I awake to screeching sounds coming from outside.
Me: (Rubbing my eyes.) Is that a monkey?
Him: No, it’s a SEAgull. They’re common here… in SEAttle… which is by the SEA.
Me: Oh, I SEE.
(Pause.)
Me: They sound like monkeys.
Archive for January, 2008
Ahoy ahoy, good sir! Regarding an auditory mishap this Saturday evening past, it would appear as though I must reacquaint myself with the operations of my telephone machine. I assure you this is not the case indeed! I simply wished to inform you discretely of the many occurrences that had transpired throughout the evening hours and to enquire as to the nature of your post-twilight activities as well. The consumption of numerous libations prior to my attempt at communication caused a brief lapse in mental reasoning within my brain-center. I was remiss to recognize that a conversation via telephone machine is rather improbable during the pinnacle of a grandiose carousal. The fete at which I was present featured the playing of musical instruments that produce a sound akin to large metallic objects rhythmically colliding with one another. These musical stylings are referred to by the younger generation as the “heavy metal.” In conclusion, my friend, please do respond to this correspondence forthwith and we shall discuss news of the winter season. Cheerio, darling!
What would happen if I were wrongfully detained by some foreign law enforcement agency which sought information I did not have through various means of torture? This scenario makes the assumption that I can’t get out of it by saying, “You’ve got the wrong girl, and besides, I’m an American!” Let’s review all the ways they might torture me, based on stuff I’ve heard and absolutely no in-depth research.
They could pull out my toenails with a pair of pliers, which puts a person in a lot of pain, but does no permanent damage. I’ve done this to myself three times.
They could electrocute me. I used to report to hospital weekly to be mercilessly shocked for 30 minutes at a time. It was under the guise of “physical therapy.”
They could beat the shit out of me, leaving me aching and bruised for long periods of time. But that would be no different from the pain I experience the morning after a particularly eventful Saturday night.
They could light my privates on fire, which I’m sort of ashamed to admit I have also done before.
They could also make me listen to some kind of music that is considered awful by most Americans. I heard they’ve subjected some Middle Eastern torture subjects to Metallica and children’s songs, and some pathetic souls actually cracked! I once worked for a radio station that prided itself on how obscure its world music collection was. So go ahead, do your worst.
Sleep deprivation? Um, yeah. I went to college. And ask me about the time I lived on top of some train tracks.
Tie me up and whip me? HAHAHAHAHAHA! Seriously…
At the risk of some international guerilla group not only capturing me, but also bothering to read this blog, I will now list some ways you could definitely get me to spill the beans, or fabricate some beans and spill those.
Send me clothes shopping in a major city on a Saturday afternoon.
Make me drive in a foreign country in the rain with no headlights or windshield wipers.
Put me in a room full of people talking on cell phones.
Make me brush my teeth with weird-flavored toothpaste.
Set me up with a guy that I hang out with for several weeks and like, and then cease all communication between us forever.
Set one of my friends up with a guy who beats her and play a continuous loop of her making excuses for him: “But he’s under a lot of stress… He loves me… He said things would change…”
Give me a computer that is internet-ready with no internet connection.
Put me in front of a conveyor belt supplied with newborn babies that I must continuously pick up, hold, cradle, act interested in, and find someone to relieve my holding duties for.
Supply me with ideas for which I can only use dangling prepositions to explain understably.
The list is long, but you get this jist of it. And yeah, maybe that last one wasn’t as bad as that time I lit my crotch on fire. You get the idea…
I said I was going to try bellydancing classes, and I don’t like going back on my word. This is the first time I have attempted something other than free-form dance in a long time, and I’m sure it showed. Despite my lack of coordination and fluidity, a little something sparked inside me, telling me I was alright and passable for sexy at times. All I can do now is keep attending classes until I’m good.
No after party? No problem! I will haunt your dreams!
Yesterday evening I met some people for drinks and called it an early night (for me) around 11. Much to my dismay, I was awakened around 3am to the sound of someone’s shitty stereo. Unable to ignore it and go back to sleep, I turned on the lights and assessed the situation.
I realize I’m somewhat sensitive to noise, but after living in my old (almost literal) trainwreck of a sublet last November, I figure I can deal with most things. That experience, and having lived in Midtown in Manhattan for awhile, desensitized me a little, so now it takes a lot more to rile me.
