Riva, Gili, Matt

Cambridge means seeing old friends.


Love 'em.

Character sketch of Earl and me on the train

In New Haven, I gained a seatmate.

“Is this seat available?” He leaned down and looked right at me. I was eating an apple. First, I noticed his thick black glasses, lenses deep with bifocals. His cream-colored, bald head was speckled with age spots and bits of thinning hair on the sides. He must be in his late sixties or early seventies. He had a groomed, white goatee that connected with a white moustache. Red blood vessels streaked his cheeks.

As soon as he was seated, he rummaged in his dirty, camel-colored windbreaker (matching his tan cotton pants) and said, “Got a poem for you.”

He pulled out a hand-written, lined sheet of paper, titled, “Joyce.” And in a loud, confident voice, he began to orate a love poem. I cannot remember any lines from this poem because I was sent into a panic. How do I respond? Will he be on the train with me for the next hour and half until we reach Boston?

When he finished, I was staring out the window at the passing scenery; this did not deter him.

“How are you today?” he asked.

“I think I’d like to ride in silence,” I said.

“I will abide by your request,” he responded. “You just looked so dumbfounded there for a minute,” and he said something else, but I could not hear him. This whole time I was also listening to my Ipod.

I stared at his hands, brown hairs on the back sides, more age spots, nails longer and better cared for than my own, and felt a horrible guilt that I often feel when someone is different and I am forced to respond to them in public. Why should I hurt his feelings? Why not enjoy his poetry and learn something from a stranger? Isn’t it a writer’s job to be interested in everything?

He reclined in his chair, and when I finished my apple, I noticed a faint day-old urine smell emanating from him. He took out a plastic bottle of pills, the label rubbed off, from his pocket and threw one back with a sip of his Nestea. Then he replaced the cap on the pills and the cap on his Nestea and stuffed one bottle into his left pocket and the other bottle into the other.

More rummaging. He pulled out a ticket. I read it, shamelessly. Earl something. I can’t remember the last name. Traveling from New Haven to New London. Relief. He will only be riding for a short time. Yet, I am angry at myself for disengaging.

The conductor came by, and greeted my seatmate with cheer. They knew each other.

Earl unfolded a doctor's appointment slip for next week in New Haven.

The conductor called Earl, “a fine passenger,” and mentioned how good it was to see him.

Earl's big brown eyes stared through those thick glasses at my computer screen as I typed this and tried to shield him from it. I noticed the silver staple in his jacket cuff, his black lace-up boots. His elbow touched mine.

He removed his Nestea from his pocket and my thigh felt cold. I looked down and realized that he had accidentally spilled a few drops on my jeans.

“Oh, be careful,” I said, pointing at the spot and moving my computer away to protect it.

“I’m sorry,” he said, defeated.

When we went over a bridge in Connecticut, he held his fingers to his nose and puffed out through his mouth. He did this over and over until we were on the other side of the river. Then he took out his Nestea, took another sip, and replaced it in the pocket farther from me.

For the rest of the ride, we didn’t speak though his mouth stayed slightly parted.

I wanted to take back all of my properness, my scolding. I wanted to hear the poem again. I wanted to know everything.

He burped, a loud single note before we reached New London. Still, I wish I had been nicer.

double, double toil and trouble

Coming off of a fabulously exhausting week. There's been no time to write, and there's still no time to write, but I want to get everything down before I forget.

Tuesday night (skipping Monday because I went to some arty/music thingy, which I found kind of boring minus great seating on a comfy futon) I got to see my friend, another student in my graduate school, Alana at Scott Heim's reading. Scott is our mentor's partner and has just published his third novel, We Disappear. The event was historical because the Chelsea Barnes and Noble is closing, and this was the final reading.

I wish (for many reasons) that I was a gay man (perhaps an attractive, white gay man) because there seems to be an instant community/readership built into publishing books with gay themes. Lucky for me, a lot of my work dabbles in the homosexual lifestyle. Now if only I had that extra feature that would make men buy my book at full-price. Not that Scott isn't talented. It's just that I have noticed that being a gay man comes with perks.

Alana, Joe, and I went out for bar grub and drinks after the reading. I wish Alana liked the city more because it's nice to be around a sharp writer with a similar perspective on writing. Sigh.

Then good news came my way. I'm going to have a monthly column in bookslut! My first interview will appear in the May issue. Stay tuned for more.

