He was a Ghostbuster and I was a Banana in Pajamas, which from what I can tell is a magical combination. It was a night to remember: the concrete bench, the Gothic building, the full [strike through]* gibbous [strike through] crescent [strike through] moon, his charming jumpsuit, my comfortable shoes.
My God...those were comfortable shoes...
Everything is more intense in costume. Costumes expose the modest and impassion the mundane. Ordinary tasks become extraordinary experiences. Meals are more scrumptious. Conversation is freshly inspired. Costumed crowds form for no reason other than to see and be seen.
We took refuge from the crowd on the concrete bench. We had seen and been seen, and we felt satisfied with the culmination of the day’s efforts and excitements. Satisfied, we sat.
The party favor that served as my stem—a detail of which I was particularly proud—had fulfilled its duty, and now it felt funny sticking out of my ponytail. The yellow circles on my checks had all but disappeared. He had lost his Proton Gun. The glitter that I had so liberally applied to myself had migrated through the course of the evening and now, he sparkled.
Satisfied, we sat. Then we shifted. And then. There was. Nothing [strike through]. Everything [strike through]. Us.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Cauliflower
I really don't like cauliflower, y'all. Today I admitted to myself that the only reason I eat it is because my good friend who died in 2000 had an x-boyfriend with whom she was still madly in love and I remember her recalling a sweet moment when he said, "Sweetie, please eat cauliflower. It helps prevent cancer." This was the only reason she ate the yucky stuff, even after they broke up. So, essentially I'm eating cauliflower based on an emotional attachment to a second-hand emotional attachment to a comment made in the context of failed love. I don't feel this way about cauliflower puree. However, strangely, I associate cauliflower puree with Casa de Luz, which was the last place I saw my friend before she died.
Aside: A boy just walked by the window that faces the alley behind my house. He was dressed like a boy scout...kind of...maybe more like a 20-something used-to-be boy scout who is nostalgic for days when gathering with a group of boys on a Tuesday afternoon to eat root beer floats and learn how to tie knots was a meaningful and laudable activity. Ostensibly to commemorate "the good old days," he was wearing khaki pants, a forest green polo shirt that tries to look nice, but is misshapen by sweat and too many times through the washing machine, hiking boots, and a fishing hat. He also had two medium-sized rocks tied around his neck and a few nap sacks slung over his shoulder, one with a dark green pillow-y looking thing sticking out of it that matched his shirt. There are no camping sites nearby. Nor are there ponds in which to fish. What is he doing in my neighborhood? I won't be freaked out unless I start seeing more of his kind walk by my window outfitted in the same way. The rocks around the neck are a dead give away.
Back to the cauliflower...I guess the bottom line is that, however contorted the reasoning, I'm okay with eating something that's good for me, even though I don't like it. Maybe that's good. Maybe not. It's probably not a bad skill to know how to trick myself into thinking that something detestable is somewhat pleasurable...or at least bearable. The trick is to always be sure I know I'm tricking myself. You know what I mean?
Aside: A boy just walked by the window that faces the alley behind my house. He was dressed like a boy scout...kind of...maybe more like a 20-something used-to-be boy scout who is nostalgic for days when gathering with a group of boys on a Tuesday afternoon to eat root beer floats and learn how to tie knots was a meaningful and laudable activity. Ostensibly to commemorate "the good old days," he was wearing khaki pants, a forest green polo shirt that tries to look nice, but is misshapen by sweat and too many times through the washing machine, hiking boots, and a fishing hat. He also had two medium-sized rocks tied around his neck and a few nap sacks slung over his shoulder, one with a dark green pillow-y looking thing sticking out of it that matched his shirt. There are no camping sites nearby. Nor are there ponds in which to fish. What is he doing in my neighborhood? I won't be freaked out unless I start seeing more of his kind walk by my window outfitted in the same way. The rocks around the neck are a dead give away.
Back to the cauliflower...I guess the bottom line is that, however contorted the reasoning, I'm okay with eating something that's good for me, even though I don't like it. Maybe that's good. Maybe not. It's probably not a bad skill to know how to trick myself into thinking that something detestable is somewhat pleasurable...or at least bearable. The trick is to always be sure I know I'm tricking myself. You know what I mean?
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Good Ol' Humpty Dumpty
I read somewhere that Humpty Dumpty could be considered a paradigm of our times: a fragmented whole whose only hope of being put back together rests in the hands of those who know nothing of the whole, but only the fragments. Is it true? And how true is it? Have we ever been whole, or is each whole only a piece of a bigger whole? So, what is the biggest whole? And what causes it to break?
When I was little, I had a stuffed Humpty Dumpty and I remember feeling confused and perhaps even disappointed that he would never break if he fell off a wall; he was too gosh-darned fluffy. Either someone in the design department of some toy store somewhere forgot the eggman’s fate, or (more than likely) a decision had to be made regarding at which point in the story to represent Mr. Dumpty: at the beginning when he is one piece, or at the end when he is many. Hmmm...Tough decision. No doubt that oodles of toy companies decided to give Humpty Dumpty’s tragic ending form and oodles more found ways of fashioning a toy that could come apart and be put back together. But not the maker of my friend. My friend was whole. He was one piece, and barring an overly attached child or acid rain, my companion was intended to be whole as long as I would have the pleasure of knowing him, regardless of the fact that I know how the story ends.
I don’t know where my stuffed Humpty Dumpty is, but here I am pretending to be whole, knowing that I’m going to end up in pieces, and feeling crazy as I fall apart. The king’s men are no help; they only know the pieces and have yet to accept the Law of Entropy. What is the whole if it's not the pieces anyway? And if all the pieces fall to pieces, does that mean each piece becomes a whole? A pie's a pie no matter how you slice it. Perhaps what I consider the whole pie depends on when I arrive at the party.
When I was little, I had a stuffed Humpty Dumpty and I remember feeling confused and perhaps even disappointed that he would never break if he fell off a wall; he was too gosh-darned fluffy. Either someone in the design department of some toy store somewhere forgot the eggman’s fate, or (more than likely) a decision had to be made regarding at which point in the story to represent Mr. Dumpty: at the beginning when he is one piece, or at the end when he is many. Hmmm...Tough decision. No doubt that oodles of toy companies decided to give Humpty Dumpty’s tragic ending form and oodles more found ways of fashioning a toy that could come apart and be put back together. But not the maker of my friend. My friend was whole. He was one piece, and barring an overly attached child or acid rain, my companion was intended to be whole as long as I would have the pleasure of knowing him, regardless of the fact that I know how the story ends.
I don’t know where my stuffed Humpty Dumpty is, but here I am pretending to be whole, knowing that I’m going to end up in pieces, and feeling crazy as I fall apart. The king’s men are no help; they only know the pieces and have yet to accept the Law of Entropy. What is the whole if it's not the pieces anyway? And if all the pieces fall to pieces, does that mean each piece becomes a whole? A pie's a pie no matter how you slice it. Perhaps what I consider the whole pie depends on when I arrive at the party.
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