The Other Side of the Ocean
Thursday, June 30, 2005
the Gates, visited
I recently met someone who lives in Madison’s (one and only?) gated community and today I finally agreed to come over at lunchtime so that I could inspect it from the inside rather than give in to my immediate inclination to dislike it site unseen (or is it sight unseen?).
My host gave me the password that would open the magic gates. Initially I had intended to bike over, but one look at the hill that I would have to ascend on the return trip and Mr. B bowed out. So much for my great protector. So I took the Great Old Van (“GOV”) with me in case I needed to make a hasty retreat.
The gates were imposing and the GOV stopped, almost refusing to go forth, afraid perhaps that he would be arrested inside on appearance alone. I assured him that he would fit in with other construction type vehicles which were freely getting across the great divide, most likely filled with south-of-the-border laborers ready to do the dirty work for the wealthy on the other side.
GOV mirror eyes gate with suspicion
Inside, there were faux waterfalls and matching mailboxes and many outrageous looking houses (chalets, plantations, every rich person’s fancy). My host is a guy who hangs with the less affluent and so I was surprised at the comfort level he demonstrated toward his immediate neighbors. But then I suppose he doesn’t see much of them. One recent addition to the community is a house pegged at $9 million, belonging to the daughter of the Farm & Fleet CEO. This was to be her summer residence.
summer cottage
from the park looking south: across the waters
where is Monet when you need him...
close-up: hangout for butterflies
My host gave me the password that would open the magic gates. Initially I had intended to bike over, but one look at the hill that I would have to ascend on the return trip and Mr. B bowed out. So much for my great protector. So I took the Great Old Van (“GOV”) with me in case I needed to make a hasty retreat.
The gates were imposing and the GOV stopped, almost refusing to go forth, afraid perhaps that he would be arrested inside on appearance alone. I assured him that he would fit in with other construction type vehicles which were freely getting across the great divide, most likely filled with south-of-the-border laborers ready to do the dirty work for the wealthy on the other side.
GOV mirror eyes gate with suspicionInside, there were faux waterfalls and matching mailboxes and many outrageous looking houses (chalets, plantations, every rich person’s fancy). My host is a guy who hangs with the less affluent and so I was surprised at the comfort level he demonstrated toward his immediate neighbors. But then I suppose he doesn’t see much of them. One recent addition to the community is a house pegged at $9 million, belonging to the daughter of the Farm & Fleet CEO. This was to be her summer residence.
summer cottage
neat and tidy
I suppose I can forgive my host for living there. I, too, am comfortable with diverse lifestyles. I try not to shun the affluent nor those who live behind gates (in this case there is a perfect overlap). But when he proposed a walk to the state park across the highway I was more than ready. I figure I had made my sacrifice and breathed the ChemLawn-ed air enough for one day. I needed the prairie breezes and nicely smelly waters of Lake Mendota to lighten my mood.
from the park looking south: across the waters
where is Monet when you need him...
close-up: hangout for butterflies
posted by nina, 6/30/2005 06:15:00 PM
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Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Quick, tell me some things about Polska
I am so very impressed with this list of ten memorable things about Poland. You're on Oscar! Here's my list:
Off the top, ten things that stand out about Poland (not necessarily the most important and most certainly not in any particular order of importance):
1. Pansies instead of marigolds. In public spaces and private gardens, Americans go for the gold. Poles plant pansies instead. Everywhere. Lots and lots of them.
pansy mania
2. The food. Okay, it’s heavy. There’s lots of cream and butter and meat. And ice cream and cake and poppy seeds. And sausage. Oscar notes that Polish people have avoided obesity. Someone recently said it’s because Poles don’t use couches as much as Americans do. But they sure have the potatoes.
light fare: cabbage stew, mushroom soup, sausage, beer
first choice: sour cherry- apple, in the middle.
yeast cakes and doughnuts.
highland hut strung with roasted kielbasa.
3. A love of the outdoors: the mountains, the waterways, the forests, or just a scrawny bit of land on which to plant flowers and grow berries. See, after you get yourself a TV, you save up for a car. It can be a cheap car. Next is a scrap of land with maybe a shack on it. That’s where you spend your leisure time. It’s more important than having a washing machine. Of course, there’s a problem there, but we’ll keep hygiene off the list. Don’t want to give the wrong impression …
forest walks
mountain air
4. The market economy has not taught sales people manners. Oscar observes that they can be rude. Indeed! Kep had commented that there are only two types of people – those willing to be engaged in the lives of people they encounter and the sulkers. It was said that the sulkers were the byproduct of communism. I’m beginning to think that it’s deeper than that. They pout and sulk and pick on their nails or smoke a cigarette and ignore you.
pretzel man with an attitude; and a cigarette.
5. Good coffee AND good tea. This theme’s for you and you (even though I do not have a photo of the tea; pretend!).
there's great coffee beneath that great foam. Oh, and don't forget the poppyseeds on the breads and in the cakes. Lots. Carry a tooth pick.
...and quit staring at the sour cherry jam; it's all in the coffee
6. Manipulating the outcome: Poles use all sorts of devious tricks to get by in life on very little. How enterprising – you may say. Yes, if you are not the one that has been manipulated in some way.
7. The parks the parks the parks: Polish cities are all about the parks. It’s more than just the beauty of these places, it is that they are public spaces that draw every inhabitant in, creating a communal stomping ground, a social place where you can be alone and yet not alone. (I have posted enough pics of Polish parks on Ocean. move on.)
8. Religious symbols, churches, chapels – they’re everywhere. No, really. It’s like the Vatican has decided to make Poland its second home. Jesus indeed. Or more like Mary. Poles are more into Mary than Jesus.
in the highlands; for some, it's worth the long hike.
9. Women attend to their skin. I swear, there are more cosmeticians than lawyers. Maybe that’s a good thing. Polish cosmetics, btw, are first rate. And there are lots of them. None of this simple body lotion: there’s anti-cellulite lotion, anti-wrinkle cream, stress-relief lotion, and topical cream for your newly implanted tattoo. And no, I do not know why deodorant isn’t nearly as popular.
10. Café conversations. Poles either like to walk and talk or sit at cafés and talk. Yes, the common denominator is the talking thing. But if you see the thousands flocking to cafés each day you’ll wonder if maybe the café, not the conversation, is the draw.
dogs are okay. as long as you feed them. sugar.
cafe life: generations.
Off the top, ten things that stand out about Poland (not necessarily the most important and most certainly not in any particular order of importance):
1. Pansies instead of marigolds. In public spaces and private gardens, Americans go for the gold. Poles plant pansies instead. Everywhere. Lots and lots of them.
pansy mania2. The food. Okay, it’s heavy. There’s lots of cream and butter and meat. And ice cream and cake and poppy seeds. And sausage. Oscar notes that Polish people have avoided obesity. Someone recently said it’s because Poles don’t use couches as much as Americans do. But they sure have the potatoes.
light fare: cabbage stew, mushroom soup, sausage, beer
first choice: sour cherry- apple, in the middle.
yeast cakes and doughnuts.
highland hut strung with roasted kielbasa.
3. A love of the outdoors: the mountains, the waterways, the forests, or just a scrawny bit of land on which to plant flowers and grow berries. See, after you get yourself a TV, you save up for a car. It can be a cheap car. Next is a scrap of land with maybe a shack on it. That’s where you spend your leisure time. It’s more important than having a washing machine. Of course, there’s a problem there, but we’ll keep hygiene off the list. Don’t want to give the wrong impression …
forest walks mountain air4. The market economy has not taught sales people manners. Oscar observes that they can be rude. Indeed! Kep had commented that there are only two types of people – those willing to be engaged in the lives of people they encounter and the sulkers. It was said that the sulkers were the byproduct of communism. I’m beginning to think that it’s deeper than that. They pout and sulk and pick on their nails or smoke a cigarette and ignore you.
pretzel man with an attitude; and a cigarette.
5. Good coffee AND good tea. This theme’s for you and you (even though I do not have a photo of the tea; pretend!).
there's great coffee beneath that great foam. Oh, and don't forget the poppyseeds on the breads and in the cakes. Lots. Carry a tooth pick. ...and quit staring at the sour cherry jam; it's all in the coffee6. Manipulating the outcome: Poles use all sorts of devious tricks to get by in life on very little. How enterprising – you may say. Yes, if you are not the one that has been manipulated in some way.
7. The parks the parks the parks: Polish cities are all about the parks. It’s more than just the beauty of these places, it is that they are public spaces that draw every inhabitant in, creating a communal stomping ground, a social place where you can be alone and yet not alone. (I have posted enough pics of Polish parks on Ocean. move on.)
8. Religious symbols, churches, chapels – they’re everywhere. No, really. It’s like the Vatican has decided to make Poland its second home. Jesus indeed. Or more like Mary. Poles are more into Mary than Jesus.
in the highlands; for some, it's worth the long hike.9. Women attend to their skin. I swear, there are more cosmeticians than lawyers. Maybe that’s a good thing. Polish cosmetics, btw, are first rate. And there are lots of them. None of this simple body lotion: there’s anti-cellulite lotion, anti-wrinkle cream, stress-relief lotion, and topical cream for your newly implanted tattoo. And no, I do not know why deodorant isn’t nearly as popular.
10. Café conversations. Poles either like to walk and talk or sit at cafés and talk. Yes, the common denominator is the talking thing. But if you see the thousands flocking to cafés each day you’ll wonder if maybe the café, not the conversation, is the draw.
dogs are okay. as long as you feed them. sugar. cafe life: generations.P.S. thanks to Ann for encouraging me to finally move on to Flicker, and to Oscar for working with me through the conversion.
posted by nina, 6/29/2005 06:55:00 PM
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Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme
My calling voice this morning was the voice of work. But I haven’t the stamina from last winter. After two hours of pre-dawn lecture writing (I have a class to present this morning), I crawled back to bed.
And then I did what I do just about every morning: I watched the morning come in.
Some days (today) I am more awake for this than on other days, but rarely does this hour pass without me noting its stunning beauty.
I keep the curtains open in the bedroom. It is completely private: only the white pines that I planted years ago can witness what takes place inside this great room. And I keep the window open. Not in the dead of winter, but at all other times.
And so the day starts with a bird chorus and a misty green outside – gray at first, and more translucent as the sun breaks loose.
In all my travels, no wake-up scene has impressed me more. And I know that it will no longer be with me when I begin my mornings at Bassett.
This morning, just before dawn, from my pillow: sublime.
And then I did what I do just about every morning: I watched the morning come in.
Some days (today) I am more awake for this than on other days, but rarely does this hour pass without me noting its stunning beauty.
I keep the curtains open in the bedroom. It is completely private: only the white pines that I planted years ago can witness what takes place inside this great room. And I keep the window open. Not in the dead of winter, but at all other times.
And so the day starts with a bird chorus and a misty green outside – gray at first, and more translucent as the sun breaks loose.
In all my travels, no wake-up scene has impressed me more. And I know that it will no longer be with me when I begin my mornings at Bassett.
This morning, just before dawn, from my pillow: sublime.
posted by nina, 6/29/2005 08:55:00 AM
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but soft, what light through yonder window breaks? 
posted by nina, 6/29/2005 06:45:00 AM
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My God! The Stars were not aligned for biking giants last Wednesday!
Thanks for emailing me this! I deeply appreciate knowing that Lance and I were both at odds with the gods of cycling (within minutes of each other last week, he and I crashed).
It seems that his injuries were smaller than mine. But I am reassured: if he can get back on the saddle to do his Tour de France thing, I can certainly not hesitate about resuming my touring de Madison on Mr. B. Which I most certainly did in the last days. To work, to the stores, and then again, last night at dusk: it was all about cycling.
It seems that his injuries were smaller than mine. But I am reassured: if he can get back on the saddle to do his Tour de France thing, I can certainly not hesitate about resuming my touring de Madison on Mr. B. Which I most certainly did in the last days. To work, to the stores, and then again, last night at dusk: it was all about cycling.
posted by nina, 6/29/2005 04:05:00 AM
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Tuesday, June 28, 2005
The great divide*
A friend sent me a song with these lyrics:
I've been siftin' through the layers
Of dusty books and faded papers
They tell a story I used to know
And it was one that happened so long ago*
He suggested that it may be a good accompaniment to my forthcoming move.
