside of it (including a Celtic music weekend I'm seriously considering, in Jackson. Yes, Mississippi.). He also gave me a decent foundation in beginning banjo - I know four chords and can almost play a song.
I left 1857 really excited and happy, and must have been distracted because I missed the first turn-off for downtown and home, resulting in my having to loop around downtown (a good way of exploring, since I haven't been driving enough). I ran into a few runners (I mean, I saw them running as I drove by). The column became thicker and was clearly a club, so I followed the line of them up to where I found a few walkers. They were Happy's Running Club (they have an awesome logo), and are based out of a Irish bar. I'll be meeting up with them next Tuesday. Wish me luck, because I have been one lazy individual for the past month or so. One of them also suggested I run with the club from Varsity Sports (check out how cute their shop looks), which is apparently super-intense and meets four times per week. But she was clearly in the throes of some crazy running high, so I don't know if I really want to hang with them. I think Club South Runners, "The drinking club with a running problem" might be my best secondary option.
(Maybe that last link was one too many. But honestly, providing all these is helping me organize things, too. And it makes up for my current lack of photos - to be alleviated soon.)
In other news, we saw Chapel Hill band The Hold Steady last week, on the insistence of our landlady, Laura Mullen, whom we'd invited down for dinner that night. Needless to say, she is really awesome. The show was great, and packed, and the space was decent (Chelsea's Cafe), and I felt quite at home. I'd never managed to see The Hold Steady in Chapel Hill, in fact.
This started with a link to a cereal tasting and is on its way to novella status. Off to practice some chords, then schedule some meetings.

Paris, J'taime

I know you've all seen this, but still...

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

scooter jerky

Woke up this morning, stumbled out to the driveway to move my scooter for the first time since I arrived. Poor, lonely scooter you say? Indeed. But I need to get a handle on directions and such before venturing out and, really, I haven’t had the need. The fun stuff is downtown (biking distance), the practical stuff is down the highway. We took Ari’s car to our closest grocery store the other day – the place must be 10 miles away, at least. We also rented a movie on the same trip – from Blockbuster, our only option. Netflix will be our friend.
But about the scooter. I release the cable lock, hand it to Ari, and put the key in the ignition, only to find it strangely yielding. I wriggle the key a bit, but can’t turn it. I yank it out and inspect it, and find something that I identify, out loud, as “salt or something.” Of course, I figure this to be a moving casualty – lord knows tons of stuff got covered in spilled detergent, and salt could have leaked, too. I keep fiddling with the key, and I manage to get the scooter going, but not before I notice a pile of salt on my neighbor’s lawn, which begins just at the edge of our cement driveway. I saw said elderly neighbor's daughter out there the other day, presumably weeding and...scaring off slugs? And punks with motorcycles, who chain their machine to her mother's fence? (I did ask, for the record.) I’m feeling all Nancy Drew about this, but have no real evidence that my neighbor salted my scooter, nor do I have a motive. I do, however, have a hell of a time getting the key in or out now, and most likely will have to visit a mechanic (and really, I hate having to put my child in foreign hands).

catching up

(Tuesday, August 5, 2008)

After eleven days of hauling boxes and nesting bikes and placating cats, I’m starting to feel like I live here, in Baton Rouge. I biked to work this morning through the damp haze left by Edouard (how many vowels in that, again?) – whose lashing rain was probably the reason neither of us slept last night. It has cooled things off, although the air is still thick, and condensation clings to my AC-cooled bike as soon as I take it outside (as Alex S. said yesterday, “It’s not the heat that will get you, it’s everyone reminding you how humid it is.” Word.). My work location is Buzz Café, for the moment, until the fine people at Cocks Cable deem us worthy of internet installation – we ordered service just before leaving Carrboro – at least ten days ago. My route from home to here takes me through six blocks of our awesome neighborhood, Spanish Town (more later), and five or so blocks of staid, linear state buildings and banks, in different shades of grey, surrounded by neat green plots of grass. Downtown, this morning I saw exactly one person– an overweight woman hauling herself up the steps to a bank entrance, dressed for a desk job, holding a burlap-looking shoulder bag that says, “Jesus,” in big purple letters. In Spanishtown, I saw: mardi gras beads hanging from tree branches and power lines, three people lounging on porches (they all waved), Spanish moss, parrots hanging in cages on porches (two). And kudzu, of course. The road itself is asphalt in Spanish town and cement downtown – as I roll along, the swish, thump, swish, thump of passing from one section to another reminds me of college roadtrips to Myrtle Beach – I-85 into South Carolina is paved the same way (cement is cooler, I guess).
Time to break for work, and preserve this sweet deal that is my job.

blog the first

Here begins my chronicle of what are sure to be strange and lovely times in Baton Rouge, Louisiana - my new home, as of last Monday (July 28, 2008). I need an excuse to write something (nearly) every day, I'm lazy about emailing, and I want to capture the inevitable bizarro moments of living here. (On a side note, I'd support this lady, were she in my precinct. A babe, no?)
I'm new to the blog thing, so bear with me (pretend it's 2002 or something). It'll take me a few posts (or all of them) to settle on a tone.