Highlights

My stylist and I had discussed me getting highlights during my appointment this morning. Two weeks ago this seemed like a great idea. But one critical look at my checkbook dictated a revision. So I decided I would just get a shampoo and style today. But, when I told her that the highlights were just too extravagant, financially, she looked at me earnestly and said "I'll do them for you if you want them...." I asked her if I should plan to roll in the cost of them at my next sitting. "If you want to," she said, then set about mixing some dark blonde coloring for me.

I've never had highlights before. I can tell you with 100% certainty they are what I've been missing all my life.

Mental Health Day

I took one yesterday and it did me a world of good. I read a sizeable chunk of Ian McEwan's Atonement for the bookclub meeting on Sunday and tidied up my bedroom (after returning from the gym). I made some butternut squash soup from a basic puree bought from Williams-Sonoma-- by adding chicken stock, seasonings, and sauteed onions, portabella mushrooms, zucchini, and scallions. It was therapeutic.

Sarah came over after work and we hung out at the One World for a couple of hours. It was a reading date. I really started getting into the book. I ended up staying awake till about 11:30, still turning the pages, until my eyelids got too heavy to go on.

Professor Genteel vexed me something terrible on Wednesday evening. The man talks and thinks in elliptical clauses. That's fine, except for the fact that he expects us to explicitly meet his inexplicit instructions regarding assignments. Linear progression is not high on this man's priority list, so his preoccupation with specificity (selective preoccupation) is an insult.

I sent him an e-mail after class asking him to clarify our latest assignment (to be turned in next Wednesday).

Any guesses as to whether or not he's gotten back to me?

I'll spare you the suspense. No, Inexplicitly Inexpliciterson has not. I'm sure he forgot.

Literary Criticism

Toni Morrison, as a woman and an African American, belongs to a marginalized sect twice over. However, as one who has demonstrated excellence at her craft, one of the greatest compliments she can be paid, in my estimation, is that her work be subjected to the same critical eye as that of her male counterparts. And by male counterpart, I mean white male authors, specifically.

From what I've read of Ms. Morrison's philosophies on literature, in general, and her own in particular, she is not afraid of being panned by a critic. She is affronted when praised or criticized on false premises. If the critic doesn't apprehend the basis or errand of her work correctly, she is offended by any ensuing commentary stemming from that false premise, period.

She has posited in interviews that the main problem with literature is the criticism of literature.

With that being said, Toni Morrison does not need me or anyone else to defend her legitimacy as an author. Her Pulitzer and Nobel prizes attest to her acceptance in the Pantheon of great writers. As such, she can take a hit or two from my Voice in Modern Fiction class and be none the worse for wear...

But something different was in place in our discussion tonight.

I heard overt criticism from the instructor about the work. None of his usual objective language that is careful to ask questions more than to make statements. For as much as he praised certain constructs and techniques, I heard equal amounts of dissent. Phrases like "unsuccessful," "poorly chosen," etc., in categorizing certain passages in Beloved.

Beyond this insult to an author I respect, I was further disconcerted because the professor and I have always been simpatico in our readings of a given text--even if not in perfect agreement, then our sensibilities, at least, matched. We had the same take, in general, on the questions to be asked, the errand of the work, itself.

Now, with not even an hour's distance from the scene, I realize that what bothered me was the apparent arrogance with which he seemed to be approaching this text. The feeling that he had the unquestionable right to make unqualified statements about what is working or not in this body of work. And I just had the sense that he, and others, perhaps, felt that this text could be held up for that kind of inspection, not because the author is venerated, but because she is black.

This is not about a person not having the right to prefer a given author's style or not. It's about the misappropriation of labels, the cocky belief that one has the right to label what one does not truly understand.

I will admit that I am protective of Toni Morrison, and therefore may not have been objective about how I read things tonight... but I tend to trust my visceral interpretations of moments more than the objectified, rationalized versions of the same events.

Toni Morrison is still a black woman. And as such she still has to enter the conversation first proving that she has the right to be in it.

Post-Workout Smoothie...

i'm about to have one...

Other Stuff That's Going On...

