Think rocketships. Think a rattling, banging cacophony, jets of fire and hot air and the deafening roar that signifies the end of the world. This is the sound of our air-conditioner. Every 15 minutes or so it begins again, sheilding me from the sounds in the rest of the house. I don't mind it so much, really. It prevents my brother from hearing every sound I make from his room in what used to be the attic. The walls are too full of cracks and little holes to really be any of kind of sound barrier. At night, between the angry dragon noises being emitted by our air-conditioner, I can hear my brother breathing. I can hear the birds that seem to have made a nest in the vent above my bed. I can hear our neighbors on the other side of the house clacking around in their high heels. I can hear when they drop things.
I sometimes play my guitar when I get home from work. I walk around the house strumming and generally playing the seven or eight chords I know over and over again in different arrangements. I wonder if they can hear me. I sometimes hope they can, as if I'm putting on a little performance. Just the fact that someone might hear my music and my movements, or read my writing seems to alter my movements and music and writing. Everything becomes a performance. Few things are just for me. I enjoy the air conditioning as it encloses me briefly in my own world. Everything I do or say is mine. I can dance rythmlessly to the songs on my iPod, or stay up late without being concerned that my brother might here me walking around my room while I think or try to write something.
There's that question: "What are you thinking?" Kind of an intrusive question, usually met with a little white lie: "Nothing." There's usually something going on in my head, and I don't always want people to know what's in there. MySpace might let me personalize it with my colors and words and pictures, but as soon as someone else sees it, it's theirs too. The space in my head is mine, and you don't get to go in there unless I let you. My writing, you can have it. My music, I want you to hear it. But my thoughts, they're mine.
Sunday
Sneezer
It's about 2:30 and I'm in bed - or rather I was in bed before I got up to write this blog - unable to sleep because of stress or my bad sleeping habits over the past week or the cup of coffee I had at about 8:00 tonight, when I sneeze. My brother and his friend are upstairs watching a movie or something, and they don't say bless you. Now, I'm a fairly loud sneezer (sneezer being a word that I kind of doubt is in any dictionary but means "one who sneezes") and you can hear every sound in made in every part of the house in every other part of the house, so I bet they heard me. I think there are several reasons why they may not have said "bless you" 1) they actually didn't hear me over the the movie and our extremely loud heater, 2) they didn't want to yell "bless you" from upstairs, or 3) they think I'm sleeping.
Which brings me, finally, to the question I have for tonight: Can you sneeze in your sleep?
...Well, can you? Have you ever thought about this? If you did sneeze while you were sleeping, you'd probably wake yourself up (unless you have one of those tiny little imploding sneezes that makes everyone look at you worriedly like your head might explode because you didn't let your sneeze out). And if you wake up when you sneeze, I don't really think that counts as sneezing in your sleep. And if you sneezed and didn't wake up, presumably you wouldn't know, because, of course, you were sleeping. Unless someone told you you were sneezing in your sleep. Now, I've never been told that I sneezed in my sleep. Have you? So, based on this admittedly woefully insufficient evidence that proves absolutely nothing, I've come to the conclusion that no, you cannot sneeze in your sleep.
I think I've exhausted this subject. I'm going to try and go back to bed.
Which brings me, finally, to the question I have for tonight: Can you sneeze in your sleep?
...Well, can you? Have you ever thought about this? If you did sneeze while you were sleeping, you'd probably wake yourself up (unless you have one of those tiny little imploding sneezes that makes everyone look at you worriedly like your head might explode because you didn't let your sneeze out). And if you wake up when you sneeze, I don't really think that counts as sneezing in your sleep. And if you sneezed and didn't wake up, presumably you wouldn't know, because, of course, you were sleeping. Unless someone told you you were sneezing in your sleep. Now, I've never been told that I sneezed in my sleep. Have you? So, based on this admittedly woefully insufficient evidence that proves absolutely nothing, I've come to the conclusion that no, you cannot sneeze in your sleep.
I think I've exhausted this subject. I'm going to try and go back to bed.