I’m switching neighborhoods soon – placing myself in the midst of Bassett.
Tonight at dusk I set out for a ride with Mr. B. I loved last night’s amble, so why wouldn’t I love it tonight? Why indeed. My relationship to dusks is unsettling, unpredictable, almost always an issue.
I headed for something nearby, comparable to what I found downtown at Bassett: a body of water and railroad tracks. Only the pond here lacked bike access. And the railroad tracks crossed uninteresting terrain.
But it had a train. Moving fast. Toward me (not to fear-- I am a careful watcher of trains). Almost as exhilarating as speeding down Old Sauk Hill, keeping the hand loosely on the break (I am careful on the bike as well). The suburbs make you do these vaguely daring things I suppose. Maybe I’ll calm down once I’m downtown.
* by Kate Wolf
I've been siftin' through the layers
Of dusty books and faded papers
They tell a story I used to know
And it was one that happened so long ago*
He suggested that it may be a good accompaniment to my forthcoming move.
I’m switching neighborhoods soon – placing myself in the midst of Bassett.
Tonight at dusk I set out for a ride with Mr. B. I loved last night’s amble, so why wouldn’t I love it tonight? Why indeed. My relationship to dusks is unsettling, unpredictable, almost always an issue.
I headed for something nearby, comparable to what I found downtown at Bassett: a body of water and railroad tracks. Only the pond here lacked bike access. And the railroad tracks crossed uninteresting terrain.
But it had a train. Moving fast. Toward me (not to fear-- I am a careful watcher of trains). Almost as exhilarating as speeding down Old Sauk Hill, keeping the hand loosely on the break (I am careful on the bike as well). The suburbs make you do these vaguely daring things I suppose. Maybe I’ll calm down once I’m downtown.
* by Kate Wolf
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 09:50:00 PM
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migrating geese love this place in the fall...
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 09:47:28 PM
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hey, slow down, I need a photo!
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 09:46:22 PM
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Simulblogging a real estate agents’ luncheon in my own home!
The sign out front says OPEN HOUSE. And it is. In fact, all the windows are open even though I should have the AC on. I’m no fool. I know real estate agents like to feel cool in an open house. Unfortunately, the AC died on me this morning. Probably from under-use.
[…and wouldn’t you know, I just dished out some money on a home-owners’ policy on all appliances yesterday! I’m reaping the rewards of foresight and prudence!]
Today is the first day that this house is on the market. Me, if I had to show case one thing about it, it would be this room:
[…and wouldn’t you know, I just dished out some money on a home-owners’ policy on all appliances yesterday! I’m reaping the rewards of foresight and prudence!]
Today is the first day that this house is on the market. Me, if I had to show case one thing about it, it would be this room:
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 12:25:00 PM
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can one have crushes on rooms? I do...
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 12:22:48 PM
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But my agent cannot get over the size of the master-bedroom: you can party in it, she writes. What kind of people have parties in their bedroom? What is she saying about me?
I smell Olive Garden.
I hear very nice a lot and wow it’s huge. Okay. Fine. But you are also trampling down my freshly vacuumed carpets. Can I sneak out and vacuum in between agents? Will they mind? Can I say I am the Polish maid?
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. But I am, fascinated by the concept of a Free Lunch Open House. Because that’s what this is all about – my agent is getting them in the door with food. Ahhh, the Polish way.
Okay, in the midst of it all, the guy comes to fix the AC, further trampling down my now-not-so-nicely vacuumed carpets. And the verdict: there is nothing wrong with the AC! Maybe it just didn’t feel like giving out cold air yesterday. Oh, right, fine – I have a temperamental little number that may have gotten insulted with all my AC bashing.
More agents. They are now eating lunch everywhere – living room, dining room, my place has become an Olive Garden Extension. Lasagna, salad, bread. I’m not even hungry, the stuff smells like take-out usually smells: part plastic, part tomato.
And the agents keep coming. How many agents in Madison need a free lunch?? Are they all not making enough money? They dress well and drive fancy cars – not cars I like, but still…
I like my agent. She is peppy. She’s obviously trying to make a go of this career. I fell for her zip and vigor, even though she is a woman of no real estate experience. Gotta support the up-and-coming. Maybe someone will hire me as I apply for additional work someday as a barista. [What, do you think, I lack barista talent?? Take a look at what’s been written about my passion for coffee here and here!]
One more hour of this. I’m going to quit blogging and go for a walk. Listening to others talk about the home you love is like eavesdropping on gossip about your children. You enjoy the praise, you do, but you sweat listening for that little dig that you feel will surely come. I definitely would fly downstairs and land some punchy blows on anyone saying one unkind thing about this house of all houses. So, off I go.
I smell Olive Garden.
I hear very nice a lot and wow it’s huge. Okay. Fine. But you are also trampling down my freshly vacuumed carpets. Can I sneak out and vacuum in between agents? Will they mind? Can I say I am the Polish maid?
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t be here. But I am, fascinated by the concept of a Free Lunch Open House. Because that’s what this is all about – my agent is getting them in the door with food. Ahhh, the Polish way.
Okay, in the midst of it all, the guy comes to fix the AC, further trampling down my now-not-so-nicely vacuumed carpets. And the verdict: there is nothing wrong with the AC! Maybe it just didn’t feel like giving out cold air yesterday. Oh, right, fine – I have a temperamental little number that may have gotten insulted with all my AC bashing.
More agents. They are now eating lunch everywhere – living room, dining room, my place has become an Olive Garden Extension. Lasagna, salad, bread. I’m not even hungry, the stuff smells like take-out usually smells: part plastic, part tomato.
And the agents keep coming. How many agents in Madison need a free lunch?? Are they all not making enough money? They dress well and drive fancy cars – not cars I like, but still…
I like my agent. She is peppy. She’s obviously trying to make a go of this career. I fell for her zip and vigor, even though she is a woman of no real estate experience. Gotta support the up-and-coming. Maybe someone will hire me as I apply for additional work someday as a barista. [What, do you think, I lack barista talent?? Take a look at what’s been written about my passion for coffee here and here!]
One more hour of this. I’m going to quit blogging and go for a walk. Listening to others talk about the home you love is like eavesdropping on gossip about your children. You enjoy the praise, you do, but you sweat listening for that little dig that you feel will surely come. I definitely would fly downstairs and land some punchy blows on anyone saying one unkind thing about this house of all houses. So, off I go.
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 12:15:00 PM
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Time, summertime, this time
Since it’s just Mr. B and me, out and about, I have to configure time differently. Before: Borders Bookstore to the far far west side = 10 minutes. Now, it's closer to half an hour, depending on how forcefully I attack the hills between the one place and the other.
I was, therefore thrilled to have configured time so well tonight: I arrived at place MG at 6:59, one minute ahead of schedule.
Okay, let me start with the denouement: where am I and what am I eating??
I was, therefore thrilled to have configured time so well tonight: I arrived at place MG at 6:59, one minute ahead of schedule.
Okay, let me start with the denouement: where am I and what am I eating??
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 05:35:00 AM
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Mediterranean shrimp on arugula
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 05:34:04 AM
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I am not ashamed to admit it: I am eating at a place that has elicited the following comments: disgusting name! whoever grills macaroni?? Or: I wont set foot in that chain if you paid me!
The fact is, the price is totally reasonable and food is good. No, really, for what it attempts to do – it is delicious.
I am to meet a certain someone here for dinner. A quick look tells me that I am perhaps too prompt. I am seated at a booth and I wait. And wait. I look at the menu and I am reminded that the previous time I had been here, someone wrote a terribly accusatory post about me simply because I called attention to this:
The fact is, the price is totally reasonable and food is good. No, really, for what it attempts to do – it is delicious.
I am to meet a certain someone here for dinner. A quick look tells me that I am perhaps too prompt. I am seated at a booth and I wait. And wait. I look at the menu and I am reminded that the previous time I had been here, someone wrote a terribly accusatory post about me simply because I called attention to this:
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 05:30:00 AM
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...for sensible people
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 05:27:40 AM
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That same person is now coasting into thin-blivion on the strength of his own volition. All I wanted to say then and now is that sometimes the best food can be found on the Slender Fare side of the menu, darn it!
I order wine as I wait. My dinner companion and I typically share a bottle. She is so late! I may as well have a sip now, especially since I have peddled like the devil to get here on time.
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 05:25:00 AM
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waiting
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 05:22:00 AM
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Half an hour later I begin to worry. The last time she was this late it was for this reason.
I get up and pace. Oh! My God! She is there, in a booth clear across the room, waiting for me!
I get up and pace. Oh! My God! She is there, in a booth clear across the room, waiting for me!
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 05:06:00 AM
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my artsy friend has used her waiting time and crayons on the paper tablecloth well
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 05:05:01 AM
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The hostess is most apologetic. The waiter is most apologetic. The manager is most apologetic. They offers us free dessert. What, we will then be forced to eat something for free that we wouldn’t have otherwise ordered??? My companion will have none of it. You want to comp something, comp the extra wine we’ve had to drink waiting for each other.
They do. M.Grill rules!
After dinner, I take the side roads home, just in case I am getting close to a legal limit of wine drinking. Halfway home my cell rings and I pick it up. I feel blissfully peaceful riding the backroads in the darkening night and chatting away. My cateye is not exactly a power strobe, but it calls attention to Mr. B and me.
Out of nowhere, a police car pulls up behind me. Even when you are not breaking any law, you recoil when a squad vehicle sits on your back for blocks on end. Fear and intimidation! Oh, you think this story has one of those typical Ocean dramatic endings? No -- I pull over, finish my conversation and resume my slow-paced ride home.
God, I love Madison in the summer.
They do. M.Grill rules!
After dinner, I take the side roads home, just in case I am getting close to a legal limit of wine drinking. Halfway home my cell rings and I pick it up. I feel blissfully peaceful riding the backroads in the darkening night and chatting away. My cateye is not exactly a power strobe, but it calls attention to Mr. B and me.
Out of nowhere, a police car pulls up behind me. Even when you are not breaking any law, you recoil when a squad vehicle sits on your back for blocks on end. Fear and intimidation! Oh, you think this story has one of those typical Ocean dramatic endings? No -- I pull over, finish my conversation and resume my slow-paced ride home.
God, I love Madison in the summer.
posted by nina, 6/28/2005 04:55:00 AM
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Monday, June 27, 2005
Where Ocean author modifies plan to make this an AC-less, car-less summer
The van is standing idle, feeling deserted, abandoned, like some kind of ostracized aging animal. I don’t need you anymore – I say brazenly.
Oh yeah? Didn’t you just on Sunday take it downtown because you were “running late?” That was because I thought it would storm. Hey! I did grocery shopping on the bike yesterday! I stuffed grape-cranberry juice and a bottle of wine into the back pouch and worried that if I fell it would smell boozy all around me.
[progress report on injury sustained during last week’s bike crash: bruise is still good ice-breaker during stalled conversations, in the style of Kruschev’s “wanna see my scar?”]
And the AC: Europeans aren’t into creating freezers out of indoor spaces during the summer, you said. Am I imagining it or is there a soft purr of the AC unit in your house? I have a business meeting here right now (he he, here I am on the computer, businessing it up!) – I cannot expect the person across the table to tolerate beads of perspiration on their eyebrow as we look at forms and papers. Watching sweat drip has a dampening effect on most human interaction.
But just for a little while. As soon as the little lassie is out the door, off goes the AC and it’s back to basics for me. Sort of. Last night my neighbor made jugs and jugs of lethal lemonade (there was Citron vodka there, right?) over ice – it would not have tasted so cool and refreshing had it been without ice. Though maybe then I would have had less of it…
Oh yeah? Didn’t you just on Sunday take it downtown because you were “running late?” That was because I thought it would storm. Hey! I did grocery shopping on the bike yesterday! I stuffed grape-cranberry juice and a bottle of wine into the back pouch and worried that if I fell it would smell boozy all around me.
