Women and Water Bottles

my latest assignment had me writing about an unfamiliar object of our classmate's.


I've always had an attachment to objects. I keep things, like student IDs, that serve no purpose but memory, objects that mean little to others yet, in their absence, my world (and my memory), would seem to sputter out and quickly disappear. So, I was surprised last week when, faced with a stickered, trendy NYC-themed Sigg water bottle, a decent story would not emerge. I almost created one myself multiple times, forgetting this was a non-fiction class.

But things started happening, and memories, not yet whole stories, crossed my mind. That Wednesday I slumped toward voice lessons groggy and congested. Infuriated by my frequent, allergenic sniffles and trips to the water fountain, my teacher staged an intervention.

I should say that Keyona is a beautiful woman, so much so that I can't really help but state it every time I enter lessons. She makes me nervous and confused. I might even categorize her as fierce. She interrupted my scales, levelled with me, and gave me an assignment for next week: "Show up with a new water bottle in tow, one that can sustain you through a lesson!" Great, I thought. Just big enough to make me look like a freak. But I was excited, too. One new memory about a water bottle, created and stored. It didn't seem enough for a paper, though. I looked at my current water bottle for inspiration. It was another of those earth-friendly Siggs. I stole it, actually, from my best friend.

Anyone who knows me knows Caitlin. She's the kind of friend who attends another's family functions without showing a trace of effort as incessant conversations trail on (no, grandma, she's not my girlfriend) but is quiet enough to not charm the relatives too much. She observes. One day, Cait and I watched weeds for 18 hours straight. Since High School graduation, she has frequently visited me at school, peppering my room with her belongings for weekends at a time as we putz around the city, exploring between meals, and laughing about nothing in particular.



On one of her visits, Caitlin lost her Sigg. I had made us a fort on the floor of my tiny single room and somehow, we couldn't find the thing before she left. She returned to school, calling me for days to inquire if I'd yet found it. "No," was the answer, but I hadn't really looked. Finally, I decided to re-mount my mattress on my bed frame. There on the floor was Caitlin's aluminum blue bottle. I was secretly ecstatic. I had wanted one all summer but couldn't justify investing in a twenty dollar container. After days of using it as my own, I finally told her I had found it. A few choice words followed from Cait before she confessed she had bought a new one and I could keep hers. I'll probably give it back eventually, but this is the stuff best friends share. It doesn't matter much, really, compared to the more significant things Caitlin has given me, but this water bottle I can touch, hold, and carry through my day.

A week has passed since the assignment was given, as I finish this essay in real time. It's 7 AM and I realize I have yet to satisfy Keyona's request. Terrified, I go to my office to check my email, and discover among the wreckage of paperwork, sheet music, and discarded pieces from my past two dorm rooms, a giant, gallon jug of water, caked with dust and a straw bending weakly from the hole. I forgot about this bottle, which is not quite mine either. My sister probably wouldn't care too much that I stole it, though.



Anna, wo lives in Georgia, has been sick for most of my memorable existence. In my fifth grade year she suffered a series of mystery hospital visits and diagnoses, only to have a pacemaker implanted the day after her high school graduation, then removed, then re-implanted. Through the mess of her illness, she collected a variety of hospital souvenirs, my favorites being her teddy bear, "IV," and this obese water bottle. For months she lugged it around the house, almost too cumbersome for her to bear, and downed gallons of fluid. When she left me for college (a blow I took personally), she left it at home. The next three years brought me just as many cases of mono, which I honestly enjoyed, watching countless movies with this jug in tow.

Today, it seems this bottle has saved the day again, albeit only from Keyona's wrath and not mono or surgery . Staring at my classmate's water bottle, and re-discovering my two stolen containers, I don't think these are the kinds of objects I would take with me from a burning building. But the women they represent are another story.

We all dream a lot! Some are lucky, some are not...

I sang "Any Dream Will Do" in my 6th grade talent show. It was my first performance ever. One of my close friends sang the prologue from Joseph... right before the number, making our double-act something of a cornerstone of the show. Though some kids threw M&M's at me, I was hooked. My mom's special recipe of honey and lemon tea in hand, I grew hooked to the feeling I got on stage. I'll elaborate, at some point, about these performance roots, but for now here's a fantastic video. Marie Friedman opening the video version of JATATD. She's fierce.

Art-Making!

