Tuesday Blues

Last night was the third time I attended something that is quickly becoming one of my heart’s delights: Tuesday night blues dancing.  Even as I write it, I start feeling shivers up and down my spine.  My first introduction to partner dancing came only as late as a year ago, when after my first affair with the country life, I returned home to Houston and went salsa dancing with friends.  It didn’t hurt to be the only female among a number of guys, but I had a wonderful time, and left wondering why it had taken me so long (23 years of no partner dancing!) to arrive. 

Since then I have experimented with capoeira, belly dancing, tango, and more salsa, but I had a particular tingle of excitement the first time I went to a blues dance.  I have frequently been drawn in by blues music, with rhythms and melodies that conjured up my best sex and most heart-breaking infatuations.  When I saw that you could dance to it, and that the dance frequently echoed the sensuality of the music, well, what is a single girl to do but fall in love? 

With a little bit of embarrassment, I have to admit that the first night I attended, I probably came on a little strong.  It’s hard to hold your boundaries and not get intoxicated by the touch and smell of the attractive men you’re dancing with.  The second time was tougher, as I started getting asked to dance by guys much more experienced than me, and I had to face the fact that I had a lot to learn. 

And then last night, well, let me tell you about last night.  I started hitting my stride, this is certain, throwing in bits of creativity here and there, and listening a lot more carefully to the language of my partner’s body.  Men that I had danced with the time before with only moderate success were asking me for multiple dances.  I still became frustrated with leads who seemed to miss the point of leading, which is to say, men who might as well have been talking to a wall as me.  But I used this as a chance to get better as a follow and pay really close attention to their moves, even if they weren’t telling me directly. 

And then I was asked to dance by an older man, shaved head, grey goatee, name of Peter.  We didn’t exactly dance the blues; all I can describe it as was a scene, or three scenes rather, from Dirty Dancing.  Nobody’s ever danced with me like that before.  As he left, Peter said to me, “You are fast becoming my favorite dancer.”  Huh.  Hard to walk away from a dance like that without feeling a little bit shaken, and very much interested in maintaining control and boundaries. 

And that’s the thing with blues dancing…when you dance with someone, you have to let those walls down at least a little in order to be a good dancer.  Dancing is, well, a dance of personalities.  But it’s a drama too, something that’s contrived, a little bit false.  You put on masks as you look into each other’s eyes.  I think of the best actors, who play with such passion that their character becomes human…they bring it to life by breathing into it some of their own breath.  But at the end of the night, they remove their costumes and walk away.  Not the least challenging thing to learn in dancing.

On a little bit of a lighter side, I also got invited to a party by another partner, so it looks like I have someplace to be on Saturday night.  Sounds like fun.

 

42.

I’m finally reading Walden, and I like it. For one, it’s rather a 19th-century form of blogging: basically, a guy rants on whatever he wants for however long he wants, firmly believing in his opinion, regardless of what anyone else thinks. For second, Thoreau must be one of the first hippies, minus the drugs (I think). Here is someone extolling the virtues of living off the land, not using more than you need, and getting in touch with your own true nature. Granted, he didn’t build his own cabin in the woods for the original purpose of living harmoniously with nature, but that’s how he ended up. It makes me wonder how many of today’s hippies have read it, or how many people who have read it are hippies. I don’t imagine very many in either camp, although I could be wrong. I wonder why that is.

One thing that comes up right in the beginning is that “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Thoreau does not seem to target just one group of people, but everyone to farmers, to peasants, to the wealthy. It is not enough to live to work to live, as so many people do, or even to live to work to be comfortable, regardless of your profession. He has an admiration for Native Americans, “Hindoos,” and ancient civilizations, for the true philosophers and the man who roots “himself thus firmly in the earth, … that he may rise in the same proportion into the heavens above.”

