A voice. There is a woman’s voice that commands me sometimes. Not my voice, and no voice familiar to me. But I like the way she sounds. Full of authority, steadiness, candidness. A rich sound, like dark chocolate or plush velvet.
I woke up this morning, and heard her in my head: Move forward, she said. It’s time to get a grip. And then my own inner voice comes in with its list-making.
1. Last semester you knew exactly why you were here: So you could learn to look more critically and constructively at your own work.
2. So you could meet other writers with whom you might forge strong enough connections to exchange work in the future.
3. To bring your work up to a level that you’d feel ready and comfortable submitting it to journals.
4. To leave here with a strong manuscript.
5. Also, you came here so that your husband would be in a place where he could do the kind of work he’s excited to do.
6. You came here to live in a progressive, fun and active city.
7. You did not come here to get caught up in departmental, academic politics and cattiness.
8. You did not come here to doubt yourself as a writer or to compare yourself with other writers.
9. You did not come here to doubt yourself as a person or to mask who you are in the company of others.
10. You did not come here to fear people’s judgments of you.
11. Equally, you most certainly did not come here to judge other people.
12. SO. MOVE ON.
13. You need not become overwhelmed with your work load.
14. There are women all over the country and all over the world who have work loads and family loads that are ten times your own.
15. Get yourself up in the morning.
16. Be focused when you wake. Do your work.
17. If you need other activities in your life besides school, make room for them, embrace them. Don’t feel guilty about them and thus, overwhelmed. (i.e. – at this moment – I want to make room to exercise because I find that it helps me be more sane, productive and happy).
18. Generally speaking, remain focused.
There you go. I woke up, the woman’s voice told me to move on, and I made a list in my head of what I was getting caught up on, and where I need to place my energies instead.
No more whining in this blog about when and how I'll make friends. I’ll make them when I make them.
In the mean time, my friends who are not here with me, are still "with" me. I also woke up today and paused feeling thankful for these women: ah, cmv, ea, ars, ar, ll, rb, aw, eb. There are a lot of years of friendship in here, one friendship as long as 22 years! All these women who are distinctly different from one another. All these women around whom I feel in my skin and at home – who all represent some aspect of me, and likewise some aspect that is not me, but that is purely her own, and that I admire fully. I feel thankful for these friends.
No more whining about being stressed out and overloaded and no more whining about feeling guilty in the moments when I'm not doing school stuff. A person requires balance. And also confidence.
Now. On to the business of becoming a writer and the business of simply being myself in any given situation.
SONGS: Turn the Light Down Low, Can't Take my Eyes Off of You
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
playground.
1. Check, to my last commenter, on trying to find something positive in this experience. I’m working on that.
2. Interestingly enough, it’s not the place that I don’t feel at home in, it’s more the strange collection of individuals who are brought together to be writers that feels, well, awkward and un-home-like in this place.
3. That said, I most certainly LIKE plenty of these people.
4. And with them, I’ve had some truly fun moments, not school or writing related at all.
5. I have been reminding myself that knowing people for years and years and years is quite different from knowing people for a few months.
6. My friend c. asked me: Is it that you feel like you’d feel it by now if you were going to be good friends? (I’m paraphrasing)
7. My answer: Yes. I think I’d feel it.
8. Her answer: Maybe these are not the people you are meant to be good friends with.
9. My answer: Yes. That’s a possibility.
10. Her comment: Maybe you’ll make your good friends in other ways.
11. My answer: Yes. That’s very possible. I haven’t been here long enough to plug into a lot of different outlets. And really, I’m too busy with school to be playing on a billion different playgrounds.
12. The whiny person inside of me: But making friends is usually so easy for me- people with all different kinds of personalities and mindsets and experiences.
13. The practical, patient person inside of me: Making really good new friends takes time. Getting into a comfort zone with others is not instant.
14. Whiny-me: But a lot of times it's instant.
15. And I like people. I like people in my program. I like them.
16. So wait. Wait it out
SONG: Turn the Light Down Low, Lauren Hill's mix
2. Interestingly enough, it’s not the place that I don’t feel at home in, it’s more the strange collection of individuals who are brought together to be writers that feels, well, awkward and un-home-like in this place.
3. That said, I most certainly LIKE plenty of these people.
4. And with them, I’ve had some truly fun moments, not school or writing related at all.
5. I have been reminding myself that knowing people for years and years and years is quite different from knowing people for a few months.
6. My friend c. asked me: Is it that you feel like you’d feel it by now if you were going to be good friends? (I’m paraphrasing)
7. My answer: Yes. I think I’d feel it.
8. Her answer: Maybe these are not the people you are meant to be good friends with.
9. My answer: Yes. That’s a possibility.
10. Her comment: Maybe you’ll make your good friends in other ways.
11. My answer: Yes. That’s very possible. I haven’t been here long enough to plug into a lot of different outlets. And really, I’m too busy with school to be playing on a billion different playgrounds.
12. The whiny person inside of me: But making friends is usually so easy for me- people with all different kinds of personalities and mindsets and experiences.
13. The practical, patient person inside of me: Making really good new friends takes time. Getting into a comfort zone with others is not instant.
14. Whiny-me: But a lot of times it's instant.
15. And I like people. I like people in my program. I like them.
16. So wait. Wait it out
SONG: Turn the Light Down Low, Lauren Hill's mix
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
homesick.
Of my twelve or so classmates, there are five who I like quite a lot – who I think of as my school friends. And yet? Twice recently, I’ve come home and cried after having drinks with them. Literally. First on Friday and then last night.
I have felt totally foreign and uncomfortable in social situations lately, and I have felt desperate to be surrounded by the people who know me and who I know. I can’t remember the last time I had to make friends from scratch. Is it possible to put it that way?
The truth of the matter is (with very few exceptions) that my friends in Baton Rouge are people I’ve known for ten to fifteen years or more. My friends who aren’t in Baton Rouge, but are scattered all over the country – these are also people who I’ve known for at least a good fifteen years - twenty even! So, of course I feel beyond comfortable around them. Of course, they “get” me. I am deeply rooted to these friends.
I’m complaining. And I don’t want to be complaining. But I miss the intimacy of unstated understanding between people. In making new friends, it feels as if there is quite a lot of unstated misunderstanding and misinterpretation. Maybe I’m trying to put this in terms too abstract.
There are physical conditions. The way that my stomach aches while I write – a feeling like butterflies, but nervous, anxious, sad butterflies instead of happy, excited fluttering. The way I could cry right now, thinking about all these people in my life. The ones in BR and beyond. I am hungry for them. My heart is hungry for them. For a good, goofy laugh at possibly nothing.
And then there is Baton Rouge itself. You would think I should not miss that place. But I do. It’s more than the food right now. It’s the familiarity of faces and attitudes, and frankly the shadows cast by trees, the color of grass, the way the land spreads flat and wide and sometimes looks like it is slightly sinking. The color of oak pollen spread over the ground and cars– chartreuse? Blooming azaleas. Delicate tissue-papery crape myrtle petals on the sidewalk. Are there blood colored camellias now too? Muddy brown water. I miss every single color of Baton Rouge.
I could go home to BR and sit at Perks or walk around the lakes or ride my bike around the Garden District. I could strike up a conversation with any stranger if I wanted – at the grocery store even. I could make a new friend in a heartbeat. Even with strangers, there is the unstated understanding of common ground. I don’t know why it feels so difficult on new earth.
