...is not something I thought I would ever do, but it is done. MJ and I nailed and tied chicken wire in the hot blazing sun on a Saturday afternoon in Oxford, Mississippi. We sweated and toiled in order to keep Daphne, 15 pound beagle, in the yard. "Yard" being intermittent patches of brown grass, a patio deck, and a machine that pumps freezing cold air into my house, centrally. First time living outside of New York. First time in the South.
Daphne somehow manages to get out every time.
She mocks us from outside our kitchen window, while we innocuously sip our coffee and we have to run outside and call her in. She wins again.
We have taken turns trying to watch her. Learn her method of escape. Inevitably we get bored and turn to each other for a moment of fleeting conversation. And she is gone. Always running towards the woods. I would call her Houdini, but her mental capacity reminds me more of the Hamburglar.
Today she got out and I chased her to the edge of the woods where she defiantly entered. I stood outside yelling her name in my pajamas, with a mug of coffee in my hand. I recognize this as a moment of transition from urbane sophisticate to women-who-yells-barefoot-in-pajamas-at-her-dog-while-drinking-coffee. THE COFFEE WAS MADE FROM A FRENCH PRESS GODDAMNIT. A FRENCH PRESS.
When she finally emerged from the woods all feral smelling like dead armadillo, I gave her a bath she will never forget. Ever.
Three interviews today as part of this cricket investigation.
8 AM my father calls with concerns about a recent spike in the Lizzie anxiety EKG. I reassure him that my new obsession with Netherland and cricket is guaranteed to mollify any internal tension. He offers a few platitudes on the impact of the sport in the New York area. "Well... you know where they always play..." Said to the beat of (Da... da DA da da DAda da). He'd rather pontificate on the Twins. I use 20 minutes of my lunch break to watch You Tube videos of bowlers throwing a ball and suddenly cheering, which (due to my lack of insight) reminded me of when people are talking a foreign language and start laughing. Same awkwardness and yet strange impulse to join in.
At this point, I knew I needed personal explanation. I wanted this with an impatience analogous to waiting through the automated messaging system press-one-say-one, dialing 0 after every option to just get a human voice even if that human voice is on the opposite side of the globe.
What luck!
Paul, my coworker, was born in England, but raised in Indiana. He is known to redundantly say "I'm from England" in a discordant Midwestern drawl. I get a kick out of people's bemused reaction as they process this information. Paul somehow abets the propriety that is as preternatural to European culture as the gulf stream winds and the midwestern simplicity that congruous to Walmart and tacit adages. And bars decorated with taxidermy. Think of a ruhbarb tart. Brilliantly crafted and with a bitterness that makes you wonder if it can even be considered dessert. Then take Edy's Vanilla ice cream and dump it on top. That's Paul.
And he knows how to play cricket! I of course seek his wisdom. He stumbles over his words in a humbleness lacking only an "aw shucks." But my list is growing:
New things to add to cricket list:
1. A bowler throws a ball to a WICKET. 2. The wicket consists of three sticks with a fourth stick resting on top. 3. The bowler wants to knock of the fourth stick with a big cork ball. 4. The batter wants to block this and hit the ball towards... 5. Boundary, white line, two people run to make the point, the fielders catch it like this, no gloves, it bounces in the grass, six points, he thinks, two points or one point to switch batters.
I lost him around this point.
My last interview was the nanny for the family I babysit for in Brooklyn. Bibi speaks with a Guyanese accent. That kind of West Indies English that has a cadence so different from ours, it is almost impossible to stay with her train of thought. I comprehend 70%of what Bibi says. Thank god she repeats herself constantly... either as a reassurance that the idiot Americans understand her or perhaps reiteration is a result of 13 years of communicating to children. If I stop concentrating like a Russian trannslator listening to radio signals in 1954, I loose her all together. I listened hard because this was my moment to learn FIRST HAND.
Investigative journalist: "Bibi, do you like cricket?"
