Political Science

Tonight for the first time in a long while, the run felt less like a chore and more like a joy. The hills were just as steep and the path was just as long- but today the air was cold and crisp. I could see the smoke rising from the first fires of Autumn being lit in hearths through out Betton Hills. Warring McCain/Palin signs across from Barrack and Joe. God, it's beautiful out here. Earlier Cincinnati Reds Jason and I sat on the porch talking about America and what it means to us. We'll be casting different votes for different candidates on Tuesday, but our hearts are in the same place. It's the desire to be a proud country again without the arrogance of the past administration. But for now it's just lawn signs and smoke signals.

10/28/08

Blackbirds singin' in the trees

There's a knock on the front door and I can hear it and see the fist tapping on the window from my mixer. It's probable someone looking to see if we're open for lunch, which we aren't, and it seems like every time I have to tell a middle aged woman with her matching suit set that- she looks at me as if I personally shut down the lunch service and ruined her afternoon. I hate having to talk to these women. I shut the mixer off and shuffle my way through the bar, but when I get closer to the door I realize it isn't a woman at all. Women don't wear purple gloves, yellow shirts, and rainbow suspenders. Women don't have a red afro or a bright orange nose framed by white facepaint in the shape of an exaggerated smile. Oh no, this, this is a clown. And this clown is carrying three happy birthday balloons and a guitar, I open the door and call to Liz because I'll be damned if I don't have a witness for this. My boyfriend,who is in the Adirondaks, has sent me a singing gram as I turn a year older and I can't stop from smiling. It's so very much him, in a way that flowers or whatever else just can't convey. Goofy and cute. For the hours that I spent worrying that he would forget, I wish I has spent them some other way. It's a biproduct of actually being forgotten year after year and I recognize that and try to stop the crazy that tends to bubble up. It's a difficult balance between learning from the mistakes of the past and comparing them to your present state. It's impossible to expect that those two won't intersect and all of a sudden you're afraid that history will repeat itself and heaven knows you don't want to go down that road again. All I can do it take responsibitlity for my actions of the past couple of years, strive to do better, and open the door to what's next. On October 30th,it was a a singing clown.

Especially those in most need of thy mercy

My heroes:
(In no particular order)

1. Dustin Griffin
2. Carla Bruni
3. My better half
4. Spence
5. Christopher Carleson
6. Jackie O.
7. My papa Andrew
8. Nanny Bell
9. Shannon Young
10. Lisa Steinkamp
11. Father Toupes
12. Chuckie Gerhart
13. Maureen Weismman
14. Michelle Jakobs
To be continued...

Erasers impress me every day

I open the front door and push on the screen. Heat hits me in the face and I'm reminded that it's still a damp Tallahassee summer. But it's better than a dry August in San Antonio and I step onto the stairwell, clutching a water glass by the base, full of pale white wine. What is this place? Does heaven have magnolia trees and a collective sweat that drips down the backs of it's citizens? Is my Aunt Mary there playing spades, the Tia that I remember. Before she got sick and her body regressed into the ground. Make me whole so that one day I'll see you again.
But I'm also reminded of the shortcomings that would prevent me from reaching peace and the ghosts that have only recently left this place. I knew that you were here, I could see you in the faces of every passing driver. You were on the next bar stool and drinking coffee with me on my way to work. I could feel you, like some heavy breather without a sense of personal space. A close talker. You hated it when I claimed downtown as if I had any right to it. That was your space, too. But this is mine. Extend me that courtesy. You can have my dignity, the memories of Stone Mountain, of Christmas, of my mother's wedding. The thought of your face in my family pictures turns my heart cold. And now you're here. You can take what you want, but leave me my magnolia trees.

