loneliness vibe

Yesterday evening I was sitting alone in a Starbuck's cafe in Barnes and Noble, minding my own business, reading a copy of Marie Clare. A youngish man approached and asked if anyone was sitting there. I said no, cleared off the table a bit, and continued reading. (For those of you non-urbanites, this is completely kosher in New York to have perfect strangers sitting at the same table in a coffee house. Frankly, I was a bit nervous about it the first time it happened to me, but now I sort of admire it. We all crush ourselves into stuffed buses and subways, why not do it in Starbuck's?) Of course, there are ground rules: you don't talk to the other person--and if you do, it's very short, like Can You Watch My Bag While I Get Another 4 Dollar Cuppachino? You can say hello or goodbye, or comment on the book they're reading, but beyond that, you say nothing. You act as if the other doesn't exist. I think this is mostly a survival method.

This fellow didn't know the rules. He sat down and played with his non-Starbuck's beverage. No books or magazines or notebooks appeared. I kept my eyes down, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. After about five minutes, he blurted: What are you reading? Without a word, I showed him the cover (I was a little embarrassed--but I'd just taught English for three hours and sat on the train for another hour--I deserved some time to be a little girly.) Since I said nothing, I figured that would be a hint that I wasn't interested in conversation. He didn't say anything for awhile. I thought, He's gotten the hint. But no. A few minutes later, he asked: Are you from around here? I looked up, said Yes and looked down. I knew he wanted me to reciprocate. That little angel whispered, You really should do it. The demon said, Don't you dare. If you speak now you'll be in for it later.

This reminds me of an incident about two years ago: I'd gone to see Donnie Darko with some friends soon after I'd started at Sarah Lawrence. By chance, I ran into a guy from school after the movie. We talked for a bit, and I said, well, I gotta go. My friends are waiting for me to go somewhere. I turned and walked away. He followed me. And followed us to the restaurant. And sat at our table. It was horrible. He had nothing to say, which made it worse. It was one of the more awkward moments in quite awhile. Finally he had to catch a train back to Bronxville.

I think now that he took my words to be a kind of invitation. So I didn't want to lead this other fellow on. I wished I could have a wedding ring to flash, but since I don't have a left ring finger, this was impossible.

He continued to sit there. I was completely miserable by this point. I wasn't even reading. I just was flipping and flipping, wondering how to get out of this. Then he asked, leaning ever so slightly towards me: I'm going to go get something. You want anything?

That is a call of desperation. No, I said nicely, but thank you.

He didn't return.

Of course, after he disappeared I began to feel guilty. Would it have hurt, my angel said, to have a little conversation? He was lonely. He had a lonely vibe. He had an eastern European accent. But, I'm glad it ended quietly. I hope he finds some happiness somehow.

About five minutes later another guy sat down. He was wearing the ugliest sweater vest I've ever seen. It was loosely knitted out of mohair-like yarn! Luckily, he seemed disinterested, and soon left after talking to someone on his BlueBerry (or is it BlackBerry? I can never remember). I'm on the third floor, he said. Okay, fine, he said, sounding annoyed.

shoes and oates

I am thoroughly sick of two things: myself and my clothes obsession, and Joyce Carol Oates.

First, let's deal with me. Does anyone out there ever try on a pair of shoes in the store, walk around in them for quite some time, are amazed at their comfort and good looks, and decide: hey these are great!!! I'll buy them! But then, when you get them home, one day you take them out to wear, and lo and behold--they aren't comfortable anymore. No matter what you do, you can't get those damn things to act like they acted so cunningly in the store.

This has happened to me more than once. The other day I tried on, wandered for quite some time, then bought a pair of dress up loafers to wear with my new pants (I got my suit back yesterday, wore it today, and received complements)--since I am unable to deal with a heel that's more than a half inch apparently. I put them on yesterday morning, and was shocked at the immediate discomfort. So, that evening I returned to the shoe store to see if they had the same shoe in a larger size (I have the weirdest feet that need several different sizes with no rhyme or reason--they're known as Egyptian Feet). No. So I looked for a replacement pair, found some, wandered around in them, bought them and took them home. The jury's still out on whether they'll turn uncomfortable like the other pair.

