"Deep Thoughts": August 2010 Archives

I smelled burning leaves tonight, and made a second hot chocolate when I got home. Last night it was windy, and there were crinkled leaves swirling in tight curves around my head. A bat flew formation with me for a while. It's the first stirrings of fall, and I find that I'm delighted to see/hear/smell/feel it. I want apples. I want new perfumes. I want more of those tall socks I buy at American Apparel, even though they're so expensive for what they are.

I want to make an excursion, soon, when my ankle's ready for the traffic, to Chinatown, to pump up my stores of tea. I'm thinking Jasmine.

I want to buy this movie, and this one.

I want to find a way to get out of town for a while, to be in a forest, to look up at the leaves and listen.

I want to find a man who makes me feel the way my spring-summer lover does, but who wants more of me, and of whom I can handle wanting more, myself. I think it's time, or nearly.

I want this yarn. Isn't it the loveliest color? I'm knitting a simple little rolled-edge hat, to get in the mood. And it only just occurred to me that my new hairstyle is the perfect thing for hats. I tried one on yesterday and nearly fell into the proverbial pool looking at my reflection.

Hello fall.

So I wake up and think, I am gonna ride to the beach! Then I look outside and notice that it's cloudy and threatening rain.

I go and put on some good music and make some mediocre coffee. (Sorry, Stumptown; I know you mean well, but you just can't compete.)

By the time I'm back at the computer, cup in hand, it's pouring outside.

I am desperately trying to remind myself that I like riding in rain. But I know that at least some of that has to do with wearing a lot of Gore-Tex, and I also know that there's a burgeoning hole in the inner thigh of my Gore-tex pants.

And then I think about the impending winter. I like riding in winter. There's something bracing and adventurous about it, and I always forget that the streets get less crammed with wobbly and/or obnoxious cyclists, and that it's quiet when it snows, and that I get to imagine that I have the world to myself.

It's interesting, that phrase - world to myself. I use it a lot.

What's odd is that last night what I wanted more than anything was to not be alone in my apartment, in this city full of weirdos doing weird things weirdly right in front of my wheel.

I am always astonished to find myself getting lonely. I think I should be beyond that, immune. It's true that I enjoy my own company. It's true that I like to have space. It's true that I've lived alone so long it's impossible to imagine comfortably sharing a place with another human being. It's true that I don't think I ever want to be married, and I'm certain that I don't want children, and I don't like the fact that I'm currently friendly with my neighbors. I know that sounds weird.

I need a lot of space around me, and I often can't get enough, so how can I possibly ever feel lonely? That conundrum deserves another cup of super-sugared espresso.

In the process of obtaining it, I discover that I've forgotten about the oatmeal I put on the stove, which happens pretty much every time I make oatmeal. And which also reminds me of fall. I don't eat oatmeal in summer, so the fact that I felt like making it today suggests that my body can feel winter approaching. And I've been knitting a little bit, at night, too.

I don't know what to say about winter, except that the feeling of impending winter has a particular flavor to it - a kind of melancholy that is both enjoyable and like a faint bone pain. It feels like loneliness, in fact. Standing on a windy headland, loneliness is beautiful. Sitting in the apartment on a humid Saturday night, it feels like living inside a crinkled piece of tinfoil - loud and stale and too-shiny.

Every time I look out the window now, it's raining harder and harder.

I get up and think about eating that oatmeal. I like winter, I think. I just have to find my way back to it.

Everybody dies alone. - Malcolm Reynolds
Someone's carrying a bullet for you right now, and doesn't even know it. - the same

Alone, together. These are the two states of being between which we bounce back and forth. I guess that's not an accident, since whether we can ever truly be other than alone is one of those great questions that toss us around like a relentless wash cycle.

It's the reason that love is so compelling, I think. And by love I mean the idea of it, not the actuality, which (while also compelling) tends to be more three-dimensional, more like a plate of macaroni and cheese.

I'm not knocking macaroni and cheese. It's delicious. It's just that it's got more to do with satisfying ordinary needs than with feeding the yawning depths of the soul.

Maybe that's unfair. Maybe your soul really yearns for the blue box, and I should keep my weird analogies to myself. But mine, since we are talking about mine, has this feeling that nothing we do or say to one another can get beyond a certain barrier.

I'm a fan of barriers, actually - or at least of personal space. I don't like anyone to get too close, and I really don't want to see too very much of most people's insides. That's where the guts live - the icky bits.