4 foot 11 inch Guyanese woman: "Ohhh Creecket de best. Number one in our country. My son. My son he play de cricket. Very very good. Teddy! Eat your shrimps. Number one sport. My son, he love creecket. You finish de shrimps now Teddy?"
A proud moment of accomplishment: In my research I learned about the faster bowler in cricket, the pride of Pakistan, Shoaib Akhtar. A fast paced bowl clocks in at around 154 km/hr. The fastest was thrown by Akhtar a whopping 161.3 km/hr. That is 100.2 mph for us non-metric fools. And of course he dashingly handsome. And of course he is Punjabi. Maybe we can dance Bhangra together, and he can knock the stick off my wicket with his infamous yorker*.
The first pages of Joseph O'Neill's Netherland suggest that it will be an amazing book. Unfortunately, good books come with some major research....this one involves research on cricket, which I admit I don't understand in the slightest bit. The research on CLR James I can handle- I love all that commie, marxism, red-flag stuff- his influence on O'Neill I cannot. How on earth does one play this game? Goal: Understand cricket and the postmodern American tradition by the end of the book.
What I know:
Cricket is DEFINITELY an English game.
It is the second most popular sport in the world.
You play on an oval field with a rectangular dirt strip in the middle called a pitch.
An aerial view of the field stirs an impulse to flick giant coins through the pitch.
Players wear white.
C.L.R. James wrote a book called Breaking a Boundary (which I'll admit, I previously thought it was about racism in America. It is. But its also about cricket). This book is considered one of the greatest sports books ever written, according to O'Neill. It is at least considered the greatest cricket book ever written according to The Secret Bureau of Cricket Book Lovers aka the staff of the Guardian.
What would be considered an "out" in baseball is called being "dismissed" in cricket. How English.
And I have to take a break because of my knee. Apparently according to my coach (MJ) and Bryant, the personal trainer at Track and Field, something is rotten in the state of my IT band*. This was confirmed in what was SUPPOSED to be sexy leg massage from MJ that turned into, "Oh my god, what the hell it this." ("This" being the giant knot in my IT band). Mood killer. Total mood killer.
See the gray part? The Iliotibial Band is a muscle that lacks the same blood flow as other muscles, therefore has a tendency to get less oxygen, hence tightening. Tightening would eventually lead to tearing so- RICE: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. Awesome motto for the next couple of weeks. Expect a lot of blog posts.
Such is my life that whenever bad news hits, happy mood-lifters make there way into my life:
First came the greatest nature video I have ever seen. The fact that this movie has not had commercial success in the United States speaks to our lack of empathy and integrity in this heartless society. I blame capitalism. Just try not to cry at the end of this clip:
The cougar represents the voracious nature of time, coming to devour us all. The bear represents myself, especially what I will look like after this running break.
**************
Then came the word of the day (I have a mild obsession with both Merriam-Webster and Anu Garg (wordsmith.org)). The latter has weekly postings where people contribute their personal relationship with words. Lexicographic therapy. Desideratum was one of the words that I used above to describe my relationship to running. It is a noun: something desired or needed. A word etched into perpetual memory by the Max Erhmann poem of the same name:
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
OK YES. This poem is cheesy. The subsequent greeting cards, T-shirts, billboards, day calendars, chain letters sent from my mom, etc. that this poem has engendered encourages the cheesiness. But during this running sabbatical I am going to take a few lines a day to focus on as my mantra. If I write about it, the 'Blues will be featured on Oprah in no time and I'll be sharing couch space with good ole Elizabeth Gilbert.
Tomorrow is: Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
* Hamlet reference. We all make them at some point. Here is a video rendition of Act I, iv, when H confronts his father's ghost. Low budget but NOT Kenneth Branagh.
Every 1.5 years I go through a phase where I listen to nothing but Ben Folds for about a week. It reminds me of driving around in Doug's minivan in high school in the snow listening to the most appropriate song for a snowing evening in Queens (Selfless, Cold and Composed). Doug always drove the minivan with the brights on; I think he was trying to emulate Eurolights (those bluish lights that blind you in the rear-view mirror). He had that Kaufmanesque humor. I never knew if it was serious admiration of a new cultural phenomenon or a satire of it.
