Going to California

In the basement of the house I grew up in, we had a guest room that my brother later took over as his bedroom. He was a teenager by then and sleeping in a room between his sister and his mother didn't seem cool. I don't think it had much to do with privacy, as his door was usually open and I was often in there with him. But it was an enormous room, with plenty of space at the foot of the double beds for a sprawling mound of library books to take form, and he would sit on the edge of his mattress or in a chair over that literary hill and play his electric guitar for hours. He liked to turn up the amp so you could hear his Jimi Hendrix-esque wailing down the street. His thick mane of wavy hair would fall around his shoulders, released after school from the ponytail he was required to keep it in while on school grounds, and he'd close his eyes and jam. I'd be sitting on the floor, trying to follow his fingers and understand how they made such melodies out of the sharp strings, or just reading poetry. I'd be sitting there, cozy on the 1970s shag rug, not even realizing how lucky I was to have him. Not realizing it isn't always like this between siblings; not realizing we might ever move apart and lose the chance to spend so much time together.

After he left for college, I moved my easel into his room. He had a walk-in closet full of his own paintings, and I thought they'd keep me good company while I tried to take after my mom and him and prove good at painting. They were a tough pair to rival in the artistic regard, as my mom had an entire pottery studio set up two rooms down, and my brother—who, being older, always learned everything earlier than I did—had thrown pots in his childhood, whereas I had only made small sculptures. So I set up my easel right in the middle of the room, where anyone could see what I was painting, and when I'd go in there after school—when no one else, mind you, was home to witness my progress—I'd pull a tape off his shelf and pop it into his boom box; I'd listen to his music while I painted. I got to know Hendrix that way, and the Rolling Stones, and even Drivin' n Cryin', a high school band from north Atlanta that quickly became one of my favorites.

At some point I started to pull out all the Led Zeppelin tapes that had formerly intimidated me, seeming to me to contain a sort of music you had to learn to listen to. I remember turning over the black tape cases in my hand, noting the sequential numbering of their white-font naming, wondering just how many songs these guys had recorded over time. I knew there was more to their talent than "Stairway to Heaven," and as I listened, I realized I didn't quite get everything they put out. But some songs really compelled me, and one in particular stuck. Many years later, a memory of the sound of it would spark an idea in my head a few paragraphs into writing fiction and I'd eventually type out 120 pages of my personal daydream of an adventure tale. I'd listen to "Going to California" and go west in my head, letting my main character take my journey and take the aching right out of me. A handful of years after that, I'd finally follow Robert Plant's voice all the way to California, and it's in memory of that song that I write tonight, knowing that tomorrow I will hear Plant sing in person, and though the songs will be Americana and bluegrass and nothing like the ones I used to play on that tape deck, his voice will still recall the myth that one tune created in my mind, the tug of it on my heart and—eventually—my life.

blogpal post

Have you ever had a penpal? Well I have a blogpal; she lives a good distance around the globe from me, and we've never met, but we have a mutual friend who reads us both, and we've started reading each other as well. Recently she posted something like something I'd been thinking about posting. So I'm initiating blogpal post #1, which means I'm responding directly to her, with all of you looking on. :)

This blogpal was writing about the Web and the way it teases you into feeling connected yet leaves a very I'm-alone aftertaste in your mouth. And I get that; I've felt that. Sometimes I am shocked by the number of times I drop by my computer, when doing something elsewhere in my apartment, to see if a new email has come in or a new post has popped up in Google Reader. It's true that my gmail account is open all the time—I live alone, I work at home; why close it? And because I don't, and because it re-loads itself, I tend to persistently check in on it. And because I spend a lot of my time one-on-one with the computer (as that's where all my work gets done, not to mention my writing), and because it is the easiest means of communicating with my friends and family, of following the news, of shopping, of checking the weather forecast, of playing Scrabble, of being connected to you right now—because it has become an incredible source of mental interaction with the world, I do at times find myself feeling an emotional tug toward it and then sometimes a sense of letdown when all the green circles in my gchat bar have gone orange or gray and I remember that I am, really, by myself at the computer.