But riled I was. And even more so was I riled when a neighbor rang my doorbell, assuming I was the culprit. I opened the door wider so he could see my semi-dark, dead-silent apartment.
I looked at him as if to say, “Are you fucking kidding?” but I really said, “Honestly? What do you think is going on in here? I was trying to sleep as well.”
Not understanding the concept of “recognizing a mistake” or “leaving me the hell alone,” he proceeded to tell me that the noise had woken him up, his wife is pregnant, and he wants to find out where the noise is coming from. Any idiot could do that, but apparently not this one. I knew exactly where the noise was coming from, and knew that I’d have to take care of it myself if it was going to stop.
I put on some sandals and a sweatshirt and grabbed a pack of Parliaments purchased earlier that evening. I don’t enjoy confrontation much, but a cigarette sometimes takes the edge off. Also, should the confrontation become heated, it’s a good commonality to share with your opponent. Like this:
“You’re a dick!”
“Fuck you! You’re a dick!”
“Okay, we’re both dicks. Let’s have a smoke and work this out.”
So I got myself together and went downstairs. I walked to the apartment situated directly below mine, stood by the door, and listened for a moment. Yep, this here’s the place. *knock, knock*
Music is turned off, skinny white guy answers the door.
“Hi, I live above you and your music has not only disturbed me, but also my neighbor and his pregnant wife. He came to my door thinking your noise was mine, and I am further disturbed. Don’t let this happen again.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied in a lisp gayer than 12 pink ponies in a hot-n-heavy circle-jerk.
“This is the first and last time I will discuss this with you.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated as I turned to leave.
Slightly jarred by my own intimidation, I went to the breezeway and smoked a Parliament. God, they’re horrible. I normally smoke American Spirits, but my partner in crime wanted P-Funks and I was feeling agreeable (yes, it’s possible). When you’re used to smoking American Spirits, having a Parliament is like having your Bentley switched out for a Dodge Stratus. I smoked the first half, threw the rest away, and headed back to the abode to vigorously brush my teeth.
Before I could do that, idiot-neighbor cornered me in the hallway.
“I went upstairs and couldn’t hear it,” he reported.
“It was coming from 1012. I took care of it,” I replied.
Nonetheless, he felt the need to keep talking to me. He continued to discuss how annoying the music was, reminded me of his pregnant wife, and tried to crack a joke that I was too tired and annoyed to understand. At that point, I couldn’t decide who I hated more: the music fairy or this chatty asshole.
“You’re obnoxious as shit and I’m going to bed now,” is what I wish I’d said. But instead I said, “I’m going to bed now” and went inside.
The next time people ask me why I am so hostile toward my fellow man, I think I’ll point them to this story.
Addendum: Maybe I was a little hard on the Parliaments. Instead of a Dodge Stratus, how about an older Chevy Tahoe? Is that fair?
See? I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried…
Spirituality
As I slowly become a Seattle resident, I decided that it’s time to find a good house o’ prayer. Last week, I found out about the Seattle Betsuin Buddhist Temple, semi-conveniently located in the International District. As if knowing my mission, the powers-that-be made yesterday extra warm and sunny for my long walk from 1st Ave to 14thish. After passing countless fruit stands, empty lots, and pho restaurants, I made my way into the unassuming brick building on Main Street (a misnomer, per usual).
A short, Japanese greeter in her early 50s handed me a hymnal and a xeroxed program. In perfect English, she asked if I would like an okesa, a traditional scarf for the hardcore folks. When I didn’t answer right away, she asked me if I was Buddhist.
This is such a touchy subject for me. Having read a fair amount of Buddhist literature and visited a half-dozen temples, I am clearly interested in the religion. However, I have made enough questionable life choices in the recent past that I decline to associate myself with any formal belief system so as not to discredit its followers in the eyes of the unindoctrinated. There must be a better way to answer the question, “Are you Buddhist?” than “Not really, but I love your work.”
I explained to her that I recently moved to the area and this was my first time in that particular Temple. She happily welcomed me and asked me to sign in as a new member. Also being hesitant to write my name and address anywhere due in part to the questionable life choices I mentioned above, I politely asked if I could wait until after the service. She led me to the sign-in sheet and encouraged me to write down my information, so I did.