[progress report on injury sustained during last week’s bike crash: bruise is still good ice-breaker during stalled conversations, in the style of Kruschev’s “wanna see my scar?”]
And the AC: Europeans aren’t into creating freezers out of indoor spaces during the summer, you said. Am I imagining it or is there a soft purr of the AC unit in your house? I have a business meeting here right now (he he, here I am on the computer, businessing it up!) – I cannot expect the person across the table to tolerate beads of perspiration on their eyebrow as we look at forms and papers. Watching sweat drip has a dampening effect on most human interaction.
But just for a little while. As soon as the little lassie is out the door, off goes the AC and it’s back to basics for me. Sort of. Last night my neighbor made jugs and jugs of lethal lemonade (there was Citron vodka there, right?) over ice – it would not have tasted so cool and refreshing had it been without ice. Though maybe then I would have had less of it…
posted by nina, 6/27/2005 01:45:00 PM
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Sunday, June 26, 2005
Hounding Bassett
Even long time Madison residents (me for example) are only vaguely familiar with the Bassett neighborhood of the city. Located just south-west of the Capitol, it is a place of old warehouses and varied housing styles.
Mr. B and I biked over and poked around. It’s an interesting area of downtown Madison: once popular only among students, now it’s drawing back a diverse crowd of more stable residents. The blend is endlessly fascinating.
Some photos from my morning spin through it:
Mr. B and I biked over and poked around. It’s an interesting area of downtown Madison: once popular only among students, now it’s drawing back a diverse crowd of more stable residents. The blend is endlessly fascinating.
Some photos from my morning spin through it:
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:45:00 PM
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this gives you a feel for the larger structures in the neighborhood
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:37:47 PM
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many associate this neighborhood with Madison's listener-supported funky radio station: WORT; peddling by, I heard (fittingly) Dar Williams coming from inside...
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:35:21 PM
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one of several old warehouses -- converted to usable space
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:33:02 PM
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the neighborhood is crossed by tracks that pass over a bridge spanning the waterway between Madison's two lakes; to the side, two fishermen
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:31:13 PM
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close-up: the bird on the tracks watches as the fish bites
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:28:58 PM
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an artist taking it all in...
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:27:47 PM
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a corner gorcery store and across the street: an upscale cafe (Jo's)
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:26:49 PM
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inside Jo's, a spot for a latte (it remains to be seen if the latte is any good: I'm a a harsh judge)
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:25:40 PM
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one last look at the Lorillard tobacco warehouse that first drew me to this area: from the back...
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:24:00 PM
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...and from the front
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 03:21:35 PM
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If you could only read Polish…
You would enjoy reading maching tracksuits this week. Kinga, a Pole, moved a few days ago to the States along with her American husband, Gary. Both are posting their impression of being in the States (Gary had been living in Poland for a number of years now). Kinga writes in Polish, Gary in English. Kinga’s observations about her surroundings make me smile. It is like me, looking in afresh on life here, commenting with my own set of childhood (i.e. Polish) experiences!
During my last trip to Poland I made a point of meeting these two bloggers. Two of their Polish friends joined us and we sat drinking beer at an outdoor table, at the foot of the sweeping Tatra mountains.
I thought then: Gary has had to make adjustments during his years of living in Poland, but Kinga will have to make far greater adjustments when they move to the States. The conversation was full of Polish-style banter, but it also turned intimate very quickly, with a great deal of reflection on everything from literature to relationships. Both the men and women tripped over themselves to throw in their two zlotys, in the rapid fire way that Poles typically communicate.
Dusk turned to night and in the space of those hours it became so clear to me that there indeed is this great cultural divide: it is in the manner in which people relate to each other -- the expressions they use, the themes they pick out, the common understanding of what is ordinary and what seems curiously alien.
Even if you don’t read Polish, you can track Gary’s English text (they alternate posts): he writes as an American who is returning here after many years of being away and also as one who is aware of how Kinga is experiencing this country. Having read both sides of the blog, I can assure you that he represents Kinga’s thoughts about their new surroundings quite well!
During my last trip to Poland I made a point of meeting these two bloggers. Two of their Polish friends joined us and we sat drinking beer at an outdoor table, at the foot of the sweeping Tatra mountains.
I thought then: Gary has had to make adjustments during his years of living in Poland, but Kinga will have to make far greater adjustments when they move to the States. The conversation was full of Polish-style banter, but it also turned intimate very quickly, with a great deal of reflection on everything from literature to relationships. Both the men and women tripped over themselves to throw in their two zlotys, in the rapid fire way that Poles typically communicate.
Dusk turned to night and in the space of those hours it became so clear to me that there indeed is this great cultural divide: it is in the manner in which people relate to each other -- the expressions they use, the themes they pick out, the common understanding of what is ordinary and what seems curiously alien.
Even if you don’t read Polish, you can track Gary’s English text (they alternate posts): he writes as an American who is returning here after many years of being away and also as one who is aware of how Kinga is experiencing this country. Having read both sides of the blog, I can assure you that he represents Kinga’s thoughts about their new surroundings quite well!
posted by nina, 6/26/2005 10:55:00 AM
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Saturday, June 25, 2005
Letters I wish I had it in me to write, part 2
Dear Trek bike person,
You made me laugh and laugh this afternoon! The final straw was when you told me you couldn’t take a look at my bike because it was (inadvertently) positioned under a birds’ nest and therefore likely to get blasted with baby bird diarrhea any minute. And when you told me that Mr. B and I should not call it quits – it showed how cool you yourself were. I’ll be ready someday, I know I will. Just not today.
Dear home of many decades,
In the end, no one thing has proved to be so stable and reliable in my life as you have. Each dark winter day I would come back and you’d be there – not preoccupied, not distant, not cold. There, every single day, reliably, waiting.
And so it is perhaps incomprehensible to some, to you, why it is that I have to leave you. I love you more than any thing in the world. Sometimes, for reasons that are complicated and convoluted, one has to focus on a future that is stark but sane. You cannot be part of my future. It in not my fault. Perhaps it is not anyone’s fault. It just is. Remember: no one will have loved you as much as I did, no one.
Dear computer,
If you die on me now I will be a beaten person. So pretend you are not old and ragged. My car is old and ragged. Much of my day feels old and ragged. But you, you are a mere babe. So act your age! I’m in no position to seek a replacement.
You made me laugh and laugh this afternoon! The final straw was when you told me you couldn’t take a look at my bike because it was (inadvertently) positioned under a birds’ nest and therefore likely to get blasted with baby bird diarrhea any minute. And when you told me that Mr. B and I should not call it quits – it showed how cool you yourself were. I’ll be ready someday, I know I will. Just not today.
Dear home of many decades,
In the end, no one thing has proved to be so stable and reliable in my life as you have. Each dark winter day I would come back and you’d be there – not preoccupied, not distant, not cold. There, every single day, reliably, waiting.
And so it is perhaps incomprehensible to some, to you, why it is that I have to leave you. I love you more than any thing in the world. Sometimes, for reasons that are complicated and convoluted, one has to focus on a future that is stark but sane. You cannot be part of my future. It in not my fault. Perhaps it is not anyone’s fault. It just is. Remember: no one will have loved you as much as I did, no one.
Dear computer,
If you die on me now I will be a beaten person. So pretend you are not old and ragged. My car is old and ragged. Much of my day feels old and ragged. But you, you are a mere babe. So act your age! I’m in no position to seek a replacement.
posted by nina, 6/25/2005 11:25:00 PM
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I'm wondering...
At what point do you tell your aging parent this: no more. You cannot continue to frown upon the life I live and the decisions I make. I will not listen anymore?
At what point do you look up and notice how good and kind friends are when you need them to be just decent (you are all that way! every one of you, temporarily or permanently out of state, emailers, dinner and/or walking companions, latte enablers – all!)?
At what point do you get a new, sexy bike helmet (I tell myself that, knowing damn well that no bike helmet is really sexy) even though you could maybe (though not certainly) get by with pounding out the dents and still strapping the old one under your chin?
At what point do you admit to your neighbors that, for reasons having to do with the soft warm air coming in from the outside and the harsh long week you’ve just had, you are drifting off to sleep, even though they are still there, in your house, engaged in a fantastically lively conversation?
At what point do you tell Oscar that his blog has been magnificent of late (while sitting and commiserating about how awful a latte is as compared to the real thing, on the other side of the ocean)?
At what point do you quit getting a charge out of spooking the neighborhood kids by showing them the extent of your hip bruise from the bike accident (they all get a thrill out of how extensive it is and I feel I am doing them a favor by shocking them into always wearing a helmet and being cautious out there on the roads)?
At what point do you hear the storm, open the patio door, stick your feet out into the rain and think: I can get through all this, really truly?
[the above? my past 24 hours in a nutshell.]
At what point do you look up and notice how good and kind friends are when you need them to be just decent (you are all that way! every one of you, temporarily or permanently out of state, emailers, dinner and/or walking companions, latte enablers – all!)?
At what point do you get a new, sexy bike helmet (I tell myself that, knowing damn well that no bike helmet is really sexy) even though you could maybe (though not certainly) get by with pounding out the dents and still strapping the old one under your chin?
At what point do you admit to your neighbors that, for reasons having to do with the soft warm air coming in from the outside and the harsh long week you’ve just had, you are drifting off to sleep, even though they are still there, in your house, engaged in a fantastically lively conversation?
At what point do you tell Oscar that his blog has been magnificent of late (while sitting and commiserating about how awful a latte is as compared to the real thing, on the other side of the ocean)?
At what point do you quit getting a charge out of spooking the neighborhood kids by showing them the extent of your hip bruise from the bike accident (they all get a thrill out of how extensive it is and I feel I am doing them a favor by shocking them into always wearing a helmet and being cautious out there on the roads)?
At what point do you hear the storm, open the patio door, stick your feet out into the rain and think: I can get through all this, really truly?
[the above? my past 24 hours in a nutshell.]
posted by nina, 6/25/2005 10:55:00 PM
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Stick with me and I guarantee at least one brush with death per day
A late afternoon at the Madison’s Memorial Union. So hot! Must be near 100. Friends decide to take out their pontoon boat. They motor over to the Hoofer’s Dock, nice, leisurely. Sandwiches, beer, snacks. The kind of hour where you get heavily engaged in the weighty issue of whether you’d prefer to be with a boring person or a smelly one. Amazingly, most choose boring.
Mmmmm, it isn’t hot anymore. Must be the cool lake breezes. No, not that. Must be the clouds. Wonder where they came from… Was so clear a minute ago.
Let’s roll over to the Governor’s Mansion. He is too pro environment. He is not! Is too! Is not! Why can’t we have Katherine Falk as governor?
Wouldn’t it be cool to swim to shore. [Here, Ocean author jumps overboard.]
Great water… A bit weedy. No bottom. Wonder why it says DANGER on those bobbin’ little numbers? No matter.. Feels wonderful, the temperature is just right. Captain of the boat is swimming as well.. All’s good here in the warm wetness of Lake Mendota. Kind of choppy in the water now. Hey captain? See that line of rain? It’s on the other side of the lake, not too far from us.
Back on board: Hey Captain? See those flashes of lightening? They’re hitting the lake. Hmmmm, not so pretty. [Ocean author wonders if she can take picture of lightening hitting lake for the blog. Ocean author fails to take picture of lightening hitting water.] Look at that! Red lights are flashing on the shore. Meaning: all boats must come in. No kidding! So, you’re scared? Nah… what are you going to do…
Hoofer types are on the dock waving pontoon boat away. Don’t dock here! Storm winds will blow the dock right into your boat! Go anchor at the cement one. Captain fearlessly ventures out into the storm to anchor at the cement one. Captain wonders if maybe leaving boat to the storm would be a good idea. Boat is insured. Captain is sick of boat and would not mind collecting the insurance money.
Storm’s coming! Bring up the chairs toward shelter. Ohh, from this perch it’s exciting! Bring it on! Hail, gusty winds – they’ll wipe the earth clean and dust off the cobwebs! Storm declines the invitation and decides to head north. Storms are that way – they taunt you and tease you out there where you’re vulnerable on the open waters and snub you when you make it safely to shore.