But there are times when I think that interconnectedness is incredible. Recently, a friend went through a very tough week of sitting in a hospital waiting for her dad to come through surgery and finding at the end that more treatment was needed. She couldn't necessarily talk on the phone while there, so it felt good to be able to sit with her on gchat for hours and type this or that back and forth. We were both doing other things but we kept up a running chatter, and I felt as close to being there keeping her company as is possible from 3,000 miles away, which felt very good. Similarly, there are friends—and relatives—who I rarely used to hear from by phone but who regularly send me hellos and little updates through gchat or Facebook. And I've been able to edit every single English essay my former tutee in Boston has written in the past two years via gchat, as he literally sends me paragraph after paragraph, interspersed with queries like "Is that a thesis statement?" and "Did I support my point ok?"

So for all the bizarrity of developing a fond feeling toward a machine or something displayed on its screen, I appreciate that during the workday, as I sit here doing my business in solitary, there are 15 or 20 of you seemingly right there with me, sharing the latest news article you liked or a witty quip about politics or your recent adventures in your status bar. I like having this little-green-dot community alongside me, having all this information around me to peruse during breaks, having it be my turn to play a word against someone I haven't seen in 15 years but am delighted to be back in touch with.

I realize that enjoying that puts me at risk of getting attached to it as reality, of feeling I can't live without it, of feeling disappointment when I have it in hand but it's giving nothing back to me. So I make a point of enjoying the interconnectedness when I am for some purpose at the computer—and forgetting it the rest of the time. And I think that’s key—to resist relying on it, or expecting it to be more than it is. After all, everything on the Web is constructed and being constantly re-constructed; so it's a fickle creature, becoming only what a bunch of humans here or a bunch of humans there shape it to be.

prejudicial dating

Now that we're in our 30s, a friend and I often discuss dating on a more conceptual level. It's not that we think we're worrying about missing the boat; it's that dating changes as you get older, and to some degree, it's hard to tell whether you're changing appropriately with it. Now don't misinterpret that; I'm not saying I think we're not playing the game right for our age. I don't believe in playing games with dating, and I think mostly I succeed at not doing so. What I think you have to do—and what you are fortunate to have the gained wisdom to do well—when dating at an older age is shed some of the prejudices you once may have felt you had the luxury of sticking to.

Take for example an easy one: physical requirements. Years ago, when some friends of mine took a comment I made about there being "no Lara's man bar, no place where I can go and all the men are single, and available, and looking" and considered how we might build Lara's man bar, every detail of this bar full of men vying for my attention was catered to my pickinesses about who I would date. At the entrance would stand one of those "you must be above this height" cut-outs from the amusement park rides. Just inside would await not a coat rack but a shirt rack, since back then I liked men not only tall but well cut, and I really thought those things mattered; I really thought I could not be attracted to men who didn't meet those restrictions.

Over the years enough lanky guys of all heights and hair colors (I previously had a bias against blonds, too, though now I can't seem to get my eyes off them) have appealed to me that I've realized that the muscle does not make the man, and I've let go of some of those silly daydreams.

What's been harder to get over is my belief about how a guy I should be with should be. I don't mean what he does with his time or what he believes in; I mean how he is with me. I have long felt there are two ways to be in a relationship—co-dependent or independent. You won't be surprised to hear that I strongly favor the latter. Co-dependency goes against my entire being; no doubt because of the 22 years my parents spent poorly married, I strive to be as happy as I can be all on my own. Only once I have contentment as a single girl do I feel I am in shape to be in a relationship well. And as a person who has long known that contentment, I've been having a hard time finding someone else who both prizes that in me and has achieved it in him.

Now don't get me wrong—I'm not looking to be in an unloving or self-centered relationship; I am a born nurturer; I love pampering and caring for people and do it (if I do say so myself) very well and all the time. It's just that I believe in caring for yourself, too, and I want to be with someone who knows how to do that—who knows that I can be an incredible bonus on top of the rest of what he has but does have a lot there for me to build on, a joy all his own for me to add to.

To my surprise, the last few guys I've dated seriously or considered dating seriously have been a hint toward the co-dependent (my last boyfriend definitely was). All are still well-formed beings, so it's not like all they want in life is to be a boyfriend, but they definitely all view being in a relationship as better than not being—and that is very different than what I think I want. But am I foolish to stick with that prejudice? Am I foolish to think that someone who favors being in a relationship just for the sake of being in one is someone who could never make me happy?