The service at this temple was more like the Catholic masses from my younger days than any other temple I’ve been to. We sat in church pews, listened to a choir, and engaged in one very long chant. Although the format was a little different, the underlying belief systems and teachings were most reminiscent of the Nichiren group I roll with when I’m in Austin. These guys more heavily emphasize chanting than simple meditation like the Inconceivable Joy Temple (also in Austin) or the Tibet Center (New York). I’m okay with it and appreciate the community, but I can’t adopt that belief as my own.
Toward the end of the service, a reader stood at the podium and ticked off the announcements. Women’s group meeting, a pot-luck… “We appear to have a new member, Kat Taylor. Is she here?” he asked, looking around the congregation. I sheepishly stood, he said, “Welcome,” and everyone turned and clapped. I’m not ashamed to say that really made my day, applause following the sound of my own name… and all I did was show up!
When the service was over, I joined the pack making its way to the exit. I handed my hymnal and program back to the same greeter, who smiled at me with warm recognition.
I smiled back and said, “I see what you did there.”
Health
I wasn’t planning on it, but the gorgeous weather sent me on a long run… outside! I systematically tore through downtown, accepting each pedestrian traffic signal countdown as a personal challenge, until I made it to the waterfront. The sky was so clear, I could see the mountains across the Puget Sound. I locked my gaze on them as I jogged up the shore in my favorite running ensemble with my favorite music buzzing in my ears and April’s encouraging words still rolling around in my head.
To do this day justice here, I would need a picture or at least a thousand words, but I didn’t take any and I’m not big on weighty word counts, so this is all I got. Suffice it to say the day was so beautiful, and everything so clear, I thought I was having a heaven.
Every now and then, things line up so perfectly and everything is just right, and it puts one’s entire being at ease. All at the same time, the mind, body, and soul are at peace. In this moment, I believe it can be said that one is having a heaven. Nothing particularly special has to be happening in order to have a heaven. The few I’ve had involve simple activities like eating a meal or sitting at a computer. The important thing about having a heaven is the prolonged feeling of tranquility and being completely in the moment.
So I think I kind of had one. There were still a few things on my mind. Usually heaven doesn’t involve contemplating going to work for a few hours and/or doing laundry. But I came close, which is greater that I could have hoped for that day.
Cleanliness
I did end up doing laundry, and discovered my basket missing when I returned to the laundry room at the end of the wash cycle.
What the HELL?! cried my inner monologue. Who the hell would steal a fucking laundry basket?!
I put my clothes in the dryer and headed back to my apartment to pen a note. It went something like this:
To the person who took my laundry basket (1/13/08, 2pm):
I hope my laundry basket has served its purpose for whatever reason you took it. Now that you have used it, I would appreciate it if you would please put it back where you found it. If you can afford to pay rent here, you can certainly afford your own 10-dollar laundry basket from Target.
If you need another reason to return my basket (other than the fact that stealing is just WRONG), please know that I do not own a car. Therefore, buying a new basket entails walking to a store and transporting the new basket on foot back to my apartment. Why would you want to exponentially inconvenience someone you don’t even know?
Thanks in advance for your positive change in heart!
I returned to the laundry room and tacked my note to the bulletin board, expecting to see it there months later, possibly crumpled and defaced by some stupid kids.
When my drying cycle was done, I returned to the laundry room once more to find my note gone and my basket resting in the far corner of the room. Astonished, I picked up the basket and placed it on the table. And then I laughed.
Did this really just happen? My incessant banter, boasting undeniable directness with discreetly hostile undertones, scrawled on a page and posted for the scrutiny of the public actually accomplished something?
I couldn’t, and still can’t believe it. But I got my basket back so I am happy.
Mental Development
Rounding out my peaceful day, I read Being There by Jerzy Kosinski. To summarize briefly, it’s the snowball effect of politicians’ and media pundits’ brash assumptions wrapped in the palatable metaphor of nature. A similar experience to watching a long made-for-TV movie, I found this book a pleasant way to pass a Sunday afternoon/evening.
Toward the end of Friday’s workday, I stepped outside the office to take a break. I wandered aimlessly around the parking lot for a few minutes and headed back to the door. In the twilight, I could make out what looked to be one of my coworkers leaving the building. (My vision is a little haggard in semi-darkness.)
As she approached, she said, “Hey.”
I said, “Hey” back.
“Oh, I’m talking on the phone,” she exclaimed, holding up her device. “I’m really not crazy! Haha!”
But I, talking to the person standing right in front of me, must be.