Mmmmm, it isn’t hot anymore. Must be the cool lake breezes. No, not that. Must be the clouds. Wonder where they came from… Was so clear a minute ago.
Let’s roll over to the Governor’s Mansion. He is too pro environment. He is not! Is too! Is not! Why can’t we have Katherine Falk as governor?
Wouldn’t it be cool to swim to shore. [Here, Ocean author jumps overboard.]
Great water… A bit weedy. No bottom. Wonder why it says DANGER on those bobbin’ little numbers? No matter.. Feels wonderful, the temperature is just right. Captain of the boat is swimming as well.. All’s good here in the warm wetness of Lake Mendota. Kind of choppy in the water now. Hey captain? See that line of rain? It’s on the other side of the lake, not too far from us.
Back on board: Hey Captain? See those flashes of lightening? They’re hitting the lake. Hmmmm, not so pretty. [Ocean author wonders if she can take picture of lightening hitting lake for the blog. Ocean author fails to take picture of lightening hitting water.] Look at that! Red lights are flashing on the shore. Meaning: all boats must come in. No kidding! So, you’re scared? Nah… what are you going to do…
Hoofer types are on the dock waving pontoon boat away. Don’t dock here! Storm winds will blow the dock right into your boat! Go anchor at the cement one. Captain fearlessly ventures out into the storm to anchor at the cement one. Captain wonders if maybe leaving boat to the storm would be a good idea. Boat is insured. Captain is sick of boat and would not mind collecting the insurance money.
Storm’s coming! Bring up the chairs toward shelter. Ohh, from this perch it’s exciting! Bring it on! Hail, gusty winds – they’ll wipe the earth clean and dust off the cobwebs! Storm declines the invitation and decides to head north. Storms are that way – they taunt you and tease you out there where you’re vulnerable on the open waters and snub you when you make it safely to shore.
posted by nina, 6/25/2005 07:40:00 AM
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from the Union shore: a dazzling sun; the water tempts...
posted by nina, 6/25/2005 07:35:54 AM
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from the Union shore: watching others sweat it out
posted by nina, 6/25/2005 07:34:05 AM
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on the boat: those crazy hazy days of summer
posted by nina, 6/25/2005 07:32:42 AM
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on the boat: united under unfriendly skies
posted by nina, 6/25/2005 07:31:36 AM
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unfriendly waters whippin' around the frail wooden dock
posted by nina, 6/25/2005 07:30:45 AM
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Friday, June 24, 2005
Latte and Latvia
I heard today from one of my oldest American friends and from one of my newest.
My oldest, Kathy, suggested an outdoor latte early in the morning. Why is that significant? If you have been in a bike accident, you’re hesitant about taking on big biking projects. It’s one thing to swing with Mr. B over to the local café, it’s another to take him across town, over Hill and dale, to a more distant place, requiring some fancy peddling, with one hip/leg still looking like it’s storing a year’s supply of fruits and vegetables beneath the skin. Of the purple kind.
Morning bliss is making it there without incident and sipping this outside:
My oldest, Kathy, suggested an outdoor latte early in the morning. Why is that significant? If you have been in a bike accident, you’re hesitant about taking on big biking projects. It’s one thing to swing with Mr. B over to the local café, it’s another to take him across town, over Hill and dale, to a more distant place, requiring some fancy peddling, with one hip/leg still looking like it’s storing a year’s supply of fruits and vegetables beneath the skin. Of the purple kind.
Morning bliss is making it there without incident and sipping this outside:
posted by nina, 6/24/2005 02:55:00 PM
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who wouldn't want this first thing in the morning...
posted by nina, 6/24/2005 02:54:27 PM
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My newer friend is Q. I first met him on a train in Poland (described here). Q was concerned when he heard I am canceling a trip to Europe, currently on the books for July. Q would be concerned. He and his wife love Europe so much that they ditched their place in SF and moved there. He writes me: “if you want a new adventure, let’s meet in Latvia!”
He is a big fan of Latvia. I have never been to Latvia. I swear, if I knew I could get a latte in Latvia, I would go in a second. But right now I am hesitating. I have So Much On My Mind at the moment that it seems extreme. And expensive.
And my latte addiction cannot be appeased with other beverages these days. I need something wonderful and strong to keep me steady. Latte, I think you are second on my list of comfort objects to cling onto! But someday I’ll do it. I’ll pack my Dell and take Ocean to Latvia.
He is a big fan of Latvia. I have never been to Latvia. I swear, if I knew I could get a latte in Latvia, I would go in a second. But right now I am hesitating. I have So Much On My Mind at the moment that it seems extreme. And expensive.
And my latte addiction cannot be appeased with other beverages these days. I need something wonderful and strong to keep me steady. Latte, I think you are second on my list of comfort objects to cling onto! But someday I’ll do it. I’ll pack my Dell and take Ocean to Latvia.
posted by nina, 6/24/2005 02:45:00 PM
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An ode to people who take on big projects
Empty shells Made better With the gutting Of inside space.
Turning it into Something new Not without faults Gritty and daring.
Random words spinning in my head as I look at what some creative types are doing with two old warehouses in an industrial park in downtown Madison.
Ann and I poked around yesterday afternoon after the construction crews had left. Just a photo or two of how things are looking (check out her own photos here for close-ups of graffiti on the outside walls):
Turning it into Something new Not without faults Gritty and daring.
Random words spinning in my head as I look at what some creative types are doing with two old warehouses in an industrial park in downtown Madison.
Ann and I poked around yesterday afternoon after the construction crews had left. Just a photo or two of how things are looking (check out her own photos here for close-ups of graffiti on the outside walls):
posted by nina, 6/24/2005 12:35:00 PM
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Lorrilard tobacco warehouses: someone thought to gut them and turn them into living spaces
posted by nina, 6/24/2005 12:30:20 PM
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looking down from a lofty room
posted by nina, 6/24/2005 12:28:55 PM
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bright lofts and curving shapes
posted by nina, 6/24/2005 12:27:22 PM
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bold skylights and pipes against dark, old timber
posted by nina, 6/24/2005 12:25:50 PM
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Thursday, June 23, 2005
Strawberry season
There is this obnoxious trait that some people have of wanting to take free stuff if it is offered to them and they have a need for it.
For example – you are in a hospital ER room, it’s time to go, all kisses and goodbyes, thanks, you’ve been wonderful, so you’re finally inching out and you remember: wouldn’t it be nice to take with you one of the ice packs to use at home? It’s “free” if you take it from the hospital.
I guess I am one of those obnoxious people, because I did turn around and hobble back last night (during my trip to the ER room) and asked (meekly) – do you suppose you could spare….
The nurse hardly looked up. You don’t have ice at home? (you know, putting those jagged bricks from your ice dispenser against a sore leg is just not as much fun as using an ice pack) No… -- unbelievable answer, but I wasn’t in the mood to explain.
Do you have any frozen fruits or vegetables? -- she counters. Caught me dead on. I could not lie. I have bags and bags of frozen strawberries from last year. Frozen blueberries? Raspberries? All gone: they’re wonderful to slowly munch on when you want to restrain your midnight greed. But strawberries are too big to just pop in your mouth, so there they are, in my freezer and the new season is upon us and so I may as well put them to ice-pack use, digging into the ziplock bag every once in a while for a nibble.
But I got my chance at a freebie: on my way out (for real now), I passed one of those anti-bacterial gel dispensers (that’s what they’re all using in the ER room – none of this hand washing stuff; I know – 99.9% germs are killed with the gel, it says so right there on the dispenser, but it just doesn’t seem in my old fashioned mind as fresh to go from wiping someone’s butt, to putting a little gel on the palms, to picking up your hand to take your pulse). From said dispenser I loaded on the antibacterial gel. For free. You might say I walked out of the hospital clean. Germ free. That’s nothing to sneeze at, btw.
For example – you are in a hospital ER room, it’s time to go, all kisses and goodbyes, thanks, you’ve been wonderful, so you’re finally inching out and you remember: wouldn’t it be nice to take with you one of the ice packs to use at home? It’s “free” if you take it from the hospital.
I guess I am one of those obnoxious people, because I did turn around and hobble back last night (during my trip to the ER room) and asked (meekly) – do you suppose you could spare….
The nurse hardly looked up. You don’t have ice at home? (you know, putting those jagged bricks from your ice dispenser against a sore leg is just not as much fun as using an ice pack) No… -- unbelievable answer, but I wasn’t in the mood to explain.
Do you have any frozen fruits or vegetables? -- she counters. Caught me dead on. I could not lie. I have bags and bags of frozen strawberries from last year. Frozen blueberries? Raspberries? All gone: they’re wonderful to slowly munch on when you want to restrain your midnight greed. But strawberries are too big to just pop in your mouth, so there they are, in my freezer and the new season is upon us and so I may as well put them to ice-pack use, digging into the ziplock bag every once in a while for a nibble.
But I got my chance at a freebie: on my way out (for real now), I passed one of those anti-bacterial gel dispensers (that’s what they’re all using in the ER room – none of this hand washing stuff; I know – 99.9% germs are killed with the gel, it says so right there on the dispenser, but it just doesn’t seem in my old fashioned mind as fresh to go from wiping someone’s butt, to putting a little gel on the palms, to picking up your hand to take your pulse). From said dispenser I loaded on the antibacterial gel. For free. You might say I walked out of the hospital clean. Germ free. That’s nothing to sneeze at, btw.
posted by nina, 6/23/2005 02:35:00 PM
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Simulblogging the ER. No, not the TV show, we’re talking about reality reality.
Notes from the night that followed the bike crash:
By ten at night my upper leg had ballooned to such a large size that it felt like I had gone on an 365 day Michael’s Frozan Custard binge. Moreover, I could not walk.
Call to clinic. Nurse plugs in data into her triage computer program and comes up with result that is probably the result in 99% of cases: go to the ER room immediately. I mean, maybe if you call and say that you are at a nursing home and that the staff person was mean to you and would not help you go to the bathroom (the issue confronting the patient in the space next to mine at the ER headquarters of UW hospitals), maybe then they would have said: deal with it. For the rest: there’s the ER.
I was also told that I am absolutely forbidden to drive and that an ambulance would be forthcoming if I hadn’t a friend to take me in. HOW PATHETIC! That’s just an insurance set up! How many people will say – oh, okay, I have no one, no one at all to ask for a ride, so sure, go ahead, send the ambulance.
I called a friend. Friend came, friend drove. Thank you, friend. You saved me the humiliation of appearing pathetic.
Lots of police cars at the entrance to the ER room. I tell friend that if you go in at night, you’re gonna be rubbing shoulders with the overdose victims and gang shootings. Earlier, it’s poor people without health insurance who desperately need to see a doctor. Friend says it has been suggested that ER visits go up immediately at the end of prime time TV.
Inside the waiting room, everyone looks sick. I am thinking: I am going to get your germs so quickly, so please face the other way when you vomit – that kind of sick. Germ avoidance strategy: I use my own pen to sign wavers and death statements. Yes, if you kill me rather than cure me, you can take my remains and burn them quickly before someone discovers your mistake.
I am told: wait here in the wheel chair until your room is ready. Room is ready? Sounds like a Paris hotel that you arrive at early in the morning. Bonjour, not ready yet, excusez moi, quelle damage!
Background music is positively funereal. I had a friend die on me some years back and she requested classical music nonstop in her last hours of life and ever since, when I hear classical music in a hospital, I think of her. I think: had she known the effect it would have on me, she may have substituted it for hip hop. Hip hop in hospitals would not make me think of death and dying.
There are little insects flying around as I wait. Ugh! Germ carrying, all of you! Get OFF of me! You are contaminating me – I saw you buzz over near the vomiting woman there in the corner, go back, go back!
Three times, by three different staff members I am asked the question: is there anyone you do NOT wish to give access to your information from here? I don’t get it. YES! The world! The Dean of the Law School. Does he really need to know about my innards? Do students? In fact, 99.99% of the people out there should not have access to my medical records. Whatever are you thinking?? (Of course, then I go ahead and post everything on the blog. So private!)