But while I appreciate his insight, I have to wonder if he realizes how difficult this pathway is. I feel like he dismisses most of the human population as pathetic before realizing that it’s not easy to live the life of constant inquiry and spiritual aspiration. First of all, a person has to make a living somehow; it’s lovely to imagine that we could all be philosophers or monks and rely on the goodness of others to support ourselves, but this isn’t practical.  If we were all spiritual mendicants, who would there be to supply us with food and shelter? Even if just some of us were, receiving your food from others and spends your time preaching from a soapbox makes you the crazy guy in the park, not a well-respected philosopher. And crazy guys in the park are not the movers and shakers of the world; they’re just another drain on our already taxed welfare system. So then what’s left but to have people work to make an honest living, trading their skills for money for the necessities of life. For some fortunate few, it is possible to work enough not to have to worry about money and where your next meal is going to come from, and to have the luxury to devote your attention to pursuing loftier matters. Perhaps everyone has this possibility but doesn’t recognize it. I won’t dispute this. But it is a gift to be brought up in such a way that you believe yourself capable of being more than just an economic unit in the money game, that your existence can be more than just a series of concerns about one thing or another. I hope that Thoreau comes to realize the great blessing that he has been given in his ability to see beyond the cares of the quotidian. But to feel superior to those who haven’t seen that possibility yet, it’s like being born into a wealthy family and feeling superior to the homeless.

I’m curious to see what he believes to be the riches of the spirit, though…what it is that makes a person worthy of being human, what it is that makes a life worth living.

My opinion is that it’s happiness, wherever that comes from. Being able to love yourself, to love those around you, and to express that love in your own particular way. Who cares whether you contribute something new or profound to the progression of human souls? All that matters is whether you create more joy and beauty, no matter how you do it. The thing is to figure out how you do it best, whether it’s through creating art or playing music, leading compassionately or humbly serving, raising loving children, it doesn’t matter what. If you are doing what you love to do, then your love will come through your work and touch the rest of the world. It doesn’t take a PhD, nor does it take beatification. The challenge for me, and for a lot of people I imagine, is getting to know yourself well enough to see what you love, what brings you happiness, and then having the courage and perseverence to pursue it.  Not an easy task, but in my opinion it’s the only thing worthwhile.

Sunday, muddy Sunday

I also went to church on Sunday.  It is a little bit weird, because I don’t believe specifically in Christianity.  But I like singing the songs, and hearing the sermon, and talking to really nice people who want to like me.  A bit of a relief from the constant rain and icy stares from strangers that make up my typical days off.

You mean I get good karma AND a free lunch?

I volunteered today serving lunch to senior citizens. I haven’t volunteered for something in a really long time. It was wonderful. Even better than going out and getting drunk. For one thing, it’s cheaper, and I got a free lunch. I highly recommend it.

under gray skies

Under gray skies she walked home. Moist air and a gull’s cry reminded her that the sea wasn’t far, but with traffic zooming by and the smells of the city in her nose, she really couldn’t conjure up any images or feelings of the ocean in her mind. What place did that untamable body have here and now, anyway? It didn’t make any difference, she thought, whether she could imagine it or not…it wouldn’t help her pay her bills, it wouldn’t help her be happier with her current situation. And what was there to be unhappy about anyway? She had two jobs, she had friends, she had places to go at night, and even plans to go back to school. She even had an Asian supermarket within a mile of her house, she thought, as she now picked up her basket inside the automatic doors. None of these thoughts made her happier either.

Anne sighed, thinking about the girls at her work that morning. They seemed to be having so much more fun than her, as they talked about staying out late drinking, meeting guys, sleeping with guys, cheating on guys, breaking up with guys. Why couldn’t that be her, she wondered. Why couldn’t she just accept the simpler pleasures of a complicating one’s life with a bit of fun? Was she always to be doomed to dissatisfaction and unhappiness with her life? She didn’t even know what she wanted, but something was missing. Maybe it was Sesame Oil, she thought, picking up a bottle. Of course, the missing ingredient from a magic formula that would make everything okay.

