To Cure, Apply Party Liberally
I've been working too much lately. Evidence:
To: Max
From: Elizabeth
#####: ********
############ *******
Max:
I was so exhausted this morning that when you complimented my "LJ", I thought you meant Leather Jacket for some unknown reason, and so I said "Thanks, it's pretty hot, but it's waterproof and I think it's going to rain really hard today."
And now that I've woken up 5 hours later I realize that you were complimenting my *Live Journal*, and that my response must have seemed kind of odd.
I worked 14 hours yesterday, and now I'm going to go home and take a nap, so that I might make some goddamned sense.
See you Monday.
-E
Reply:
Yes, I thought it was an odd response, but I figured you were using some new slang I was unaware of. Get some sleep and I'll see you Monday!
Nice jacket too...though. Max
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Notice that above I said "I've been working too much", not "I've been working too hard". There comes a point where you've worked yourself for so long that you're no longer very productive, but you have to keep pounding away at things anyway. My boss is annoyed with me because I seem so slow. But I've just overdone everything this month, physically, emotionally, and practically. I've had to learn a ton of new information, radically alter my relationship with my room mates, and get
over a bunch of soul searching crap regarding romantic relations. Oh, and my Grandfather was in a diabetic coma for part of last week. I try not to talk about my private life at work, but goddamn, I need a break.
I feel broken from all the new information and processes. On the upside, they did give me one of those little pins that says "Great Job!". And then they told me to quit using the internet so much and pick up the pace a little.
I'm going to take a huge crazy break for my own mental health. I'm driving up into the mountains to watch an update of Dr. Faustus with puppetry. I plan on getting wasted and being surrounded by friends and some dear acquaintances. I'll be back late Sunday night. Don't try to stop me, I've got to just take a break for a while, listen to music, and try to get my head together for the holidays.
Nothing can stop me, nothing can stop me, nothing can stop me, except maybe myself.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Daredevil red & Batman Navy
I'm feeling really warm and content and happy right now. No real reason why that I could think of, just thought I'd pass it along.
Daredevil Red and Batman Navy
I finally found the money to paint my room. I primed the walls white over six weeks ago, but then ran out of funds and patience to do more. Now two of the walls will be dark red, two of them will be dark blue, and the trim will alternate. Because I am insane. And I like to paint. I suspect stamping will be involved before the project is finished, and I don’t know that I’ll be finished any earlier than Saturday night.
Putting on the colors is actually a lot more fun than priming was. I’m more patient with the plaster this time because I’ve worked with it before. Also, I’m not trying to cover up bivouac green with white primer. No, no. Now I’m working with tones that I like.
I also have a lot more room to work with since last weekend when Ron, Dinan and I reorganized half the house. After a week of fights the house got redistributed. The house works much better now, with Ron and I each having a separate room to relax and watch television in, with the both of us having separate cable modem connections. Oh, and we don’t really talk any more. Because we don’t really care for one another. But other than that, things are fine. Truthfully, while I’m sad that our friendship has pretty much ended, I’m also sort of relieved. I felt like I was having to tiptoe around him way too much, and the stress of trying to remain friends was waaaayyy too much at the end. So when things finally got broken for good between us, it was hurtful – but necessary, I think. I had given every effort I could to try and preserve our friendship, and it just wasn’t working. I was on edge all the time in my own house, where I need to relax and unwind at the end of the day. Since we’ve re-organized things I’ve been ridiculously happy, bouncy, and good natured.
A lot of people told me not to move in with friends. I did it anyway; it had been years since I’d had a bad room mate experience. I miss you, Aral, Jennifer, Mikele I suppose room mate luck just doesn’t last forever. Dinan and I remain on good terms, but often her body language is quite tense, which is understandable. It sucks that Ron and I can’t get along.
Now I have more of my own comfort zone; now I can curl up with hot chocolate and watch the new season on Angel or pore over comic books or lay about on MSN messenger chatting with friends for hours. Now I have more space to be myself in my own environment. I’m starting to feel settled and happy on a level I haven’t felt for two years. I’m incredibly happy with my job, where I get fulfilled in this way that I know I’m lucky to experience. I have good books to read, good friends to talk to, and I’m making my room into my own warm little cave for the winter.
In other news I’ve found a going-to-the-movies friend in my upstairs neighbor J. It’s a relief to know someone who will see anything, just like I will. It’s also a relief to start meeting more people here in town. These things take time. It’s all about space and time. There’s no forcing those two aspects of nature to flex more than they already do.
Daredevil Red and Batman Navy
I finally found the money to paint my room. I primed the walls white over six weeks ago, but then ran out of funds and patience to do more. Now two of the walls will be dark red, two of them will be dark blue, and the trim will alternate. Because I am insane. And I like to paint. I suspect stamping will be involved before the project is finished, and I don’t know that I’ll be finished any earlier than Saturday night.