I miss you BR folks, something mean. The old friends. The new friends. Even acquaintances and familiar loiterers and bums. Walking into a place or a party – a place or party full of strangers, and feeling 100 percent like ME. Entirely comfortable inside of my skin. What do you make of that?
SONG: Together, The Raconteurs (listening to it on repeat obsessively lately)
Monday, February 23, 2009
a thing i am working on.
Man List
First, there was Sid Vicious. Or maybe it was my friend Maggie’s older brother, Andy. But then, maybe it had been my father himself. Though, I would never have put him on such a list. At thirty-five, I did not know who had been the first to break me. I did not care to know. I did know that I loved music, babies and my father, Lowell. None of these could disappoint me. These were my heroes. It was heartbreak I could not bear. Cannot.
1. Sid Vicious/Andy
I wanted to be a homeless heroin addict for Halloween. So it was definitely Sid Vicious. Or maybe Andy.
“A what?” my mother had asked.
“You know, a drug addict.” I was eight, and it was the era of Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” campaign. I had caught a glimpse of Sid and Nancy at Maggie’s house one Friday after school. Maggie’s brother, Andy, attempting to induce fear in us, made us sit through a half hour of the movie, maybe more. Andy had ruffled my penny-colored hair and said, “Isadora, watch: This is your brain on drugs.” Pretending to hold the handle of a frying pan with one hand, he mimed cracking an egg with his other hand. Then he wiggled all ten fingers over the pretend frying pan, simulating the splattering egg.
“My brother’s so gross,” Maggie later complained. I disagreed.
My mother, Alice, taught sociology at the state university. She was an avid reader and a perfectionist, and she’d immersed herself in parenting guides since the day she gave birth. When I presented my Halloween costume choice, she was in the midst of reading 5,6,7,8 – From Imagination to Education: A Primary Schooler’s Developmental Stages and also, a book on the cutting edge disciplinary technique of the day called, Yes, You Can! A Parent’s Guide to Positive Reinforcement. At least, these are my guesses. (I’ve rummaged through her collection of parenting self-help books. I’ve even catalogued them for her.) Alice convinced my dad that they should give in about the costume, maybe explaining that it was essential to indulge the stages of my imagination in a positive manner. These were the types of arguments Alice used to make.
When she took me and Maggie, who dressed as a fairy princess, door-to-door in the neighborhood, people asked, “Well what are you, little girl?” I held out my arms to reveal drawn-on track marks, and replied, “A homeless junkie.”
Sid Vicisous – or would you say it was Andy?, a sloppy, fourteen-year-old, pot-smoking skater who idolized punk music – set the tone for all of my future loves to come, beginning with Dmitri Mercurio.
First, there was Sid Vicious. Or maybe it was my friend Maggie’s older brother, Andy. But then, maybe it had been my father himself. Though, I would never have put him on such a list. At thirty-five, I did not know who had been the first to break me. I did not care to know. I did know that I loved music, babies and my father, Lowell. None of these could disappoint me. These were my heroes. It was heartbreak I could not bear. Cannot.
1. Sid Vicious/Andy
I wanted to be a homeless heroin addict for Halloween. So it was definitely Sid Vicious. Or maybe Andy.
“A what?” my mother had asked.
“You know, a drug addict.” I was eight, and it was the era of Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” campaign. I had caught a glimpse of Sid and Nancy at Maggie’s house one Friday after school. Maggie’s brother, Andy, attempting to induce fear in us, made us sit through a half hour of the movie, maybe more. Andy had ruffled my penny-colored hair and said, “Isadora, watch: This is your brain on drugs.” Pretending to hold the handle of a frying pan with one hand, he mimed cracking an egg with his other hand. Then he wiggled all ten fingers over the pretend frying pan, simulating the splattering egg.
“My brother’s so gross,” Maggie later complained. I disagreed.
My mother, Alice, taught sociology at the state university. She was an avid reader and a perfectionist, and she’d immersed herself in parenting guides since the day she gave birth. When I presented my Halloween costume choice, she was in the midst of reading 5,6,7,8 – From Imagination to Education: A Primary Schooler’s Developmental Stages and also, a book on the cutting edge disciplinary technique of the day called, Yes, You Can! A Parent’s Guide to Positive Reinforcement. At least, these are my guesses. (I’ve rummaged through her collection of parenting self-help books. I’ve even catalogued them for her.) Alice convinced my dad that they should give in about the costume, maybe explaining that it was essential to indulge the stages of my imagination in a positive manner. These were the types of arguments Alice used to make.
When she took me and Maggie, who dressed as a fairy princess, door-to-door in the neighborhood, people asked, “Well what are you, little girl?” I held out my arms to reveal drawn-on track marks, and replied, “A homeless junkie.”
Sid Vicisous – or would you say it was Andy?, a sloppy, fourteen-year-old, pot-smoking skater who idolized punk music – set the tone for all of my future loves to come, beginning with Dmitri Mercurio.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
lock-jaw
It is one month into the semester, but oddly, it feels like I should be halfway through the semester – like I’ve been in school for A. Long. Time. Yet I am just now figuring out how to organize my days. Weeks are busy, and while I’m handling it, I feel the stress. Every second of every day, I need to be reading or reviewing stories or grading papers or writing my own stories. And when I’m not, I can’t enjoy myself, because I feel immensely guilty for having a life (or just vegging out – which I did last night). There is one time of the day, three days a week, when I let the guilt go. But it’s another story for another entry.
I wake up every morning to find that my jaw is clamped shut. Stuck like it’s been super-glued. I pull my bottom teeth away from my top teeth and try to stretch out my mouth until it feels less tight. This has been going on for two weeks. It feels odd to carry stress in my jaw, but maybe there’s no room in my back and shoulders and neck anymore.
I was homesick the other night. After class on Tuesday, my classmates and I went for a drink. I felt so disoriented in this group of writers, and I only wanted to be around people familiar and comfortable to me. I wanted to be in a bar Baton Rouge and not in a crappy San Marcos sports bar/Irish pub/slash bar that doesn’t know what it wants to be. I didn’t feel like being in foreign Texas where everything is also the shape of Texas – vehicle safety inspection stickers, signage always declaring where I am.
Feels like I've been in school and Texas for a dog's age. *see word of the day.
There are lots of good things to report alongside my stress and feeling dislocated and homesick and without the comfort of friends who understand me and don’t analyze my behavior the way writers do. Next entry, all the good stuff.
I wake up every morning to find that my jaw is clamped shut. Stuck like it’s been super-glued. I pull my bottom teeth away from my top teeth and try to stretch out my mouth until it feels less tight. This has been going on for two weeks. It feels odd to carry stress in my jaw, but maybe there’s no room in my back and shoulders and neck anymore.
I was homesick the other night. After class on Tuesday, my classmates and I went for a drink. I felt so disoriented in this group of writers, and I only wanted to be around people familiar and comfortable to me. I wanted to be in a bar Baton Rouge and not in a crappy San Marcos sports bar/Irish pub/slash bar that doesn’t know what it wants to be. I didn’t feel like being in foreign Texas where everything is also the shape of Texas – vehicle safety inspection stickers, signage always declaring where I am.
Feels like I've been in school and Texas for a dog's age. *see word of the day.