-August 16, 2008

Cause that's what mens do

I lost my ring. Shannon is clutching her pinky finger and looking around the floor as scene kids with striped t-shirts and tattooed sleeves dance to a house mix around us. I get down on my knees and light the carpet with my cell phone, Amanda takes a sip of her drink and raises a fist in the air pumping it to the beat. We find it and go back to dancing in the dark. You can't plan nights like this, they just kind of happen. I went from being lectured at my kitchen table, to the wooden floor of shannon's bedroom watching them play donkey kong, to the front porch smoke rising into the tallahassee night, and then some how at the neighbors house dancing with a bunch of strangers tied together by small town coincidence. Soulja boy and ratatat. Whiskey and humidity. Laugher and understanding. I kept drinking and we all kept giggling. Shannon and I ended the night on the couch passed out in our clothes sometime around 5. Maybe it was the reexamination of the concept of friendship that did it to me, but it all just seemed so simple. Friends are just there. There isn't a list of requirements to be one. There are no prerequisites. They lay on the floor and listen to you when you need to say they things you are thinking. The things you don't want anyone else to know. They let you rate boy's ex-girlfriends on a fujita scale of indifference. I gave that girl a 3, she said it was more like a 2 and a half. But in the end, friends are just there. And mine are awesome.

There really is an afterlife, I hope to see you all there.

Twenty bucks, the man looked down at his shoes and spit. Perfect day for flying, good weather, nice wind. Too bad it's so hot. Yeah, too bad. September'll be here soon though. The couple shifted on the balls of their feet in unison. She wiped her face underneath thick framed sunglasses and he could see her blink through the lenses. Quick and uneven. It seems a little dangerous, you know? It's so small and we don't really know, her voice trailed off. Her husband did his best, he reminded her of Marvin, how he had said that it was a good day for it. Good wind dontcha think Marvin? The pilot had wandered back into the shade, the wing of the plane cast a shadow on the grass and the back of his shoulders. He nodded and went back to staring at the runway. A plane came in from just below the clouds. Small at first, but getting closer. The woman looked at it, as if it's safe arrival would have any bearing on her decision. It bobbled a bit, seemed to slow down, and finally touched the pavement. Once, twice, and it was down. But despite the landing, she had already made up her mind. Probably as early as the idea was originally mentioned. No amount of convincing or safety demonstrations was going to get her into that plane. They made a comment about it being hot and said they'd be back, but that didn't make any sense to Marvin and he just waved them off. They were going into town and he knew that it was for good.
Probably for the best. The woman looked like the kind that once up there, wouldn't shut up. The kind that asked too many questions without listening to the answers. And that was the kind Marvin did not want to have in his plane. He unfolded his chair and sat down. A car was coming up the paved road parallel to the runway. Marvin took a drink and wiped his lips. They tasted like sweat and iced tea.

Maybe you think too much.

Call it. D's holding the radio and looking to me for a pick on what song comes next. Certain bands are cop-outs. The Beatles, the Temptations, Gordon Lightfoot. So I go with a dark horse, Tom Jones' "She's a lady". I'd come to regret it by 1:00 but at the time, it seemed like a good idea. The rules are simple, your song or band comes on and you get that three and a half minutes to bask in your telekenetic glory. Then you pick another and the game goes on. If "Cherokee People" plays we all win. It's science.
It's 5:30 now and people are shuffling into the restaraunt in their Friday best. Graduation weekend means a ton of covers and an equal amount of stress. But here I am sitting around the house reading the village voice and waiting for the phone to ring. "WHERE ARE THE OTHER PEANUT BUTTER BOMBES!?!" "WE'RE OUT OF SUGAR HALOS!" "THE KITCHEN IS ON FIRE AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT. OH GOD, THE CUSTOMERS ARE ALL DEAD. THERE ARE JUST SO MANY BODIES." But so far it's just Tom Waits that I hear, the early years, and maybe once in a while Aaron typing in the next room. I have no control, only hope. Hope, silence, and Poncho's Lament.