Now Joyce Carol Oates. She had a story in the New Yorker recently and I'll be blunt: It stank up to high heaven. It was basically a rip off of a true and gruesome story about a college kid being killed when friends pushed him down a garbage shute. Being a writer who also takes (or steals) real life and fashions it for her own craft, one would say I should talk, but the difference is that I actually make it into something of my own. This story (and I've pasted the link here so you can judge for yourself) does not do any crafting. It took the facts and that was it.

The writing was rather sloppy as well. I did not ever have any sympathy for anyone in the story (which according to Oates, the reader should)--not even the victim of the crime. The father was horrible and the mother was ridiculous. In writing you don't have to like any of the characters, but there has to be some kind of pull towards empathy.

Oates said in her defense:

In an e-mail sent Wednesday to The Associated Press, she likened the school's criticism to the reaction of Muslim fundamentalists who issued a fatwa, or religious edict, against Salman Rushdie for his "The Satanic Verses."

She said it is a case in which a writer draws upon real events to write a fictional story, but is then met with "astonishing hostility on the part of people who do not 'read' fiction as symbolic or representational, but literal.

"Where I had hoped to evoke sympathy for a young man trapped in a nightmare situation, with symbolic resonance (I had thought) for all of us, I had succeeded, in some quarters at least, in arousing only great anger," Oates said in the e-mail.

I have no anger for the story. Just a general blahness.

I'm willing to bet that if some unknown writer had sent in this story, the New Yorker editors would have trashed it immediately. Can you imagine a big-name author being rejected by anyone? I've always liked her short stories. Her story, "Where are you going? Where have you been?" constantly sends chills through me.

the 7 experience

My intensive class has started again, and though it's nice to be bringing home some extra bacon, I must say I'm the most tired I've been in a long time. I remember feeling this way in college after a spending most or all of the night in the WeatherVane office (my undergrad newspaper, for those who didn't know me back then) and dragging myself to an 8 o'clock class. It's not exactly the hours. I'm teaching the intensive class M - Thurs and two other classes M and W. All hours counted, I'm teaching 18 hours week. Which, in the normal work world is less than part time. But those hours don't include grading, planning, and all the other piddly details (like figuring out my worksheets ahead of time to give to the receptionist. I know that full-time teachers do more than me, but the difference is they get paid during those hours for preparation. I'm only paid for the hours I'm in the classroom.

Not that I'm complaining or anything, of course. It's mostly the tiredness talking. And the hour and some change commute pipes in as well. My commute begins on 135th Street in Harlem, and ends eons away (about 5 miles) in Flushing, Queens on the very last stop of the 7 line. The 7 train and I have gotten to know each other rather well. I try to get a certain seat so I can semi curl up and grab a little unconsciousness for a bit before and after my teaching. As I flicker my eyelids I see the glorious scenes of Queens fly past (not so much fly--the 7 is the slowest train ever). LaGuardia Community College, Shea Stadium, the big metal globe built for the World's Fair--and the best of them all: there's this stretch of buildings soon after the train pulls above ground that are covered on every inch of space with graphitti. The colores are this gorgeous clamour that circle around the buildings and on their fire escapes and rooftops and you wonder how on earth the artists (some would say vandals) got there. I keep meaning to bring my camera.

I've said it once, and I'll say it again: I love New York.

The other morning on the Brian Lehrer show there was this discussion about immigration in the city, etc., and one caller blabbered on and on about how few immigrants even bother learning English anymore, and complained about all the signs in various languages. It honestly pissed me off. Everyone at my school is Asian or Spanish (the only gringos are the teachers), and though it has a large ESL component, it's a business college, so these folks are studying not only to gain English but to contribute to NYC's economics as well. True, some of my students have lived in the city for 20 or more years and are just starting to learn English, but when you live in the Chinatown in Flushing or in Manhattan, you often don't need to know English, because all of your needs are met right there. Most people need to learn Spanish rather than English, because they deal with them more. If I was new to a country and I had to learn one of two languages, I would choose the survival language first.

