Does It Bear Mentioning...?

That through an odd set of events I am attending a party with Ms. F, her fiance, and Mr. Renaissance tomorrow night? Maybe. Maybe not. But I did anyway.

You're a Non-box.


What box do you get put in?
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Dr. Zhivago

The Russian manager of the Starbucks near Gallery Place/Chinatown is seriously sexy. He is one of the two men to ever simply smile at me and make my bones go liquid as a direct result. It's understated, other world sexy. It's obvious he's been in the States for some time, but his accent shrouds all his words in a weird softness. His blue eyes are open and warm.

When my work schedule is not interrupted to cover jobs for other coworkers, I can usually bank on seeing him once a week when I go in for the requisite morning joe (or mocha or latte). I never think of him unless he is right in front of me. And in those moments of his right-in-front-of-me-ness, I think to myself 'right.'

This morning while waiting for my toffee nut beverage and my raspberry croissant (mmmm), I noticed a little placard with a picture of him beside the register. It was a professional photo of him with a seriously sexy look on his face, in his green work apron (wearing a grey turtleneck sweater--one of the best things a man can wear, in my opinion), and holding a cuppa. It was an advertisement for his "coffee seminars" held every third Wednesday of the month.

In a lovely twist of fate (and my schedule) I now go downtown on Wednesdays and Fridays. Oh, I am sooo there....

In a contemporary literature class in college, during a section on The Harlem Renaissance, it was posited that the perfect counterpart for a white man is a black woman. In terms of the roles they prototypically assume in their respective races, they are the most suited, it was suggested, to go toe to toe in a battle of wills. White culture [and I must heavily qualify this post by assuring everyone that I am speaking in generalities... that I am sharing a literary argument I once participated in, that I am feeling my way through, based on what has been observed in these two cultures], for the most part, is patriarchal. Black culture, for the most part, is matriarchal [perhaps, on some levels, detrimentally so, when you think about how black men report feeling emascualted by white men and black women].

During Slavery, you had two compelling figures, both intimately involved with the affairs of the household. The "master" and the "mammy." Between the two of them, the delicate balance of power teetered and tottered, never seeming to rest in one direction for very long. Obviously, it takes a kind of weird dignity to let someone else think that he is always in control, if it better serves your immediate purposes (i.e., escaping a beating, not getting sold, or causing someone else a beating,etc.). So while one would not readily look at a kerchief-clad slave mother with a heavy black skirt and white apron and think "power," she does bear a second look.

Power, you might say, is having your finger on the pulse of a situation, and knowing how to steer the course of events to effect a desired result. Whether you are simply trying to get dinner ready by 5:00, or if you are trying to save your life, it takes an unnamable intellect to make someone else think it's his idea to facilitate your efforts on your own behalf. In this sense, perhaps, an oppressed, disenfranchised black woman had some semblance of control over her surroundings.

The Mistress of the house, upheld as the standard of beauty and purity, operated as something of a figure head. Often, under her very nose, her husband, so openly hostile to his subjects and contemptuous of their purported inferiority, released his animal urges in the shacks around back with earthy, acceptably [temporarily acceptable] sexual African women, thereby adding another dimension to this intriguing relationship.

What does this years-old conversation from my class have to do with me now?

I have always been attracted to thin, bookish, white boys [now men] who wear glasses [okay. maybe the glasses are optional].

This image of masculinity that comforts me and attracts me could not be more divergent from the physicality and spirit of my birth father and my stepfather. Both of these men are of a medium brown complexion, motivated by rage, rule by intimidation, and are intimidated by my intellect. At some point in my youth, I made a conscious choice to reject, sexually, spiritually, and emotionally, what they represented to me.

Does my choice in men say anything about my concept of the power play in relationships?

At the same time, my attraction to what my mother calls "skinny white boys that look like Woody Allen" is effortless, visceral, real. Is it possible that I am at once acting out the old drama of "master vs. mammy," rejecting my bogus dads by picking an image at the other end of the spectrum, and flowing honestly toward my destiny--all these truths colliding, layering, and leading me to the heart of the man with whom I want to share my soul and my spirit?

Lately, I have seen some very beautiful men on the train. Most of them black. This is new for me--to be able to see beauty in a black man's face--where I have only previously seen their ability to induce terror, shame, and had only previously felt contempt.