I will get to this eventually

Maybe things weren’t so great but they were bound to get better. They had moved into the house on South Hampton Boulevard in the Summer of 1972 when slanted roofs and lime green counter tops were acceptable, desired even. Henry was born the following spring and his arrival was signaled by a cardboard cut out of a stork and the baby’s weight and measurements drawn out in script for the entire neighborhood to see. There were pictures of it with his parents standing in the front yard holding their newest addition, their awkward bodies framed by winter’s recession and the triumph of green grass. His father had passed out cigars and was patted on the back until the skin on his shoulders grew tired. Every year on Henry’s birthday, his mother insisted on reliving the entire experience in graphic detail, hour by hour. Right around now you woke me up, and I knew that it was time. They had to give me thirty six stitches because you had such a big head. And afterwards, I was so filled with joy that I danced right there in my hospital room. The idea of his mom giving birth sickened him but he let her tell the story anyway; Even the part about the stitches. It was the least he could do.

And I'll tie a string around my finger

It's easy in August to forget about September. Fall isn't so far away and he told me that once in a while he could feel the seasons changing. I can't. The bike had erased what memories I have of a recession of heat and the replacement with cool breezes and cardigans. But he was right, there would be a change soon, and with it would come the pumpkins and the long blue jeans and a break in the weather. Autumn makes it's presence known a bit later here in the south, but it's well recieved. Neighbors hang cobwebs from their front porches and I turn a year older. Every year it's the same, a constant parade of time that brings me to the point of one more candle on my cake and one more year of lessons learned. Sometimes I like to think that I can slow it down, break down the seconds so that they tick two beats in between instead of one. But recently time has sped up, and before I know it it's last call and then a few seconds more and the sun is coming up. Yes, fall is coming and all we have to do is survive the summer.

Public Service Announcement

Even if it feels likes a good idea, do not yell out your car window at a cyclist for no reason. Especially if you are the only person in the car. Who are you trying to impress, dude? And it's not even like you're actually saying anything. Sometimes its just a yelp or a bark. Are you serious? You look like a tool.

That's all.

Everybody's workin' for the week end.

I wake up around 6:45 to the alarm clock on my phone. Usually it only takes the one time, but once in a while I let it go to 7, but then it's awake awake awake. I take a shower, wash my face. I hum "You are my sunshine" as I brush my teeth. I put my lunch together. It's an apple, a yogurt, a boca burger, and a granola bar. I grab my helmet and then it's off to work. Up the first hill down Old Bainbridge, through midtown until I reach my coffee shop. I get an espresso and up until recently, a morning glory muffin. I sit and read the paper. I do the crossword. I watch the people. I get back on the bike and finish the journey to the kitchen. It's 8:15. I clock in, put my apron on, and turn the radio to the oldies station. D brews the coffee, I get my list out and check off what needs to be done. I measure the flour, the butter, the salt, the baking soda, the butter milk, and voila! Biscuit dough. I go through my day baking off chocolate cakes or bread puddings. I spin sugar and roll tuilles. I listen to the Righteous Brothers and sing out loud. Status Saturn of Tallahassee comes on with their commercial and D and I both make fun of it. Last time I checked, when I make that million dollar deposit, I won't be buying a Vue. It always ends with "333 look at me" and giggling. Jim Ode comes in with his mushrooms (legal kind) and his grateful dead t-shirt. Crescent moon farms brings in some basil and heirloom tomatoes. I finish up and clean my station. My lunch is there, along with a magazine and a bar stool. The library is next. Then the swimming pool where I race whoever is next to me in a new and twisted version of "Treadmill Racing!!!" Please note that whoever is in the next lane, they have no idea that I am racing them and it comes as a suprise whenever they get out of the water and I have a look of victory on my face. I bike back home, maybe make dinner, maybe employ the microwave. I watch a movie with the directors commentary on or go out with some friends. I'm in bed by 11. Asleep by 11:20. And then it's 6:45.

We are not perfect, but we sure try.

I remember the last time I saw it, all lit up with a breeze and a little boozed up. I used to eat my lunch in front of the Alamo, once in a while I'd take a picture for a tourist but for the most part it was just me and my sandwich defending my post. Dustin and I walked the four or so blocks to our bench and sat down as a group of teenagers posed in front of the plaque and a bachelorette party drunkenly stumbled over the cobblestone threshold to American history and lore. It was my last night in San Antonio and I was saying goodbye to the city that gave me so much and took so much away. Everything changes, especially us. And now that I'm home, and the smells of fresh cut grass and overwhelming humidity surround my every move, it seems easier to look back on it all. I do a lot of that. I think about how much I've changed. I think about the people I was fortunate enough to meet. I think about Dustin and how much I miss him. And I remember the Alamo.