Finally, I am wheeled to a segment of an ER room. I am a woman of many health dramas and so I know these places well. Too well. I know the ropes. I know what to say to get service and what to say to get out asap. I am ER savvy! [Mumbling something about being a law prof and teaching torts and malpractice helps; damn it, they always ask, so what, I am supposed to not mention it?]
I look up, stretched there on the ER table, with my leg now twice the size of a football stadium, and I see this cartoon pasted on the joint of the swivel overhead lamp. It’s a picture of a fist with a thumb up, and the words underneath, in bold, with an exclamation mark: yes! For some reason this totally disarms me. I feel the stress of the day, the night, the week and I want to cry. But that’s antithetical to the upbeat mood of that little sticker sign and so I reign it in.
In the “cubicle” next to me is the guy with the nursing home problem. It is indeed a problem and I do not want to detract from it even as he proceeds to describe the bowel movement he is having at the time he is telling the story. But it seems – from my meager qualifications to assess these matters – that it is not an ER problem. It is a call-governor-doyle-and-have-him-commence-a-criminal-investigation-against-the-nursing-home-facility type of a problem.
But then, his woman comes in and they have these rhapsodic exchanges while the staff is out. He is an old fart (literally) with an amputated leg and she is patient and he is so appreciative. I don’t even mind the putrid smells coming from their neck of the woods (remember: we are in the middle of his bowel movement). These guys are so touchingly respectful of each other. I wanted to get up and visit for a while, but the nurse was wiping his butt forever and ever and after that, the moment passed.
Sigh. It was one of those days when you are reminded of how lucky you are for a shrilling number of reasons. I got home minutes ago and transcribed my notes. I am thinking of going out for a bike ride first thing tomorrow, if I can wrap my giant leg around the seat. Hey, the doctors, with their multifarious almost-degrees (this is a teaching hospital after all) told me to move as much as possible, especially in the next few days, to undo the blood clot. I’m with you. Life is all about movement.
By ten at night my upper leg had ballooned to such a large size that it felt like I had gone on an 365 day Michael’s Frozan Custard binge. Moreover, I could not walk.
Call to clinic. Nurse plugs in data into her triage computer program and comes up with result that is probably the result in 99% of cases: go to the ER room immediately. I mean, maybe if you call and say that you are at a nursing home and that the staff person was mean to you and would not help you go to the bathroom (the issue confronting the patient in the space next to mine at the ER headquarters of UW hospitals), maybe then they would have said: deal with it. For the rest: there’s the ER.
I was also told that I am absolutely forbidden to drive and that an ambulance would be forthcoming if I hadn’t a friend to take me in. HOW PATHETIC! That’s just an insurance set up! How many people will say – oh, okay, I have no one, no one at all to ask for a ride, so sure, go ahead, send the ambulance.
I called a friend. Friend came, friend drove. Thank you, friend. You saved me the humiliation of appearing pathetic.
Lots of police cars at the entrance to the ER room. I tell friend that if you go in at night, you’re gonna be rubbing shoulders with the overdose victims and gang shootings. Earlier, it’s poor people without health insurance who desperately need to see a doctor. Friend says it has been suggested that ER visits go up immediately at the end of prime time TV.
Inside the waiting room, everyone looks sick. I am thinking: I am going to get your germs so quickly, so please face the other way when you vomit – that kind of sick. Germ avoidance strategy: I use my own pen to sign wavers and death statements. Yes, if you kill me rather than cure me, you can take my remains and burn them quickly before someone discovers your mistake.
I am told: wait here in the wheel chair until your room is ready. Room is ready? Sounds like a Paris hotel that you arrive at early in the morning. Bonjour, not ready yet, excusez moi, quelle damage!
Background music is positively funereal. I had a friend die on me some years back and she requested classical music nonstop in her last hours of life and ever since, when I hear classical music in a hospital, I think of her. I think: had she known the effect it would have on me, she may have substituted it for hip hop. Hip hop in hospitals would not make me think of death and dying.
There are little insects flying around as I wait. Ugh! Germ carrying, all of you! Get OFF of me! You are contaminating me – I saw you buzz over near the vomiting woman there in the corner, go back, go back!
Three times, by three different staff members I am asked the question: is there anyone you do NOT wish to give access to your information from here? I don’t get it. YES! The world! The Dean of the Law School. Does he really need to know about my innards? Do students? In fact, 99.99% of the people out there should not have access to my medical records. Whatever are you thinking?? (Of course, then I go ahead and post everything on the blog. So private!)
Finally, I am wheeled to a segment of an ER room. I am a woman of many health dramas and so I know these places well. Too well. I know the ropes. I know what to say to get service and what to say to get out asap. I am ER savvy! [Mumbling something about being a law prof and teaching torts and malpractice helps; damn it, they always ask, so what, I am supposed to not mention it?]
I look up, stretched there on the ER table, with my leg now twice the size of a football stadium, and I see this cartoon pasted on the joint of the swivel overhead lamp. It’s a picture of a fist with a thumb up, and the words underneath, in bold, with an exclamation mark: yes! For some reason this totally disarms me. I feel the stress of the day, the night, the week and I want to cry. But that’s antithetical to the upbeat mood of that little sticker sign and so I reign it in.
In the “cubicle” next to me is the guy with the nursing home problem. It is indeed a problem and I do not want to detract from it even as he proceeds to describe the bowel movement he is having at the time he is telling the story. But it seems – from my meager qualifications to assess these matters – that it is not an ER problem. It is a call-governor-doyle-and-have-him-commence-a-criminal-investigation-against-the-nursing-home-facility type of a problem.
But then, his woman comes in and they have these rhapsodic exchanges while the staff is out. He is an old fart (literally) with an amputated leg and she is patient and he is so appreciative. I don’t even mind the putrid smells coming from their neck of the woods (remember: we are in the middle of his bowel movement). These guys are so touchingly respectful of each other. I wanted to get up and visit for a while, but the nurse was wiping his butt forever and ever and after that, the moment passed.
Sigh. It was one of those days when you are reminded of how lucky you are for a shrilling number of reasons. I got home minutes ago and transcribed my notes. I am thinking of going out for a bike ride first thing tomorrow, if I can wrap my giant leg around the seat. Hey, the doctors, with their multifarious almost-degrees (this is a teaching hospital after all) told me to move as much as possible, especially in the next few days, to undo the blood clot. I’m with you. Life is all about movement.
posted by nina, 6/23/2005 02:45:00 AM
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Wednesday, June 22, 2005
I'm feeling a bit woozy so I'll let others speak about my event of the day
Comments from readers concerning morning bike crash:
(a proper subject heading might be:) For whom the Bell…
My sympathy for your loss of Mr. Bell…
Was it Bianchi’s fault? Infatuation is a dangerous thing.
Comment from the sidelines (i.e. Mr. Bianchi chimes in – I am merely transcribing his thoughts; I know him that well):
Dear high-ups who make all the important decisions in this town, like about road stuff:
Cut us a break already. Today, Nina took me for a tour of the downtown. She was looking at some old warehouses there (her ideas come from who knows where) and she took me along for the ride. Never mind that the warehouses were along pebbly lanes (see photo below) that caused me severe nerve damage and rubber attrition. I’m not that young anymore.
Then she spun me around her stomping ground – the campus. I was pleased as pickles: a special bike line, important like, right in the middle of the main drag (University Ave)!
And look, I said: it continues on the little highway called Campus Drive! Man, this downtown stuff is cool! Good bye bike lanes, hello an urban existence!
But then, LO! It’s gone! Right there, in the middle of Campus Drive, the bike lane has disappeared! I had to think quick, take Nina by the ass and made her do a sharp turn off the drive toward the hospital, where we picked up roads and byways all the way to the Shorewood area.
The rest is history. I was out of breath, there was a bump, no warning, just like that, she wanted to turn, I missed the beat and threw her. I stood off to the side sulking (she got all the attention) as doctors and trained people with sirens and flashing lights emerged out of nowhere (the Shorewood factor, she tells me). I wasn’t even asked to help her home. Someone perched me on top of their van and gave Nina the comfy inside seat (the Madison=everyone-helps factor, she tells me).
Before signing off, I wanted to tell you high-ups that I think you treat bike lanes poorly as compared to regular traffic lanes. When I was scooting with her on U Ave, man those ditches, real DITCHES I tell you, many inches deep and wide, every couple of paces – WOOMP, and another and another: that’s just unreal. No wonder my nerves were frazzled and my rubber lost some its punch. I was made years older today.
Nina – she seems bouncy if not totally sprightly. That peasant stock line again. She has sprains and bruises but she, kind soul, is showing no ill feelings. She even took me out for an afternoon latte. True, she could not hold on to the cup well (embarrassing the both of us), but we managed the back and forth trip alright (between you and me, she’s a little off balance, but hey, at least she’s still kickin’. Or rather splashing, since I just saw her crawl up to soak in the bathtub).
Sincerely,
Mr. B
(a proper subject heading might be:) For whom the Bell…
My sympathy for your loss of Mr. Bell…
Was it Bianchi’s fault? Infatuation is a dangerous thing.
Comment from the sidelines (i.e. Mr. Bianchi chimes in – I am merely transcribing his thoughts; I know him that well):
Dear high-ups who make all the important decisions in this town, like about road stuff:
Cut us a break already. Today, Nina took me for a tour of the downtown. She was looking at some old warehouses there (her ideas come from who knows where) and she took me along for the ride. Never mind that the warehouses were along pebbly lanes (see photo below) that caused me severe nerve damage and rubber attrition. I’m not that young anymore.
Then she spun me around her stomping ground – the campus. I was pleased as pickles: a special bike line, important like, right in the middle of the main drag (University Ave)!
And look, I said: it continues on the little highway called Campus Drive! Man, this downtown stuff is cool! Good bye bike lanes, hello an urban existence!
But then, LO! It’s gone! Right there, in the middle of Campus Drive, the bike lane has disappeared! I had to think quick, take Nina by the ass and made her do a sharp turn off the drive toward the hospital, where we picked up roads and byways all the way to the Shorewood area.
The rest is history. I was out of breath, there was a bump, no warning, just like that, she wanted to turn, I missed the beat and threw her. I stood off to the side sulking (she got all the attention) as doctors and trained people with sirens and flashing lights emerged out of nowhere (the Shorewood factor, she tells me). I wasn’t even asked to help her home. Someone perched me on top of their van and gave Nina the comfy inside seat (the Madison=everyone-helps factor, she tells me).
Before signing off, I wanted to tell you high-ups that I think you treat bike lanes poorly as compared to regular traffic lanes. When I was scooting with her on U Ave, man those ditches, real DITCHES I tell you, many inches deep and wide, every couple of paces – WOOMP, and another and another: that’s just unreal. No wonder my nerves were frazzled and my rubber lost some its punch. I was made years older today.
Nina – she seems bouncy if not totally sprightly. That peasant stock line again. She has sprains and bruises but she, kind soul, is showing no ill feelings. She even took me out for an afternoon latte. True, she could not hold on to the cup well (embarrassing the both of us), but we managed the back and forth trip alright (between you and me, she’s a little off balance, but hey, at least she’s still kickin’. Or rather splashing, since I just saw her crawl up to soak in the bathtub).
Sincerely,
Mr. B
posted by nina, 6/22/2005 04:25:00 PM
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Mr. B waits while I look downtown at Madison's old tobacco warehouses
posted by nina, 6/22/2005 04:16:51 PM
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A brief (because my typing hand hurts) ode to Mr. Bell
I know you well
My stunning Bell!
On a ride from hell
I up and fell
And lived to tell
This story well.
My head wont swell
Thanks to my Bell.
