Posts Tagged ‘cory’
Posted in my life, tagged abe lincoln, amy hempel, chicago, colorado, cory, egg plant, garden, greens, happiness, illinois, jeremy, legitimacy, melancholy, New York, paris, reflection, texas, writing on March 27, 2009 | 3 Comments »
writing hasn’t been happening much lately which has a direct correlation with my state of unrest. summer is coming and i’m leaving paris soon right at the moment when i gave my first completely unselfish hug. i watched a lecture today about living forever and the developing the technology to do it. and people asked, “wouldn’t it be boring?” and out of all the things life is, i don’t know that i will ever again find it boring. arthur, the nine-year-old, says often the same thing in the morning when I tell him he can’t play the computer before school. he says, “but it’s so boring here.” and i don’t get it, with the books on the shelves, the light coming in through the windows, my own two feet on the ground, bones, muscles, standing up, lying down, sitting and waiting and watching. yet for me, living forever, or at least, for another hundred years requires a garden. and odd to me still how things grow. i don’t grow with sunshine and water and i don’t know why.
it’s a few days into spring and i feel like summer is coming soon. and that’s a big deal.
kate used to talk about legitimacy. ”i want to achieve legitimacy,” she’d say. or maybe she never really said it that way. and i once thought that the only way to obtain that was through world travel and a constant melancholy and thought that somehow, happiness was a lesser emotion. i had hemingway’s “happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing i know,” in my head.
and now, no. happiness is happiness, and it feels good. it’s worth chasing. it’s worth forgetting things over. it’s worth letting rest anxieties and fears to let happen. and melancholy, too, is worth those moments of reflection, looking out at how it all is, and thinking that either it is here to stay, or that you are quickly losing it.
i just know for now, i am leaving Paris. i am disquieted and comforted. there will be more projects and more stories, so many more stories to come.
i have an assignment to sleep under a texas sky. i have an assignment to start a lemonade stand outside a chicago subway. i have an assignment to jump into a murky pond near the abraham lincoln memorial museum in southern illinois. i have an assignment to hike through southern colorado to a place that makes more sense to both of us, wherever that is. and new york, the upper east side to brooklyn, and chocolate, and long white white hair with big eyes. i have an assignment to grow some eggplant, to sundry some tomatoes.
jeremy said today that we’ll pitch a tent in our new living room.
and i’m going to love hard and breathe and eat lots and lots of bitter greens,
nice hearty ones, the greens i mean.
I will soon be packing up my life and taking it across the world… Again. And I suppose that after I knew that this decision would be made, I pretty much put a freeze on acquiring anything. A temporary house remains far less full. My friend Cory used to say, “Home is where the stuff is.” But few of us are as Buddhist as we should be and we still have attachments to material things and emotional hangings.
Things Lost in 2008.
- A key to a bike lock.
- An expensive pen. It isn’t the first time I’ve lost it. The first time I lost it, I said it was my grandfather’s pen so that people wouldn’t think I was stupid for buying and then losing an expensive pen.
- My belt buckle with the name of my hometown.
- Many pictures taken and half a story in a computer crash.
- My wanderlust.
- My job as a cleaning lady.
- My ability and desire to do it all her way.
- My interest in explaining things.
- The desire to do much more than have endless Sunday afternoons.
- One of the chairs in the teahaus. I still don’t know where that went.
- Two books I lent out. (I kept three of other’s though. Sorry Matt, Agnes and Sophie.) The good ones never come back.
- Most of my grass-is-greener mentality.
When I made this list last year, I had a whole slew of things that were stolen from a rented car when my parents and I parked outside a medieval city in the south of France. I remember swearing then that I would no longer fret over things (except for my computer, but I suppose that this thing processes more of myself than past lovers have.) But of course, I scrambled around swearing when I lost that pen. Yet looking at this list now, and last year’s as well, they both quickly become positive. Things lost becomes Things of which I’ve rid myself.
What’s your list? What’s making moving across the world just a little easier?
In the past five years, my mother has had both knees replaced and thwarted two different cancers. When she comes to visit me, she does not get a room. She brings a sleeping bag. This is something I will always brag about.
My mother likes to take me grocery shopping. In previous visits, she has insisted on filling my cupboards. She knows the grocery store is a mile-walk away for me and insists on packing as many heavy items into her car as possible. When we get to the health food store, I start rummaging through the organic juices. I pick out pomegranate and carrot ginger. She picks out orange.
I read the ingredients on tea-tree essential oil skin therapy soap. She finds one that claims to be, “Ayurvedic Soap.” Its box is ma and pa. She opens it to smell.
“What is that?” she says.
“It must be the Mala Inchi, wild ginger.”
“No, I mean Ayurveda.”
“Traditional Indian medicine, ma.”
“Let’s get these.”
As she closes the small soapbox, she finds a thin sheet of paper. She hands it to me.
“My Sanskrit is only so-so,” I say as she turns the sheet over.
She reads the English translation, “‘Instructions for Usage: Apply the soap through out the body and the arms and the legs. When finished, wash all of it off. Try not to eat.’” She folds the sheet of paper and puts it into my breast pocket.
“You’d better hold on to the directions,” she says, “for later.”
After we park, she struggles with the hill up to my apartment. I insist on carrying the bags full of bottles. She resigns herself.
“You’re not so big, you know.” She stops to catch her breath.
“You go ahead.” “I can wait.”
“No, go ahead. I like to check out that rump of yours.”
As I walk ahead to unlock the door, I military-press the juice bottles over my head and lift them over and again to prove that, indeed, I am so big.
“You remember, boy,” she says, “you came from me.”