I will admit that my leaning is still to avoid anyone who views alone as lonely, single as un-loved. But recently a part of me said to another part: reconsider that, just theoretically, and see what you think. And you know what struck me? Maybe someone who is a little emotionally needy is at least someone who is in touch with his emotions; and maybe that's just as important as having your whole sense of self sorted out. After all, I want someone who wants to be in a relationship because he wants to be with me; and to know he wants that, he's got to know what he feels. So I've been trying to lighten up on my judgments ; to remember that my m.o. in life is to live and love a lot, not just a little, and maybe the person who can return that comes in some quite different package than I expect.

spring cleaning

I may be a tad overdressed for writing tonight; I'm sitting here in a floor-length gown feeling a little constricted because I weigh a bit more than I did when I bought it. It was my waltz dress in college, when we had a formal waltz every spring and we always dressed quite appropriately for it. The gown is a soft navy blue, gauzy and flowy, and if you don't know just what an hour-glass figure I have, you would if you saw me because the way I fill it out now, it's hip-, waist-, and chest-hugging and really emphatic on my curves. I feel like a plump princess in it, and I also feel nostalgic, because I'd forgotten it existed until I dug it up in a pre-move fit of cleaning out my (rather overflowing) closet.

Packed with it at the bottom of a sweater box were other dresses of the same era—a long velvet drape I wore freshman year, a delicate black-and-red flowered slip dress I wore a few seasons later, a truly tiny little-black-dress I wore to the senior soiree and impressed even myself with the audacity of my cleavage. Tonight I tried on each dress again, and though they don't fit perfectly, and though they don't suit my style anymore, they are gorgeous pieces of fabric, and I decided that rather than toss them on the for-sale pile, I'd re-pack them into the box and let them sit another decade at least.

After all, when I was a little girl, a favorite pass-time was sneaking into the hallway closet outside my room and slowly unzipping the floor-length garment bag that housed my grandmother's dresses from the '50s and one precious older one—one of my great grandmother's. It was a thin layer of black gauze that overlaid an off-white slip; I would slip it over my head and shoulders and then feel the soft fabric cascade down around my torso and legs. I was the right height and width for it, at least until my body started to develop, and there was something about the musty smell and the crinkle of the fabric that captivated me. The royal blue Jackie O dress was equally fun to try on, and a less appealing plaid one couldn't be resisted at times. It tickles me to think that some little girl in the future might have fun pulling out my old dresses and admiring their feel and their look. So I'll leave them in the bottom of the box a while longer; I'll leave them there and hold on to the memories they recall just a while longer yet.

I was less sentimental about a heap of other clothes. True, I couldn't bring myself to throw out the brown velvet skirt that I would never wear now but twice in my 20s donned as part of a Brownies uniform on Halloween to great applause from all the men I encountered. True, I couldn't bring myself to toss the fleece vest I was given when I became a leader of the freshmen orientation backpacking trips in college, no matter how vile the bright red and purple of it seem now. True, I didn't even consider chucking my elementary school P.E. t-shirt, which still fits in a very snug and cute way, or the 1970s-era baseball-sleeved PBS t-shirt of my mother's that a few of you know too well. But to my surprise, I finally parted ways with my favorite t-shirt (from my semester in Maine in high school and veeeeeery saggy and old); a well-worn and -loved sweatshirt; my best hiking shorts before all the buttons began dropping off like leaves in autumn; a shirt I slept in for years; all kinds of mini-skirts that I am inarguably too old to wear now; and quite an array of other items. I do, in fact, have two large bags full of clothes to donate to Good Will and two stacks awaiting review by a friend who may fit into them before I try to sell them and make a few bucks off my bad shopping habits. And I have to admit I have those habits because after three hours of sorting and stacking, re-folding and re-considering, if you were to open the double doors of my very large closet now, you would find a much-better-ordered but still enormous collection of clothes. You would have trouble believing I had removed anything. But I have. And I have to say, it's at least the fourth time I have done a massive overhaul of my wardrobe, and most of the items in the for-donation pile have never been considered throw-away-able before!