One more note to the ramble: I had to reprimand three young men today for their lateness and not doing their homework. There was a time I would have hated doing it and felt bad. I felt neither emotion this time. Ah, how times change.

not dark yet

This weekend we went to a renaissance festival at the Cloisters. It was one of those days when you knew fall had come: the sun was hot without the fierceness of summer, the scent of the leaves and earth had turned ever so slightly to that time of decay.

I love fall. Even when it toys with you. You never know if it's going to be 80 degrees or 50. If that sweater you brought with you will be enough or a too-warm drape. Almost two years ago, there was this day in November when everything was perfect. It was cold, but if you wore a jacket it was enough. The leaves were falling and rustling in Central Park. We went rowing on the Lake, and a thready fog surrounded us; the spires of the city peeking in from time to time.

There's something about being confronted with the mortality of leaves and grass that comforts and frightens me at this time of year. Something about the absence of light, I think. The light leaves New York so quickly. The buildings are so huddled and we're so far north. She collects her darkness with a smile that is not quite benign.

I've had Bob Dylan in my head these last few days:

Shadows are falling and I been here all day
It's too hot to sleep and time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal
There's not even room enough to be anywhere
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well my sense of humanity is going down the drain
Behind every beautiful thing, there's been some kind of pain
She wrote me a letter and she wrote it so kind
She put down in writin' what was in her mind
I just don't see why I should even care
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well I been to London and I been to gay Paris
I followed the river and I got to the sea
I've been down to the bottom of a whirlpool of lies
I ain't lookin' for nothin' in anyone's eyes
Sometimes my burden is more than I can bear
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

I was born here and I'll die here, against my will
I know it looks like I'm movin' but I'm standin' still
Every nerve in my body is so naked and numb
I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don't even hear the murmur of a prayer
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

happy days are here again

I've found myself a little depressed these last few days. I can't quite pinpoint what is the culprit, although it may be the little things that have happened that have added up to larger issues. Sometimes I freak out about the small stuff, and am completely calm about huge things. Or so Thomas says. I think he may be right. It may be a kind of survival mechanism. Freak out about the things you can change. The things you can't change...well, you can't change them, so freaking out is out of the question.

Maybe it's my birthday. I'm now 28. Which sounds incredibly old yet incredibly young. I don't think I would have imagined my life 10 years ago the way it's turned out thus far. But then, I tell myself, when you're 18 you barely know anything anyway.

I've often thought, post-undergrad and post-grad student, that people shouldn't be allowed to attend college until they're at least 25. Make everyone do some kind of labor or public service. Really live on your own first. I think I would have made a lot of different decisions about my undergrad years had I a few years under my belt.

Of course, there's this idea pricking my brain about I wouldn't be where I am today had I not been young and foolish when I had the great gift of education under my nose.

Maybe it's because I'm having post-grad school blahs. For the last two years I had a purpose, and now that purpose isn't so clear. I like my job, I like where I live, I love you-know-who, but still I feel like I have no clear course of action. What do I do now? Of course, there's the whole writing thing. (I've sent some work to my Tin House contact, but she warned me it might take a month before I hear anything!) There are more contest to enter, of course, and I should do some actual new writing, but I've just felt too exhausted and probably lazy to come up with much material.

I don't know where this post is headed. I just have this sense that something--something--needs to happen.

family

My birthday is coming fast (the 9th, if anyone reading wants to send a card or a gift or cash), and some various (yet uninteresting) things have made me reflect on the nature of family: specifically, siblings. When you're a kid (I'm 27 going on 28--I may sound like an old coot about this), conflicts are there, but they're more about your brother stealing a toy or your mum making you go to bed in the summer when it's still light out. My older brother once hit me with the high heel of one of my mother's shoes. I still remember the sound it made on my head--and my mother's voice as she reprimanded him (there may have been a spanking involved). I have no idea why he did such a thing. But no matter what the conflict was, we somehow resolved it and went back to playing whatever games we usually played: Dukes of Hazzard (we had the Matchbox General Lee, Rosco's beep car (my brother's word for a police car), and Uncle Jesse's white pick up), "Farm" (we also had mini tractors, balers, etc.) or just rode around our street on our banana seat bikes with April and Justin, our childhood friends.