Wednesday
The frequency with which I cry at movies is, honestly, a bit embarrassing. It's not like streams of tears down my face; it's more like a watery eyes kind of thing. But still, I see someone crying up there, and I just can't help it. It seems as if it's good for us to see ourselves cry. I watched Children of Men tonight and something about it spoke to me, and maybe it was that. Not that there was much crying during the movie (and no crying from me, either, this time). It was, however, a clear reflection of the pain in our world. Maybe when we see ourselves, transformed into characters on the screen but still recognizable, we can learn about ourselves, and weep for ourselves. In this move the images of war and hatred and prejudice and fear were constant, and along side them courage and hope. There's something about the juxtaposition of the ugliness of the world and it's beauty that rings true. Of course, there was little beauty in this movie that wasn't the result of some very fine film making, but the fact that we can turn the horrific into something beautiful, or that we can find beauty in the terrible, seems to hint that they are not so far apart. The ugliness in this movie was our ugliness, and the beauty our beauty, in us side by side. Now, Little Miss Sunshine, another movie I loved this year, did make me cry (just a little). Mostly, it's a hilarious family comedy, but there's a lot of hurt there. At times you ache for the characters. But it's easy to see that we are those people, lovely and broken and funny and sad all at once. In her exquisite book, Gilead, Marilynne Robinson writes "every single one of us is a little civilization built on the ruins of any number of preceding civilizations." Each one of us criminals and murderers, healers and the saints.
Tuesday
The Cold, in Retrospect
It's cold today. The cold lives under our feet and creeps up through the floorboards of our ancient house. Every ten minutes or so the heater makes jet engine noises as it pushes warm air up into the rafters, far away from my frozen toes. I'm trying to think about warm things, tropical beaches, volcanoes, hot sauce, but it doesn't really help. So instead I've turned on the little space heater that's been sitting behind my door, put on the warm slippers I got for Christmas, and I am now sitting at my desk wrapped in a blanket. Is this what it's like in colder places, like Minnesota and North Dakota and Antarctica? Each time the penguins venture out of their little penguin-homes, do they shiver a little and say "It's cooold."? Cause that's what we do here in Texas. Do they shut down their penguin-streets completely, like Texans, and spend their days surfing weather.com to see if it will be cold again tomorrow? "I heard there might be ice on the roads tomorrow," they tell each other, "I wonder if they'll cancel penguin-school."
I have often said that I want to live somewhere colder. "Somewhere with seasons," I sometimes say. I still would, I think, like to try it out. But it's been sixteen years since I've lived in a place where people don't talk about "the snow flurries I saw that one Christmas, you know, I think it was 96." Being a six year old in Wisconsin is very different from being an adult. An adult must drive in the snow, and shovel the snow, and buy warm jackets. A six year old makes snow forts and can wear those once piece snow suits without fear of embarrassment and his biggest worry is avoiding the trees as he sleds down the hill. To a six year old, finding the little tin shelter by the school bus stop upside down and across the street after a particularly nasty winter storm is really cool. On the other hand, that might worry his mother. Also, this six year old, by the time he has become 25, has forgotten all about how much his face stung in the cold and the snow getting inside his boots and soaking his socks. (Well, I remember the wet sock thing...that really sucked).
It's no surprise that most things seem better in retrospect. This is how Wisconsin has become a kind of paradise in my head, populated by friendly six year olds who like to sled in the winter and catch frogs in the summer, where the leaves of the forest catch fire in the fall with orange and red and yellow and the winter is cold, but never uncomfortable. And there are gigantic toads the size of watermelons and tree frogs that stick their bright red toes to your screen door (Apparently there are a lot of frogs and toads in paradise. Well, I was six, what do you expect).
If I move away from Houston, I'll probably think of Houston fondly someday. I'll remember how mild the winters were and forget about the days it the thermometer read 108 and the mosquitoes had quick little cocktail parties on your arms and legs each time you stepped outside. Even today, a cold and stressful day, will be blurred into a time of growth and change in my life. And I'll remember how this old house had charming wooden floors and it wasn't too bad if you had a space heater.
But if I leave I won't forget the little inconveniences completely. I might remember the smog and the stress and not having a washer and dryer. And I probably won't move back.