Putting on the colors is actually a lot more fun than priming was. I’m more patient with the plaster this time because I’ve worked with it before. Also, I’m not trying to cover up bivouac green with white primer. No, no. Now I’m working with tones that I like.
I also have a lot more room to work with since last weekend when Ron, Dinan and I reorganized half the house. After a week of fights the house got redistributed. The house works much better now, with Ron and I each having a separate room to relax and watch television in, with the both of us having separate cable modem connections. Oh, and we don’t really talk any more. Because we don’t really care for one another. But other than that, things are fine. Truthfully, while I’m sad that our friendship has pretty much ended, I’m also sort of relieved. I felt like I was having to tiptoe around him way too much, and the stress of trying to remain friends was waaaayyy too much at the end. So when things finally got broken for good between us, it was hurtful – but necessary, I think. I had given every effort I could to try and preserve our friendship, and it just wasn’t working. I was on edge all the time in my own house, where I need to relax and unwind at the end of the day. Since we’ve re-organized things I’ve been ridiculously happy, bouncy, and good natured.
A lot of people told me not to move in with friends. I did it anyway; it had been years since I’d had a bad room mate experience. I miss you, Aral, Jennifer, Mikele I suppose room mate luck just doesn’t last forever. Dinan and I remain on good terms, but often her body language is quite tense, which is understandable. It sucks that Ron and I can’t get along.
Now I have more of my own comfort zone; now I can curl up with hot chocolate and watch the new season on Angel or pore over comic books or lay about on MSN messenger chatting with friends for hours. Now I have more space to be myself in my own environment. I’m starting to feel settled and happy on a level I haven’t felt for two years. I’m incredibly happy with my job, where I get fulfilled in this way that I know I’m lucky to experience. I have good books to read, good friends to talk to, and I’m making my room into my own warm little cave for the winter.
In other news I’ve found a going-to-the-movies friend in my upstairs neighbor J. It’s a relief to know someone who will see anything, just like I will. It’s also a relief to start meeting more people here in town. These things take time. It’s all about space and time. There’s no forcing those two aspects of nature to flex more than they already do.
Friday, October 10, 2003
The 6th pillar of character.
The 6th pillar of character.
Thursday night I was in the Savannah River Valley, and I got to watch one of my cousins teach a High School marching band routine. This was just what I needed.
Picture a warm moonlit South Carolina night. Four dozen awkward teens, one of whom was another cousin, were spread out over a large mown green, lit by klieg lights. In front of the teens was a two story wooden tower built by the locals. On top of the wooden platform was a rather large guy in his late twenties, the High School band director, and my cousin, the same height and build as me but blonde. My cousin is the Middle School band director, but there aren’t enough kids out there to make a full marching band from just one school, so they have to combine forces a little bit. We’re in deep rural suburban South, and in front of the green is a road, behind it is a low brick High School from the early late 80’s or early 90’s.
As I walk up to this scene I actually watch the girls is the flag core jumping around, one by one, like idiots while the HS band director yells at them:
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!? WHAT IS THAT EXACTLY!?! ARE YOU CHOKING ON SOMETHING?!? STOP DOING THAT AND START DOING THE ROUTINE!!!"
I start to giggle. I look at my cousin on the platform, who is also grinning. “Is that girl doing jazz hands? Am I actually seeing jazz hands out here?”
He waves he hands around. “Spirit fingers. We call them spirit fingers.”
I turn to yet another cousin – the one who had directed me to this whole scene – and he’s just shaking his head. We climb up on the tower, and watch the show and talk. Watching the rehearsal was just what I needed after a grim week of spectacular fights with my roommates and a workload so heavy I had to question my commitment to grants. What am I doing here in the South, exactly? Why aren’t I planning to go right back up north when I get enough money? Oh, right, this. Warm nights with family, watching a HS band show. It’s nice.
My band director cousin points out his students on the field to me – a girl on the flag core so graceless they call her Maytag, after the washing machine flourishes she manages; the one he calls his “anger management child”, a girl whom he pays extra attention too because she seems to have some problems relating to others; the guy who consistently runs over other people; our own relation, the biggest guy on the field, carrying the bass drum. He loves this, directing marching band shows.
I like the show too. There are dorky synchronized dancing bits and the flag core passes around some of those plastic geometric expanding balls for some reason.
The theme of the show is “The 6 pillars of character”, but my cousins can’t remember what those pillars are supposed to be, exactly; they’re concentrating on the marching routine and the music. The theater department is working on the pillars; I understand clouds and drapery are involved.
One of the pillars is definitely patriotism though. Halfway through the show, the entire band stops and yells “ONE NATION UNDER GOD, WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL!” And then they play Amazing Grace for a few bars.