There are lots of good things to report alongside my stress and feeling dislocated and homesick and without the comfort of friends who understand me and don’t analyze my behavior the way writers do. Next entry, all the good stuff.
Monday, February 16, 2009
using my vocabulary.
Since I've set out to improve my vocabulary, I thought I should, at least once a week, actually put the daily words to use.
Today's words: Interminable, Fool's Gold.
Usage: It seems as if the spring semester is interminable; I've begun to wonder if May will ever arrive. Worse, I worry lately that an MFA in fiction may not assist my efforts to publish work or to improve my craft skill, but in fact, may be nothing but fool's gold.
(PS - I don't really believe the latter - I actually feel like this program has already helped immensely.)
Today's words: Interminable, Fool's Gold.
Usage: It seems as if the spring semester is interminable; I've begun to wonder if May will ever arrive. Worse, I worry lately that an MFA in fiction may not assist my efforts to publish work or to improve my craft skill, but in fact, may be nothing but fool's gold.
(PS - I don't really believe the latter - I actually feel like this program has already helped immensely.)
Sunday, February 15, 2009
school stuff.
1. I had signed up to workshop with one instructor this semester, but I changed my mind and switched to a different workshop at the last minute. It was a good move. From what I hear, the other instructor is a prick. I’ve been told that, in addition to many other terrible workshop moments throughout this semester, he gave a 30-minute lecture on the art of literary fiction, how it has a soul, whereas commercial fiction isn’t an art form and doesn’t have a soul. This all led up to the statement, “And this. This is commercial fiction.” He was talking about one of his student’s short stories. Ouch. And at the end of the class, everyone still present, he told her, “Your hair looks nice.” Shithead.
2. I didn’t read it, but the girl who wrote it is, well, a really good writer. Her sentences are clean. Her stories are engaging. She also has a gift for portraying people who are far outside of her experiences. I envy her ability, because she’s 10 years younger than I am. That said, she’s young and really gifted, and I have no doubt that she is not only capable of taking her work where it needs to go, but also that she will do just that. So if her stories are lacking something, it’s this instructor’s job to give her feedback as to how to get it where it needs to go. He does, after all, receive a paycheck from the university – and not for his fiction, but for his TEACHING JOB.
3. Writing instructors who say, “Writing can’t be taught” ought to be fired. They are basically declaring: “I cannot do my job.” What makes writers feel so entitled to their teaching paychecks when they’re too damn stubborn and lazy to mentor other writers?
4. My workshop professor is an incredibly smart woman, insightful, helpful. I’d even call her brilliant.
5. I will not lie. Two other girls in the program and I have been talking about forming a band and naming it after her. Think, The Jane Does – except it will be this professor’s name.
6. I guess I really need to get on learning how to play bass if that’s going to happen. This summer, I’m actually going to take some lessons, I’ve decided. If not bass, violin.
7. I am taking a Saul Bellow course. I’ve discovered that I don’t care for Saul Bellow’s work. It makes me want to cut my throat.
8. I am taking a “Problems in Literature” class, though I haven’t exactly figured out what ‘problems’ we are solving. We read a lot. We talk about what we’ve read. – How the author achieved some particular quality in the writing.
9. I am IAing for a really demanding professor. She makes sure that I put in the full 20 hours while most other IAs put in 7-10. I feel resentment toward her, because it cuts into my writing time. This fact makes me angry, if you want to know the truth. Another professor told her IA, “I don’t make you work crazy hours like X” does,” X being my professor. Apparently, she has a reputation among her colleagues. The upside is that I am well aware what great preparation I am receiving for next year when I teach my own class. In the meantime, I’m working on trying to manage my time so I can condense my workload into 15 hours a week.
10. This semester, I have cried once. In my IA class, I felt overwhelmed because a student complained to the professor about the grade he received on his essay. “I did everything she told me to do. I have the draft with all of her comments on it,” I heard him tell her. Then he sat in the front row and glared at me through class. I wanted to shout: “I DIDN’T GIVE YOU THE MAGICAL GUIDE FOR MAKING AN A. I GAVE YOU SUGGESTIONS ON HOW TO IMPROVE YOUR D-GRADE DRAFT! AND YOU EARNED A C+ IN THE END.” Instead I stood there and ran the power point, and just yelled inside my own head at the smug brat.
11. At the end of class I got bombarded with people telling me their essays were going to be late. The professor is okay with late essays. She doesn’t have to manage my time, so I guess she would be okay with it. I am not okay with late essays.
12. Five minutes after class, and just before my workshop class, a fellow student asked me a question. He and I are coordinating the MFA student readings this semester. He asked me about some email I needed to send, and I started to answer him, and as I was talking, I heard my voice wavering, and felt my eyes welling, and I interrupted myself to say, “I can’t talk about this right now.” Then I rushed off to the bathroom and cried my eyes out for two minutes before I attempted to compose myself and headed to workshop.
13. My eyes were red for nearly the entire 3 hours. I barely spoke a word. That is not like me.
14. As for my own workshop on the Sajan story a couple of weeks ago, it went pretty well. My really brilliant workshop teacher had some concrete suggestions that I think are insanely helpful. I can’t wait to revise it over the summer.
15. Finally, revising is a difficult task. I dread it. But I will overcome this dread.
Monday, February 9, 2009
1997. ocean dream.
Some people swim with dolphins, and I hear the act has even brought people to tears. But I swim with bears. Two black bears who find me on the shore. When they approach, I understand what they are telling me, though their mouths do not move. No sound passes between us, but we all comprehend one another. I am lonely and lost and my heart is in pain, and the bears tell me that everything will be okay. They say that I am not alone. I know they are telling me the truth, and I go with them.
They lead me into the water. I follow them, and we go farther and farther into the ocean. When I look back and see that the sand is merely a speck against waves, I worry. I tell them, in our telepathic language, that I cannot breathe underwater. Trust us, they say. I do.
The bears are twice my size, three times my size. They are gigantic and safe. Under water, salt does not hurt my eyes. I can see clearly, more clearly than when they found me. Neon fish glow. Plants are plump and healthy. The bears take me to a cave where there are more black bears. Families of enormous bears. They are expecting me. They greet me. They feed me. I have been hungry and unloved. They love me. They ask me to stay with them.
I tell them I cannot. That I must live on land. That I won’t be able to breathe here forever. They understand. They say they will still always protect me, and I know it is the truth. Our lips still never move. Our throats never produce a sound. The bears guide me through the ocean again, back toward the shore. I am tired, and I hold one of them, hug his furry back like it is my security blanket.
Because I no longer have to swim, because the bears are swimming for me, I take in the ocean world. It is opulent and nourishing. I am sad, immensely sad to leave this place. That I cannot let it become my home. The bears understand. Each time we communicate, I feel my heart grow, feel it warm my body from within. The water is not cold, but it is crisp like a breeze against my skin in the spring. My eyes are open. The salt does not burn. The bears are my friends.
When we reach the shore, when we are no longer submerged, I see a tent community. Men and women and children inhabiting the beach as if there is nowhere else in the world they belong. They see the bears, and people gather. They leave their labors – hanging clothes to dry on clothes lines, gutting fish. I notice the blues and greens and browns of their irises, colors alive like the colors of fish under water. Their pupils expand, and happy creases form at the corners of their eyes. They are smiling. They have all been saved by the bears before. They are also protected by the bears.
