Quote from Journal

08-03-2001
Three different homeless men talked to me today. I didn't linger to chat, since I was on a photo mission. One said, "You look happy. That's good." Of course I am. I'm on a photo mission.

Iodine

How I spend the memorial day.

we are all just prisoners here, of our own device

Today was one of those days that I should label "bad," but in the grand scheme of things, it is not really bad. I can't call it bad at all-- no one died, there were no car accidents, lay-offs, diseases, disasters, tragedies. In the vast landscape of days before and following today, this one is destined to fade from memory completely (unless, of course, I read this).

So while it was not what I would call a bad day, it is one I am glad to have over, glad to be rid of, glad to come home to a person and two cats who love me. A pox on your existence, August 29th. Good riddance.

Last night, I thought to myself, gosh, I don't think I have cried in months. I can't remember the last time I did. That's good, right? OK, movies don't count. Listening to Hilary talking up Barack and trying to brush off her disappointment brought tears to my eyes. (No, I am not talking about politics, I am talking about empathy for that bitter disappointment.)

Moving on. I thought this last night, then thought, "I wonder if that is why I have so many hives and allergic reactions right now." You know, the tears allow you to vent, or you bottle it up and it sneaks out through your pores. I know I know. New Age bullshit. But when you are this itchy, you resort to crazy thoughts.

This morning, I had an upsetting dream. The content wasn't significantly bad, but I was very upset in the dream, and when I woke up, I started crying just thinking of it. When I remembered the thought I mentioned above, I felt relief ("Oh good, now I've cried.") and instantly stopped crying ("Darn, that's probably not enough."). Even though it was a short cry, I did become melancholy most of the morning.

It was in this mood that my boss accidentally slammed my finger in the door.

I wasn't going to make a big deal of it-- I want them to hire me. But as soon as he left, my lip began shaking and I wanted to cry. I go to my office-- and there is someone in there using the printer. And they need help. For the rest of the day. And interrupted me while I tried to work. So I didn't get my work done. And I left late, ruining my Friday night plans.

Later, I'm in my office, alone briefly, and a man wanders in (who looks homeless). He asks if I have seen the other professor, and explains he was this man's student thirty years ago. I say no, he doesn't come in on Friday. The man asked if he could leave him a message. I said, you could, if you would like, you can use my phone. He starts leaving his message, explaining who he is, and "your secretary says you aren't in..." to which I interrupt, "I am not a secretary." He turned back to the phone and said, "she says she's not your secretary." He hemmed and hawed and then asked where the bathroom was. Anything to get him the heck out of my office.

The icing on the cake of the day: yesterday, four guys wanted to add my class, today, none of them do, and someone dropped my other class. Normally, I am happy to have a smaller class, but short of getting the Dean to run me over to give me a pity-job, I am convinced I need to show my worthiness and usefulness in all these imperceptible ways. (Yes, tricky, I know; see above about the hives.)

I walked home at 6:30 (I got to work at nine, had a work-related lunch, so didn't leave the building that whole time. Apparently, it rained at some point.), during which I called the Illinois auction house (I couldn't go to, from having left so late) to make an absentee bid, and buy myself a quirky, arty present. Assuming I win the auction. This would be the highlight of the day, by the way.

As I turned onto my street, I see the local pedophile, standing legs-straddled over the sidewalk, staring in my direction. I don't know if I have mentioned him here before or not, but he is my direct-next-door neighbor. I usually avoid eye-contact, but the last time I saw him as I left home, our eyes did meet, so I felt obligated to say hello. He continued to stare at me in his creepy, menacing way, and neither smiled not responded. Hence, when I saw his opposing stance down the street, I decided to take the alley instead. That would never have been true in California.

I came home to discover my sweetheart had reinstalled my computer without my asking, knowing, or backing up of data first. Everything is fine (I think), but I don't even step on cracks or walk under ladders this close to three major exhibitions (of which the work is not printed or burned into a DVD yet).

Basically, I am having trouble with folks of the opposite gender right now, and I am trying not to feel paranoid that I also work at an all-male college.

And that was my day. Should be bad, but really, I did my job, even if it was inefficient. I will have good classes this fall, even if not as full as I'd like. And nothing terrible happened. That's what I keep telling myself.

The perfect photo

When I was 18, I was a lifeguard. It was the summer time, and I was about to leave for college, to the great hippie-oasis of Northern California. I was gathering clothes for my new (used) wardrobe, and decided I would crochet myself a purple parka-wrap similar to ones I had seen in photos from my mom's youth, and period movies. During my breaks as a lifeguard, I worked on it. It took a couple weeks all together, and even now I can't believe I would lay it over my lap, like a blanket, in a California summer. The stitches were immaculate, the pattern consistent and reflected the constant tension I held on that yarn all summer.

For whatever reason, I never wore it in Santa Cruz or after. Because of how warm I made it, it makes the wearer about twice their normal size. I think that's why I never wore it. But I was so proud of its craftsmanship, I held onto it.

As I was cleaning out my house, preparing to sell it and move to Indiana, a neighbor would volunteer to take my extra things to a shelter she ran, where everything was given for free to the poor. When she saw the funny purple hat I bought at the Renaissance Fair, she told me about a sweet old woman who loved the color purple and who would love it so much. I was working on a performance project ("Yard Sale") at the time, so I asked for a picture of her in the hat. I never got one, but later she told me again about how much this woman loved the hat, and how she had recently been hit by a car. I suddenly remembered the wrap I had made ten years earlier and never worn. I sent it with her for this woman, and was glad someone would get use of its warmth.

Last month, I received a letter in the mail. In it was this photo. At first, I didn't recognize it. Who was this ancient woman? What is this strange pose she is holding? But the whole thing is such a strange, amazing photo. It seems so perfect, her gesture, the heart-shaped window bars, the tilt of her head, and this wild purple parka. I can't tell you how it made my day.

So I remember

To the past

Dear M,

Could you believe this town has two of these? I pass one each day on the way to work, depending which route I take. I think of you each time. Do you remember? It was so funny; we laughed and laughed. Well, you did, I guess. I wasn't there, so it was never as funny to me. But you laughed and I wanted to make you laugh, so I thought of you whenever I saw one. They are such weird things, and it is odd they exist at all. They are both more rare and more common than I would have thought.

Anyway, there it is. Back from a time when we were still together, but you could already see how we would end. I denied it, which is why losing you hurt so much. I thought we would be old maids together, fighting in the same room of the nursing home.

I meet someone here who reminds me of you, is even the person I thought you would become (back when we were kids). It is both painful and wonderful to see her, even though we do not have the same friendship you and I had. Being friends as an adult seems like a tragedy, compared to those of childhood. To laugh as riotously at nothing, to not need alcohol or exotic food or fancy clothes. It was enough to stand in a circle, feet touching, to take a picture and think it would last forever.


Oh nostalgia, how you stab me in the eye when I stare at you too hard.