“And then you should tell the band judges that if they don’t vote for your show, they’re atheist pinkos.” I hiss to my band directing cousin.
“Hey! That’s not a bad idea!”
“Aren’t you sort of emotionally blackmailing them with the pledge and Amazing Grace and everything?”
“My God, I hope so.” He says, pushing his glasses a little higher. We both know we’re joking, and he tells me about last year’s show, a tribute to the history of aviation where the kids formed 9 triangles and mimicked an air show. At the end of this year’s show, the kids perfectly manage to form first the school’s initials, and then USA on the field. I jump up and down and clap along with the others on the platform. But my cousin is shaking his head and calling out specific students on the ground.
“Hey! Flutes! It’s supposed to be a circle AND MY GOD YOU”VE GOT A PERFECT 90 DEGREE ANGLE! IT’S PERFECT! IF ONLY WE WEREN”T SUPPOSED TO BE A CIRCLE! You – yes, you! Don’t play to the hot dog vendors, I’m up here.” He turns to another teacher. “We need more vibrato.”
Yeah, they do need more vibrato. But that’s OK. I liked it anyway. The kids at least sounded great. My cousin hugged me, really hugged me, as I left. I want to go back and watch more shows. The kids try so hard, and it really is neat to watch my cousin do his thing.
My other cousin and I climbed back into my rental car. The two of us had a buffet dinner earlier in honor of our two birthdays in previous weeks. We’d eaten fried okra and other things at a gross country buffet that was nothing but a convinent place to get fed while we talked. I dropped him off near the river before driving myself back to Atlanta for the night, and his 19 year old body, pale as mine, was swallowed whole by the dark after he ran just a few hundred feet from me.
I drove home exhausted beyond belief but happy. Okra and hugs and band shows and warm nights in October, that’s what I’m here for. Please don’t let me forget it.
Thursday night I was in the Savannah River Valley, and I got to watch one of my cousins teach a High School marching band routine. This was just what I needed.
Picture a warm moonlit South Carolina night. Four dozen awkward teens, one of whom was another cousin, were spread out over a large mown green, lit by klieg lights. In front of the teens was a two story wooden tower built by the locals. On top of the wooden platform was a rather large guy in his late twenties, the High School band director, and my cousin, the same height and build as me but blonde. My cousin is the Middle School band director, but there aren’t enough kids out there to make a full marching band from just one school, so they have to combine forces a little bit. We’re in deep rural suburban South, and in front of the green is a road, behind it is a low brick High School from the early late 80’s or early 90’s.
As I walk up to this scene I actually watch the girls is the flag core jumping around, one by one, like idiots while the HS band director yells at them:
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!? WHAT IS THAT EXACTLY!?! ARE YOU CHOKING ON SOMETHING?!? STOP DOING THAT AND START DOING THE ROUTINE!!!"
I start to giggle. I look at my cousin on the platform, who is also grinning. “Is that girl doing jazz hands? Am I actually seeing jazz hands out here?”
He waves he hands around. “Spirit fingers. We call them spirit fingers.”
I turn to yet another cousin – the one who had directed me to this whole scene – and he’s just shaking his head. We climb up on the tower, and watch the show and talk. Watching the rehearsal was just what I needed after a grim week of spectacular fights with my roommates and a workload so heavy I had to question my commitment to grants. What am I doing here in the South, exactly? Why aren’t I planning to go right back up north when I get enough money? Oh, right, this. Warm nights with family, watching a HS band show. It’s nice.
My band director cousin points out his students on the field to me – a girl on the flag core so graceless they call her Maytag, after the washing machine flourishes she manages; the one he calls his “anger management child”, a girl whom he pays extra attention too because she seems to have some problems relating to others; the guy who consistently runs over other people; our own relation, the biggest guy on the field, carrying the bass drum. He loves this, directing marching band shows.
I like the show too. There are dorky synchronized dancing bits and the flag core passes around some of those plastic geometric expanding balls for some reason.
The theme of the show is “The 6 pillars of character”, but my cousins can’t remember what those pillars are supposed to be, exactly; they’re concentrating on the marching routine and the music. The theater department is working on the pillars; I understand clouds and drapery are involved.
One of the pillars is definitely patriotism though. Halfway through the show, the entire band stops and yells “ONE NATION UNDER GOD, WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL!” And then they play Amazing Grace for a few bars.
“And then you should tell the band judges that if they don’t vote for your show, they’re atheist pinkos.” I hiss to my band directing cousin.
“Hey! That’s not a bad idea!”
“Aren’t you sort of emotionally blackmailing them with the pledge and Amazing Grace and everything?”