Having lunch with coworker who lent me "Dead Man," which I loved, on Friday to discuss... He's all of 20, and thinks I'm cool enough to talk about film. Just when I was starting to feel like a fuddy-duddy...

Embarrassed To Admit...

that I had a compromising dream about Eminem last night. I have been not so secretly attracted to him for years...

I'm excited to spend the day at my undergrad alma mater tomorrow. The college is honouring its first African American woman graduate, so the minority alumni association is making an appropriate to do about it. Even more important to me than that is the chance to see my sister.

Caryl apparently got her nose pierced last night (she has been wanting to for at least 2 years now), so it'll be interesting to see the end result. Not everyone can carry that off. I have a feeling it will suit her.

M hosted poetry group last night. She laid out quite a lovely spread of Indian food. My contribution was pumpkin bread; I figured the subtle spice of it would complement the flavours in the main dishes. It worked out well. A new person joined us last night (a coworker of M's) and she fit right in with the group's dynamic.

I am so proud of myself. I actually took the time to cook myself something so I could bring in lunch today instead of buying out. I got some stuffed chicken thighs from Whole Foods a few days ago, so I made those, and to accompany, I made some spinach and corn. Just finished a bowl of Kashi Good Friends cereal (the name utterly baffles me). It's the box that features a Southeast Asian looking older man and a White woman. They seem happy to know each other. Maybe Kashi is suggesting that more people bond over healthy cereal?

"The Granny Boots" mix I compiled a few days ago is the soundtrack of the morning. I've started reading Emma, which is entertaining, but it's no Pride And Prejudice.

A coworker lent me Jarmusch's "Dead Man" starring Johnny Depp. It may be the one Jarmusch film I haven't seen. I've heard it's the best one...

My Very Educated Mother Just Showed Us Nine Planets...

So, I am woefully out of the loop, but I just heard that Pluto hasn't been considered a planet since about 1993? What the heck?! So, how will we finish the mnemonic statement now?

I was in bed by 9:40 last night. Obviously, this is what I need to do every night. This morning was the first in several that I awakened feeling ready to get out of bed, or indeed, that it was even a reasonable possibility.

Classes sucked this week. I presented an excerpt from a story on Tuesday night in my Voice in Modern Fiction class. The experience left me feeling wretched. Last night in Poetry Workshop wasn't much better. Everyone was pretty unimpressed by the poem I submitted the week before... as welll they should have been.

What a disappointing couple of days.

Teeth Set On Edge

I feel marvellously disconcerted. Offcenter. What do you all do when you need to get your emotional and social equilibrium back? Hints? Tips? Advice? Fire away.

"Kanye West has the potential to be a [musical] genius, if only he weren't so annoying."
--My sister, Caryl

I couldn't agree more. However...

The afore-mentioned artist's "Diamonds from Sierra Leone" is reverberating in my bedroom as I type. The repeating, sampled refrain "diamonds are forever" haunts the rapper's overlayed lyrics about his former state of socioeconomic disenfranchisement and his ongoing battle for artistic validation (e.g., he alludes to his temper tantrum at the American Music Awards a year and a half ago when he didn't win anything).

My foray into rap music has given me a real appreciation for the lyrical construct its empresarios have erected--to wit, that they are emporers, ambassadors, scribes, the urban clergy of the church of the streets, feudal lords of the fifedom. They fully consider their collective flow to be part of a dynasty, the stuff of legend, the veritable smackdown that will stop any foe. I have to admit. Sometimes I get caught up in the hype.

This past winter when my grief was its most accute, rap was the only music that could speak to me. This is because beneath the bravado there is real pathos, the need for vigilante justice, the fear that the lyricist will be overtaken by his own past, his own insecurity. A line that resonated for me deeply at that time was Jay-Z's lyric "What? you gon' box me homie? I can dodge a jab."

The anger intrigues me, because it's sadness flipped inside out. The stuff of Russian tragedies.

There was a bird trapped on the bus. I handled it remarkably well, considering that few things unnerve me like birds (or insects, especially moths) flying around in enclosed spaces. Several passengers opened windows to give it a way to escape. I'm not sure, but I think it may have ultimately gone out the front door.