I am one of those rare people that actually has a favorite song. In 2003 I committed to Emaline. I wrote it down somewhere. From this day forward, I, Elizabeth Jane Fielder, hereby commit to answering "Emaline" when asked what my favorite song is. I've got the notarized version somewhere.
I took my middle name from (Jane) from a Ben Folds song (Jane).
It resurrected recently when I found out about Chatroulette a week ago. Yeah I know I'm late and everyone's already over it and had their fill of voyeurism. Let me at least explain it to my Mom (avid reader of the 'Blues). It is a website where you are randomly paired with strangers anywhere in the world on their webcams. About 80% of the strangers are penises. What are we doing wrong in our society that makes us hold our reproductive organs to cameras for millions of strangers to see? Should we be killing gazelles? WWFD? What Would Freud Do? There is a chance that some member of Freud's family tree is wiggling his willy in front of the little green light at the top of his Macbook screen. Wild.
So I tried it and I got some college kid who looked surprisingly innocuous. He said I was the first human face after 3 dicks. He was probably chatting from the dorm across the street from me. It was really awkward. I feel uncomfortable enough making small talk with friends, this was a new crevice of social anxiety I could barely withstand. I asked him if he liked roller coasters or ice cream better. He said ice cream. I signed off before he told me his favorite flavor. I thought the word flavor sounded dirty and I got scared.
I will never do that again. BUT back to Ben Folds. Garrett and MJ described this to me:
Which Mr. Folds stole from a much funnier version from Mr. Merton, a mysterious pianist:
There is one point in the video where a girl requests that song "Fireflies" and he plays the best version of that song that could exist. This guy somehow applied his prodigy to the latest asinine internet fad.
The brilliant talent of our generation shares performance space with the common dick. Are we heading toward mindless ignorance or true democracy?
Clean apartments in your bikini make $100+/hr (Downtown)
Looking for atractive females with beautiful figures to entertain wealthy clients by cleaning there apartments in sexy outfits. All of our clients are screened and have background checks. No explicit activity involved.
Yeah. OK. The author of this also works part time as a Princeton grammarian. But we have all been there. Desperate. I confess that I considered being a product representative, passing out shots of some new alcohol mixed with caffeine and pomegranate to guys whose 'game' includes questions about your 'other life' when your wearing a mid-rift tank top, wearing enough makeup to protect your face from a nuclear explosion and hope the disguise would work if a business suit from college walks into the bar saying, "Oh I was just taking those Creative Writing courses for fun." "Oh you majored in English?" "How did that working out? Still writing?"
I never did it. But MJ did. He was Captain Morgan. In an alternate universe, I actually met him while being a Captain Girl. A Bucaneerette, if you will.. And he courted me with his pirate accent and his mysterious fake beard. We stole a bottle, got drunk, and ended up married the next day, which was annulled because of false identities. He is not actually, "The Captain," as was written on the marraige certificate, and my name is not "Tennille." But love kept us together, and we created some prevarication for the kids.
Better than meeting outside Randall Balmer's Religious History class at Barnard? I don't know. But the latter brings us once step closer to Stephen Colbert:
My first meeting. I overdressed, even though Michael said simplicity was paramount to these people. I thought my stilettos and red lipstick would somehow be apropos. Maybe it's all that Roman Catholic/High Anglican pomp I grew up with.