“My God, I hope so.” He says, pushing his glasses a little higher. We both know we’re joking, and he tells me about last year’s show, a tribute to the history of aviation where the kids formed 9 triangles and mimicked an air show. At the end of this year’s show, the kids perfectly manage to form first the school’s initials, and then USA on the field. I jump up and down and clap along with the others on the platform. But my cousin is shaking his head and calling out specific students on the ground.
“Hey! Flutes! It’s supposed to be a circle AND MY GOD YOU”VE GOT A PERFECT 90 DEGREE ANGLE! IT’S PERFECT! IF ONLY WE WEREN”T SUPPOSED TO BE A CIRCLE! You – yes, you! Don’t play to the hot dog vendors, I’m up here.” He turns to another teacher. “We need more vibrato.”
Yeah, they do need more vibrato. But that’s OK. I liked it anyway. The kids at least sounded great. My cousin hugged me, really hugged me, as I left. I want to go back and watch more shows. The kids try so hard, and it really is neat to watch my cousin do his thing.
My other cousin and I climbed back into my rental car. The two of us had a buffet dinner earlier in honor of our two birthdays in previous weeks. We’d eaten fried okra and other things at a gross country buffet that was nothing but a convinent place to get fed while we talked. I dropped him off near the river before driving myself back to Atlanta for the night, and his 19 year old body, pale as mine, was swallowed whole by the dark after he ran just a few hundred feet from me.
I drove home exhausted beyond belief but happy. Okra and hugs and band shows and warm nights in October, that’s what I’m here for. Please don’t let me forget it.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
I had a good birthday
The Republican.
Christi Underdown had planned to come visit me for my birthday weekend, and oh, the fun we were going to have. I was so excited. Then Christi got rear-ended at the intersection of Murfreesboro and Waldron Road (accursed intersection, you have thwarted my plans for the last time! I moved away and still you haunt me!). Remind me to tell you a story some time about that intersection, my dad's heart attack, Scribbling Mob and cock fighting. It's a good story.
Christi couldn't come visit; her back is ripped up and her transmission isn't doing well. So The Republican came instead, bringing with him a weekend of movie watching and my favorite cookies.
I'm not seeing The Republican. Of course, I'm not not seeing him, either. It's complicated, as these things tend to be. We live some hours distance from each other, and he hates Hillary Clinton. He's also an anglophile, a product of sexually segregated schools and he wears loafers. He builds roads, which I hate, and he listens to godrock, which makes me want to hurl.
He's also really, really nice to me. He has worn me down with his niceness and compliments. He's a source of interesting conversation; he's classically schooled, and can discuss history and mythology in depth. He's well traveled, impeccably mannered, and open-minded. He's an active pagan, and has a great deal of verse memorized (although most of it is Victorian, and I dislike Victorian verse). He's a friend of many other good friends, and so is recommended by his company.
But there's that Republican thing...
"I want to hang out with him", said Dinan. "We never debate politics around here; we all agree with each other. You should have him in the living room more often; I want to talk with him for a bit. I want to know why he thinks the way he does."
I groan at this. "Dinan. He's hopelessly outnumbered here. It's 3 to 1. And Ron gets going about the godless English, and it's all over with."
She sighed. "You're right."
I talked to Dust about it. About how ambivalent I am. I could hear his breathing on the other end of the telephone line; Dust's slow intake and exhalation of thoughts, the way his brain moved around the idea of me taking long walks through the park with a Republican of exclusively English descent, and worse, a member of the oppressive class.
"Well, it's like this: I'd rather see you with a Republican who is nice to you and treats you well than with a guy who works at DC comics, dresses great, is artistically brilliant but treats you like shit. I'd rather see you with the guy who wears loafers and is good to you than with a guy who is mean."
I paused, but only for a minute. "ARE YOU CRAZY!?! If I was dating a guy who worked for DC comics, we'd get preview issues, Dustin! That's comics a whole month early! We'd know who Power Girl's parents are right now! I'd totally rather date the guy who was mean to me!"
Well, said Dustin, that's your issue.
Indeed it is. We spent the next half hour discussing Power Girl's possible origin.
And The Republican is nice to me; I had the best birthday, where we went to the museum and looked at the Etruscan exhibit - he was actually more excited to see the Etruscans than I was! That was lovely. We also went to see a good 'ol monster movie where vampires beat up werewolves. He enjoyed that too. Do you know how hard it is to find a guy who understands my love of bad monster movies and who likes special effects and the Pelopenissian wars? Those are darn rare qualities to find in the same person.
I'm converting him to comic fandom, I think. He's already read the Sandman series, just recently, and that's the best hook anyone can sink into him. I sent him home with Kingdom Come, which may not really do it for him (but I can hope). We'll see. We'll see. We'll see if I can put up with someone who is incredibly nice to me.