Little gritty, salty children embrace my legs. They are happy for my arrival. Their hair is sunny blond highlights. Their skin is dark brown sugar. They have lived on this beach forever. They cannot remember a time when their parents were alone, unloved, lost, as sick as I have been. The parents tell me this truth with their eyes, like a secret the children needn't know. The children think the bears are their uncles. Their favorite uncles. The bears are lifting them off of my legs and into the air. Sand grains are on the children and caught in on the bears' fur.
I know that I will be mute for a long time. I am going to live on the beach in this tent community, where we are all mute. Where so much is unspoken. Where the children are silent and happy, and the parents are saved and content. They are at peace, and I need to be at peace. The children are no less lively without words. Our eyes say a lot. Our hearts speak the only necessary language. Mine heart burns now.
It burns. The bears feel it burning, and they tell me I must not be sad. They say they will come back when the time is right. They say that I can stay on this shore for as long as I need to. It could be forever, and that would be okay. They will live in the ocean and love me still.
I watch them leave. The bears move slow. Their bodies are thick. They cast a shadow onto the sand. Their hair is in wet clumps and mats. It is long, and when they touch the water again, as their bodies lower, hair loosens over the water. The waves unravel it, and I see it float like silk threads until the bears are lower and lower and they are under water, swimming away and below, back to their caves.
SONG: Summertime, Miles Davis
They lead me into the water. I follow them, and we go farther and farther into the ocean. When I look back and see that the sand is merely a speck against waves, I worry. I tell them, in our telepathic language, that I cannot breathe underwater. Trust us, they say. I do.
The bears are twice my size, three times my size. They are gigantic and safe. Under water, salt does not hurt my eyes. I can see clearly, more clearly than when they found me. Neon fish glow. Plants are plump and healthy. The bears take me to a cave where there are more black bears. Families of enormous bears. They are expecting me. They greet me. They feed me. I have been hungry and unloved. They love me. They ask me to stay with them.
I tell them I cannot. That I must live on land. That I won’t be able to breathe here forever. They understand. They say they will still always protect me, and I know it is the truth. Our lips still never move. Our throats never produce a sound. The bears guide me through the ocean again, back toward the shore. I am tired, and I hold one of them, hug his furry back like it is my security blanket.
Because I no longer have to swim, because the bears are swimming for me, I take in the ocean world. It is opulent and nourishing. I am sad, immensely sad to leave this place. That I cannot let it become my home. The bears understand. Each time we communicate, I feel my heart grow, feel it warm my body from within. The water is not cold, but it is crisp like a breeze against my skin in the spring. My eyes are open. The salt does not burn. The bears are my friends.
When we reach the shore, when we are no longer submerged, I see a tent community. Men and women and children inhabiting the beach as if there is nowhere else in the world they belong. They see the bears, and people gather. They leave their labors – hanging clothes to dry on clothes lines, gutting fish. I notice the blues and greens and browns of their irises, colors alive like the colors of fish under water. Their pupils expand, and happy creases form at the corners of their eyes. They are smiling. They have all been saved by the bears before. They are also protected by the bears.
Little gritty, salty children embrace my legs. They are happy for my arrival. Their hair is sunny blond highlights. Their skin is dark brown sugar. They have lived on this beach forever. They cannot remember a time when their parents were alone, unloved, lost, as sick as I have been. The parents tell me this truth with their eyes, like a secret the children needn't know. The children think the bears are their uncles. Their favorite uncles. The bears are lifting them off of my legs and into the air. Sand grains are on the children and caught in on the bears' fur.
I know that I will be mute for a long time. I am going to live on the beach in this tent community, where we are all mute. Where so much is unspoken. Where the children are silent and happy, and the parents are saved and content. They are at peace, and I need to be at peace. The children are no less lively without words. Our eyes say a lot. Our hearts speak the only necessary language. Mine heart burns now.
It burns. The bears feel it burning, and they tell me I must not be sad. They say they will come back when the time is right. They say that I can stay on this shore for as long as I need to. It could be forever, and that would be okay. They will live in the ocean and love me still.
I watch them leave. The bears move slow. Their bodies are thick. They cast a shadow onto the sand. Their hair is in wet clumps and mats. It is long, and when they touch the water again, as their bodies lower, hair loosens over the water. The waves unravel it, and I see it float like silk threads until the bears are lower and lower and they are under water, swimming away and below, back to their caves.
SONG: Summertime, Miles Davis
Friday, February 6, 2009
made up people.
Some of my recent narrators and/or main characters have been:
70-year-old widower, Indian
56-year old divorcee, Indian
38-year old woman; curator at an art gallery, American
A dead woman (a woman speaking from beyond the grave?), Indian
32 year-old mother of a 3-year-old, Indo-American
16 year-old lifeguard and Baskin Robbins employee, female, Indo-American
56-year old search and rescue worker, male, southern, American
Next story involves 3 adolescent boys, American. I think they will be age 14 or 15.
SONGS: I'm Not Angry & Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes, Elvis Costello
70-year-old widower, Indian
56-year old divorcee, Indian
38-year old woman; curator at an art gallery, American
A dead woman (a woman speaking from beyond the grave?), Indian
32 year-old mother of a 3-year-old, Indo-American
16 year-old lifeguard and Baskin Robbins employee, female, Indo-American
56-year old search and rescue worker, male, southern, American
Next story involves 3 adolescent boys, American. I think they will be age 14 or 15.
SONGS: I'm Not Angry & Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes, Elvis Costello
short story.
Here is a list of words related to my next story - one for which I have a nice little seed planted:
Concrete
Asphalt
Rebar
Rubble
Machete
Hacksaw
Foundation
Hungry
Steel
Barbwire
Red
Leika
Cannon
Darkroom
Documented
Exposed
Grainy
Chemical
Sledgehammer
Pipe fitter
Refinery
Suburban
Pecan Grove
Leveled
Tractor
Bulldozer
Construction
Dirt
1982
Ranch
Bungalow
Punk
Basement
Rafters
Rope
Broken
Dim
SONGS: I'm Not Angry & Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes, Elvis Costello
Concrete
Asphalt
Rebar
Rubble
Machete
Hacksaw
Foundation
Hungry
Steel
Barbwire
Red
Leika
Cannon
Darkroom
Documented
Exposed
Grainy
Chemical
Sledgehammer
Pipe fitter
Refinery
Suburban
Pecan Grove
Leveled
Tractor
Bulldozer
Construction
Dirt
1982
Ranch
Bungalow
Punk
Basement
Rafters
Rope
Broken
Dim
SONGS: I'm Not Angry & Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes, Elvis Costello
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
malibu ghost stories.
Malibu in early August. We are five girls. We drive to the state park, only to find that it is booked. Our car is full of gear – two tents, sleeping bags, a camp stove, a gas lantern, an ice chest full of food, wine, our laughter. We find an RV campground that also has tent camping. Maybe it is a KOA; I don’t know.
C. is nervous about camping in an RV park. This is her first time camping, and maybe she thinks that RV Parks are where serial killers hide out and possibly find new victims. She is an actress. She’s seen a lot of movies and read a lot of plays. We’re in Malibu, I remind her. I love to camp, and I feel agitated that anyone would feel afraid.