She passed by a row of wonton wrappers, thinking of the ritual of dumpling-making that a roommate had shared with her years ago. Ahead of her, a 12-year-old girl picked out a package to put in her mother’s basket. Anne wondered what their house looked like, whether they would make wontons together, what it smelled like when they were cooking, what it smelled like when they weren’t. Did they play music in the house? How did they set the table? Would they use placemats and a tablecloth? Today was Sunday. Had they eaten lunch together as a family? It made Anne think of her own mother and father, who had probably gotten back from church a few hours ago, had lunch, and were maybe doing some chores before cooking dinner and settling down for evening of reading in a cozy room lit by many dim lamps and candles. She wondered if they still listened to Baroque music on Sunday mornings before going to church. Probably not; they had discontinued that tradition when they moved to Texas many years ago. It was too bad, that had been her favorite part of Sundays: the morning filled with music, the smell of coffee, and the silent reading of the New York Times. They had their own little world there, even as the enormous newspaper informed them of the events going on around them; time and space seemed to cease to exist for those sweet first hours.

She sighed again, thinking of what her Sunday consisted of these days: waking up early to take a bus to work, then some grocery shopping alone, and then finding a way to waste time until she was hungry again and could cook dinner. Maybe sometimes she went to the movies, maybe sometimes she talked to friends on the phone, maybe sometimes she went to a yoga class. But again, something was missing, and she knew she couldn’t find it at any supermarket. She couldn’t find it in the movies, she couldn’t find it in conversations with friends. She had felt it when she was little, she felt it going into certain households of other families. She even felt it at church sometimes, although she had stopped considering herself a Christian years ago. What was it? Anne felt like she had woken up with the feeling that she had had a very important dream, but she couldn’t remember any of its details.

She walked back out the door of the supermarket, smelling the odors coming out of the various restaurants in the strip mall: Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, and yes, the very familiar McDonald’s French fries, which she had stopped eating probably about the time she had stopped going to church. Another seagull cried, and Anne looked up. What was it calling for, anyway? As a signal to other gulls? Or just for the pleasure of hearing its own voice? Was it happy, so far away from its wild habitat? Maybe its cry was a cry of pain. Or maybe there was no reason or meaning behind it. Maybe crying out was just a part of being a seagull. It surely didn’t wonder why it made noise. It just did. And it still would, whether it soared on the air currents of the ocean, or on the gusts made by rushing buses and trucks.

Just then, Anne thought she caught a faint whiff of saltwater and fish. In two days she would have off from work. Maybe she would see if she couldn’t find a bit of fresh air to clear her head a bit.

Starbuck you, too

Working at a coffee shop, I have realized how much freakin money people spend on bullshit coffee drinks!  Since when does it make sense to pay $4 for a cuppa joe?  I mean, for real.  This is what struggling writers like Kerouac and Henry Miller spent their nickels on for breakfast and lunch, until they could con someone to buy them dinner.  But now, coffee is a luxury item!  I mean, let’s be honest, I really can’t justify that kind of expense in my budget.  Maybe a buck, okay, but I see people shelling out $10 for some crappy breakfast of sugar and caffeine, and they don’t even get real service!  They’re forced to hustle through line, dropping their $3 pastries so that the next yuppie spender can come along and get their fix.  But somehow this culture has led us to believe that it is normal to spend this much money on coffee, that it’s every American’s God-given right to be able to have an extra-hot nonfat sugarfree mocha with an extra shot of espresso and added whipped cream.  When I think to myself that I couldn’t afford the shit that I’m selling, I’m reminded of the saying that we’re only as poor as we believe.  Thank God I don’t believe that I need to buy this stuff in order to feel content.

The words paycheck, self-righteous, and humility come to mind at this point…Oh, to have the luxury not to ever have to compromise my beliefs.  Well, I could always move back to Williams and live the simple life.  My admiration to those who are happy living that lifestyle.  May you all watch smugly from your organic farms as the rest of us destroy the planet for you.

And there, that’s enough cynicism for a while…I hope you enjoyed it!  I know I did.