And he is, really. He's good to me in this way that I really need. So we're communicating a bit, feeling things out. But he is entirely different in type than any other buy I've dated before. Probably this is not a bad thing.
Christi Underdown had planned to come visit me for my birthday weekend, and oh, the fun we were going to have. I was so excited. Then Christi got rear-ended at the intersection of Murfreesboro and Waldron Road (accursed intersection, you have thwarted my plans for the last time! I moved away and still you haunt me!). Remind me to tell you a story some time about that intersection, my dad's heart attack, Scribbling Mob and cock fighting. It's a good story.
Christi couldn't come visit; her back is ripped up and her transmission isn't doing well. So The Republican came instead, bringing with him a weekend of movie watching and my favorite cookies.
I'm not seeing The Republican. Of course, I'm not not seeing him, either. It's complicated, as these things tend to be. We live some hours distance from each other, and he hates Hillary Clinton. He's also an anglophile, a product of sexually segregated schools and he wears loafers. He builds roads, which I hate, and he listens to godrock, which makes me want to hurl.
He's also really, really nice to me. He has worn me down with his niceness and compliments. He's a source of interesting conversation; he's classically schooled, and can discuss history and mythology in depth. He's well traveled, impeccably mannered, and open-minded. He's an active pagan, and has a great deal of verse memorized (although most of it is Victorian, and I dislike Victorian verse). He's a friend of many other good friends, and so is recommended by his company.
But there's that Republican thing...
"I want to hang out with him", said Dinan. "We never debate politics around here; we all agree with each other. You should have him in the living room more often; I want to talk with him for a bit. I want to know why he thinks the way he does."
I groan at this. "Dinan. He's hopelessly outnumbered here. It's 3 to 1. And Ron gets going about the godless English, and it's all over with."
She sighed. "You're right."
I talked to Dust about it. About how ambivalent I am. I could hear his breathing on the other end of the telephone line; Dust's slow intake and exhalation of thoughts, the way his brain moved around the idea of me taking long walks through the park with a Republican of exclusively English descent, and worse, a member of the oppressive class.
"Well, it's like this: I'd rather see you with a Republican who is nice to you and treats you well than with a guy who works at DC comics, dresses great, is artistically brilliant but treats you like shit. I'd rather see you with the guy who wears loafers and is good to you than with a guy who is mean."
I paused, but only for a minute. "ARE YOU CRAZY!?! If I was dating a guy who worked for DC comics, we'd get preview issues, Dustin! That's comics a whole month early! We'd know who Power Girl's parents are right now! I'd totally rather date the guy who was mean to me!"
Well, said Dustin, that's your issue.
Indeed it is. We spent the next half hour discussing Power Girl's possible origin.
And The Republican is nice to me; I had the best birthday, where we went to the museum and looked at the Etruscan exhibit - he was actually more excited to see the Etruscans than I was! That was lovely. We also went to see a good 'ol monster movie where vampires beat up werewolves. He enjoyed that too. Do you know how hard it is to find a guy who understands my love of bad monster movies and who likes special effects and the Pelopenissian wars? Those are darn rare qualities to find in the same person.
I'm converting him to comic fandom, I think. He's already read the Sandman series, just recently, and that's the best hook anyone can sink into him. I sent him home with Kingdom Come, which may not really do it for him (but I can hope). We'll see. We'll see. We'll see if I can put up with someone who is incredibly nice to me.
And he is, really. He's good to me in this way that I really need. So we're communicating a bit, feeling things out. But he is entirely different in type than any other buy I've dated before. Probably this is not a bad thing.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
I'm 27
9 months down, 9 months to go.
Fly Delta Jets
It's October, and this weekend I will be 27, the age rock stars die. Quick, name as many tragically dead rock starts as you can: KurtCobainJanisJoplinJimi HendricksBrianJonesJimMorrison. All 27 when they bit it, as if this was the age that divided them from ever getting old, as if this is the last year you're allowed to be wild and free and alone.
Everything outside in Georgia is swollen with seeds, on the verge of bursting with new life. That's because we don't really get a winter here, but rather an autumn more like a New England Spring. Strange flowers bloom overnight, and while the pumpkins and apples are shipped in from other regions, I saw the orange trees in Florida last weekend working on sweets that won't be ready for a good while yet. After this wet mild autumn in Atlanta will come a winter where it probably won't snow, where the puddles only *might* freeze over. And then the real spring will just be another wet, muddy fall leading into June, nine months from now, when the sun will come back again in full force and I will feel happy to see it.
I went to Florida on business, flew into the panhandle and out again on the same date. While I was traveling, I had time to reflect on how much I love the Atlanta airport.