I guess I have forgotten that, years earlier, the first time I went camping in a state park in Louisiana, the girls I was with (including E. who is on this trip) and I, had a moment out of Deliverence. An old man appeared from nowhere while four twenty-year-olds set up our tent. He hovered around, trying to talk to us, asking things like, “Ya’ll from around here?” so that in the middle of the night, woods creaking, we each woke at different times afraid that we’d heard a rapist’s footsteps.
But this is not rural Louisiana. It is Malibu, home of celebrities and record producers. If the other girls are nervous about the RV campground, they don’t tell me. Maybe they tell C. on the side. I have car camped at places like this. It’s usually old retired couples and young families. Across the highway, the Pacific Ocean is waiting for us. It is so close that when we finally sleep that night, we can hear it moan.
C. does not remember being nervous about the RV Park. It’s been four or five years since Malibu. Maybe my memory is playing tricks.
We’ve arrived late, so we are setting up camp in the dark, flashlights zooming around, our giddy giggles traveling to other sites – the ones with families who have already had supper for the night and just want to sit out in the dark and watch the stars and listen to the ocean. They don’t know that the five of us have not seen one another in a year or two, or that we are silly with wine, or that we go back to high school, most of us, so even though we’re nearing thirty, when we’re together if just feels like more like middle school. The way we act and feel.
When the tents are finally up, and the burner is up, I am about to announce the surprise I’ve been telling the girls about over email for the months leading up to this trip. They are my brides’ maids. Or, they were my bride’s maids when I got married a few years earlier. I had taken them to brunch at La Madeleine’s and we ate tomato basil soup. It’s a chain, I know, but my god, that soup. All five of us agree. I’ve purchased the soup in a big glass jar. I’m at the picnic table. I’m about to pull it out of a bag, and E. exclaims: “TOMATO BASIL SOUP FROM LA MADELEINE!” before I can unveil it. “ELISE!” I shout. C. says she remembers the look on my face when E. said what the surprise was. I could laugh, go along with it, congratulate her for figuring it out. But I get mad. Which only makes the other girls want giggle more. I guess it’s funny when I am mad. Then we get shushed by nearby campers. It’s like 8pm. Not THAT late. Late for campers.
I try to stop being mad. But there are so many of us, and it’s all been such a production to get to Malibu and then to find a place to camp, convincing everyone we won’t die at the RV site, and then to set up – two of us experienced campers, and the others convinced that getting the tent up is a challenge. I swear it’s not. But yeah, it’s too dark, really, to be doing all this. I know that too. And I know that in spite of my agitation, on some level I’m having fun. Almost too much.
The soup goes into a pot and the pot goes onto the burner. The burner, like the tents, was a pain to set up in the dark. We’re around the table drinking our wine. Cool night on our skin, stars out like it’s show time. We are here – from Chicago (C.) and Baton Rouge (me) and Denver (Ak.) and Virginia (E.) visiting our one LA friend (A.), who has brought us out to Malibu. Home of Barbie and Ken. We keep getting shushed, but nothing quiets us. Our whispering is loud whispers, our soft laughter breaks into noisy outbursts.
One clumsy move, and E. has knocked the pot off of the burner, spilled half of the soup. Did I spill the soup, E. asks. I don’t remember spilling the soup? We are scurrying in the dark trying to clean up. I get so irritated, and this makes the girls want to burst out laughing at the entire situation. We are cleaning, cleaning cleaning, getting up all the mess. There are ants, and then the camp director comes and tells us to keep it down because we’re bothering other campers. Somehow it makes us laugh more. C. tells E., No you didn’t spill the soup. It just spilled. I think the little burner it was on just collapsed. But now I can’t be sure. The tension, the red-orange soup poured over sand-colored dirt, wine inside of us. We’re in Malibu, and tension cannot hold.
C. and E. have set the record straight, and this is how I know my memory plays tricks. Now I remember the burner collapsing after Ak and I had maneuvered setting it up with a tiny flashlight guiding our moves.
Finally, we eat. There is bread and cheese and what little of the soup we saved. It is enough in the end. There is more wine. There is probably chocolate. And maybe mangoes. Now we should go to bed, because almost the entire campground is sleeping. And if we’re going to go to the beach tonight, it means walking from the highest bluff, where our site is, down the other levels of the camp ground and then we’ve got to cross the Pacific Coast Highway.
As we trek down, A. tells the rest of us about all the people who’ve committed suicide on the Pacific Coast, and the people who’ve accidentally died while trying to cross. And I want the ghost stories and urban legends (and the references to things A.’s read in the LA Times) to stop so we can have fun. I don’t realize yet that this is part of the fun that I’ll remember later.
C. is terrified to cross the highway. I think everyone is, but I refuse to let it be known if I am. The beach at night is my favorite, and damned if we do not get to see the Pacific under this dark sky, under these California stars. We are waiting for both sides to be clear, but at any moment, headlights could appear, a car could whiz by at 100 miles per hour and take us down like pieces in a pinball machine. We run, and we probably scream aloud while we run, crossing the highway, the five of us.
C. says, I Still hate crossing busy streets until I know it is safe. I think this is how I will die.
Then we’ve got to climb down the bluff and the other girls, minus Ak, are afraid they’ll break their legs or arms. There is no trail to mark the way. There I am, in the full glory of my irritation, like some kind of outdoorsman champion. I am not. But we’re in Malibu, and we need to get to the ocean at night, and there’s nothing scary about RV Parks or Porsches or sand dunes. This is what I’m telling myself, broken record in my head.
C. starts talking about all the stories of celebrities suing people for being on the beach stretches in front of their Malibu homes, and she doesn’t want to walk down the beach because we can see houses, and we might get sued. This is irrational to me, regardless of the accuracy of the lawsuits. We are five girls from all over, I say. I’ll play stupid Southerner if anyone says anything. C. is not convinced. A. confirms C.’s concerns. She has read about this too, living in LA.
A. reminds me, I had just read an article a week or so before about the rich people who lived in Malibu on the beach trying to keep the public "off their lawn." And the public's like, "this should be everyone's lawn." And, the evil richers were like, "No, it's just mine because I'm rich." And because I've always had a profound fear of the rich, I just assumed they'd have henchmen sharpshooters laying in wait to tag commoners who trespassed on their property.
There I am mad again. Now Ak is at my side, walking with me. She thinks this is all hilarious. She thinks it’s all hilarious and fun. She’s laughing about it all, and this makes me laugh about it all, reminds me that it is fun, every last bit. I think A and C. and E. are staying back away from the houses. Maybe they are sitting in the sand watching the way the moon lights the ocean, reflects into it like it’s a moving mirror. But Ak and I walk the sand. She is laughing, and I get to laughing, and I love these girls.
Ak says, Oh my god, I only have such funny, happy memories from that night! I remember everyone was totally cracking me up!
I don’t want anything to be safe or cautious, and some of the girls want caution and safety. It can feel like there is nothing to be controlled in this situation – wide-open ocean before us, rich powerful houses lining the beach, deadly highway behind us, the RV site for murderers built into a cliff. How can we begin to be careful against all these odds?
What have we got to loose by accepting whole-heartedly for a moment that our existence is tiny and invisible against these elements?
I can only see these girls, I can only feel what it feels like to be together in a moment that has been orchestrated for so long now. I know it will have to pass eventually, in a few days, our long weekend together acting like middle schoolers. For now, it’s the only thing worth immersing my thoughts into.