I'm not much of an artist. Don't get me wrong, I love to sing, dance, act, photograph...but the actually making kind of art, with hands and tools and stuff, has always eluded me. I feel most comfortable with some brightly colored sharpies and doodling paper, finding beauty in simple class-time meanderings, while most of my friends, and family as well, subscribe to and excel in more formal artistic boundaries. I have especially vivid memories of posing for hours with my foot sickled for my sister, Anna, to sketch, color, and paint a neon-tinged replica while I gazed in wonder. The cramps felt wholly worth it when I saw the piece collected among her college application pieces and in her portfolio.

So, when my friend Antonette ("Toine") invited me to throw with her tonight that familiar pang of excitement returned with zeal. I couldn't resist! Nevermind the fact that it was 11 PM...she needed an escort across campus and the company, and I had never tried sculpting...maybe this is my craft calling, I thought!





No such luck. After mere minutes of trying to center my clay I gave up, choosing to photograph the process, chat with Antonette, read, and even sleep, as we waited for our pizza, which arrived at 1:30 AM. My stomach will be happy when I graduate from college.







I meandered about the studio as well, taking in my favorite part of art...the process. I love seeing all the unfinished scraps, crumpled lumps of clay discarded in angst, and colorful swatches of inspiration. Art-making facilities fascinate me! As Antonette layered her pieces with slip we found ourselves joined by a strangely colored dog, a coda to the night's bizarre events and reminder that we should go to bed...things were getting strange. Good night!

Most people know...

I love whales. I've always wanted to be one. They travel and sing, yet maintain constant communication with family. What a life, to be a friendly giant of the sea.

I grew obsessed with this article this summer in the New York Times Magazine, with fantastic images from Ivan Chermayeff. Lovely!

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/12/magazine/12whales-t.html

An early foray into tux-wearing.

How To Wear a Tux (and not let it wear you!)

When I was 16 my dad sat me down for a talk. Nobody was mad at anybody, but there were certain truths we had to face. I was a regular Usher at Ohio's Junior Miss, which my town hosted. I had been invited to prom once again by a senior girl (most likely because of my status as a fantastic dancer and charming date). And he could tell: it was quite possible I liked getting dressed up even more than my sisters did. Finally, he said flat out: "I think it's time we acknowledge it...you need to own a tuxedo."

That might be rule one. Own, don't rent, your tux. Even if it's the first time you've had to wear one and you cannot possibly imagine another instance where it will be necessary. There's a certain magic quality that shiny black suit garners as it hangs in a bag in your closet...suddenly, more events start piling into your date-book. You're in demand! But it's all how you wear it. Like I said, I LOVE getting dressed up, and it's 100% because of my father. Most sons live to see their dads reveling in some age-old sporting tradition or in action at work. But my most vivid memories are those of watching him head out to his yearly obligation as announcer for Ohio's Junior Miss, a state scholarship program for girls. Most of his job was done backstage, but he pulled out his tux nonetheless.

One year, in a stunning coordination of the fates, the scheduled host (a news lady from Chicago) got snowed in at the airport. A mere hour before the performance, my dad perused the script, tux pressed and gleaming, and carried the three and a half hour program. Sure he was a skilled speaker, but there was something about that suit that brought out even more in him. It exuded a power over his walk, without constraining him. He was endowed with new confidence. He calmly crossed the stage to take the mic. His cummerbund wrapped his slightly protruding belly gracefully, allowing him a distinction I had never seen on my friends', slightly younger, fathers. I was in awe.

I may never embody the same elegance my dad did, as he interviewed, explained, and joked with the audience, killing time so the judges could score. But I remember every detail of his presence. Always let the white of the sleeves show, just so, at the wrists. Be prepared to constantly be adjusting: each seat you take means another trip to the bathroom to discreetly re-tuck in your shirt. Don't take off the jacket, no matter how hot you get. Even as my dad announced from the wings I could tell he was fully suited, he sounded it. If you must rent (particularly before you've reached full height and weight), try to have your own black shoe, slightly less shiny than the rented one, to wear. You'll be more comfortable and higher-quality dancing will ensue. Do not whine - it's a pleasure to have the chance to dress up for the night. No matter what, you're not suffering nearly as much as the ladies. Put it on early. Put on some music, whether it be the Rat Pack or the James Bond theme, for the occasion. Enjoy the details of the cuff-links (which should be unique but not garish) as you sit and prepare for the evening. You're most likely getting ready for a special event. Think about the people you will see and the hands you'll shake. Everyone is a man when wearing a tux, even if you're 8.