The airport is 6 different buildings, Gates A B C D E and Terminal. These buildings stand free of each other above ground so that the airplanes can drive all the way around them, giving ATL the most space for people to connect with their flights as possible. Below ground, the buildings are connected by a long, wide, brightly lit passage. Inside this passage is a train that goes to all 6 buildings, long conveyer-belt moving walkways if you don't like trains, and a lot of public art.
The Terminal building connects to MARTA (the subway system in town), and they've got it set up so that if you ride the train you can pick up your Delta ticket right at MARTA and then scoot to your flight as quickly as possible. This bias toward Delta, based in Atlanta, is also visible when you fly into ATL at night and a giant red neon sign informs you to FLY DELTA JETS. I wouldn't, if I were you, though; they're now no longer serving food, but trying to sell it to you at prices that would make a movie theater blush.
The Terminal only has a few gates, mainly it's the building where you check your baggage and get your ticket. There's also a big center court with a few places to eat and shop. But mostly you go through the Terminal to get through security so you can make it to gates A-E.
This is brilliant security, by the way; Atlanta was up on all the international measures long before most of the rest of the states because of the 1996 Olympics.
Once you get through security, you have a choice: Conveyor-belt walkways or the train. It's always a tough choice for me.
The train is always cleancleanclean and has metal poles and strapser staps for holding or a bench at either end to sit on. And it announces everything in a clean woman's voice, and when it takes off there's this lurch of inertia that always makes me grin, I love the way the train speeds from one building to the next, I love watching tourists fall over themselves, I love the train.
But the walkways are nice cheifly because Atlanta uses the wide hallways to exhibit a lot of art. Right now there's all these stone statues from Africa in between building A and Terminal. They're beautiful; my favorite was of green stone, at least seven feet long, and was a woman swimming. Gorgeous.
Don't believe it's one of the best airports in the world? Look here:
Best Airports
Worst Airports
Fly Delta Jets
It's October, and this weekend I will be 27, the age rock stars die. Quick, name as many tragically dead rock starts as you can: KurtCobainJanisJoplinJimi HendricksBrianJonesJimMorrison. All 27 when they bit it, as if this was the age that divided them from ever getting old, as if this is the last year you're allowed to be wild and free and alone.
Everything outside in Georgia is swollen with seeds, on the verge of bursting with new life. That's because we don't really get a winter here, but rather an autumn more like a New England Spring. Strange flowers bloom overnight, and while the pumpkins and apples are shipped in from other regions, I saw the orange trees in Florida last weekend working on sweets that won't be ready for a good while yet. After this wet mild autumn in Atlanta will come a winter where it probably won't snow, where the puddles only *might* freeze over. And then the real spring will just be another wet, muddy fall leading into June, nine months from now, when the sun will come back again in full force and I will feel happy to see it.
I went to Florida on business, flew into the panhandle and out again on the same date. While I was traveling, I had time to reflect on how much I love the Atlanta airport.
The airport is 6 different buildings, Gates A B C D E and Terminal. These buildings stand free of each other above ground so that the airplanes can drive all the way around them, giving ATL the most space for people to connect with their flights as possible. Below ground, the buildings are connected by a long, wide, brightly lit passage. Inside this passage is a train that goes to all 6 buildings, long conveyer-belt moving walkways if you don't like trains, and a lot of public art.
The Terminal building connects to MARTA (the subway system in town), and they've got it set up so that if you ride the train you can pick up your Delta ticket right at MARTA and then scoot to your flight as quickly as possible. This bias toward Delta, based in Atlanta, is also visible when you fly into ATL at night and a giant red neon sign informs you to FLY DELTA JETS. I wouldn't, if I were you, though; they're now no longer serving food, but trying to sell it to you at prices that would make a movie theater blush.
The Terminal only has a few gates, mainly it's the building where you check your baggage and get your ticket. There's also a big center court with a few places to eat and shop. But mostly you go through the Terminal to get through security so you can make it to gates A-E.
This is brilliant security, by the way; Atlanta was up on all the international measures long before most of the rest of the states because of the 1996 Olympics.
Once you get through security, you have a choice: Conveyor-belt walkways or the train. It's always a tough choice for me.
The train is always cleancleanclean and has metal poles and strapser staps for holding or a bench at either end to sit on. And it announces everything in a clean woman's voice, and when it takes off there's this lurch of inertia that always makes me grin, I love the way the train speeds from one building to the next, I love watching tourists fall over themselves, I love the train.
But the walkways are nice cheifly because Atlanta uses the wide hallways to exhibit a lot of art. Right now there's all these stone statues from Africa in between building A and Terminal. They're beautiful; my favorite was of green stone, at least seven feet long, and was a woman swimming. Gorgeous.
Don't believe it's one of the best airports in the world? Look here:
Best Airports
Worst Airports
Monday, September 29, 2003
Draft
Another Week of Bits and Pieces
Yes, I could write a decent, coherent narrative this week. But let's face it, those links from last week were fun. One more little bits and pieces entry, and then I'll write more, cross my heart.