E. says I have a flare for drama,
The next day, we will lie on blankets and read multiple copies of US Magazine, comment on the celebrities whose front yard we're hanging out in. E. will fall asleep and get too sunburned in a way that hurts while the rest of us are playing in the cold Pacific. We'll see men surfing and parasailing. I will wish I knew how to surf and think it's completely beautiful to watch.
A. says, I wish we could all go camping there again.
This is the truth, laughter and memory tricks and all.
SONG: In California, Neko Case
C. is nervous about camping in an RV park. This is her first time camping, and maybe she thinks that RV Parks are where serial killers hide out and possibly find new victims. She is an actress. She’s seen a lot of movies and read a lot of plays. We’re in Malibu, I remind her. I love to camp, and I feel agitated that anyone would feel afraid.
I guess I have forgotten that, years earlier, the first time I went camping in a state park in Louisiana, the girls I was with (including E. who is on this trip) and I, had a moment out of Deliverence. An old man appeared from nowhere while four twenty-year-olds set up our tent. He hovered around, trying to talk to us, asking things like, “Ya’ll from around here?” so that in the middle of the night, woods creaking, we each woke at different times afraid that we’d heard a rapist’s footsteps.
But this is not rural Louisiana. It is Malibu, home of celebrities and record producers. If the other girls are nervous about the RV campground, they don’t tell me. Maybe they tell C. on the side. I have car camped at places like this. It’s usually old retired couples and young families. Across the highway, the Pacific Ocean is waiting for us. It is so close that when we finally sleep that night, we can hear it moan.
C. does not remember being nervous about the RV Park. It’s been four or five years since Malibu. Maybe my memory is playing tricks.
We’ve arrived late, so we are setting up camp in the dark, flashlights zooming around, our giddy giggles traveling to other sites – the ones with families who have already had supper for the night and just want to sit out in the dark and watch the stars and listen to the ocean. They don’t know that the five of us have not seen one another in a year or two, or that we are silly with wine, or that we go back to high school, most of us, so even though we’re nearing thirty, when we’re together if just feels like more like middle school. The way we act and feel.
When the tents are finally up, and the burner is up, I am about to announce the surprise I’ve been telling the girls about over email for the months leading up to this trip. They are my brides’ maids. Or, they were my bride’s maids when I got married a few years earlier. I had taken them to brunch at La Madeleine’s and we ate tomato basil soup. It’s a chain, I know, but my god, that soup. All five of us agree. I’ve purchased the soup in a big glass jar. I’m at the picnic table. I’m about to pull it out of a bag, and E. exclaims: “TOMATO BASIL SOUP FROM LA MADELEINE!” before I can unveil it. “ELISE!” I shout. C. says she remembers the look on my face when E. said what the surprise was. I could laugh, go along with it, congratulate her for figuring it out. But I get mad. Which only makes the other girls want giggle more. I guess it’s funny when I am mad. Then we get shushed by nearby campers. It’s like 8pm. Not THAT late. Late for campers.
I try to stop being mad. But there are so many of us, and it’s all been such a production to get to Malibu and then to find a place to camp, convincing everyone we won’t die at the RV site, and then to set up – two of us experienced campers, and the others convinced that getting the tent up is a challenge. I swear it’s not. But yeah, it’s too dark, really, to be doing all this. I know that too. And I know that in spite of my agitation, on some level I’m having fun. Almost too much.
The soup goes into a pot and the pot goes onto the burner. The burner, like the tents, was a pain to set up in the dark. We’re around the table drinking our wine. Cool night on our skin, stars out like it’s show time. We are here – from Chicago (C.) and Baton Rouge (me) and Denver (Ak.) and Virginia (E.) visiting our one LA friend (A.), who has brought us out to Malibu. Home of Barbie and Ken. We keep getting shushed, but nothing quiets us. Our whispering is loud whispers, our soft laughter breaks into noisy outbursts.
One clumsy move, and E. has knocked the pot off of the burner, spilled half of the soup. Did I spill the soup, E. asks. I don’t remember spilling the soup? We are scurrying in the dark trying to clean up. I get so irritated, and this makes the girls want to burst out laughing at the entire situation. We are cleaning, cleaning cleaning, getting up all the mess. There are ants, and then the camp director comes and tells us to keep it down because we’re bothering other campers. Somehow it makes us laugh more. C. tells E., No you didn’t spill the soup. It just spilled. I think the little burner it was on just collapsed. But now I can’t be sure. The tension, the red-orange soup poured over sand-colored dirt, wine inside of us. We’re in Malibu, and tension cannot hold.
C. and E. have set the record straight, and this is how I know my memory plays tricks. Now I remember the burner collapsing after Ak and I had maneuvered setting it up with a tiny flashlight guiding our moves.
Finally, we eat. There is bread and cheese and what little of the soup we saved. It is enough in the end. There is more wine. There is probably chocolate. And maybe mangoes. Now we should go to bed, because almost the entire campground is sleeping. And if we’re going to go to the beach tonight, it means walking from the highest bluff, where our site is, down the other levels of the camp ground and then we’ve got to cross the Pacific Coast Highway.
As we trek down, A. tells the rest of us about all the people who’ve committed suicide on the Pacific Coast, and the people who’ve accidentally died while trying to cross. And I want the ghost stories and urban legends (and the references to things A.’s read in the LA Times) to stop so we can have fun. I don’t realize yet that this is part of the fun that I’ll remember later.
C. is terrified to cross the highway. I think everyone is, but I refuse to let it be known if I am. The beach at night is my favorite, and damned if we do not get to see the Pacific under this dark sky, under these California stars. We are waiting for both sides to be clear, but at any moment, headlights could appear, a car could whiz by at 100 miles per hour and take us down like pieces in a pinball machine. We run, and we probably scream aloud while we run, crossing the highway, the five of us.
C. says, I Still hate crossing busy streets until I know it is safe. I think this is how I will die.
Then we’ve got to climb down the bluff and the other girls, minus Ak, are afraid they’ll break their legs or arms. There is no trail to mark the way. There I am, in the full glory of my irritation, like some kind of outdoorsman champion. I am not. But we’re in Malibu, and we need to get to the ocean at night, and there’s nothing scary about RV Parks or Porsches or sand dunes. This is what I’m telling myself, broken record in my head.
C. starts talking about all the stories of celebrities suing people for being on the beach stretches in front of their Malibu homes, and she doesn’t want to walk down the beach because we can see houses, and we might get sued. This is irrational to me, regardless of the accuracy of the lawsuits. We are five girls from all over, I say. I’ll play stupid Southerner if anyone says anything. C. is not convinced. A. confirms C.’s concerns. She has read about this too, living in LA.
A. reminds me, I had just read an article a week or so before about the rich people who lived in Malibu on the beach trying to keep the public "off their lawn." And the public's like, "this should be everyone's lawn." And, the evil richers were like, "No, it's just mine because I'm rich." And because I've always had a profound fear of the rich, I just assumed they'd have henchmen sharpshooters laying in wait to tag commoners who trespassed on their property.
There I am mad again. Now Ak is at my side, walking with me. She thinks this is all hilarious. She thinks it’s all hilarious and fun. She’s laughing about it all, and this makes me laugh about it all, reminds me that it is fun, every last bit. I think A and C. and E. are staying back away from the houses. Maybe they are sitting in the sand watching the way the moon lights the ocean, reflects into it like it’s a moving mirror. But Ak and I walk the sand. She is laughing, and I get to laughing, and I love these girls.