Basically you sit on these wooden pews (I can't believe they make pews more uncomfortable than the Grace Church pews I grew up with. What factory in Dante's Inferno makes those bloody things) and everyone faces each other and you sit for an hour in silence. Some people were meditating with their eyes closed, others were turning at every noise and checking out other congregants. Others were ostensibly sleeping. Occasionally someone would stand up and say something, which would invariably cause someone to jump in shock of the broken silence. I find this occurrence extremely funny, so that part was hard for me. People talked about non-violence A LOT. I give the coffee hour a 7. Not as good as the Pure Land temple on 105th and Riverside, but there was some amazing cranberry walnut bread. The people were interesting, but they always are when you drop into a religious environment like that. Besides there is a certain type of person who always volunteers him or herself for the welcoming committee, and they usually have colorful personalities. Despite that, I think I may have stood out. Thanks to my Latino heritage, it is hard to separate the religious experience from tambourines, the apogee of modern religion.
But the Quakers accept everyone, even JEWS and AGNOSTICS! And they don't hate homosexuals. So that makes them the best sect of Christianity in the world.
MJ and I talked about religion for hours afterward. We brainstormed on our "most religious experiences." We agreed on running. There is a euphoric point during an unexpected run where the body disappears and so does our boundary with our surroundings. Sometimes I feel myself running into the molecules in the air in front of me. But I do not brandish them, rather, I meld into them. It usually tingles in the scalp at this point. I also get a similar feeling in dance, but there is also a connection to the people around me, which can be insanely powerful. I think number one however is hiking. Hiking in the Hudson Valley region. With Daphne. And that deserves its own post.
I am currently breaking a rule MJ and I set for this week. No computer after 11pm. In addition to our "walk Daphne first thing in the morning" rule- which I have adhered to diligently, but I second guess whether or not he has. But it's rapidly becoming 2AM and I am writing in my blog. Maybe it is revenge on MJ for trimming his facial hair to best make himself look like a molester/Civil War hero/Guy who can't get into Studio 54. Mustachioed. He is mustachioed. Maybe I am tried of this "break."
I blame this country's health care system for why I don't have time to write because I am constantly on the phone/internet with the insurance companies. It has become as essential to my daily routine as my post-breakfast cookie. It has less to do with my full-time job/ major project/ teaching dance/ running constantly/ planning a wedding/ having a boyfriend (who thank Jay-sus is just as busy as I am and doesn't mind when I stumble in sweaty and tired at 10pm eat a carrot, give a quick kiss while I park myself behind the computer to do more work) and more to do with health care. You see, figuring out how I simultaneously have three insurance options while having none at the same time swallows up most of my creativity leaving me too dessicated to wring out even the simplest of catchy social commentary.
I couldn't figure out what to write about. Then, Lakshmi (who watches over me) heard my prayers and sent a sign at 9:45AM at the store where I work on Madison Ave. The store does not open until 10, but the cleaning guy left the door unlocked and before I could stop her, Yoko Ono walked into my store. At first I thought the little septuagenarian Japanese woman with the hat and sunglasses just merely looked like Yoko. Three hoodie sweatshirts, a tank top, and an AMEX card (all items black) later, I realized BY GOD it is her. Her card said Yoko Ono Lennon. I got the shakes, and thanked her for... I thanked her and said it was amazing to meet her. She was adorable. She laughed a lot. She has a generation under her belt, and I could see it in her face.
And what has Yoko done? A gallimaufry of extraneous things the average person would not consider necessary for life. She is a simple artistic statement imbued with color and controversy. She lived the life of an Andy Warhol painting. She has at the same time done nothing. As ethereal as my insurance plan.
The lesson: Being a human is a career. Yoko is the hyberbolic character that moralizes this, a Chanticleer* of sorts. Her personality is enough, no excuses, no subtitles, no 5 year plan. If someone asked her what her job was, she could say, "Everything" or stare blankly in silence. Either way, she is right. When the pressure of coming up with something interesting hinders me from posting, I'm going to just "Dear Diary" a posting and hope that my daily trials, tribulations, and small-yet-amazing incidents do justice to Yoko's eclectic life. This is either inspiration from above, or delusions of grandeur.
The lesson is void if you are boring.
"Nobody told me there'd be days like these. Strange days indeed."
*If you forgot your high school English Canterbury Tales, this obnoxious allusion is to the Nun's Priest's Tale- read it and then you to can make these kinds of literary references.