After all, who could resist Encyclopedia Brown's obituary?
*~*~*~*~*
A week ago I got to play with my toddler cousins again. I never get to see little kids anymore unless I make a special effort, and this is odd to me after years of working at a children's book store and having my sisters on hand whenever I'd like to see them. I should have spent more time with my aunt Laura and cousin Audrey, but they sent all the kids out to play, and that just killed me.
"Would you guys mind if I went out and played with the kids? I never get any play time since I moved."
Audrey was exhausted, leaning in her chair. "GO! I get too much time with them! Have your turn! Please!"
Laura snickered. Weather this is because she's a stay at home mom, or because Audrey is pregnant again is up for debate.
*~*~*~*~*
This guy things we should Kill All the Librarians. He seems upset chiefly because we're raising awareness of the USA PATRIOT act. When people know what is allowed under this act, they are generally appalled. You know, the crusaders burned librarians.
This is why we should exercise our right to make fun of that scary John Ashcroft as much as possible.
*~*~*~*~*
So, why would I want to play with toddlers? Why would I miss hanging out with kids? Example:
Colin and Ruel are involved with their own game, which involves pretending to be Leopards. Ellie, who is 2 and a half, feels a bit left out. So I lean down and ask her: "Would you like to read a book?"
"No."
"Want to play on the swings?"
"No." She pauses, and looks up at me, clearly forming one of those toddler tests for grownups in her mind. "Let's pretend the monkeys are coming."
I stand up and say the right thing: "Oh NO! The monkeys are coming! What should we do?"
"RUN!" screams Ellie, and we tear ass to our grandfather's bed, where Ellie assures me the only way to monkey protection is through tents made out of blankets.
*~*~*~*~*
My days are mix of delight and fear. If only I needed to make up imaginary monkeys to scare myself.
"I don't know that Atheists should be considered as citizens, nor should they be considered patriots. This is one nation under God." -George Bush senior
In order to blend in undetected with evangelical Christians, most Atheists now tend to be morbidly obese and will tell you, whether asked or not, that their enormous girth is the result of an undetectable thyroid condition and not the box of Little Debbie cakes they are holding.
*~*~*~*~*
this guy died. It's worth mentioning because he wrote my favorite biography of Truman Capote, and because he was an upper class rich white guy, that, so far as I know, wasn't a bastard. Worth mentioning after all the other links on this page.
*~*~*~*~*
I'm going to be late for work. I have to go in early on Mondays and Fridays because I have Spanish lessons. Hasta Luego.
Yes, I could write a decent, coherent narrative this week. But let's face it, those links from last week were fun. One more little bits and pieces entry, and then I'll write more, cross my heart.
After all, who could resist Encyclopedia Brown's obituary?
*~*~*~*~*
A week ago I got to play with my toddler cousins again. I never get to see little kids anymore unless I make a special effort, and this is odd to me after years of working at a children's book store and having my sisters on hand whenever I'd like to see them. I should have spent more time with my aunt Laura and cousin Audrey, but they sent all the kids out to play, and that just killed me.
"Would you guys mind if I went out and played with the kids? I never get any play time since I moved."
Audrey was exhausted, leaning in her chair. "GO! I get too much time with them! Have your turn! Please!"
Laura snickered. Weather this is because she's a stay at home mom, or because Audrey is pregnant again is up for debate.
*~*~*~*~*
This guy things we should Kill All the Librarians. He seems upset chiefly because we're raising awareness of the USA PATRIOT act. When people know what is allowed under this act, they are generally appalled. You know, the crusaders burned librarians.
This is why we should exercise our right to make fun of that scary John Ashcroft as much as possible.
*~*~*~*~*
So, why would I want to play with toddlers? Why would I miss hanging out with kids? Example:
Colin and Ruel are involved with their own game, which involves pretending to be Leopards. Ellie, who is 2 and a half, feels a bit left out. So I lean down and ask her: "Would you like to read a book?"
"No."
"Want to play on the swings?"
"No." She pauses, and looks up at me, clearly forming one of those toddler tests for grownups in her mind. "Let's pretend the monkeys are coming."
I stand up and say the right thing: "Oh NO! The monkeys are coming! What should we do?"
"RUN!" screams Ellie, and we tear ass to our grandfather's bed, where Ellie assures me the only way to monkey protection is through tents made out of blankets.
*~*~*~*~*
My days are mix of delight and fear. If only I needed to make up imaginary monkeys to scare myself.
"I don't know that Atheists should be considered as citizens, nor should they be considered patriots. This is one nation under God." -George Bush senior
In order to blend in undetected with evangelical Christians, most Atheists now tend to be morbidly obese and will tell you, whether asked or not, that their enormous girth is the result of an undetectable thyroid condition and not the box of Little Debbie cakes they are holding.