After my hair appointment on Friday night, I came home and got a very late (for me) carryout dinner from the One World (Baked Enchilada Rojas w/Chipotle vegetables) and watched a bit of tv while I read a few chapters in Pride And Prejudice.

On Saturday, since the gym was closed, I went out for a half-hour or so power walk, then came home to do laundry, and to write a poem and work on my short story for classes this week. Later, I accompanied Sarah to Williams-Sonoma to pick up some items for a coworker's wedding present. After that we went to Crate & Barrell, which, I have to say is more reasonably priced than W-S. I got some round candles and a cocktail shaker Christmas ornament.
While we were out Sarah got a call from a coworker who invited us over to hang out at her place. I enjoyed all the attention I got from this woman's dog, who at one point, put her huge paws on my neck, and licked me full in the face for about a good minute. Apparently, this is the dog's version of a hug and kiss.

On Sunday I was able to enjoy breakfast with Sarah and another coworker of hers... afterward we retired to this person's house and talked for about an hour or so. While there, something truly kismet happened.

I was admiring the papasan chair in the corner (I have wanted one forever), and just as I was pondering how I might acquire one, our hostess said "I have a quandry." The basic gist of the story is that she was wondering if we knew anyone who wanted one, because she was looking to get rid of hers, and its companion piece ottoman. So I scored an almost new papasan without even trying for a mere fraction of a fraction of what it would have cost at Pier 1, where she originally got it. I'm picking it up today!

After the gym yesterday I spent the better part of the day moving the bookshelf from my bedroom into the entry way, and getting rid of the pink easychair rocker I received gratis a year or so ago... all to make room for the new papasan, which will be a nice addition to my spare bedroom. The creamy cushion of the chair will offset the deep red of my bedding and curtains.

Life and All The Ways It's Weird...

I had made my peace with the fact that my hairstylist had broken up with me [my hair], so to speak. It was one of those breakups where the other party starts acting distant and non-commital, all the while assuring you that everything is fine, and that of course they still love you very much. You are left to deduce that you've been dumped by adding up the clues of his unreturned phone calls, his palpable absence from the routine of your life, his sudden inability to make it to anything that is even remotely important to you...

She'd simply stopped calling me back to set up appointments. After about 8 attempts (I am nothing if not dogged), I gave up and tried to be philosophical about it all, my hair becoming increasingly wretched for the lack of care.

There were a few issues:

1. Who could style and cut my hair like her? No one, that's who. Maybe I just wouldn't get my hair done ever again, I decided. I'd be one of those self-sufficient types who just goes it alone.

Nevermind that this tactic has NEVER once worked for me. My hair, left to its own devices, will dreadlock. Nothing against dreads, but it's different when it's unintentional...

2. If I wanted to find a new stylist, where would I start? Just randomly pick someone out of the phonebook and hope for the best? Go on a blind salon appointment? How desperate was I, anyway?

3. How could I ever trust another stylist to not ultimately reject me and my hair the way we had just been summarily dissed? I didn't think we were strong enough to handle that again.

In recent weeks I started to get desperate. The kerchief has become my best friend, covering a multitude of sins. But it's a fine line between being chic with it and it just becoming a ghetto crutch for having bad, bad tresses.

I was wearing one of said kerchiefs on Wednesday when I ran into Connie in the parking lot at Whole Foods. She recognized me first.

"Kate? You look really good; really good."

I smiled ambiguously, not sure what I should say in response.

"I haven't seen you in a long time!" She exclaimed.

"I tried to call you at least 8 times, " I said. "You never called me back." I'm sure I sounded bitter.

Once the look of incredulilty left her face, she said:

"And you left messages?"

I assured her that I had.

The long and short of it? I have an appointment this evening at 5:30.

I wonder how many relationships have ended because both people were under the impression that the other one no longer cared.

Regrouping

Tuesday and Wednesday were these lovely days during which I was not at work (I extended my vacation through this morning), and over the course of which I have realized that my current job, despite its many advantages, gets on my freaking nerves.

Fortunately, my manager, who has been passive-aggressively demonstrating hostility lately, is out today, tomorrow, and Monday. So vacation part II for me. I had actually liked this particular manager, but like her predecessor, she's lost it. My plan was not to avoid her so much as not to pander to the awkwardness. She may just be preoccupied or something.