My thesis is taking up a tremendous amount of time, which is exhilarating, exhausting, lonely-inducing, and comforting. And many other feelings. The hardest part is focusing on my work that needs the most attention. Maybe that's obvious.

Last night, Joe and I joined my parents for a night of theater. We went to BAM to see Patrick Stewart and Kate Fleetwood in Macbeth. As tired as I was, I am realizing that it's nice to do something outside of watching movies. Theater uses a different part of the imagination. I did not LOVE this performance, but overall, my brain expanded. (Oh, the lack of articulation.)


Further news:

reading and admiring: Ethan Canin's The Palace Thief
thanks to Jen G, listening to: Beach House
worried about my addiction to: graphic novels. trying to keep it at bay, but couldn't resist Phoebe Gloeckner and Adrian Tomine this week.

a flautist needs us

Back in the Bay Area, I started a small club (which consisted of three people) called FAF or Feelings Against Flutes.

Allow me to set the scene. Many afternoons, I would head to Wild Side West with a few friends to sit in the outdoor garden, perhaps on the tree swing, or in one of the hidden-by-shrubbery alcoves, and enjoy a cold beer or in the winter, a perfect cider and rum.

Bernal Heights, home of Wild Side West, can feel like such a suburban, serene escape from what I can only describe as the panic I often felt on the streets of the Mission and the Castro. This is merely because I am an intensely shy person and was unable to leave my house without running into people I knew. It began to feel a lot like college.

One afternoon, I needed to get away from the scene, and we drove up to W.S.W. for a little unwinding and privacy.

If you read this blog regularly, or have ever met me, then you may know that I have had a difficult time embracing the equine species. Similarly I have never taken to the sound that comes out of the supposedly musical instrument known as the flute. Flutes and horses are the same: prancing, snooty, girly, and just a little bit too silly to be taken seriously.

If you are a flute player, perhaps you will not agree. But listening to the flute reminds me of swallowing an ice cube before it has melted, the sharp corners burning inside of my throat.

So here I am at W.S.W., my defenses are down, and somewhere in the garden, the screeching of the flute floats my way. What can I do? I may/may not have been somewhat stoned, and I certainly was in no place to get up and do something about it. (Like what? Let's be realistic. Flute players don't take well to being told to pipe down).

In that moment, I founded Feelings Against Flutes. (Not to be confused with my other organization Pouting For Peace.) We sat and planned. Actually, once we figured out the acronym and decided who would hold what post, I think we forgot all about the club and sat seething until we decided to go home.

As President and one of the founders, I was overjoyed to come across this urgent poster in the subway station near my house. And by posting the information online, perhaps I will become a local flute hero. What a twist!


Other things going on:
-Do not be fooled by the atrocious picture on the cover, this is an amazing movie: The Mother
-Another fabulous movie that just came out (so to speak): Paranoid Park
-New music discovery: Broadcast album called Tender Buttons
-Reading: George Saunders' Civilwarland In Bad Decline
-As of yesterday, happy two-year blog anniversary to me!

a nerdy girl's dream come true

Joseph built a bookshelf for me. My apartment has been transformed into my own library/reading room. All day while I was teaching, I kept thinking about coming home and organizing my books into these sections: favorite fiction, general fiction, writing theory/lit crit, queer theory, reference, graphic novels, and oversize at the top.

If that isn't love...

Who knew furnishing an apartment could be so hot?



Media Report:
-Per Riva's recommendation, I've started watching Kebab Connection. I've seen the first half and so far, I'm enjoying myself, but I'm not attached.
-I saw Chop Shop, which is set in Flushing. This is the best movie I've seen so far in 2008.
-One more word on the P.S. 1 show, WACK! I was actually blown away by the extensiveness and the quality of the work in the exhibit. I've been thinking a lot about why feminist art (rising out of the feminist movement) is often labeled "outdated," which strikes me as dismissive. I haven't formed a theory about this yet, but that's why my last post referenced the aging of feminist art.
-My favorite pieces: Mari Lassing's videos, Kirsten Justesen's Sculpture II, Joan Semmel's First Erotic Series and Intimacy-Autonomy, and Rita Donagh's Contour.

some feminist art never gets old

Hello/goodbye, Riva.

Riva, Joe, and I went to WACK! at P.S. 1 to engage in feminist art of yore.

In honor of the occasion, I've created my own piece titled, "Riva and a Banana: Eating as Witness and as an Act of Resistance to the Banana Crisis.