Thanks, Mr. Bell. I’m sorry that my gain is your loss. You do look awfully beat up. So do I, but I expect to be in good form soon enough whereas you – I’m afraid I’ll have to find a replacement. But here’s a photo of you from just a few days ago when you were looking mighty fine. Please know that I’ll always remember you. You saved my life.
love,
Nina
p.s. Now I know what you're thinking. Given what I wrote before, I was probably not cautious enough, it was my fault, bla bla bla. Not true. I was going slowly and encountered a bump in the road. Mr. B. could not handle it and threw me. I think I need to better understand Mr. B's limitations. He's kind of quirky sometimes. Now I know. BTW, he and I are still friends, really we are. No one's perfect.
My stunning Bell!
On a ride from hell
I up and fell
And lived to tell
This story well.
My head wont swell
Thanks to my Bell.
Thanks, Mr. Bell. I’m sorry that my gain is your loss. You do look awfully beat up. So do I, but I expect to be in good form soon enough whereas you – I’m afraid I’ll have to find a replacement. But here’s a photo of you from just a few days ago when you were looking mighty fine. Please know that I’ll always remember you. You saved my life.
love,
Nina
p.s. Now I know what you're thinking. Given what I wrote before, I was probably not cautious enough, it was my fault, bla bla bla. Not true. I was going slowly and encountered a bump in the road. Mr. B. could not handle it and threw me. I think I need to better understand Mr. B's limitations. He's kind of quirky sometimes. Now I know. BTW, he and I are still friends, really we are. No one's perfect.
posted by nina, 6/22/2005 01:45:00 PM
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my hero (not the latte, Mr. Bell)
posted by nina, 6/22/2005 01:44:07 PM
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Tuesday, June 21, 2005
My summer vacation: essay written on the first rather than the last day of summer.
Let’s pretend I suddenly lost all writing skills. Let me rephrase that: the pretense has to be in the fact that I do have them but then am managing to disguise them well tonight in order to act like one who does not.
So let me give a brief synopsis of My Summer Thus Far:
The Daily Show was very funny.
Or was it that I was in the mood for it to be funny?
It was warm outside but I managed to not use the AC.
Who needs the AC anyway.
At work, I tidied up loose ends from the previous semester. [This was MONUMENTAL! Yay me!]
I cooked dinner for a change.
I walked in the morning, I walked in the evening, I biked in the afternoon.
I missed the full moon.
But my day was full.
The summer is a good season: it allows you to move forward in ways that winter would not.
So let me give a brief synopsis of My Summer Thus Far:
The Daily Show was very funny.
Or was it that I was in the mood for it to be funny?
It was warm outside but I managed to not use the AC.
Who needs the AC anyway.
At work, I tidied up loose ends from the previous semester. [This was MONUMENTAL! Yay me!]
I cooked dinner for a change.
I walked in the morning, I walked in the evening, I biked in the afternoon.
I missed the full moon.
But my day was full.
The summer is a good season: it allows you to move forward in ways that winter would not.
posted by nina, 6/21/2005 10:15:00 PM
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A sign that had “Nina and Mr. B” written all over it
A friend passed this on, straight off of someone’s bike rack:
"Faster faster until the fear of death is overcome by the thrill of speed"
Yeah, I’d say that’s a pretty good way of looking at our current movements around town.
"Faster faster until the fear of death is overcome by the thrill of speed"
Yeah, I’d say that’s a pretty good way of looking at our current movements around town.
posted by nina, 6/21/2005 12:25:00 PM
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Motivation
I have heard so many talk about it lately: are you motivated to work steadily, clean up your space, eat less, exercise more, meet new people? Are you motivated? Well are you? Work on it, damn it!
It sounds like a nightmarish rendition of New Year’s Resolutions. Resolve, resolve! Work, discipline, perseverance, determination. A Manifesto! That’s it, a Manifesto for a Better Life!
Better life.
Me, I want to learn to let go, to not be so charged and damn motivated. To think of a day where I accomplished nothing much and went to bed not buzzing or spinning as a good day. To not make to do lists, to work through projects methodically without rush or even much thought. Because most (I admit, not all) projects are rather low-pressure and are well served by insouciance rather than a mad rush of adrenaline. Oh, to not feel anguished and pained at the thought of a week ahead of me! To keep the windows open on the first day of summer and just listen to the sounds out there. And think they’re beautiful. And think about nothing more, for long stretches of time. Hours maybe.
Okay, I got that last thing going now. I’m motivated to work on the rest.
It sounds like a nightmarish rendition of New Year’s Resolutions. Resolve, resolve! Work, discipline, perseverance, determination. A Manifesto! That’s it, a Manifesto for a Better Life!
Better life.
Me, I want to learn to let go, to not be so charged and damn motivated. To think of a day where I accomplished nothing much and went to bed not buzzing or spinning as a good day. To not make to do lists, to work through projects methodically without rush or even much thought. Because most (I admit, not all) projects are rather low-pressure and are well served by insouciance rather than a mad rush of adrenaline. Oh, to not feel anguished and pained at the thought of a week ahead of me! To keep the windows open on the first day of summer and just listen to the sounds out there. And think they’re beautiful. And think about nothing more, for long stretches of time. Hours maybe.
Okay, I got that last thing going now. I’m motivated to work on the rest.
posted by nina, 6/21/2005 12:15:00 PM
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Monday, June 20, 2005
tlc
Would you eat a whole box of TLC crackers just because you liked the name? I would.
posted by nina, 6/20/2005 11:45:00 PM
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my pals
posted by nina, 6/20/2005 11:38:13 PM
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Bianchi and me, we're getting a little carried away with our passion for each other
Okay, I think I am getting too bold on the bike. I think I ought to wear a bike seatbelt or something. I think I should not be making left turns from busy six lane roads and darting between cars at full speed. Stop me from being a jackass on wheels!
I am a careful driver. So why this defiance, given that I now have two fewer wheels to support and sustain me? Why this feeling of power on the road when I should be cowering and trembling? There are some mean looking SUVs out there and I know they basically have one goal in life and that is to do me in right there on the road. So why am I these days not scared of them? Of traffic? Of life? Why do I feel a special bond and camaraderie with fellow cyclists, wanting to high-five them each time we obstruct traffic with our presence and make life miserable for those wanting to effortlessly speed home in their damn machines?
All those drivers, polluters, spoiled air conditioning addicts – they are suddenly them and the bikers and I, we are us, a fellowship of man woman and spinning wheels. Yeah!
Still, I am putting a little post-it on the handlebars as a little prod: fearlessness gets people in trouble. I should remember how much I hated cyclists like myself just two weeks ago. Road hogs, I used to mutter. Find a bike trail and leave me alone. Of course, that was then. Two weeks can make a new person out of you. Really. One small event -- a bike, a phone call and you're a different you. Pull over, cars, that right lane is now mine, damn it, mine!
I am a careful driver. So why this defiance, given that I now have two fewer wheels to support and sustain me? Why this feeling of power on the road when I should be cowering and trembling? There are some mean looking SUVs out there and I know they basically have one goal in life and that is to do me in right there on the road. So why am I these days not scared of them? Of traffic? Of life? Why do I feel a special bond and camaraderie with fellow cyclists, wanting to high-five them each time we obstruct traffic with our presence and make life miserable for those wanting to effortlessly speed home in their damn machines?
All those drivers, polluters, spoiled air conditioning addicts – they are suddenly them and the bikers and I, we are us, a fellowship of man woman and spinning wheels. Yeah!
Still, I am putting a little post-it on the handlebars as a little prod: fearlessness gets people in trouble. I should remember how much I hated cyclists like myself just two weeks ago. Road hogs, I used to mutter. Find a bike trail and leave me alone. Of course, that was then. Two weeks can make a new person out of you. Really. One small event -- a bike, a phone call and you're a different you. Pull over, cars, that right lane is now mine, damn it, mine!
posted by nina, 6/20/2005 04:45:00 PM
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the sweet smell of relief and vindication
There is this service out there (for every need, real or imagined, there is a service provider) that comes over and attends to things you’ve neglected in and around your house. As it was gently suggested to me last Friday that my yard and roof need some tlc, I called them and they came dashing over (the big thing about them is that they are like the Roto-Rooter Man – they come out immediately, like your life depended on it).
They walked, looked, poked, inspected. I sweated it out. You just feel so helpless: you start thinking that you truly are a worthless human being who rides Mr. B out west instead of attending to gutters and branches on a regular basis.
Finally, their verdict, delivered slowly but emphatically:
Ma’am (it’s better than miss, alright?) you don’t need the roof edging replaced. Just trimmed. Should take no time. As to the yard: leave it alone. The flowers are great. If someone doesn’t like your densely planted flowers, then they wont like them. But I wouldn’t touch a thing outside. Maybe trim a bush or two, that’s it.
God, I love service providers who tell you you don’t really need much of their service!
Just goes to show that one person’s jungle is another’s Eden, right? Admittedly, I did let things slide a little outside, but I am reassured that I’ve kept at it enough not to make eyes bulge as people drive by (I’m in the suburbs; people don’t walk much in the suburbs – too folksy, I guess).
Inspired, I went to the city park and loaded up on free mulch: your cuttings, pulverized to shredded garden garbage, to be applied now as dressing to my… sweet, dense jungle.
They walked, looked, poked, inspected. I sweated it out. You just feel so helpless: you start thinking that you truly are a worthless human being who rides Mr. B out west instead of attending to gutters and branches on a regular basis.
Finally, their verdict, delivered slowly but emphatically:
Ma’am (it’s better than miss, alright?) you don’t need the roof edging replaced. Just trimmed. Should take no time. As to the yard: leave it alone. The flowers are great. If someone doesn’t like your densely planted flowers, then they wont like them. But I wouldn’t touch a thing outside. Maybe trim a bush or two, that’s it.
God, I love service providers who tell you you don’t really need much of their service!
Just goes to show that one person’s jungle is another’s Eden, right? Admittedly, I did let things slide a little outside, but I am reassured that I’ve kept at it enough not to make eyes bulge as people drive by (I’m in the suburbs; people don’t walk much in the suburbs – too folksy, I guess).
Inspired, I went to the city park and loaded up on free mulch: your cuttings, pulverized to shredded garden garbage, to be applied now as dressing to my… sweet, dense jungle.
posted by nina, 6/20/2005 12:45:00 PM
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beautiful, right?
posted by nina, 6/20/2005 12:42:38 PM
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Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine*
Which day in the calendar stands out for a northerner? Which one has “revel” written all over it? Which one has you in an apoplectic state toward the third week of December, because it seems So Very Far Away?
Obviously it’s tomorrow. Summer solstice (this year it happens on June 21st, early in the morning). When daylight (in Madison) will stretch luxuriously for 15 hours and 23 minutes (with visible light extending for 16 hours and 34 minutes).
Full moon tomorrow. A long hot day. Windows open. Breezes making their way through, from one end of the house to the other.
Midsummer. Dreamy, crazy midsummer.
*Shakespeare: Midsummer Night's Dream
Obviously it’s tomorrow. Summer solstice (this year it happens on June 21st, early in the morning). When daylight (in Madison) will stretch luxuriously for 15 hours and 23 minutes (with visible light extending for 16 hours and 34 minutes).
Full moon tomorrow. A long hot day. Windows open. Breezes making their way through, from one end of the house to the other.
Midsummer. Dreamy, crazy midsummer.
*Shakespeare: Midsummer Night's Dream
posted by nina, 6/20/2005 09:30:00 AM
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this morning's rose: color so intense, it radiates
posted by nina, 6/20/2005 09:23:29 AM
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Sunday, June 19, 2005
I feel better: my yard is less chaotic than Owen Woods
So here’s what happened: on Friday, I had a visitor who was here specifically to give feedback on how I was managing the upkeep of the house. His words: the yard looks like you are a woman in despair. You need to hire someone [translate: at a minimum of $40 an hour] to help you deal with it.
It stunned me. I mean, here I’d been trying to stay on top of things and I got this slap: woman, you are a failure! You talk big about perennials and plants but your yard looks so overgrown that even rabbits are staying away for fear of losing their way in the jungle that you call a garden.
Crap. Something needed to be done. First, I hovered under my quilt (this is my response to pretty much anything problematic these days). Then I took B out for a spin. Then came the walk in Owen Woods. Finally, as dusk was turning into darkness, I took the shears to my yard and started hacking away. I made progress. It now needs 9 people with 49 hours and extra sharp shears and blades to take care of it. But I feel complete. Like my coping skills are no longer subject to challenge.