And then I think about Mr. Renaissance--the poster child of all the white men I've longed to have love me, to redeem me--and I realize that his beauty to me is not objective, and is separate from any concept I have of his "whiteness." He may be the first in a slew of girlhood crushes to be the very mold I decided to want, but who transcends that mold, and who has been able to be to me, simply who he is.

When you find the other half of your heart, it is not about social roles, or psycho-social phenomena, even if those implications exist, they do not supercede the higher truth involved. I am relieved to have made this discovery. How hollow to waste all this energy on a man who simply fit my idea of safety and escape. How imprisoning and myopic if that was all it was.

"She Was Right, Though; I Can't Lie..."

My annual review results:

I "meet" expectations. Hello Mediocrity. Is it really worth it to wake up at 4 a.m. to simply meet expectations? Gosh, for all that, I should be able to obliterate expectations, utterly destroying, with my superior performance, any scale by which expectations are measured. But alas, I do not. I'm just "okay" at a job I hate. I think this is me peering into the bottom of the barrel of my life.

What Pattern Are You?

My evening bookstore/coffee date with Sassafrass Teawrap did not disappoint. Thoughtful friend she is, she had a present for me! A Harley-Davidson [red] miniature motorcycle (and some Harley-Davidson stickers), a little book full of quotes about coffee, and some "pass-it-on" cards that have hopeful messages on them. You can stick them inside books as page markers, or you can tape them to the walls/mirrors at home or work... These were all wrapped in a new, red bandana.

Since we were at Borders and 'bina's parents gave me a giftcard for Valentine's day, I bought myself an exhaustive H-D motorcycle encyclopedia.

Before you get the wrong idea about me, let me state for the record, I am not a biker. I'm not even a poseur, in spite of how this post makes me look. No, I just happen to have, as one of the incongruent elements of my personality, a love for riding on them as a passenger. On the two occasions I've had the experience, I felt invigorated. Once when I was five our neighbor took me out. I remember the thrill of screaming, but having the wind usurp my air, so I couldn't even hear my own voice.

The second time was with Mr. Renaissance this past fall. Slightly different feeling than when I was five; I trust it is obvious why that was the case. And we were not on a Harley. He's a BMW man.

I guess in a way the motorcycle has become my emblem of things hoped for. Freedom. Risks. Adventure. And finally, Love.

I've begun reading Alice Walker's The Way Forward Is With A Broken Heart. I read her daughter's memoir, Black, White, and Jewish... not long ago, and find that having something of a commentary (a literary one, to be sure) from Alice on her first, young marriage, helps me to enter into the wonder and romance of that connection.

I had a hard time sleeping last night; I often do on Sunday evenings. I would attribute this to the fact that I tend to stay up later on Friday and Saturday nights than I would during the week, but in truth, I hit the hay by about 10:30 on both evenings. I still did not close my eyes before 2 a.m. this morning, which was torture when my alarm went off a mere two hours after that. There was one pleasant element to it, though.

Sarahbina and I talked about the men in our lives in the quiet dark of the room we share. Me in my bed, her in hers, it was like whispering with a sister on a school night. But there were no parents to hear our chatter and come in to shush us. It bolstered my hope to talk about Mr. Renaissance with her. I have not seen him in over a month. While this is not terribly uncommon, I smart from the absence.

I wonder what this week will hold. I just hope I manage to hold it all together.

Tonight, I cavort with Sassafrass Teawrap, my Sensei of Wonderment. I know this will cheer me up.

Room to Make Her Big Mistakes...

Last night was weird. 'bina and I watched two episodes of Star Dates (Kim Fields then Gary Coleman as the featured celebrities) while eating some subpar takeout. About half way through one half of her cheesesteak sub she realized the bread was molded, so she stopped eating and called the establishment to complain. To their credit they sent out a new one right away. To their discredit, they asked for the old sandwich back. We had gotten rid of it, since it was trash. We explained this to the driver, who then got on his cell phone with home base. At one point, he handed his cell to me, and I had "words" with the manager of the establishment letting him know that at that point, I felt that our integrity as customers was on the line. It wasn't as if this is some scam we pull once a month or something; in fact, it had never happened before. I even told him that no reputable take out/delivery establishment I know of would request the food back. But, if they wanted it back, why didn't they ask us to have it ready to give to their delivery person when he arrived with the replacement when we called?

It was unsettling. Sarahbina also had some other stuff on her mind, which was making her agitated. Since I had been in some state of suppressed agitation for weeks, we decided to have a few cocktails and listen to the Dixie Chicks's "Wide Open Spaces" to take the edge off the nonsense.