It's funny the attachments we develop to things. Though my size has changed, though my style has changed, though the seasons in the place I live have changed, there were some items I didn't want to part with not because I think I'll wear them again (I am quite sure, in some cases, I won't) but because I absolutely loved wearing them once. Certain skirts, certain shoes, certain winter coats just make your day when you have them on, and it's fun to remember all the different styles that you've worn with a smile. Certain items recall particular experiences, too, like the sparkly skirt I first wore to an outdoor concert in downtown Boston (it was summer; it was evening; and I felt beautiful, with my tan legs and the silver strands in the skirt flattering one another) or the thick wool turtleneck sweaters I always wore in snow storms (snuggling into them as the flakes landed in my hair and on my lashes and on the soft collars that kept me warm) or the metal-buttoned peacoat that I wore when F. and I spent a winter making a digital film and he captured me, without my knowing it, in a scene at South Station, and in that scene I also had on my favorite shoes from back then, and I won't ever forget the shoes or the jacket because dressed in them I am featured on film for the only time in my life.

It's funny the attachments we develop to things. And it's funny how hard it can be to let them go, even when we know the memories are with us forever. What I found interesting tonight was that in some cases, just as I had outgrown the item, so had I outgrown my passion for the memory that comes with it. But perhaps that's natural; that's maturing.

movie review: The Visitor (with lots of spoilers)

I never expected to go see The Visitor and find myself laughing as a stoic older white man in undershirt and boxers beats out a Fela Kuti-inspired rhythm on an African drum. But that's just one of the truly heartwarming scenes in the film, all of which gain richness from the dual experiences of the main character (inarguably named Walter). The tired-out professor is sick of his work and sick of his life, aching to regain rightness after the death of his wife. Initially, he goes about trying to master playing the piano, perhaps thinking that if he takes on something his wife loved, she will stay with him more vividly. But not too far into the film, he encounters two random characters who will change his life and his purpose—and this is the moment we know we're watching a Thomas McCarthy film.

Though perhaps more familiar to you as an actor, I came to appreciate McCarthy as a writer and director when I saw The Station Agent. In that film—which I view as one of the most eloquently crafted I've seen—a lonely, train-enthusiast dwarf inherits a train depot, moves into it, and immediately finds himself being befriended (against his wishes) by a neighboring coffee stand owner, an erratic-driving and -behaving housewife who has lost her son and kicked her husband out of her life, and a rotund, quiet, and beseeching young girl, all of whom seem to have nothing better to do than follow their intriguing new town-mate on his treks along the train tracks. As he begrudgingly accepts their coming along, he eventually finds that he has developed some very warm and intense friendships—and this main theme of the film is one The Visitor also taps into. However, the newer release ties the theme up with less of a sense of serendipity and more one of struggle in the post-9/11 age of aggressive anti-foreigner security.

Every character in The Visitor is a visitor in some way, and it is through at first subtle and later quite unhesitating acts of hospitality that friendships—maybe even family relationships—are born. The quick bonding of strangers is something I enjoy in real life, so it's no surprise that I am moved by it in movies; but The Visitor takes it deeper, putting survival on the line that lies between those who recently were strangers. As these individuals from all reaches of the globe grow close to one another, they are pulled seemingly senselessly apart by the reach of American law enforcement. And that plays an interesting role in the film.

Of course, this is subject matter with fire behind it—probably thousands of foreigners have faced unjust actions in the United States since 9/11. Many Americans have no contact with those people, so it is, to some extent, powerful to have put the different Americas we live in before our eyes. But I would not say that is the singular point of this film. What McCarthy does best is create characters and then ties among them. The role of Walter is one of a quiet, almost sullen man who is struggling with healing himself until he meets an enthusiastic young immigrant who shares with him a passion for music. That the young Tarek is Syrian is irrelevant for much of the film; in the end, the story is about bonding and healing, and the details of it underlie two points: that often others are able to share themselves with us in a way that is uplifting to our own wellbeing, and that the act of our own giving to others is also an act of self-strengthening.