Found Art!

My thesis was returned to my mentor's home and now it's on its way back to me. I'm proud of myself for holding it together under the circumstances. I don't remember the last time I handled myself so well in crisis. (I need to pat myself on the back; allow me this, please.)

On another note, did anyone else think it was strange/fabulous that the army announced the Oscar for best short documentary, which was stacked with anti-war movies, and the winner was a pro-gay marriage film? Oops.

-Latest viewing: Batalla en el Cielo
-Engrossed: You Remind Me of Me by Dan Chaon
-Getting Used to: Sky Blue Sky by Wilco
-Lesson: Don't drink half of a bottle of wine before waking up early to go to work.
-Second Lesson: Find little ways to brighten up a drab dress-code to avoid misery at work.

Valentine's Day (Observed): Beacon, NY

Joseph, artist by day; explorer of strange towns (like Beacon) by night.

My first encounter with Bruce Nauman's work. Dia: Beacon.



Winter in Beacon.

death of a horseman

Last week my horse necklace broke. I don't want to jinx the goodness, but since removing the jewelry, improvements abound. Overall, I'm much happier, like the old days. Maybe I wasn't bred to be a horse girl for a reason: the giant beasts bring bad luck.

My first thesis submission is lost in the mail. This isn't good luck.
Snow is coming down for real now. Also not good luck.
Hm.
Still, feeling better all around.

On my nightstand: American Pastoral by Philip Roth
In the CD alarm clock: Gravy Train!!!!
On repeat: Mr. Blue by Yaz (watch Chocolate War!)

Matzo Ball Soup: An Initiation

Saturday started with a traditional English-style breakfast (unbeknownst to Joe, who cooked the meal), which consists of scrambled eggs with baked beans and hot sauce, and sourdough toast. Then a trip to Yaffa for brunch with Sandra, Rui-Bing, and some of her friends.

Entering a heavy food coma, we made our way to the Brooklyn Brewery for a "tour," which ended up being a twenty-minute speech/presentation about how beer helped one man cope with witnessing the murder of two friends and the decapitation of another. The whole point of suffering through this was the assumption that we would be given free beer. Not so. Not so at all.

Consoling ourselves at a local coffee shop over Irish coffee, I declared the day, Serious Conversation Saturday, a national holiday. Everyone participated and we even got a lecture on the hypocrisy of discussing gentrification. Yippee!

We parted ways, and Joe and I headed to the new 2nd Avenue Deli for what might be considered a kind of Bar-Mitzvah: Joe's first ever bowl of matzo ball soup! He loved it. I believe mazel tov's are in order.

Along with matzo ball soup, we gulped down hot pastrami sandwiches, a plate of pickles, coleslaw, and Dr. Brown's cream soda. We will never go hungry.

L'Chaim!

someone else's vacation

It's like that when you're on vacation: drinking freely, staying up until G-d knows what hour, buying your friends desserts and beer, running around town looking for figurines, sleeping in.

It's like this when you have a friend staying with you who is on vacation: drinking with abandon, late nights before early work mornings, free dessert and beer, staying in instead of hunting down figurines, growing jealous of a friend who can sleep in.

nothing a little erasure can't help

Just in time for Sandra's visit, winter bombarded New York. Everything is quiet, slower, and a little gloomier. Still, Sandra is here, so nothing can be that bad.

My second semester of classes that I'm teaching began this week. For now, I will say that it's a mixed bag and leave it at that.

I'm losing focus on my thesis and instead of trying to regain control, I'm puttering around my apartment, making coffee, eating Trader Joe's chili (yum), and fiddling with my itunes.

-Reading: Among the Missing by Dan Chaon
-Listening: Erasure is a quick fix for the winter blues. Sandra says the intro to "Who Needs Love (Like That)" sounds like a PBS documentary.
-Biggest b.s. lesson plan, that I ended up pulling off: "Time to Go" by Stephen Dixon
-Need more discipline in order to watch: Twin Peaks: Season Two, which is my goal this winter.
-New cat experiment: covering Cornelius with olive oil in order to reduce visitors' allergies. So far, I'm not sure if it's working because Sandra wasn't allergic to Cornelius to begin with.

we are your creepy neighbors

the snow fell horizontally. gravity changed. one thing remained the same: voyeurism is a perfect pastime. last night at 7 pm, New York was watching television. photos by Joe and Gili: