Paragraphs that need writing:
At age eightish, the early days of December were torture. The anticipation drove me crazy; I would wish and pray and imagine that it was the morning of the 25th so I could rise and run downstairs to tear into what would doubtlessly be stacks and stacks of paper-wrapped booty. Each day of school was more unbearable than the one previous. I couldn't wait to get my hands on all that stuff. By January 2nd, I was scared. I would hope and dream and wish that somehow, some way, it could still be December 23rd. I would beg God to turn back time. That's how much I would dread the post-break return to school, and that's how much I missed that pre-present anticipation. On the final night before returning to school I would lie awake in my top bunk, the bedroom dimly-lit only by two electric window candles, and I would cry, a little, into my blue comforter.
Later I attended a private high school, learned how to make friends, matriculated to and graduated from a giant university, worked a few different jobs, drove around the country, parked my car in Los Angeles, bought a bunch of IKEA furniture, and prepared for November 28th of this year.
Spearheading his 5th anual "MA in LA" holiday, my roomate Andrew arrived at our friend Giza's place at 6am to get our triple-fat turkey in the oven. Catherine and I had miscalculated; at 9:30 we rolled out bed at her place and began baking. She put six sweet potatoes in the oven and began chopping twelve apples while I set out to make my first-ever pie crusts. We borrowed kitchen tools from her Russian neighbors. My mom's pie recipe (Better Homes and Gardens', really) requires cinnamon and nutmeg and loads of sugar, and all of it went inside the two pies before both of the pies went inside the oven. By the time Cat's casserole and my cranberry bread were finished it was 1:30 in the afternoon. Almost suppertime.
It still felt like Thanksgiving, surrounded by friends. We didn't pray a traditional prayer, but instead went around the circle of nine and each spoke aloud about those things, people or places that deserved our thanks. We laughed and plunged into a meal not unlike the meal you ate: juicy stuffing, fresh gravy, squash, bread and wine. A healthy dollop of potatoes. And a second platefull, of course. I drank more wine. I smoked a cigarette in company, on the porch. I nearly fell asleep to the sounds of soft jazz. The post-daylight savings sun sank. Joshua and I suck at trivial pursuit, so we lost big time. Sure, we're not much into sports, but, um, mostly our brains just don't feel the need to retain trivial information.
Later Catherine and I brought our second pie to another house full of friends, and did it all over again, differently. We all enjoyed fried chicken, Roadie and amusing games with rubber frogs that stick to the wall. That Thursday was the first Thanksgiving I've ever spent away from my family; for a momentI longed for extended meals spent around our same kitchen table (with flat wooden leaves added, to make it longer for guests; table cloth and candlesticks added, familiar pewter utensils, reminding us to be thankful) in Plymouth, Massachusetts: home of my parents' red house, the Plymouth Rock, the Pilgrims, Wampanoag Wigwams, annual parading, annual protesting, leafless tree skeletons, and cold wind to suit the season.
I remember the one turkey day in the late 1980s when a near-blizzard coated Plymouth with inches upon inches of white paradise, just outside our kitchen's bay window, as we munched stuffing and mashed potatoes in anticipation of serious fun. My grandparents ate and smiled with us, and my mom was glad, because guests make the day. I was young, still a decade before wine; 5 years at least before tryptophan could tip the balance against snowpants and sleds. My white world was sift and silent. Later, hot chocolate and the brick fireplace rescued out cold toes.
A tidy story, yes? Memory. These things are not part of life in Los Angeles. But from the porch of my apartment last Saturday, I felt rain on my neck, saw early evening-angled sunrays attack a giant black thundercloud to the delight of a) me b) the resulting rainbow, and c) the low-rumbling thunder, exploding into full-on claps in celebration of an annual emergence, announcing the reign of rain over this desert (much to the terror of young children from the building next-door, still too small to have escaped from LA). Without thundering rain, this fair dry city misses out on the oh-so important sporadic reminder that there are larger forces at work. Those few seconds between flash and rumble keep us quiet. Sometimes earthquakes come around here, folks tell me, but I haven't felt one yet.
Just a few, quiet seconds. Three weeks ago I began working as a personal and office assistant / project manager for an eccentric millionaire businessman. He is a workaholic. He tolerates mistakes only as stepping stones. Here is a bulleted list of things:
Maybe I forgot how busy busy can be. I don't remember. What? I'm hungry. I don't remember if I ate. I know that the challenge is to channel it all into more productivity, these time-trials.
It's the quiet moments that get sublimated first: staring at one part of the wall for too long, absorbed in song. An afternoon daydream. Evesdropping on couples in the coffeeshop, out of the corder of my eye. Observing a small bird in the morning. Staring at hand contours in the shower. These pauses are the first to go, during busy times, the moments of pure present. And somewhere in there come thoughts of painting and songwriting and all such fallow-lying hobbies; friends I haven't spoken to in two months, six months; magazine articles begun and abandoned. If it wasn't for NPR in traffic, heaven knows I would have no idea what's going on in the world. The true luxury of the car stereo.
But. So. It's winter, somewhere else, mostly, but here, too, and tonight as we trim our 7 foot, 42 dollar Christmas tree with strings of blue lights and tiny candy-canes, the warmth of participation in tradition is palpable. Spirit swells easy when you carry your luggage on your back, your commas in your fat fingertips. In five days I'll be at the quarter century mark, and it will feel only a little different.
At age eightish, the early days of December were torture. The anticipation drove me crazy; I would wish and pray and imagine that it was the morning of the 25th so I could rise and run downstairs to tear into what would doubtlessly be stacks and stacks of paper-wrapped booty. Each day of school was more unbearable than the one previous. I couldn't wait to get my hands on all that stuff. By January 2nd, I was scared. I would hope and dream and wish that somehow, some way, it could still be December 23rd. I would beg God to turn back time. That's how much I would dread the post-break return to school, and that's how much I missed that pre-present anticipation. On the final night before returning to school I would lie awake in my top bunk, the bedroom dimly-lit only by two electric window candles, and I would cry, a little, into my blue comforter.
Later I attended a private high school, learned how to make friends, matriculated to and graduated from a giant university, worked a few different jobs, drove around the country, parked my car in Los Angeles, bought a bunch of IKEA furniture, and prepared for November 28th of this year.
Spearheading his 5th anual "MA in LA" holiday, my roomate Andrew arrived at our friend Giza's place at 6am to get our triple-fat turkey in the oven. Catherine and I had miscalculated; at 9:30 we rolled out bed at her place and began baking. She put six sweet potatoes in the oven and began chopping twelve apples while I set out to make my first-ever pie crusts. We borrowed kitchen tools from her Russian neighbors. My mom's pie recipe (Better Homes and Gardens', really) requires cinnamon and nutmeg and loads of sugar, and all of it went inside the two pies before both of the pies went inside the oven. By the time Cat's casserole and my cranberry bread were finished it was 1:30 in the afternoon. Almost suppertime.
It still felt like Thanksgiving, surrounded by friends. We didn't pray a traditional prayer, but instead went around the circle of nine and each spoke aloud about those things, people or places that deserved our thanks. We laughed and plunged into a meal not unlike the meal you ate: juicy stuffing, fresh gravy, squash, bread and wine. A healthy dollop of potatoes. And a second platefull, of course. I drank more wine. I smoked a cigarette in company, on the porch. I nearly fell asleep to the sounds of soft jazz. The post-daylight savings sun sank. Joshua and I suck at trivial pursuit, so we lost big time. Sure, we're not much into sports, but, um, mostly our brains just don't feel the need to retain trivial information.
Later Catherine and I brought our second pie to another house full of friends, and did it all over again, differently. We all enjoyed fried chicken, Roadie and amusing games with rubber frogs that stick to the wall. That Thursday was the first Thanksgiving I've ever spent away from my family; for a momentI longed for extended meals spent around our same kitchen table (with flat wooden leaves added, to make it longer for guests; table cloth and candlesticks added, familiar pewter utensils, reminding us to be thankful) in Plymouth, Massachusetts: home of my parents' red house, the Plymouth Rock, the Pilgrims, Wampanoag Wigwams, annual parading, annual protesting, leafless tree skeletons, and cold wind to suit the season.
I remember the one turkey day in the late 1980s when a near-blizzard coated Plymouth with inches upon inches of white paradise, just outside our kitchen's bay window, as we munched stuffing and mashed potatoes in anticipation of serious fun. My grandparents ate and smiled with us, and my mom was glad, because guests make the day. I was young, still a decade before wine; 5 years at least before tryptophan could tip the balance against snowpants and sleds. My white world was sift and silent. Later, hot chocolate and the brick fireplace rescued out cold toes.
A tidy story, yes? Memory. These things are not part of life in Los Angeles. But from the porch of my apartment last Saturday, I felt rain on my neck, saw early evening-angled sunrays attack a giant black thundercloud to the delight of a) me b) the resulting rainbow, and c) the low-rumbling thunder, exploding into full-on claps in celebration of an annual emergence, announcing the reign of rain over this desert (much to the terror of young children from the building next-door, still too small to have escaped from LA). Without thundering rain, this fair dry city misses out on the oh-so important sporadic reminder that there are larger forces at work. Those few seconds between flash and rumble keep us quiet. Sometimes earthquakes come around here, folks tell me, but I haven't felt one yet.
Just a few, quiet seconds. Three weeks ago I began working as a personal and office assistant / project manager for an eccentric millionaire businessman. He is a workaholic. He tolerates mistakes only as stepping stones. Here is a bulleted list of things:
- Quality time with friends.
- A full-time day job.
- Posting to a personal website.
- One loving girlfriend.
- Grand Theft Auto - Vice City
- Reading
Maybe I forgot how busy busy can be. I don't remember. What? I'm hungry. I don't remember if I ate. I know that the challenge is to channel it all into more productivity, these time-trials.
It's the quiet moments that get sublimated first: staring at one part of the wall for too long, absorbed in song. An afternoon daydream. Evesdropping on couples in the coffeeshop, out of the corder of my eye. Observing a small bird in the morning. Staring at hand contours in the shower. These pauses are the first to go, during busy times, the moments of pure present. And somewhere in there come thoughts of painting and songwriting and all such fallow-lying hobbies; friends I haven't spoken to in two months, six months; magazine articles begun and abandoned. If it wasn't for NPR in traffic, heaven knows I would have no idea what's going on in the world. The true luxury of the car stereo.
But. So. It's winter, somewhere else, mostly, but here, too, and tonight as we trim our 7 foot, 42 dollar Christmas tree with strings of blue lights and tiny candy-canes, the warmth of participation in tradition is palpable. Spirit swells easy when you carry your luggage on your back, your commas in your fat fingertips. In five days I'll be at the quarter century mark, and it will feel only a little different.