Without the tragic ending, the film would already have achieved a great deal toward these ends. But as the journey toward a looming deportation unfolds, the frustration and eventual anger felt by all involved becomes most acute for our two leading males. Tarek, of course, is terrified. But what I find to be most evocative about the film is the meek-speaking protagonist's final breakdown into loud and gesticulating anger at Tarek's situation—which buds from both his own academic understanding of global interdependencies and from love. He has virtually taken on a new son and a new wife, and this is where I think the film really intends to go—deep into a study of how people grow as individuals through growing toward others. The complaints against the American justice system are justly treated, but the artfulness of the film lies in the bonds created both before and after that comes into play.

a modern-day Breakfast Club

Last night, as pens and computer keys tapped out a quiet but constant patter amidst the bookshelves and walls of my Monday night writing workshop, I realized that our students are like a modern-day Breakfast Club. They include (in my opinion) a nerd or two, a jock, a few rather eccentric ones, and a handful of pretty normal, happy kids—though putting a modern twist on it, they are "normal" in the context of a variety of different social and ethnic classes. And though a varied bunch, they get along great. After almost nine months of coming together weekly from places as different as Walnut Creek, Daly City, Marin County, and numerous San Francisco neighborhoods, this bunch of teenagers who seem to have only two things in common—their age (mostly between 13 and 15) and their love of writing—have clearly jelled quite well. That is not to say that they'll all be inviting each other on summer vacation; but by now, they know one another well—at least as writers—and I find the level of acceptance among them as a group astonishing.

As tutors, we've had occasion to want to throttle or kick out one or two of them; but the students have never shown animosity toward each other; they have never outwardly made social judgments. There are no cliques (just, perhaps, two developing relationships). There is no dissing. No matter how weird some of them may be (and trust me, some of them are), no matter how immature or clichéd some of their writing may be, these kids have bought into our notion of the happy sandwich (which requires any feedback to be given in the order of positive-critical-positive), and they've tended to really like everything one another have written. They seem, in fact, predisposed toward thinking positively. And I think that's really something, given all the horror stories you read about kids outcasting each other on myspace—and worse.

Unsurprisingly, our students are free with the criticism when reviewing submissions from unknown writers; and they're certainly not all masters of being particularly useful in their critiques (some of them will never get beyond, "Yeah, it's cool." or "I just like it."). But they show great respect—great comaraderie—together. And perhaps that's because, despite the fact that they are coming from all walks of life, they are coming to us to do the same thing; on top of that, they're doing it with talent. Many of our students are superb writers for their age; and almost all are eager to write, willing to listen, and thrilled to be pushed to do even better. Most of all, they seem to soak up the opportunity to be around—to just sit beside, do their writing alongside—other teens who are into this too. And to our delight, they seem to really like working with writing tutors. Most of us have been paired up with a particular student for the entire year; we've developed into writing teams, and perhaps it's that dual social situation—of establishing themselves a place in a peer group at the same time as a role in a partnership with someone of a different age and experience level—that helps keep the tenor of our weekly sessions so upbeat. Perhaps it's the uniqueness of what we're offering them combined with its perfect fit for their passions. Perhaps they are really lucky to have this shared writing space, and they know it, and they treat it right. Perhaps we are just as lucky, for it's really something to commit your time to a pursuit of someone else's and have it go so well.

a memory

It's really just a snapshot memory, but it flashes through my head sometimes, and with it comes a feeling of satisfaction. The light is gone from the day, but it's not so dark yet that you can't still see a bit of navy blue in the sky. The trees are silhouettes towering above me, their tops sometimes leaning toward one another and sometimes swaying apart. Above me, their leaves make a sound like music as they rustle. Above me, a light glows from the porch. Standing tall above me and the cooling grill, my dad is talking with someone; he is chuckling. Everything is upward in this vision, and partly that's because I'm small, and partly that's because I'm seated. Mostly it's because it's summer, and as I stretch my bare legs against the soft latticework of an outdoor chair, my eyes are turned toward the fading blue above, where I know they will fly soon. It's that time of night, just before true dark sets in, and as I listen to my dad's quiet nighttime voice a few feet away, I tune it out; I tune it all out; because now they are coming. From the dark boughs of the woods behind our house they fly, bat wings stretched the short distance they span, bodies gliding over me. As soon as I've seen them, I've seen them depart, but they stay with me, in my mind, this fleet of flying mammals. I've seen them many times—I know their habits, I know when to wait for them. But this one time is the one that imprinted, this time with my dad and the smell of the grill in the background, the soft web of the chair supporting my viewing.