I appreciate the good intentions, but I’ll pave my own way to hell, thanks

While visiting my extended family for Thanksgiving, I heard the question asked a number of times, “So what is it you do in Portland?”  Yes, I came to both dread and look forward to this moment of our conversation, as I responded cheerfully with “Oh, I’m a professional job-hunter.”  And if by professional, I meant that it consumed most of my time and waking thoughts, I wasn’t lying.  I tried hard to shrug off my anxiety over the matter, because chances were that Family Member X had enough worry for the both of us.  Well, no that’s not completely true; with one cousin in the military, another with blood clots in her lungs, and a third with an impending wedding, my financial and career situation weren’t top on everyone’s list of things to fret about.  A welcome change from the outlook of my parents on the situation.  But my grandfather wasn’t so easily put off the chase.  On my last day of the visit, he mentioned in passing that he had thought a lot about the subject, and that he thought I should go to law school at a small Catholic university in Minneapolis and become a lawyer “like my cousin Chad”.  It wasn’t the first time I heard those four words together.  But it was the first time in a while someone had given me an opinion about what they thought I should do with my life.  I was intrigued, if only by a morbid curiosity of the profession.  So I started looking up law programs, talking to “Cousin Chad”, and asking some other lawyering friends their opinions on the industry (nothing like self-interest to motivate me to ask others about themselves).  Really, I was searching for some kind of confirmation that the legal profession was somewhat less boring than it sounded.  

And the conclusion?  Well, although I couldn’t say it to his face, I wrote Grandpa Silker in an email: “For the moment,
I’m putting the lawyering on hold, as after some careful thinking I’ve
come to the understanding that my passions run in different directions
than law and government.  I really feel that graduate school is the
next step for me, and I’m currently feeling out a few programs that
hold interest for me.”

His response:

“I just tried to give you a choice regarding your future.  If it works, fine.  If not, we’ll try something else.  I AM VERY HAPPY THAT YOU KNOW YOUR FUTURE IS IN GRAD SCHOOL, HOWEVER.  You are too bright to be “selling Christmas trees” for the rest of your life.  And you owe the world something to pay for your brilliance.”

“Selling Christmas trees,” a good code if I ever heard one.  But unfortunately, GPA Silker wasn’t insinuating anything this time, as I actually had found a job selling Christmas trees for, well, only three days as it turned out, because numb hands and feet do not a good tree saleswoman make.

As of last week, I have moved up into the world of “real” jobs, at least real as far as Portland is concerned, because now I am a barista (it actually is not at all pretentious to call yourself a barista in the Northwest), and a receptionist at a naturopathic clinic.  And though my parents and my grandparents might think that I’m selling myself short (I didn’t miss the implications of the caps lock in that email), I would rather do that than the alternative: force myself to choose a profession I don’t give a shit about because I don’t have any other definite plans yet.  I’m sorry, but I would rather make money and enjoy life and the world for another year than waste $25,000 on furthering my education in a field I will probably drop out of anyway.  And so, my final remark to anyone is with similar “good intentions” regarding my future is: “I appreciate your concern, but that concern has NO RIGHT to interfere with my happiness.  It’s too bad that you don’t trust me to make good decisions for myself, but that has nothing to do with me.  If you don’t like the direction and speed that I’ve chosen for my life, tough!  So, how’s the weather in Colorado, by the way?”

Suddenly all those inane overheard conversations of my parents with my grandparents make a lot more sense…

 

PS I thank the movie Ratatouille for putting this all in perspective.  Nothing like Walt Disney for teaching life lessons with cute little animals.

Untitled 1

You didn’t care

I only said it for your benefit

But you didn’t care

Could you tell I was trying for your approval?

Or did you just think I was stuck up?

You departed, not too soon

And I left too

Searching for something

More satisfying than your glazed eyes

My life’s work

An excavation site

But the deeper I go

The more it becomes undone

What rain makes mud

Of all my firm dirt

What downpour stops all progress in its tracks?

If I am cold and damp

It is all my fault

Should I learn to control the weather

Or just remember to bring an umbrella?

This is irony, right?

Sometimes I’m just not sure.

Banana Smoothie

“A smooth two-column theme adorned with a banana. Very personal.”

Ode to Sheila

Many thanks to my leaky, foggy, dimly-lit, paint-peeling car for getting me to a hell of a lot of places in the past couple of months, and especially in the past couple of days.  Living in Portland would be a lot harder without you.

 

I have a car that leaks when it rains

At least it doesn’t leak when it’s sunny

It always takes me where I need to go

That doesn’t mean I always want to

Sometimes a car is more than a car

And sometimes it’s a little bit less

Sometimes I wish I could walk everywhere

And sometimes my car does too