Even though I've been resting much better lately, I find that I am often tired. More than likely this is an issue of diet. I've really been pushing the water today, and will continue to do that. I'm sure I need to detox after my weekend of indulgence in Boston.

I may leave a bit early today. A nap before the women's prayer meeting I'm attending might do me good.

Please Come to Boston Reprise

A little over two years ago I set out to visit Catherine in Boston. Two years. A very long time ago, and also not that long ago. This visit was enhanced by Sarah's presence. We drove, and I must tell you that the 8 hour drive to MA was less stressful and felt like it took less time than our drive to Philadelphia a little over a week ago.

We pulled away from Sarah's apartment building at 5 a.m., and were on the NJ turnpike by 6:15 (to which I said: "how in the heck are we in New Jersey Already?!"), and were pulling up to Catherine's door by 1:00 p.m. Thanks to S's creativity, we were treated to her recently compiled "Please Come to Boston" cd mixes (volumes I and II), and when not grooving to that, we cracked up listening to David Sedaris's Dress Your Family in Denim and Corduroy on cd (ready by the author).

When we walked into Catchka's sunny apartment, we were greeted by the warm sweet scent of pumpking loaves (which our dear C enhanced by including chocolate chips!). Big hugs all around, and then...

We began our weekend adventure at Louisa May Alcott's house in Concord. We took the tour of the actual property with 80% of the Alcotts' actual furnishings and artifacts. I have to cop to never having read Little Women, and yes, I do consider this a failing on my part. I am familiar with the premise, I saw the movie, but did not have the great fortune of having my girlhood influenced by the wonderful book. Louisa May Alcott was always most noteworthy to me because she knew Emerson (and Thoreau), whom I consider to be one of the most quotable thinkers/public figures, second only to maybe Churchill. I knew that she and her family were transcendentalists, but that was about it.

After walking in and out of their rooms, seeing her desk, her handwritten pages, and in some cases, the clothing she (or her sisters) wore, she became very real to me, and I was charmed by her writerly life.

Also, the intrigue of this: She totally had a thing for Emerson!

On Saturday, The rain poured, but it did not, it could not dampen our spirits. After a delectable sushi lunch at a shopping plaza, I accompanied Catherine into the Gap to pick up some sandalwood perfume, and we both came out with chocolate trench coats and matching corduroy hats. I cut quite a nice figure in that ensemble with my new boots. I had just been lamenting my lack of a fall coat, and this purchase was truly serendipitous because the trench was marked down about 55%.

Sarah ventured over to an Asian art store where she got a lovely ceramic bowl with a painting of bamboo in the center of the dish.

At Pier 1, where they were having another tremendous sale, I got wooden salad spoon& fork servers, pumpkin bread room fragrance, and deep red olive oil bottle (Catherine got the same one!)

I had been craving a skim pumpkin latte from the coffee monopoly (Starbucks) for more than 24 hours at that point, so we took shelter from the downpour inside the spacious cafe in Davis Square, took impromptu photos, and ate yummy desserts (S and C both got Chinese pastries at the shopping plaza; I got us a chocolate peanutbutter stack to share from Starbucks).

Once we were again ready to brave the elements, we headed across the street to the Used Book Store, where we easily spent an hour or more, poring over the thousands of titles. I added to my Jane Austen collection by picking up Emma; not wanting to leave out Toni Morrison, I picked up the never-read-by-moi Sula; Kafka reasserted himself, so I grabbed a volume of his short stories; A totally spontaneous purchase chosen both for the title and the first line, Stephen McCauley's True Enough rounded out my purchases (along with about 6 black and white photograph post cards).

You'd think we were done, but we weren't. Another hour in CD Spins, where I got a used copy of the Jude Law remake of "Alfie," Craig David's (British R& B) "Born to do it," and Erykah Badu's cd single of her song "Tyrone," which tickled me to no end about 8 years ago whenever I heard it.

Rounding out the night at a local BBQ joint, I felt tremendously tired, but also very satisfied to be with two people I love so dearly, knowing we had another full day to explore (and drop more cash).