But the most difficult rule of tux-wearing is knowing when not to wear it. It's easy to get addicted to the feeling, wishing to pull it out for everything from Christmas Mass to family dinners. Unfortunately, it's been 3 years since I've worn either of my tuxes (yes I have two). College is one of those stages where dressing up seems to go out of style and it's been years since serving as a Groomsman for my brother, ushering at Junior Miss, or emceeing my Senior Variety Show. But a good tux stays in style, so I'm hopeful for more nights like those where I watched my dad graze across the stage with finesse. We weren't in his toolshed, playing catch, or working on science homework, but in those milliseconds on stage, spotlight gleaming across his face, I learned more about how to be a man than any magazine, movie or other lesson might teach me. So go try on a tux. You might surprise yourself! And you never know who's watching.

Creative Non-Fiction..

...the class that sparked my return into blogging. Not really a return, per se, but a re-ignited interest. I'll post some work here, and maybe even continue after class is done. For now, sleep.

the prompt for this piece was "maps."

Transatlanticism

There's a lyric by Death Cab for Cutie that’s always fascinated me: "The Atlantic was born today, and I'll tell you how. The clouds above opened up, and let it out. I was standing on the surface of a perforated sphere when the water filled every whole. And thousands upon thousands made an ocean making islands where no islands should go...oh, no! I need you so much closer!" The song, titled "Transatlanticism," continues to detail this epic creation as imagined by Ben Gibbard for a few minutes. Death Cab's talky-imagery at the opening reduces to a final plea: "I need you so much closer! I need you so much closer!", and a chorus joins in to invite: "So come on! Come on!"

The song is long, and always seems to induce a stupor as I listen at my computer. Where my desktop sits, I have a perfect view of the giant map on my wall (a transplant from my childhood room), whose bright colors and labels suggest a middle school geography class. I stare, placing myself in Manhattan, and imagine knowing neighbors in France who suddenly begin floating away as an ocean is created. In many songs, the relationship is complicated by a third party, difficult break up, even death. In this piece, Ben simply yearns for his friend to come back, the only blame he places is on the rain. “I need you so much closer, so come on!”

When I heard this song I was on a High School trip to Italy. I was with my Latin class, but my teacher and parents both knew: the only reason we went was to experience Europe before college so we wouldn't feel left out at college and, perhaps, to have our first legal drinks. I was equipped with a 1st generation iPod nearly as cumbersome as a walkman (funny how Steve Jobs' feverish inventiveness makes relatively new technology feel archaic), and dozens of playlists of new music. I downloaded Death Cab's Transatlanticism album just for the occasion. I thought it would be poetic to glide over the sea on my first trip off the continent to the tune of something Oceanic, Epic and a little emotional, as this was a vacation away from my then boyfriend, Alan, who had just returned from college for the summer. It's cheesy, but I find myself perpetually trying to create moments, perhaps after one-too many episodes of montage-happy shows like The OC and Six Feet Under, where something profound is understood to the tune of a thoughtful melody. Somehow, it always works. I had a lovely, thought-provoking flight across the map to our old neighbors in Europe.

That's the interesting thing about distance. It sucks because you're not together, but most things are the same where you've ventured. With an iPod, camera, and a nice blanket, we can take ourselves at any moment to a different place. I walked around Florence alone that vacation, accompanied only by my iPod and map, feeling independent but very comfortable, like there was nothing to be proud about. I mean, I had a map. When I got back, I made Alan a playlist of the music I'd listened to and showed him my pictures, and now I barely remember what it felt like to be that far from him.

I do remember the pain of the 3-hour drive and endless static between us when he was much closer on the map to me, mere counties away at college. Long distance conversations almost need a mediator their effect can be so numbing. But somehow, when provoked by a good hour of TV or, even better, the shared love or exchange of a new song, things feel like they're going to be okay.

The lyrics surprised me as I crossed the Atlantic, because gazing at my map I had never thought of the Ocean as a malicious thing. Ben's pain makes me study that blue expanse in disbelief. What the hell! How have we not conquered distance yet? Remembering countless mix CDs and a few emails with this in the subject line: "Download this...I love you," I wonder if we have, or if we've discovered an alternate solution. People say all the time that music transports us, but forget that it's just not out of daily life or away from stress. Sometimes it's more directional. Looking back, it's hard to remember whether I actually jumped in my car in the middle of the night to see him or if I just closed my eyes and went to bed. Either way, the playlist was the same.