It's strange how, when we get older, the (physical) conflicts may be fewer, but they take on a different meaning and people are stained by them in a weird way. And some of it isn't anybody's fault, per say; some of it stems from the person that you become when you grow up. A lot of it doesn't even come because of conflict. You just grow up and your siblings grow up and your parents grow older and there you are, tied by blood, but somehow divided by it as well.

Some of this division may be from our modern society as a whole. Now that people can travel faster and farther, families disperse and go their own ways. It's healthy, in many ways, to not feel like you're tied down to a place simply because you were born there. And it's good that you can feel like you can return at any time, since our sense of distance has changed. If I had come to New York 150 years ago, I quite possibly would never see my family again. But I do see them at least once a year. But when we're together, we're somewhat divided (and I don't mean divided in a conflict sort of way) because we live such different lives--in different places and stages in life.

I live on the east coast, in New York. My older brother lives on the west coast, in Ventura, California. My younger brother sits between us in Lawrence, Kansas. Our experiences of life have been so different during the last decade or so. And our relationships to each other have changed--at least for me. Not that one is better than the other. They are simply different.

Some of it, I suppose, comes from our childhood experiences with each other. B was the older one. We did everything together--mostly what he wanted to do, but I rarely felt constricted by it. (When I first read To Kill a Mockingbird I thought, Hey, Scout and Jem sound like us!) I have a picture of B and I holding hands at our grandma's house when we were both very young. B is smiling like he always smiles now, and I have this look of consternation, like I'm thinking, Okay, what's going on here?

But then middle school came for B and our ways parted. D was around by then, and I took on the older sibling's role of both protection and demanding reverence/obedience. (Aside: I remember the night D was born. I woke up, looked for my parents, but their bed was still made up. This scared me, because I thought maybe they'd been Raptured away. Grandma Ens was there, but it didn't comfort me much.)

The main reason why my relationships with my brothers are so different is because of the time and setting that molded them. B was my brother when I was a kid--our biggest challenges involved toys and bullies and when we were going swimming. I was still a kid with D, but our relationship was set at a character-building time for me: the pre-teen/teenage years (god, I'm glad those are over!). Plus, my family had moved to our farm by then, and D and I were somewhat isolated. For a few summers during high school and college, my mum was getting her Ph.D. in PA and our dad was busy with the farm. We were pretty much on our own with each other. We made a lot of spaghetti and hamburger helper back then, and D took me canoeing in his rather leaky boat.

I think of those summers when D and I are just sitting around. When I was home this summer, D and I would walk to Main Street and get pop and sit by the grocery store. We talked a lot, but we were also silent. I don't know if he thinks about those times, but I do.

My question, I guess, is this: when do you realize that those differences in relationship are more negative than positive? I have seen various families tear apart because those changes, those little changes, have affected their very view of each other. When do you know it's just healthy, natural differences--and not divisions of a more sinister nature?

a new semester

A new "school year" is about to begin at my college, and I'm finding myself on the other side of the desk. I am the one who must figure grades and tell people who use cell phones and are late what's what. It will be an interesting 15 weeks, to say the least.

A friend from Sarah Lawrence emailed me yesterday. She's got a plummy internship at Tin House, a very respected lit journal, and she said her supervisor wanted her to glean work from SLC people. So, I'm going to send stuff to Tin House, of all funny hilarious turns of events. She said she doesn't have much pull, but she'd certainly read and try to pass on my work. I don't expect anything to come of it, yet, but it's a nice opportunity. We'll see what happens. It's been a contest-deadline couple of days. I've been sending stuff out into that cold cold world.