Sidebar: I must say for the record that Boston has more truly attractive men per city block than any other city I've visited. I probably noticed that on some level two years ago, but I was otherwise engaged where that sort of thing is concerned then, so I wasn't aware of it in the same way I was this time.

It was poignant and significant that we were able to eat ice cream at the shoppe where Sarah and her cousin, the summer she was 13, went (often? a few times?). Her aunt and uncle used to live in a rather large house in Arlington Heights (not very far from C's place in Somerville), which were also able to find and drive by, just up the hill from the ice cream parlor.

On Sunday, the weather that had been tropical the day before, turned bitter and cold. The air snapped and the little rain that did fall was more like hard pellets. After breakfast with a childhood friend of Sarah's (and her husband and baby), Catherine pointed her car in the direction of Rockport, where we knew we would find incredible chowdah. It was somewhat miserable to walk about, but we managed to visit quite a few shops, and posed for several pictures in front of the whitecapped surf (love those Rocky New England beaches).

Sarah was kind enough to buy me some fig & ginger jam at one of the quaint stores. She and Catherine both got these lovely handbags at a place called "Oriental Pearl." I would have purchased one, but I was getting low on dispensible cash by then.

At Ellen's, we each got a bowl of clam chowder and half a blt (I added my leftover zucchini muffin from breakfast to the table for us all to try). We got hot cocoa to go. It scalded, but the heat was comforting in the bitter cold. Sarah finally got her coveted silver claddagh ring.

This morning at 5:30 we rose with our alarms, and made quick work of leaving Catherine's house and Boston under the cover our darkness. And save for several stops to use the bathroom, our trip was uneventful and completely devoid of traffic. We were back in baltimore by 2 p.m., just about 8 hours exactly from when we left.

Why do I feel like Tom Cruise is going to be even more of a pain in the collective ass of the world now that he's procreated with Katie Holmes?

There is a girl in my Tuesday night class who is decidedly awkward. She never speaks unless absolutely necessary. That is to say, I had never once heard her speak until she had to read her short story aloud last night. It was truly funny and finely crafted--and I'm relieved, because I had no indication, one way or the other, about her sensibilities. I thought it possible that an utter lack of sensibillity might be the motivation for her dogged silence.

Oddly enough, those who shared last night were given the option of having someone else read the work. The prof gave her the same option, but she simply said "I prefer to read it." Maybe she just refuses to be complicit, no matter what is at stake.

In any case, she, every week, wears exactly the same thing (0r so it seems). And she holds her long, spindly arms close to her body, which appears to be crooked in the seat. Her fingers are also incredibly long and tapered, the nails clean and manicured. Her glasses are of the thick variety. I have a sense that something horrible happened to this woman, the way she's shut up so tight inside herself, reminding me of gangly bird with twisted wings. A very palpable feeling of disturbance seems to hover over her, but not because of her, but more because of something she's seen or experienced.

She isn't simply reticent. Every ounce of her energy is concentrated on not stirring, not moving a muscle. Having grown up in a household with its own emotional and physical trauma, I recognize that look on another person.

In any case, it will be my turn to share in a couple of weeks (I was going to go next week, but since I'll just be getting back into town, the instructor said I could submit a week or so after that), and I feel woefully outclassed. As a poet, my short stories and vignettes are decidedly weak. And I don't have many to choose from, anyway. Talk about a painful experience for everyone!

Who Can See Me?

I went out to the bus stop at 5:50, as per usual on a Tuesday (or Wednesday) morning. I waited for the 6:00 a.m. bus (that usually doesn't come until 6:04) until about 6:12 before I gave up and went back inside to take a cat nap until it would be time to come out for the next one.

At 6:35 I ventured back outside to wait. It is still more dark than light at that hour, but signs of the city's wakefulness were prevalent. People were out running and jogging, others were walking to their cars, steeling themselves for a frustrating commute. And the garbage truck that services the grand apartment building on the corner was out in all of its maloderous glory. I took my place at the stop.

After a few minutes I noticed one of the garbage men making his way across the street. 'Is he coming to talk to me?' I wondered. He stopped in front of me, and said, without preamble, "What did you do to lose weight?"

Instead of answering him right away, I asked "how do you know I lost weight?" He simply said "I know."