*~*~*~*~*
this guy died. It's worth mentioning because he wrote my favorite biography of Truman Capote, and because he was an upper class rich white guy, that, so far as I know, wasn't a bastard. Worth mentioning after all the other links on this page.
*~*~*~*~*
I'm going to be late for work. I have to go in early on Mondays and Fridays because I have Spanish lessons. Hasta Luego.
Monday, September 22, 2003
The World Won't End.
The World Won't End
A few short things that are no big deal. The world is a beautiful and strange place full of random bits. Here are a few:
The RIAA will eventually change or die.
Bunny the Cat came to live with me last week. Bunny lost two-thirds of her tail when she was born on a truck engine five years ago. One of her back legs shattered when she slid off the engine and hit the ground; it healed a little shorter than the rest, so she hops a bit when she walks. Bunny lost a fight with a snake last summer, and is still recovering from the resulting poisonous infection; she's patchy and stitched up. Agoraphobic, she rolls around under my bed hissing and spitting, like some demented, possessed black dustbunny. The other cats are wary, but fascinated. I made her a safety maze out of boxes under there, and she's my little monster under the bed. Occasionally I drag her out and pet her - she enjoys this as long as no one else is around to see her acting like a cat.
Here's a nice British bit about Libraries.
It's banned books week. Thank your local librarian for protecting your civil liberties.
I owe Ron, ohmigod, I owe my roommate Ron for driving my grandfather to Marietta while I was at work today. I'm sure Grandpa just insulted the heck out of him with jokes about Jimmy Carter and whatnot all the way to Cobb county and back. Ron, like all good people, believes Jimmy Carter should be sainted. So does my Grandma. It's just one of the many reasons why my grandparents have been divorced for three decades now.
There's a nice interview with Neil Gaiman on NPR over here.
Fall has started; the pecans are nearly ready, and there are heavy warm lightning storms over Atlanta I can watch from my big front porch. And I know that the world won't end if none of the boys I've fallen in love with never love me back. The world won't end if I stand out in the rain with no shoes on, thinking about how I've got to learn to love the rain more than the sunshine. The poets have all got it wrong; love is not fire, but water, love is standing in the autumn rain and accepting the inevitability of being soaked to the skin. Love is liquid, love is erosion, the Grand Canyon was built by love. Love is rain, love is a contaminated lake, love is dew on flowers and the dew our bodies make for each other.
And love, like water, can never touch the sun. He's hot as hell, think about that. They don't call the devil the lightbringer for nothing.
here's one last neat cartoon. See you next week.
A few short things that are no big deal. The world is a beautiful and strange place full of random bits. Here are a few:
The RIAA will eventually change or die.
Bunny the Cat came to live with me last week. Bunny lost two-thirds of her tail when she was born on a truck engine five years ago. One of her back legs shattered when she slid off the engine and hit the ground; it healed a little shorter than the rest, so she hops a bit when she walks. Bunny lost a fight with a snake last summer, and is still recovering from the resulting poisonous infection; she's patchy and stitched up. Agoraphobic, she rolls around under my bed hissing and spitting, like some demented, possessed black dustbunny. The other cats are wary, but fascinated. I made her a safety maze out of boxes under there, and she's my little monster under the bed. Occasionally I drag her out and pet her - she enjoys this as long as no one else is around to see her acting like a cat.
Here's a nice British bit about Libraries.
It's banned books week. Thank your local librarian for protecting your civil liberties.
I owe Ron, ohmigod, I owe my roommate Ron for driving my grandfather to Marietta while I was at work today. I'm sure Grandpa just insulted the heck out of him with jokes about Jimmy Carter and whatnot all the way to Cobb county and back. Ron, like all good people, believes Jimmy Carter should be sainted. So does my Grandma. It's just one of the many reasons why my grandparents have been divorced for three decades now.
There's a nice interview with Neil Gaiman on NPR over here.
Fall has started; the pecans are nearly ready, and there are heavy warm lightning storms over Atlanta I can watch from my big front porch. And I know that the world won't end if none of the boys I've fallen in love with never love me back. The world won't end if I stand out in the rain with no shoes on, thinking about how I've got to learn to love the rain more than the sunshine. The poets have all got it wrong; love is not fire, but water, love is standing in the autumn rain and accepting the inevitability of being soaked to the skin. Love is liquid, love is erosion, the Grand Canyon was built by love. Love is rain, love is a contaminated lake, love is dew on flowers and the dew our bodies make for each other.
And love, like water, can never touch the sun. He's hot as hell, think about that. They don't call the devil the lightbringer for nothing.
here's one last neat cartoon. See you next week.
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