What is this place?

I want to take Kate to see the sunset. I agree with him, because it feels like it's been forever since I've stopped to see one of those. Kitchens have a funny way of pulling you into the fire just as the sun dips below the horizon. Tan faces with sandy blond hair stroll by, warm strawberry daiquiri smiles and full bellies. I can see a man breathing fire and the circle of tourists that surround him ooing and awing. We walk by a cart of painted conch shells that say "Christmas in Key West 2008" or "Your name here". My dad and I pass by the brick buildings that have withstood the named storms and those that crumbled under it's power. We are the brick buildings. He takes me to the top of a hotel on Duval Street and I buy him a cup of coffee. The sun slips lower in below the red and purple clouds. We stand there to wish it well. Earlier he told me that he wasn't surprised that I was back, that I just had too much sand in my shoes. I told him he was right. I've returned as a different person than when I left. For the first time in my life I can feel an actual shift in my heart, I think about how I feel about myself and I am embarrassed. Maybe I'll never gain that confidence back, it might be lost forever. I may forever second guess myself or never forget those names I was called in that car. I still fall into the thinking that they are all true. But now I'm back in a place where one is not judged by the price tag on your t-shirt or the fancy sports car you leave in the garage. Here the time you spend on tire swings is worth more than the time spent at salon. The sunsets are what count. And this one I am watching with my dad.

It needs a little salt.

I need a break. The board is clear for the first time all night and the heat from the grill is taking it's toll on my mental facilities. Not ten minutes ago I asked where the ticket for table 10 was, a tender mid to mid well/lamb rare straight in, only to be told that it was right there in front of my face. God, it's hot back here. I can't drink water as fast as I can sweat it out, my shirt is soaked and my sleaves are coated it pepper. The space between my nose and lips burn. This mark on my arm doesn't look so good. It reminds me of the scars of my parents where they had their polio shots. A two inch by three inch rectangle of heat radiating from my skin. The bicep seems to hold onto these things, maybe opposed to the palm of the hand or the top of the forearm. They heal nicely, this- this burn is going to be with me for a while and I am starting to hate it already. No more tickets, it's time to see the outdoors again. Inevitabley Ryan will join me, give me a high five and tell me that I handled myself. I will add that I handled it like a lady and maybe put my hand on my hip to emphasize it with a little more sass than a kitchen filled with men would usually have. But for now, it's quiet and I sit on an empty keg in the cage to give my feet a rest. It's nights like this that I remember Le Reve and the constant desire for Andrew's praise. Up and down the stairs, across the wine room into the sand bar, maybe you'd get a "Very Nice" but it was rare. All praise going to the man with the spoon in his hand and the plates at his feet. Tonight the food was good because I tasted it. I judged the salt content, I trusted my meat temps. And it wasn't a disaster. It tasted good because it came from these hands. I am a cook agin and tonight I made people happy.

Welcome back

Maybe it's just the way it smells in the south, like confederate jasmines and damp summer air, maybe that's why it feels so comfortable. I've been here for a week now and I've already grilled outside twice, threw a baseball in the backyard, spent an evening on a porch swing drinking jameson, and watched a game of beer pong in a party dome. This is the life that I know and despite the labels of grief I'm sure I will sustain, it's still the best time a girl can ask for. Tallahassee hasn't changed much. There's a new oyster bar where the soul food place was. My first night back at Cypress I drank dollar PBRs with the kitchen and watched as those braver than I slurped down Apalachicola half shells doused in lemon wedges and tabasco. I made a pyramid out of the empty beer cans and listened as a new crew of misfits talked shop under hanging paper lights. Maybe this is as good as it gets. For the first time in my life I embraced my accent and the road of southern heritage that took me from birth to adulthood. It's going to rise again and I'll be there to cheer it on.