Ak says, Oh my god, I only have such funny, happy memories from that night! I remember everyone was totally cracking me up!
I don’t want anything to be safe or cautious, and some of the girls want caution and safety. It can feel like there is nothing to be controlled in this situation – wide-open ocean before us, rich powerful houses lining the beach, deadly highway behind us, the RV site for murderers built into a cliff. How can we begin to be careful against all these odds?
What have we got to loose by accepting whole-heartedly for a moment that our existence is tiny and invisible against these elements?
I can only see these girls, I can only feel what it feels like to be together in a moment that has been orchestrated for so long now. I know it will have to pass eventually, in a few days, our long weekend together acting like middle schoolers. For now, it’s the only thing worth immersing my thoughts into.
E. says I have a flare for drama,
The next day, we will lie on blankets and read multiple copies of US Magazine, comment on the celebrities whose front yard we're hanging out in. E. will fall asleep and get too sunburned in a way that hurts while the rest of us are playing in the cold Pacific. We'll see men surfing and parasailing. I will wish I knew how to surf and think it's completely beautiful to watch.
A. says, I wish we could all go camping there again.
This is the truth, laughter and memory tricks and all.
SONG: In California, Neko Case
Monday, February 2, 2009
malibu.
Malibu in early August. We are five girls. We drive to the state park, only to find that it is booked. Our car is full of gear – two tents, sleeping bags, a camp stove, a gas lantern, an ice chest full of food, wine. We find an RV campground that also has tent camping. Maybe it is a KOA; I don’t know.
C. is scared to death of camping where there are RVs. This is her first time camping, and she thinks that RV Parks are where serial killers hide out and possibly find new victims. She is an actress, so she’s seen a lot of movies and read a lot of plays. We’re in Malibu! I remind her. Because I love to camp, I feel agitated that anyone would feel afraid.
I guess I have forgotten that, years earlier, the first time I went camping in a state park in Louisiana, me and the girls I was with had a moment out of Deliverence. An old man appeared from nowhere while we set up our tent. He hovered around, trying to talk to us, asking things like, “Ya’ll from around here?” so that in the middle of the night, we each woke at different times afraid that we’d heard a rapist’s footsteps.
But this is not rural Louisiana. It is Malibu, home of celebrities and record producers. If the other girls are nervous about the RV campground, they don’t tell me, afraid I’ll bite their heads off. I’m sure they tell C. on the side. I have car camped at places like this. It’s usually old retired couples and young families. Besides, across the highway, the Pacific Ocean is waiting for us. It is so close that when we finally sleep that night, we can hear it groan.
We’ve arrived late, so we are setting up camp in the dark, flashlights zooming around, our giddy giggles traveling to other sites – the ones with families who have already had supper for the night and just want to sit out in the dark and watch the stars and listen to the ocean. They don’t know that the five of us have not seen one another in a year or two, or that we are silly with wine, or that we go back to high school, most of us, so even though we’re nearing thirty, when we’re together if just feels like high school again. We just act like high school again. That is what I mean.
When the tents are finally up, and the burner is up, I am about to announce the surprise I’ve been telling the girls about over email for the months leading up to this trip. They are my brides’ maids. Or, they were my bride’s maids when I got married a few years earlier. I had taken them to brunch at La Madeleine’s and we ate tomato basil soup. It’s a chain, I know, but my god, that soup. All five of us agree. I’ve purchased the soup in a big jar. I’m at the picnic table. I’m about to pull it out of a bag, and E. exclaims: “TOMATO BASIL SOUP FROM LA MADELEINE!” before I can unveil it. “ELISE!” I shout. I could laugh, go along with it, congratulate her for figuring it out. But I get mad. Which only makes the other girls want to giggle more, because I guess it’s funny when I am mad. Then we are getting shushed by nearby campers. It’s like 8pm. Not THAT late. Late for campers.
I am trying to stop being mad. But there are so many of us, and it’s all been such a production to get to Malibu and then to find a place to camp, convincing everyone we won’t die at the RV site, and then to set up – only 2 of us experienced campers, and the others convinced that getting the tent up is a challenge. I swear it’s not. But yeah, it’s too dark, really to be doing all this.
The soup goes into a pot and the pot goes onto the burner, and we’re around the table drinking our wine. Cool night on our skin, stars out like it’s show time. We are here – from Chicago and Baton Rouge and Denver and Virginia and Louisiana visiting our one LA friend, who has brought us out to Malibu. Home of Barbie and Ken. We keep getting shushed, but nothing quiets us. Our whispering is loud whispers, our soft laughing breaks into noisy outbursts. None of us is 70, and none of us has children with us, except ourselves.
One clumsy move, and E. has knocked the pot off of the burner, spilled half of the soup. And we are scurrying in the dark trying to clean it up. I get so pissed off, and this makes the girls want to burst out laughing at the entire situation. We are cleaning, cleaning cleaning, getting it all up, and there are ants, and then the camp director comes and tells us to keep it down because we’re bothering other campers. Somehow it makes us laugh more. The tension, the red-orange soup poured over pale brown dirt, wine inside of us. We’re in Malibu, and tension cannot hold.
Finally, we eat. There is bread and cheese and what little of the soup we could save. There is more wine. There is probably chocolate. And maybe mangoes. Now we should go to bed because almost the entire campground is sleeping. And if we’re going to go to the beach tonight, it means walking from the highest bluff, where our site is, down to the other levels of the camp ground and then we’ve got to cross the Pacific Coast Highway at night to get to the beach.
As we trek down, A. and C. start telling the rest of us about all the people who’ve committed suicide on the Pacific Coast, and the people who’ve accidentally died while trying to cross. And I just want the ghost stories and urban legends (and the references to things A.’s read in the LA Times) to stop so we can have fun, but I don’t realize that this is all part of the fun.
C. is terrified to cross the highway. I think everyone is, but I refuse to let it be known if I am. The beach at night is my favorite, and damned if we do not get to see the Pacific under this midnight sky, under these stars lit for us alone. We are waiting for both sides to seem clear, but at any moment, a car could whiz by at 100 miles per hour and take us down like pieces in a pinball machine. We run, and we probably scream aloud while we run, crossing the highway, the five of us.
And then we’ve got to climb down the bluff and the girls are afraid they’ll break their legs or arms. There is no trail to mark the way. There I am, in the full glory of my irritation, like I am some kind of outdoorsman champion. I am not. But we’re in Malibu, and we need to get to the ocean at night, and there’s nothing scary about RV Parks or Porches or sand dunes. This is what I’m telling myself, broken record in my head.
Then C. starts talking about all the stories of celebrities suing people for being on the beach stretches in front of their Malibu homes, and she doesn’t want to walk down the beach because we can see houses, and we might get sued. And this is irrational to me, regardless of the accuracy of the lawsuits. We are five girls from all over, I say. I’ll play stupid Southerner if anyone says anything. C. is not convinced.