Yesterday afternoon, during the subway leg of my commute home, I came to the conclusion that I had left my cell phone at work. I figured that in my day's end ritual of gathering up my discman, headphones, hat, gloves, etc., I had simply left it on my desk. The repercussions of this oversight would be minimal, I knew (i.e., my family wouldn't be able to call me without paying long distance charges, which would dissuade them from calling, which would be okay, actually), but it still felt like a crushing failure that sealed my tragic fate. It wasn't like me to be so unmindful.

I adjusted to the idea of a weekend without this modern day security blanket. And then today, in a frantic search for my burgundy lipstick, I came across it, misplaced and wedged in one of the two zippered compartments of my purse. I considered, last night, that I might have put it away in the wrong place. I called it thinking I would feel my knapsack vibrate if I did indeed have it. I didn't feel or hear that sign of life, so in my mind, it was settled. No cell phone. I didn't even look deeply, I realize now. I just made a proclamation based on a superficial examination of circumstantial evidence.

Extrapolating from this minor incident a larger principle of life, I guess I should be comforted that "just because you can't find it immediately doesn't mean it's not there." Sometimes when it seems that nothing is happening, that's when the stage is being set for greatness. Or something like that.

I know a book has gotten inside me when I dream in its voice. Yesterday evening on the train, after rereading several passages from 'The Monk' I let my head rest against the rainy window and tried to settle the internal tempest it had raised; I fathomed passages that do not exist in the book's actuality, but that were so congruous with the story it was somewhat disconcerting. I awoke feeling that I had still been reading, when in fact the book was safely tucked in my knapsack.

In Solomon's 'Song of Songs' the beloved charges the Daughters of Jerusalem not to arouse or awaken love until it so desires. I began to understand the wisdom of that with gravity. I had to force myself to a quiet place back inside Plato's cave of unenlightenment now that I knew what the tenderness of a man's love could feel like, viscerally.
I feel a weird sense of grief now that this book is over; I continued to hold it for a while after I was finished with the last page because I did not want to lose its warmth.

Clearly there is a need in me that can't be self-satisfied by food, or sublimated by any of the usual means I have at my disposal. In the story, the love between Rebecca and Michael Christopher (the former monk) is a subtle but engrossing surprise to them both, born in a time of weariness, on an ordinary day when neither of them felt they could be surprised or blessed any more, so they weren't looking.

It's raining here today. It's melting the snow. I'm going to put some coffee on and try to be content.

Friday's Five Questions

1. What is your most prized material possession?

I own two of Mr. Renaissance's original paintings; they mean the world to me.

2. What item, that you currently own, have you had the longest?

I have a blue dress that I wore as a one-year-old; it has two pockets on the front. One is red gingham, the other, blue.

3. Are you a packrat?

No. I have made a real effort not to be even a de facto pack rat. I have duplications of some papers, but significant paring down has occurred. I don't have a ton of "possessions."

4. Do you prefer a spic-and-span clean house? Or is some clutter necessary to avoid the appearance of a museum?

I like a home to look lived in, but be neat. Clutter, I despise. When I'm out of sorts, sometimes I let things go. I feel ill-at-ease, however, and don't find that I can just happily abide in a house that is impersonating a trash heap.

5. Do the rooms in your house have a theme? Or is it a mixture of knick-knacks here and there?

I do not have the money or the means, yet, to indulge my desire for [understated] theme rooms. I don't have a lot of knick-knacks. I am contemptuous of bric-a-brac in general.

The Monk Downstairs

Reading this book was perfect peace. It was eating mangoes in the kitchen on a sunny saturday morning; the poignant kiss I have yet to feel on my lips; it was everything operating on schedule and with ease; grace on pages; courage understated; the last and best thing, saved just for me.

Tim Farrington's gift of subtlety in rendering this delicate story, remarkably and refreshingly uncomplicated, but still generous in its beckoning, slayed me with hope. Odd to find hope upon discovering fault lines in your own heart. So staggeringly simple to understand, again, that true love is bravery in the mundane. That God's gifts to us are the barely perceptible moments something changes and you can hardly say what it is, but the trajectory of your intentions and you desires are in synch with the truest version of who you are. And suddenly there is no argument. The necessary but dreaded push-and-pull of your existence, the mechanism given you to ensure eventual and effortlessly firing synapses, gives way to rightness. There you are.