But there's also this perennial urge to connect, to feel that we are understood and that we understand each other. To feel seen.

I don't know if that's really possible. I sometimes think, listening to music, that the artist - or maybe the song itself - sees, understands, is saying what I would say. But perhaps it's only that I've happened on the right music to match a moment. And is there much of a difference between those two things? I know that the role of art is to express something particular, a time, a place, an experience.

And that theoretically, some things are universal enough - or at least similar enough - that other people will go, "Oh yes, that's exactly it."

But I'm not sure that means we can reach each other. I've been in love before and still felt terribly alone, so I suppose feeling alone while being unattached isn't much of a shock.

Maybe it's like needing an interpreter - we can connect only by standing together on the same planet. The ground beneath us touches my feet and yours, and we are linked through it, but we can't ever quite touch each other directly.

So if art is our interpreter, what is sex?

A very dangerous place indeed. In art we may be reaching out, but in sex we're so close to begin with that sometimes we are hiding as much as possible. Ever have sex with someone but were afraid to meet their eyes? Yeah. The room can seem awfully full with two big souls swirling around above you. Sometimes it seems like the closer you are physically, the more careful you have to be not to let those two things meet.

She put a gun in my face.
And cocked it?
Yeah.
You've come back from worse.
(Scene between these two)

Several friends, to me: Hey, why don't you stay off that ankle for a while longer?

I do everything the hard way. People who know me well know this about me, occasionally nudge me about it, and then back off. Because they know I am not going to listen.

When I was a kid we went on a lot of nature walks, and I remember the park rangers telling us we had a choice back up the mountain - the ranger way or the candy way.

The ranger way, obviously, was straight up the steep slope. The candy way was a gentler, probably safer, traverse. Either way you'd get to the same place. I'm not sure that rule holds as true in life. I think when you take the ranger way, you end up someplace different.

The ranger way has its drawbacks. It's lonely. It can be scary. The park has a spooky element to it around midnight. You don't want to stop.

But if you don't take these risks, you miss out on the low-hanging mist with its visible edges. You miss out on the loud crickets and the solo horn player and the figures appearing suddenly, vaguely threatening shadows, coming out of the trees and onto the road.

I could sit home. I could watch endless TV and eat too many snacks and pine for the right company. I could ice my ankle and stay off it and risk nothing.

No, I couldn't. I really couldn't.

Life for me is a soft tug-of-war between solitude and sociability. I've heard it said that if one is recharged by being around others, one is an extrovert, and if one is recharged by being alone, one is an introvert.

I guess I'm half and half.

I had the loveliest day yesterday, perhaps because it contained both good alone-time and good together-time. The first part of the day was a slow curve into wakefulness. I don't like to leap into consciousness. My friend's new baby always wakes up cranky, as if the process of moving from one state of being to the next is distressing, and I feel the same way.

It takes some hours. The cat gets fed while I'm still mostly asleep and can barely walk because my calves have tightened themselves into rubber bands overnight. Then there's the snoozing. Then there's the waking up from a tangled dream. Then there's stumbling around making coffee. Then puttering and chatting with Kitwich.

Then I hung about musing gently about where I'd ride.

Then a sudden burst of packing and pumping (air), and I was off, rolling gently toward Brighton Beach. It's not always magical at Brighton, but when it is, it really is.

There were the Russian elderly, with their intensely characteristic faces. There were the young people playing volleyball in their bright colors, so handsome they looked like Baywatch East.

Every direction I turned my camera there was a short story unfolding, most of them narrated in Russian. I loved the two ladies on the bench - one with cherry-icee hair and one with bright lavender.

I asked this couple for permission to take their picture and they wanted to see how it came out. "Look how cute you are!" I said, handing them the camera. They were snuggling on that bench like teenagers.

There were two guys walking together, pulling a lot of beach equipment behind them - chairs and umbrellas and surfboards - the white one was deeply sunburnt and his friend was too dark-skinned to show any sign of sun. Ebony and Ivory go to the Beach, I thought.

Later, riding home, the friend I'd arranged to meet called and invited me over for dinner. We went out for beer, to a new bar (I'd been there once before and liked it), and there was plenty of room for us to sit, and just enough people for it to feel like we were Out.

She got tipsy, and I had some of that good stout, and we talked about life and art and the difficulties of managing both of those together. There was a bike rack out front, and a bouncer keeping an eye, and it felt so welcoming. We thanked him when we left, and he gave us a brilliant smile.