It stunned me. I mean, here I’d been trying to stay on top of things and I got this slap: woman, you are a failure! You talk big about perennials and plants but your yard looks so overgrown that even rabbits are staying away for fear of losing their way in the jungle that you call a garden.
Crap. Something needed to be done. First, I hovered under my quilt (this is my response to pretty much anything problematic these days). Then I took B out for a spin. Then came the walk in Owen Woods. Finally, as dusk was turning into darkness, I took the shears to my yard and started hacking away. I made progress. It now needs 9 people with 49 hours and extra sharp shears and blades to take care of it. But I feel complete. Like my coping skills are no longer subject to challenge.
posted by nina, 6/19/2005 10:15:00 PM
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Owen Woods at dusk
posted by nina, 6/19/2005 10:12:18 PM
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my front garden: you know, all those green stalks will eventually produce blooms. just you wait.
posted by nina, 6/19/2005 10:10:59 PM
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What was I thinking – first in a series of posts indicating that I basically have lost the ability to draw inferences of the sort: if A, then B.
Here’s a story from last night which, if not offering definitive evidence of the above, certainly is suggestive that my brain has crossed wires and unsound connections within:
In the early evening I biked over to Rowley Street (maybe a half hour away, toward downtown Madison). I intended to drop in on a get together of sorts, even though I knew only a small number of people in attendance. And because I knew only a small number of people in attendance, I thought I would surely drop out pretty quickly. And bike home. With maybe a stop over at a blogger’s house, because she appears to be okay with drop-bys and she lives near there.
It didn’t happen. Turns out there were four people who, in their second (or first?) lives played guitars very very well, and one who played harmonicas very very well and as night set in, the Beatles songs accompanied by multiple guitars came forth and people sang and ate and yes, drank beer and – this is a new one for me – organic cigarettes were passed around and although I did try a puff so that I could later brag that I’ll try anything as long as it’s legal, I wasn’t much into the smoking. But I am a sucker for people singing together, outside, late at night and so it was close to midnight before I left.
But wait, what was I thinking? If A, then B. If you take your bike out late at night to a gathering on the other side of town, then you have to imagine yourself capable of riding it back. I did attach a nice little cateye to Mr. B, so I was fairly certain I could see the road, but others thought I was insane to be riding the hilly roads at midnight.
I retorted that at midnight the roads are emptier than at noon and besides I can always hop on the sidewalk if I feel uncertain. I read the rules for bike riders, I know what is permissible. At which point someone said that the alcohol limits are placed on bikers as well and of course they are correct, but I had been doing more singing than drinking so I felt I was safe there.
What got me finally was someone’s description of what it’s like to ride on the sidewalk at night with even just one beer under your belt: you feel every bump even if you do not see it. It’ll knock your insides out.
So I caved. Which was okay. Someone took me and my bike home and during that car ride I found out that they sailed regularly and so out of the evening I got a lot of Beatles, some promises of joint bike trips from those who were boggled (not necessarily in a good way) by my determination and at least one sailing adventure, if I promised to work the ropes, or whatever it is that one does on sailboats.
If I were to summarize the evening in one sentence, I would say that it reminded me a lot of my earlier trip peddling west: I sang and sang and talked out of some kind of desperation, hoping that something would snap and then I could just glide and be done with it. I can’t say that anything snapped and I certainly did not glide in any shape or fashion, but the process of peddling and/or singing feels better than staying home under a quilt – which is the way I had spent the first half of the day.
In the early evening I biked over to Rowley Street (maybe a half hour away, toward downtown Madison). I intended to drop in on a get together of sorts, even though I knew only a small number of people in attendance. And because I knew only a small number of people in attendance, I thought I would surely drop out pretty quickly. And bike home. With maybe a stop over at a blogger’s house, because she appears to be okay with drop-bys and she lives near there.
It didn’t happen. Turns out there were four people who, in their second (or first?) lives played guitars very very well, and one who played harmonicas very very well and as night set in, the Beatles songs accompanied by multiple guitars came forth and people sang and ate and yes, drank beer and – this is a new one for me – organic cigarettes were passed around and although I did try a puff so that I could later brag that I’ll try anything as long as it’s legal, I wasn’t much into the smoking. But I am a sucker for people singing together, outside, late at night and so it was close to midnight before I left.
But wait, what was I thinking? If A, then B. If you take your bike out late at night to a gathering on the other side of town, then you have to imagine yourself capable of riding it back. I did attach a nice little cateye to Mr. B, so I was fairly certain I could see the road, but others thought I was insane to be riding the hilly roads at midnight.
I retorted that at midnight the roads are emptier than at noon and besides I can always hop on the sidewalk if I feel uncertain. I read the rules for bike riders, I know what is permissible. At which point someone said that the alcohol limits are placed on bikers as well and of course they are correct, but I had been doing more singing than drinking so I felt I was safe there.
What got me finally was someone’s description of what it’s like to ride on the sidewalk at night with even just one beer under your belt: you feel every bump even if you do not see it. It’ll knock your insides out.
So I caved. Which was okay. Someone took me and my bike home and during that car ride I found out that they sailed regularly and so out of the evening I got a lot of Beatles, some promises of joint bike trips from those who were boggled (not necessarily in a good way) by my determination and at least one sailing adventure, if I promised to work the ropes, or whatever it is that one does on sailboats.
If I were to summarize the evening in one sentence, I would say that it reminded me a lot of my earlier trip peddling west: I sang and sang and talked out of some kind of desperation, hoping that something would snap and then I could just glide and be done with it. I can’t say that anything snapped and I certainly did not glide in any shape or fashion, but the process of peddling and/or singing feels better than staying home under a quilt – which is the way I had spent the first half of the day.
posted by nina, 6/19/2005 10:55:00 AM
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Saturday, June 18, 2005
How far?
Letters I wish I could write:
To someone far away --
Remember last year at this same time when you shared a song with me? When you, in your life out there somewhere had been listening to How Far and decided that I may enjoy it and I did, only I am such a music baby that anytime I hear a plaintive voice, I get too choked up?
And to another --
Remember when last year we listened to Pokarekare Ana on a blanket outside? And how you did not know then that you’d be hearing it in New Zealand a year later? And that I’d be composing imaginary letters on Ocean? Because one just cannot know these things and I am basically your terrible predictor anyway. So much so that I am prone to asking others about what they think next year or the year after will look like, because I typically have no idea and in my Polish angst about each day, I always assume that by tomorrow life will topple and I will find myself wasting away in some state of discombobulation in a Benedictine abbey in southern Italy, or, horrors of horrors, digging ditches in a Russian kolkhoz with a burly фермер standing over me telling me to dig harder.
How far, how far do we go each day, how far did you travel? Did I?
Today I took the bike out and, in a straight line, headed west. Everyone talks of doing that. Driving, running, without stopping, until you run out of steam, breath, or gas. Well what if you biked? How far can you go before you encounter the first corn field? Farmland that rolls onto itself with no end in sight? A red stable with horses? The end of the road?
The thing is, however far you take yourself, you always have to figure out a way to get back. Leave yourself enough gas, or, with a bike – enough energy to peddle those hills again and head home.
To someone far away --
Remember last year at this same time when you shared a song with me? When you, in your life out there somewhere had been listening to How Far and decided that I may enjoy it and I did, only I am such a music baby that anytime I hear a plaintive voice, I get too choked up?
And to another --
Remember when last year we listened to Pokarekare Ana on a blanket outside? And how you did not know then that you’d be hearing it in New Zealand a year later? And that I’d be composing imaginary letters on Ocean? Because one just cannot know these things and I am basically your terrible predictor anyway. So much so that I am prone to asking others about what they think next year or the year after will look like, because I typically have no idea and in my Polish angst about each day, I always assume that by tomorrow life will topple and I will find myself wasting away in some state of discombobulation in a Benedictine abbey in southern Italy, or, horrors of horrors, digging ditches in a Russian kolkhoz with a burly фермер standing over me telling me to dig harder.
How far, how far do we go each day, how far did you travel? Did I?
Today I took the bike out and, in a straight line, headed west. Everyone talks of doing that. Driving, running, without stopping, until you run out of steam, breath, or gas. Well what if you biked? How far can you go before you encounter the first corn field? Farmland that rolls onto itself with no end in sight? A red stable with horses? The end of the road?
The thing is, however far you take yourself, you always have to figure out a way to get back. Leave yourself enough gas, or, with a bike – enough energy to peddle those hills again and head home.
posted by nina, 6/18/2005 05:30:00 PM
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The first cornfield these days is many miles out... twenty-six years ago, when we first moved to Madison, our apartment looked out onto a cornfield -- an interesting experience after south Chicago.
posted by nina, 6/18/2005 05:23:03 PM
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right away you notice the quiet...
posted by nina, 6/18/2005 05:20:07 PM
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oh, a visitor, all the way out here! let me trot over and check her out.
posted by nina, 6/18/2005 05:19:12 PM
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Ocean author reaches out to horse. Hey horse, did anyone ever tell you that you sort of look like a donkey?
posted by nina, 6/18/2005 05:18:00 PM
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the end of the road.
posted by nina, 6/18/2005 05:16:36 PM
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Holding a hand
I was in Paris a year ago, waiting to cross the street and I looked up to see this small scene. My camera was out and so before the light changed, I took the picture. Today I remembered it. Oh, that look on the man’s face! The girl seemed a little sad as well. But he – he had all those additional years of haunted worry. The look comes through just a little on the photo here:
posted by nina, 6/18/2005 11:55:00 AM
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if only...
posted by nina, 6/18/2005 11:50:48 AM
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This morning, I was imagining the course of a simple conversation between a mother and a child, one that all parents have at somepoints, many points, in one form or another, and as I was thinking of it, I remembered another photo – one that I took last month on a Warsaw playground. Here are both, the imagined conversation and the photo:
Mommy, what’s a cloud?
It’s a bunch of tiny droplets of water and ice, suspended in the air…
Oh. Why is it covering the sun?
It has to do with the wind and the movement of air. Imagine it being pushed and pushed until it can’t help but cover the sun.
Can you unpush it? Can you make it go away?
No, I cannot.
How about my sore knee from when I fell down because someone pushed me on the playground, can you make it go away?
No, I cannot.
Mean people, mashed turnips..
I can probably do something about the turnips…
But mean people, bullies that push you?
No, I cannot. Listen, I can’t even make the weeds go away in my front garden. Look at it: It is a jungle. Out of control! It would take ten strong people with fifty long hours and shovels and shears and who knows what else to make this yard look pretty again.
I don’t care about the yard. I want you to make the tiny droplets of water and ice go away.
I cannot do that.
Mommy, what’s a cloud?
It’s a bunch of tiny droplets of water and ice, suspended in the air…
Oh. Why is it covering the sun?
It has to do with the wind and the movement of air. Imagine it being pushed and pushed until it can’t help but cover the sun.
Can you unpush it? Can you make it go away?
No, I cannot.
How about my sore knee from when I fell down because someone pushed me on the playground, can you make it go away?
No, I cannot.
Mean people, mashed turnips..
I can probably do something about the turnips…
But mean people, bullies that push you?
No, I cannot. Listen, I can’t even make the weeds go away in my front garden. Look at it: It is a jungle. Out of control! It would take ten strong people with fifty long hours and shovels and shears and who knows what else to make this yard look pretty again.
I don’t care about the yard. I want you to make the tiny droplets of water and ice go away.
I cannot do that.
posted by nina, 6/18/2005 11:45:00 AM
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On a Warsaw playground: tangled up in ropes
posted by nina, 6/18/2005 11:05:00 AM
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Friday, June 17, 2005
To be blunt
In an interesting development, I went to the movies tonight with neighborhood friends, but could not really actually make myself go in through the movie door. This had never happened to me before. Typically I see a door – I go through it.
We had been eating dinner earlier and I knew it was coming – that inability to go through the door. So I left.