There I am mad again, and now A-2 is at my side, walking with me. She thinks this is all hilarious. She is the other girl who has camped. She thinks it’s all hilarious and insanely fun. And she’s laughing about it all, and this makes me laugh about it all. Meanwhile, I think A. (who lives in LA), and C. and E. are staying back away from the houses. Maybe they are just sitting in the sand watching the way the moon lights the ocean, reflects into it like it’s a mirror. But A-2 and I walk the sand, and the night is cool against our skin. She is laughing, and I get to laughing, and I love these girls.
I don’t want anything to be safe or cautious, and some of the girls want caution and safety. It can feel like there is nothing to be controlled in this situation – wide-open ocean before us, rich powerful houses lining the beach, deadly highway behind us, the RV site for murderers built into cliff. How can we not be careful?
But I feel like, how can we be careful? What have we got to loose by just accepting whole heartedly for a moment that our existence is tiny and invisible against these elements? I can only see these girls, I can only feel what it feels like to be together in a moment that has been orchestrated for so long now. I know it will have to pass eventually. For now, it’s the only thing worth immersing my thoughts into.
C. is scared to death of camping where there are RVs. This is her first time camping, and she thinks that RV Parks are where serial killers hide out and possibly find new victims. She is an actress, so she’s seen a lot of movies and read a lot of plays. We’re in Malibu! I remind her. Because I love to camp, I feel agitated that anyone would feel afraid.
I guess I have forgotten that, years earlier, the first time I went camping in a state park in Louisiana, me and the girls I was with had a moment out of Deliverence. An old man appeared from nowhere while we set up our tent. He hovered around, trying to talk to us, asking things like, “Ya’ll from around here?” so that in the middle of the night, we each woke at different times afraid that we’d heard a rapist’s footsteps.
But this is not rural Louisiana. It is Malibu, home of celebrities and record producers. If the other girls are nervous about the RV campground, they don’t tell me, afraid I’ll bite their heads off. I’m sure they tell C. on the side. I have car camped at places like this. It’s usually old retired couples and young families. Besides, across the highway, the Pacific Ocean is waiting for us. It is so close that when we finally sleep that night, we can hear it groan.
We’ve arrived late, so we are setting up camp in the dark, flashlights zooming around, our giddy giggles traveling to other sites – the ones with families who have already had supper for the night and just want to sit out in the dark and watch the stars and listen to the ocean. They don’t know that the five of us have not seen one another in a year or two, or that we are silly with wine, or that we go back to high school, most of us, so even though we’re nearing thirty, when we’re together if just feels like high school again. We just act like high school again. That is what I mean.
When the tents are finally up, and the burner is up, I am about to announce the surprise I’ve been telling the girls about over email for the months leading up to this trip. They are my brides’ maids. Or, they were my bride’s maids when I got married a few years earlier. I had taken them to brunch at La Madeleine’s and we ate tomato basil soup. It’s a chain, I know, but my god, that soup. All five of us agree. I’ve purchased the soup in a big jar. I’m at the picnic table. I’m about to pull it out of a bag, and E. exclaims: “TOMATO BASIL SOUP FROM LA MADELEINE!” before I can unveil it. “ELISE!” I shout. I could laugh, go along with it, congratulate her for figuring it out. But I get mad. Which only makes the other girls want to giggle more, because I guess it’s funny when I am mad. Then we are getting shushed by nearby campers. It’s like 8pm. Not THAT late. Late for campers.
I am trying to stop being mad. But there are so many of us, and it’s all been such a production to get to Malibu and then to find a place to camp, convincing everyone we won’t die at the RV site, and then to set up – only 2 of us experienced campers, and the others convinced that getting the tent up is a challenge. I swear it’s not. But yeah, it’s too dark, really to be doing all this.
The soup goes into a pot and the pot goes onto the burner, and we’re around the table drinking our wine. Cool night on our skin, stars out like it’s show time. We are here – from Chicago and Baton Rouge and Denver and Virginia and Louisiana visiting our one LA friend, who has brought us out to Malibu. Home of Barbie and Ken. We keep getting shushed, but nothing quiets us. Our whispering is loud whispers, our soft laughing breaks into noisy outbursts. None of us is 70, and none of us has children with us, except ourselves.
One clumsy move, and E. has knocked the pot off of the burner, spilled half of the soup. And we are scurrying in the dark trying to clean it up. I get so pissed off, and this makes the girls want to burst out laughing at the entire situation. We are cleaning, cleaning cleaning, getting it all up, and there are ants, and then the camp director comes and tells us to keep it down because we’re bothering other campers. Somehow it makes us laugh more. The tension, the red-orange soup poured over pale brown dirt, wine inside of us. We’re in Malibu, and tension cannot hold.
Finally, we eat. There is bread and cheese and what little of the soup we could save. There is more wine. There is probably chocolate. And maybe mangoes. Now we should go to bed because almost the entire campground is sleeping. And if we’re going to go to the beach tonight, it means walking from the highest bluff, where our site is, down to the other levels of the camp ground and then we’ve got to cross the Pacific Coast Highway at night to get to the beach.
As we trek down, A. and C. start telling the rest of us about all the people who’ve committed suicide on the Pacific Coast, and the people who’ve accidentally died while trying to cross. And I just want the ghost stories and urban legends (and the references to things A.’s read in the LA Times) to stop so we can have fun, but I don’t realize that this is all part of the fun.
C. is terrified to cross the highway. I think everyone is, but I refuse to let it be known if I am. The beach at night is my favorite, and damned if we do not get to see the Pacific under this midnight sky, under these stars lit for us alone. We are waiting for both sides to seem clear, but at any moment, a car could whiz by at 100 miles per hour and take us down like pieces in a pinball machine. We run, and we probably scream aloud while we run, crossing the highway, the five of us.
And then we’ve got to climb down the bluff and the girls are afraid they’ll break their legs or arms. There is no trail to mark the way. There I am, in the full glory of my irritation, like I am some kind of outdoorsman champion. I am not. But we’re in Malibu, and we need to get to the ocean at night, and there’s nothing scary about RV Parks or Porches or sand dunes. This is what I’m telling myself, broken record in my head.
Then C. starts talking about all the stories of celebrities suing people for being on the beach stretches in front of their Malibu homes, and she doesn’t want to walk down the beach because we can see houses, and we might get sued. And this is irrational to me, regardless of the accuracy of the lawsuits. We are five girls from all over, I say. I’ll play stupid Southerner if anyone says anything. C. is not convinced.
There I am mad again, and now A-2 is at my side, walking with me. She thinks this is all hilarious. She is the other girl who has camped. She thinks it’s all hilarious and insanely fun. And she’s laughing about it all, and this makes me laugh about it all. Meanwhile, I think A. (who lives in LA), and C. and E. are staying back away from the houses. Maybe they are just sitting in the sand watching the way the moon lights the ocean, reflects into it like it’s a mirror. But A-2 and I walk the sand, and the night is cool against our skin. She is laughing, and I get to laughing, and I love these girls.
I don’t want anything to be safe or cautious, and some of the girls want caution and safety. It can feel like there is nothing to be controlled in this situation – wide-open ocean before us, rich powerful houses lining the beach, deadly highway behind us, the RV site for murderers built into cliff. How can we not be careful?
But I feel like, how can we be careful? What have we got to loose by just accepting whole heartedly for a moment that our existence is tiny and invisible against these elements? I can only see these girls, I can only feel what it feels like to be together in a moment that has been orchestrated for so long now. I know it will have to pass eventually. For now, it’s the only thing worth immersing my thoughts into.
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