I have often said that I want to live somewhere colder. "Somewhere with seasons," I sometimes say. I still would, I think, like to try it out. But it's been sixteen years since I've lived in a place where people don't talk about "the snow flurries I saw that one Christmas, you know, I think it was 96." Being a six year old in Wisconsin is very different from being an adult. An adult must drive in the snow, and shovel the snow, and buy warm jackets. A six year old makes snow forts and can wear those once piece snow suits without fear of embarrassment and his biggest worry is avoiding the trees as he sleds down the hill. To a six year old, finding the little tin shelter by the school bus stop upside down and across the street after a particularly nasty winter storm is really cool. On the other hand, that might worry his mother. Also, this six year old, by the time he has become 25, has forgotten all about how much his face stung in the cold and the snow getting inside his boots and soaking his socks. (Well, I remember the wet sock thing...that really sucked).
It's no surprise that most things seem better in retrospect. This is how Wisconsin has become a kind of paradise in my head, populated by friendly six year olds who like to sled in the winter and catch frogs in the summer, where the leaves of the forest catch fire in the fall with orange and red and yellow and the winter is cold, but never uncomfortable. And there are gigantic toads the size of watermelons and tree frogs that stick their bright red toes to your screen door (Apparently there are a lot of frogs and toads in paradise. Well, I was six, what do you expect).
If I move away from Houston, I'll probably think of Houston fondly someday. I'll remember how mild the winters were and forget about the days it the thermometer read 108 and the mosquitoes had quick little cocktail parties on your arms and legs each time you stepped outside. Even today, a cold and stressful day, will be blurred into a time of growth and change in my life. And I'll remember how this old house had charming wooden floors and it wasn't too bad if you had a space heater.
But if I leave I won't forget the little inconveniences completely. I might remember the smog and the stress and not having a washer and dryer. And I probably won't move back.
Wednesday
A Question
Here's a question for you: Why is that guy next door always sitting out in his car? Is he thinking? Is he avoiding his wife? Is he smoking weed? Is he staring at me through my window?
Well, I know the answer to the last question: No. Because I put a sheet over the window.
That is all.
Well, I know the answer to the last question: No. Because I put a sheet over the window.
That is all.
Tuesday
The Little Things
For reasons I won't go into here, it's not been a great weekend. But don't worry, I've got something to celebrate. It's great. And I'm wearing it. Well, I'm wearing them. Here's what I'm celebrating: my socks and my shirt: THEY MATCH!!....doesn't that make you happy too?
And it's not just like I'm wearing white socks and a white shirt. Not even black socks and a black shirt. No, my shirt is tan with green sleeves.
And my socks?
Funny you should ask, they are tan with green toes.
You might be thinking that I live a charmed life. Well, not really. I mean, they aren't exactly the same shade of tan. And my toes are a little brighter hue than my sleeves. But I do consider myself lucky. I mean, how often is it that your only pair of clean socks and the sweater you happen to be wearing match so exactly right? Not very often. Not very often at all.
Now, like I said, parts of the last few days haven't been so great. But I'm not going to dwell on that. I'm going to celebrate the little things. Little things like green toes and green sleeves (green sleeves, not greensleeves. Aw hell, I'll celelbrate greensleeves too, it's a nice melody). And Hotel Song by Regina SPektor, which I like quite a bit. And Sudoku and John Hodgeman (he's a funny guy), and the way words fit together so nicely to make sentences. And the sun on a January afternoon, how it's warm but the breeze is cool and I can wear a sweater with my sleeves rolled up.
Well, actually, the sun isn't exactly a little thing. But I like it.
And it's not just like I'm wearing white socks and a white shirt. Not even black socks and a black shirt. No, my shirt is tan with green sleeves.
And my socks?
Funny you should ask, they are tan with green toes.
You might be thinking that I live a charmed life. Well, not really. I mean, they aren't exactly the same shade of tan. And my toes are a little brighter hue than my sleeves. But I do consider myself lucky. I mean, how often is it that your only pair of clean socks and the sweater you happen to be wearing match so exactly right? Not very often. Not very often at all.