I was more than a little taken with the heroine's ex-monk lover, so frank and unpretentious. So wise about God and His tendency toward deafening silence in our crises-- engineered to help those who want to, hear Him more distinctly. So earthy and basic. Uncompromising. Intolerant of falsity and nicety, but utterly diplomatic. Sexual, contemplative. Wanting, but unneedy in that want.

I loved that Farrington understood that his story did not need the seemingly requisite plot twists to endear his characters to a reader's intellect and instinct. He understood that making the decision to not be false and posture at the hollow ascetism of refusal is engaging and complete in itself. Once these characters knew they wanted each other, there was no need to suffer that want. And when they hit snags, there was acknowledgment, and the warmth of deeper intimacy that can accompany acknowledgment if it is allowed.

I know it wasn't the point, but it made the story I'm living seem anemic and wan, but that is my story. Who am I to despise small seeds? From the book I learned that ripening fruit that is born of silence takes time. Patience, Kate. Who knows what will be unearthed if you are willing to wait?

A Tale of Two Cities

The train straddled the snow-packed track halfway between where I live and where I work, and held this position for nearly an hour this morning. As I sat there, uncharacteristically, not feeling impatient, I realized this scenario I was in was the metaphor of my life. I am always between two worlds, and I have a growing sense of apathy toward them both–the way you eventually stop wondering when a negligent friend is going to call you–because you know he isn't. The kind of detachment that has its root in being let down repeatedly.

I have never been at peace, internally, and my external situations always reflect that restlessness.

I made it into my place of business about an hour and a half later than I should have, but I'm leaving on time, because I'm not paying back time I'd just have to spend idling on metal rails in the bitter dark cold of a February evening, hoping everything holds out a bit longer.

'Bina, if you're reading this, do you think you could have a Beam-n-Coke w/ two cherries ready for me when I get home?

The Aftermath

I find myself a little cagey, a bit depressed, in a manageable sort of way, and irritable, too. I haven't been outside since Friday night (though I have been out of my apartment) and I am starting to miss the world. I am lacking beneficial interaction with someone other than literary characters, none of whom have truly won my heart (though I am pleased to say the girl does get the guy in In the Drink). My sister is still here because the trains just haven't been running. If you read these pages with any regularity, you have no doubt deduced that the rails are my sole means of travel. Oh. And my own two feet.

The one obvious benefit to all of this is that my work week will be beginning in the middle, and will be over before I know it. And on Thursday I have a therapy session to look forward to--the one indication that progress is being made in my life.

Well, I'm out of half and half so I guess I'll go down to old faithful and get some coffee...

How Republican Are You?
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Your Heart is Red


What Color is Your Heart?
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Watching the local news during the "Wintery Blast" (as one station settled on as a term for the current precipitation phenomenon) is pointless. Seeing the roving reporter shoving her microphone in the face of patrons at a diner (yesterday morning), and asking them if their drive in had been difficult, and how they were feeling about "all this snow!" was the height of amateurish broadcasting. You know what? When it's snowing a lot, there isn't much more you can say. All together now. "It sure is snowing!" End of story. But, no. My local NBC affiliate station found a way to lower the standard. I would say that would be holding up the front page of newspapers and reading off the headlines since most people hadn't been able to get their papers that morning was laughable.

Well, the girls and I are snug as bugs in rugs inside my little city apartment. We had an all-house cleanup yesterday. My sister and I were talking about my mother and her issues at some point yesterday afternoon, and this propelled me to take any action in my own life. At that point, my depressingly untidy flat seemed like a sure sign that I was becoming the older Ms. Krupnik.

Having it neat has fung-shui-ed my mind. Thoughts moving freely like silver fish in a clear stream.

My sister is staying with me and Sarahbina for the weekend; It is supposed to blizzard beginning tomorrow night. Originally Caryl was to stay with me through Monday, but now the plan is to try and get her home tomorrow before the big show. Today we went to the library to return a text, and so I could check out some diverting fiction. I checked out about 7 books, including a murder mystery by P.D. James.

Afterward we walked several blocks up Charles Street to the Sylvan Beach Cafe, which was unexpectedly closed (probably in anticipation of bad weather). So Caryl and I made the trek back to my apartment to have cocoa and to take a nap. I started reading In the Drink by Kate Christensen. I think it has promise based upon the 5 pages I've gotten in so far.

We've just finished playing a rousing round of the 'Friends' trivia game. 'bina won.

Oh My Gosh, and this IS my favourite DMB song!


#41


What Dave Matthews Song Are You?
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