You are here: on the cusp

of something. The only really nice thing I can say about January is, it's a beginning.  In my recent obsession with advice lists (3 ways to overcome existential angst, 5 reasons to eat candy corn, and so on) I came across a post or a blog urging readers to develop a skill in the coming year. That seems worthwhile to me (I didn't have much use for the tough-love tone of anything else in it). Last year I learned to stand on my head for sustained lengths of time and to plan a wedding on relatively short notice--and that without any outside urging. So this year I think I'll take on the challenge consciously, even though at this point I'm not really sure how to go about learning the skill I've set for myself which is how to write...a story? a poem? an article?  Is 'how to write' too broad? I mean, I am able both to print and write in cursive already, legibly even. I ought to narrow it down, I suppose.

On a related note, I'd like to recommend, perhaps for the second time, the New Yorker Fiction podcast:
http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/books/podcast/
I heart it and heartily recommend it. It's how I learned about Bruno Schulz, Mavis Gallant, Lorrie Moore, Stuart Dybeck... And you can hear it here or wherever else you are.

You are here: in Purgatory

Having read, studied and been forced to actually eke out an essay or two on Il Purgatorio, the metaphor that comes to mind is that of the soul's purification through fire. Sounds appealing, given the current climactic conditions.

And this t-shirt once belonged to a guy--we'll call him Firenze (like the Centaur) rather than Florence (like the actress who played Mrs. Brady)--who made it a habit to while away his toilet time with Il Purgatorio. Symbolism or superstition? Discuss. 

Have you come to a decision? Please share. Anyhow, the t-shirt was a symbol for me. I couldn't let it go long after I'd stopped wearing it. But then I did. I snapped this picture and threw it out. And I can honestly say I haven't missed it.

If I did, or if I ever do, I can pay it and everything it stood for a visit. I have its current address:
www.burpenterprise.com 

You are here: in the frame

If only. You are really in a place and time where the function and purpose of sunglasses remain but a brow-wrinkling abstraction. You are stranded on the tundra, winter behind you, winter before you, no end to winter in sight. I've reflected on how to light a fire in the arctic desert and found that serial grumpiness is a damp match. So I called on my inner philosopher, who actually just wanted to crawl back into bed, and that in turn made me think of hibernation. An absolutely rational and biologically sound institution. Unfortunately impractical. But in a broader sense, I realized, it's exactly right. Rather than fighting for more energy and a sunnier outlook, let things rest and darken and germinate. Adopt a sexy Russian pessimism and an expression of slight contempt, and although you don't smoke, assume the attitude of someone just about to absentmindedly hand-roll a cigarette and smoke it with a hazy look of despair in his eye. What you'd really be doing underneath the ice is a sort of hibernation-dream, healthy and necessary for sprouting in the spring, featuring fragments of your life in the sun (right: you could alternatively adopt the airs of a 17th century vampire)-- like this one.

Not a vampire. A fragment of my life in the sun.

You are here: Chez Arbus/Hopper

This is not about Arbus or Hopper, really, but it is about a gal and a guy and about going to a place together where you don't buy anything because nothing's for sale. You just look. The stuff you look at is in this place because there is some consensus that the stuff is worth looking at. We came to see Hopper's stuff and ended up seeing Arbus' as well. Hopper and Arbus took photographs, and the stuff in them varied. Hopper's had people in them, many of them famous people, but there were pictures of places and advertisements and everyday stuff in them too. Arbus took pictures of people, mostly not famous people. We had never been to view stuff like this before together. Nevertheless by the time we got through Arbus we were both having fun, and we agreed we liked her stuff the best and we no longer worried about the consensus or saying the right thing. I recommend viewing stuff that's not for sale on a Sunday afternoon with a person you think you might love. 

You are here: at the intersection of Bourbon and Water Streets

Yes, I'm guilty of metaphoric mapmaking. I'm neither in New Orleans nor Providence. (But just now it occurs to me how polaristic those two places are, spatially and otherwise, if I did want to blog about the actual Bourbon or Water Street. And there are probably plenty of Water Streets, but the one I would write about is in Mr. Lovecraft's hometown and as I remember it has a coin laundry and a video store on it. Had. Are there still coin laundries and video stores?)

So back to the metaphoric intersection of Bourbon and Water. I received a message this afternoon and as a result I felt sad, frustrated, desperate and negative. It was just before a planned run that I got it. I ran anyway and only had to stop once to get my breathing under control. My face would screw up every now and then, and passersby probably thought, if they noticed at all, that it was due to the physical effort of running. It wasn't. I was running very slowly, sort of dejectedly shuffling along. I made a plan to bathe with a Bourbon on the rocks when I got home.

Normally when you plan to go to a specific destination you also have some idea of what you want to do there: see famous sites, visit a museum, eat a local specialty....I also had an agenda for my visit to Bourbon and Water,  and that was to cry. I wanted to sit in a hot bath, sip a cold Bourbon and bawl. While the first two conditions were easily met, I did not, unfortunately, have a bawl. My face screwed up like on the run every now and again, accompanied by a trickly tear or two, but mostly I just made strange noises. Sounded more like chuckling I think. Sometimes I let myself sort of moan. That probably sounded like I was pleasuring myself, had someone been listening at the door. And there were long pauses in between these outbursts, when I would kind of run out of breath. I would chuckle chuckle chuckle gasp. Pause. For a long time. Mooaaannn. I started to wonder about other people's experience with crying, specifically if they found it easy to "have a good cry." Haven't you heard people talk about that?

For a long time my attitude toward crying was mainly contemptuous. When done in the context of an argument I considered it an underhanded power play. Manipulative. I would get really angry at myself when I'd feel tears welling up out of anger or frustration. Now I think it's healthy to let yourself feel whatever emotion it is you're feeling. I'm in the Let It Out camp. I would just like to Let It Out a bit more effectively. Could be that I'm seeking to optimize inappropriately. Maybe everyone's experience at the intersection of Bourbon and Water Streets is a little different, but none better than any other. Maybe it's worth revisiting. Any thoughts on adult tears?

You are here: Olympic Stadium, Berlin

Second half-marathon, German capital. Put me in mind of seeing Leni Riefenstahl's Olympia films (1938 on the 1936 summer games)...undergrad? graduate school? I think it was at Harvard...I liked the pictures. And found the general message at the time not particularly propagandistic...I seem to recall frame after frame of German equestrians failing to clear a water obstacle. The effect was comic. But I don't really want to discuss her ideology. Suffice it to say I was there, I started running and 21.1 kilometers and two hours and 8 minutes later I was there again.

You are here: Carretta's on the Gulf

This is where I encountered the Crab Cake in its ideal, platonic form.  I'm sure of this because it did not allow itself to be photographed. It was cloud-like, puffy, cumulous, buttery and pure. It could have been served at Stuart Dybeck's Chinese laundry, or been a savory version of a Thiebaud painting. I wouldn't have been surprised to see Portico Quartet summon it out of thin air. As it was, I ate it. With infinite pleasure.

I ate a lot of other things there as well and recommend that you make reservations immediately. Two dinners and a brunch would be a good start. And the nice thing about Carretta's on the Gulf is there's a hotel handy (www.sandpearl.com), so you don't have to drive home between meals.