Now, like I said, parts of the last few days haven't been so great. But I'm not going to dwell on that. I'm going to celebrate the little things. Little things like green toes and green sleeves (green sleeves, not greensleeves. Aw hell, I'll celelbrate greensleeves too, it's a nice melody). And Hotel Song by Regina SPektor, which I like quite a bit. And Sudoku and John Hodgeman (he's a funny guy), and the way words fit together so nicely to make sentences. And the sun on a January afternoon, how it's warm but the breeze is cool and I can wear a sweater with my sleeves rolled up.
Well, actually, the sun isn't exactly a little thing. But I like it.
Saturday
Rock Star
I am not tone deaf. And this, apparently, is all it takes to be the lead singer of a band. A very short lived band, yes, but still, for one glorious half hour I am a rock star. The lead singer of...wait for it...THE DUNESNAKES.
In a small bar on Main Street, while the real band - that is, the one that's actually getting paid to play at our little Church shindig - take a break, the Dunesnakes make their first, and last, appearance. We plug in our guitars. Eric steps up to his drum set, (which, due to a little misundertsanding, is a cymbal and a bass drum). I spend some time tuning, and finally I step up to the microphone and immediately say something self-deprecating.
Some people feel unsure about their talent becuase they have self-estreem issues, I am unsure of my talent because I do not have any. I have heard recordings of myself singing, and I can tell you: I certainly wouldn't want to hear myself sing. This particular evening my singing leaves a little to be desired and my guitar playing is adequate. Fortunately, Mark is an enormously talented guitarist, and I'm surrounded by my friends from Church, and I've had a couple beers. So we fill the little bar with some sweet tunes. (Yeah, I said "sweet tunes", and I feel a little weird about that, but I'm going to stick with it.) Things that everyone can sing along with. in fact, at some point I'm pretty sure I told them to sing along with me becuase there are a few notes I can't hit on Under the Bridge. We start with a little Tom Petty, you know, Free Fallin', then move to the Red Hot Chili Peppers song. Finally, we end with a litte Lynrd Skynrd. Yes, of course, Freebird, in which Mark scorches his guitar and rocks the solo for something like 15 minutes. I am trying here to use that rock n' roll temrinology that Mark is fond of (you know, guitar = ax, and lots of talk about rocking and burning it up), but I haven't really gotten it down. Obviously. Anyway, it's impressive. He even does the playing the guitar behind his head thing. And for about thirty minutes, The Dunesnakes rock.
And now I think I've pretty much gotten the rock star thing out of my system. I think I'll leave that to Mark and other people who actually have talent and dedication and don't have to check the spelling of Lynrd Skynrd.
In a small bar on Main Street, while the real band - that is, the one that's actually getting paid to play at our little Church shindig - take a break, the Dunesnakes make their first, and last, appearance. We plug in our guitars. Eric steps up to his drum set, (which, due to a little misundertsanding, is a cymbal and a bass drum). I spend some time tuning, and finally I step up to the microphone and immediately say something self-deprecating.
Some people feel unsure about their talent becuase they have self-estreem issues, I am unsure of my talent because I do not have any. I have heard recordings of myself singing, and I can tell you: I certainly wouldn't want to hear myself sing. This particular evening my singing leaves a little to be desired and my guitar playing is adequate. Fortunately, Mark is an enormously talented guitarist, and I'm surrounded by my friends from Church, and I've had a couple beers. So we fill the little bar with some sweet tunes. (Yeah, I said "sweet tunes", and I feel a little weird about that, but I'm going to stick with it.) Things that everyone can sing along with. in fact, at some point I'm pretty sure I told them to sing along with me becuase there are a few notes I can't hit on Under the Bridge. We start with a little Tom Petty, you know, Free Fallin', then move to the Red Hot Chili Peppers song. Finally, we end with a litte Lynrd Skynrd. Yes, of course, Freebird, in which Mark scorches his guitar and rocks the solo for something like 15 minutes. I am trying here to use that rock n' roll temrinology that Mark is fond of (you know, guitar = ax, and lots of talk about rocking and burning it up), but I haven't really gotten it down. Obviously. Anyway, it's impressive. He even does the playing the guitar behind his head thing. And for about thirty minutes, The Dunesnakes rock.
And now I think I've pretty much gotten the rock star thing out of my system. I think I'll leave that to Mark and other people who actually have talent and dedication and don't have to check the spelling of Lynrd Skynrd.
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