So I told him.

You may recall that I've written before on this type of interaction with my mailman. The main thrust of my comment [in that post] was that he didn't have any hangups about addressing anything as potentially sensitive as weight (with a woman), and that because he and I had a predetermined level of friendliness between us, I wasn't offended. Beyond that, though, I should assert that there are different sets of cultural norms in play, depending upon the person (or people) with whom you are interacting.

The garbage man from this morning and my mailman are both black. Being an overweight woman does not mean the same thing in African American culture that it means in other cultures, not totally. Body image is very differently conceived, though that is not to say that black women are any less negatively affected by the predominant images of beauty.

Anyway. I say all of that to say that these two men, one of whom I know marginally, the other not at all, both felt confident in his right to comment on the evolution of my body. Not in a proprietary or demeaning way. Not in a sexual way. But in an objective, almost fraternal way. I would have assumed that I was invisible to both of these men, who are by and large invisible to me. I assume that I am invisible to most men, not that I even think of it. It hasn't been that conscious until this morning. Most people don't see anything unless they have a reason to see, unless something is pointed out to them.

As the garbage man was making his way back over to his truck, I thought about the mailman, and the bus driver from some months ago who complimented me very specifically and substantively. His appreciation, too, was encouraging, not shaming. Thinking about the bus driver led me to recall the bakery truck driver who waves to me every morning when I'm crossing the street to get to my office...

All of my life, I have wanted a certain type of man to see me, to no avail. But these men, all of them black, all of them service professionals, all of them between the ages of 35 and 55, have no trouble picking me out of a crowd, and noting how I change and when.

I am feeling especially reflective about personal and collective invisibility just now. Having been steeped in Conversations with Toni Morrison, in which that theme keeps repeating.

And lately I have begun to worry that I am going to die old and alone, with no one to see me for who I really am. No one to take note... not "no one." No man, more like.

What does it say, then, that I am seen, but not by the kind of man I want to see me? Is it time to simply go where I am accepted and acceptable?

I've recently decided upon my wintertime reading project. I am going to read the canon of Jane Austen's work, beginning with Pride and Prejudice, which I purchased last night. I've never read any of the books before, and with the exception of "Emma" (and "Clueless"), I've never watched any of the film adaptions. I guess you can count "The Diary of Bridget Jones," since it is based on P&P, but still...

The weekend was characterized by emotional upheaval and busy-ness. I got into bed at about 3:00 a.m. on Saturday morning (the drive back from Philadelphia was lengthened by about 2 hours because of late night traffic). I woke up at 6:45 for Race for the Cure, and all things considered, I was remarkably clearheaded, and my energy was up for the 5k walk. Afterward,
E and I went to the Broadway Diner in Highlandtown, where several other racers were also gathered. Clearly, everyone had the same idea.

(On Friday evening, I had a doozy of an existential crisis. I did not expect it, but I crumbled thinking about Saturday, what was to come...)

Once back home, I slept, albeit a very shallow sleep. At about 2:45 Sarah and I rejoined to hit the mall. I stocked up on the new Bath & Body Works Brown Sugar and Fig fragrance (in body wash, lotion, and spray perfume), and got some hand soaps and pumpkin lotion, too. After that I went to the Naturalizer shoe store to pick up some vintage style granny boots that I'd spied on Thursday when E and I went there prior to the Os game...

I have always loved the school marmish granny boots--loved the severe bun, high collared blouses, and long skirts with ruffles such marms wore. Of course, I wore mine (yesterday) with flare-legged jeans and a black sweater, but it thrills me that I finally have an approximation of these classic shoes. I got them in brown, because brown is the new black. I have that on very good authority.

(I tried bubble tea for the first time. Not quite sure how I feel about it.)

I slept like the dead on Saturday night (stayed over at Sarah's place), but had a disturbing dream in which I lived back in the highrise apartment I occupied when I first moved back to Baltimore 3 years ago.

On Sunday there was the play (a musical) which was quite good, but was difficult for Sarah, because of its theme of recent heartbreak. I thought it would have more of a comedic bent. Comedy and tragedy are only a hair apart, but it's a definitive hair, I suppose.