One person in this group said to me -- I know how it is about doors and June 15ths, so you go right ahead and return home and I’ll check on your attitude about doors after the movie.
As my earlier post indicated, I think, I did not much like June 15th. Something happened on that day that was perhaps the lowest of low points for me. I cannot explain it now, but someone told me later that they would analogize it to seeing your name spelled out on a gravestone. I think that is an apt characterization.
My previous post was meant to correct the impression that this week (and especially June 15th) has been calm. I have a handful of people living far away whom I care about deeply who should not think that the days flew by in some kind of enchanting bike ride, with a tickled tattoo and a smile at Bluephies. The post below was really, more than anything, for them.
How to write… kep said it well when he reflected how Ocean seems to convey an over-simplification of a mood sometimes (a friend emailed me this thought as well recently, even as I really mean for Ocean to be more bland these days). I suppose I am more frightened than ever of conveying something incorrectly. Still, I remain vague. I have been variously told by so many now that I am being oblique, elliptical, etc. I’m sorry – I do not know how else to write. It is my way.
We had been eating dinner earlier and I knew it was coming – that inability to go through the door. So I left.
One person in this group said to me -- I know how it is about doors and June 15ths, so you go right ahead and return home and I’ll check on your attitude about doors after the movie.
As my earlier post indicated, I think, I did not much like June 15th. Something happened on that day that was perhaps the lowest of low points for me. I cannot explain it now, but someone told me later that they would analogize it to seeing your name spelled out on a gravestone. I think that is an apt characterization.
My previous post was meant to correct the impression that this week (and especially June 15th) has been calm. I have a handful of people living far away whom I care about deeply who should not think that the days flew by in some kind of enchanting bike ride, with a tickled tattoo and a smile at Bluephies. The post below was really, more than anything, for them.
How to write… kep said it well when he reflected how Ocean seems to convey an over-simplification of a mood sometimes (a friend emailed me this thought as well recently, even as I really mean for Ocean to be more bland these days). I suppose I am more frightened than ever of conveying something incorrectly. Still, I remain vague. I have been variously told by so many now that I am being oblique, elliptical, etc. I’m sorry – I do not know how else to write. It is my way.
posted by nina, 6/17/2005 11:25:00 PM
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How well do you know your Ocean blogger?
A quiz, to test how closely you’ve been tracking this blog (or perhaps how tedious it has become to barrel through it ever since kep left and I took up with B) (correct answers are highlighted for the clueless):
1. which photo from today creates the perfect image of where I am at:
1. which photo from today creates the perfect image of where I am at:
posted by nina, 6/17/2005 05:15:00 PM
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a. this one (in my backyard so bright, cheerful, smiley, so... ??)
posted by nina, 6/17/2005 05:08:00 PM
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b. this one (I keep it in my office year-round. today it just looked so ... me)
posted by nina, 6/17/2005 05:06:00 PM
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2. which June 15 is my favorite ever, of all time?
a. 2005
b. some June 15 between 1953 and 2004
3. how many Poles does it take to drink a whole bottle of wine in one evening?
a. Poles prefer vodka
b. one
4. if I were to look out front, what would I see?
a. a beautifully kept up front yard with perennials springing forth in rapid succession
b. something that someone described today as a nightmare, or jungle or maybe it was a disaster, tended to by a person who has basically given up.
5. which word best describes my mood these days:
a. lugubrious
b. sprightly
a. 2005
b. some June 15 between 1953 and 2004
3. how many Poles does it take to drink a whole bottle of wine in one evening?
a. Poles prefer vodka
b. one
4. if I were to look out front, what would I see?
a. a beautifully kept up front yard with perennials springing forth in rapid succession
b. something that someone described today as a nightmare, or jungle or maybe it was a disaster, tended to by a person who has basically given up.
5. which word best describes my mood these days:
a. lugubrious
b. sprightly
posted by nina, 6/17/2005 04:55:00 PM
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Thursday, June 16, 2005
So where am I and what am I doing?
The nice thing about this world is that when you ask for time from these particular* friends, they deliver.
But Cosmos be damned. I’m on safer ground here.
* yes yes, others too -- you know who you are!
But Cosmos be damned. I’m on safer ground here.
* yes yes, others too -- you know who you are!
posted by nina, 6/16/2005 11:05:00 PM
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blue at Bluephies
posted by nina, 6/16/2005 10:59:14 PM
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Limp evidence
Men? Prefer impotence to lack of hair? It is so stated. Check it out here.
But I don’t buy it. Faulty data, I say. Here, I’ll give you an example from today that to me clearly illustrates that sex, good sex, the desire for it and worries about it are always hovering, threatening to intrude on Life As We Know It.
B and I went out late this afternoon, as promised, all the way down to his old hang out place…I was happy just to stay to the sidelines. I had taken some work with me so that B wouldn’t worry about me being bored while he went in for his fix of the good life. After a short while, I felt nudged in a direction where some items were on display. It was as if B was telling me – here go ahead, check out this. So I looked.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In our outings together, I was dreamily wrapped in my images of our togetherness, as breezes played gently with my tattoo. B on the other hand, was callously thinking about my rear-end all along (see photo below).
But I don’t buy it. Faulty data, I say. Here, I’ll give you an example from today that to me clearly illustrates that sex, good sex, the desire for it and worries about it are always hovering, threatening to intrude on Life As We Know It.
B and I went out late this afternoon, as promised, all the way down to his old hang out place…I was happy just to stay to the sidelines. I had taken some work with me so that B wouldn’t worry about me being bored while he went in for his fix of the good life. After a short while, I felt nudged in a direction where some items were on display. It was as if B was telling me – here go ahead, check out this. So I looked.
I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. In our outings together, I was dreamily wrapped in my images of our togetherness, as breezes played gently with my tattoo. B on the other hand, was callously thinking about my rear-end all along (see photo below).
posted by nina, 6/16/2005 10:55:00 PM
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butt-r: it's all about making the butt smoother
posted by nina, 6/16/2005 10:52:16 PM
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Postcard from the edge
Today I received a postcard from someone whom I care about, but who has demonstrated an intermittent kind of interest in our dealings with each other over the years, oftentimes being absent and unavailable, when I really would have appreciated consistency and concern (no, no, ms. sometimes-smart-ass-herself, it’s not your card and most certainly it’s not you!).
And I thought: how cool is that! I’m reading it again and again and I am really touched by it. It's so expressive! It 's so sweet! It's so easy to forget all those months of quiet! I see the postcard and at least for now, I am floored, in the best of ways.
It seems to me that even a longtime pattern of bad conduct should readily be obliterated if good conduct suddenly appeared, out of nowhere. Really, that is as it should be.
And conversely, a recent act of perceived bad conduct should not obliterate a history of care and concern. It should not even make a dent.
That is as it should be. That is as it should be. But most often, that is not the way it is.
And I thought: how cool is that! I’m reading it again and again and I am really touched by it. It's so expressive! It 's so sweet! It's so easy to forget all those months of quiet! I see the postcard and at least for now, I am floored, in the best of ways.
It seems to me that even a longtime pattern of bad conduct should readily be obliterated if good conduct suddenly appeared, out of nowhere. Really, that is as it should be.
And conversely, a recent act of perceived bad conduct should not obliterate a history of care and concern. It should not even make a dent.
That is as it should be. That is as it should be. But most often, that is not the way it is.
posted by nina, 6/16/2005 02:50:00 PM
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A tale of two cities, birds and houses
As if I haven’t written enough about my feelings toward Warsaw and Krakow, I yet again encountered the phenomenon of deep Warsaw derision and so here I am, returning to what would appear to be a beaten horse: why bother going to Warsaw, when you've got Krakow just three hours away?
Most conversations of this sort run like this. Incredibly dense person: Warsaw doesn’t tempt me at all. Me: have you ever been there? Incredibly dense person: No, and I wont go there because it sucks.
After this kind of provocative (if not especially evocative) statement, I am then typically offered a fistful of irrelevant reasons for the opinion, ranging from: Prague is cooler, to Krakow is prettier – all statements about places other than Warsaw herself.
I suppose, at this point, my desire to engage in the debate of whether one can see Krakow and let that be the end of one’s sojourn in Poland has been sucked out of me and so now I mostly just say profound things like “oh really” and “is that so.”
For me it’s like these two birds that I brought home this time (see photo below). I have all sorts of beautiful birds on my window sill in my office and these guys will soon join them in some manner of pomp and ceremony. One is called Warsaw and the other Krakow (for the dumb reason that each came from their named city). Note that Krakow is the looker. But when I stand them side by side, I'm remembering something else. The little one charmed me on a rainy day where you had to look beyond the clouds to find anything to smile about. The dazzling rooster – I got him under brilliant sunny skies, but it was a blah moment. I walked in, saw the very real prettiness of Mr. Krakow and whammo, the bird was mine.
Is it possible for the less splendid to take on a glamour of its own? For a smaller, lesser house, for example, to rise above the big and beautiful counterpart? Sure. Getting beyond the door helps. Listening to its story adds value. A city square, a bird, a house – they are nothing but visual props, right? They jog the memory, they create a context and help us think about what’s inside, that’s all.
Most conversations of this sort run like this. Incredibly dense person: Warsaw doesn’t tempt me at all. Me: have you ever been there? Incredibly dense person: No, and I wont go there because it sucks.
After this kind of provocative (if not especially evocative) statement, I am then typically offered a fistful of irrelevant reasons for the opinion, ranging from: Prague is cooler, to Krakow is prettier – all statements about places other than Warsaw herself.
I suppose, at this point, my desire to engage in the debate of whether one can see Krakow and let that be the end of one’s sojourn in Poland has been sucked out of me and so now I mostly just say profound things like “oh really” and “is that so.”
For me it’s like these two birds that I brought home this time (see photo below). I have all sorts of beautiful birds on my window sill in my office and these guys will soon join them in some manner of pomp and ceremony. One is called Warsaw and the other Krakow (for the dumb reason that each came from their named city). Note that Krakow is the looker. But when I stand them side by side, I'm remembering something else. The little one charmed me on a rainy day where you had to look beyond the clouds to find anything to smile about. The dazzling rooster – I got him under brilliant sunny skies, but it was a blah moment. I walked in, saw the very real prettiness of Mr. Krakow and whammo, the bird was mine.
Is it possible for the less splendid to take on a glamour of its own? For a smaller, lesser house, for example, to rise above the big and beautiful counterpart? Sure. Getting beyond the door helps. Listening to its story adds value. A city square, a bird, a house – they are nothing but visual props, right? They jog the memory, they create a context and help us think about what’s inside, that’s all.
posted by nina, 6/16/2005 07:35:00 AM
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props
posted by nina, 6/16/2005 07:30:00 AM
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Wednesday, June 15, 2005
For where no hope is left, is left no fear, pt.2
No, the previous post is not meant to be a statement about losing hope in all things that matter and plunging ahead now without fear given this great loss of hope in life. It is about… writing. You can go ahead and read additional stuff into it if you want, but if I wished to place that kind of subtext into it, then I would do it way more elliptically than that. I would not, for example, put the Milton quote right into the heading. That would be too obvious for me, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t it?
posted by nina, 6/15/2005 01:00:00 PM
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For where no hope is left, is left no fear
If John Milton has it right, then I should (fearlessly) plunge into the (hopeless) world of writing. Not blog writing. Real writing.
I admit it: in the back of the head there is this idea that “someday I will really write.” Like, sit down and eek out a novel, for example.
Last night, however, any hope of ever becoming one of the greats (meaning: someone who actually does produce a text) was seriously shaken.
It happened at Borders. B and I took a run down in the evening to listen to Karen Fowler talk about her newest novel – The Jane Austen Book Club. Actually B did not listen – he waited outside. There are never many men in Fowler’s audience when she talks about Jane Austen. Madison astonished her with 4, which she said was twice her highest thus far.
Me, I absolutely love, almost more than anything else, listening to authors talk about their work. But eventually we came to the Q/As. Someone asked Fowler if, when she wrote, she found herself stealing the stories of people she knew.
Fowler responded with a resounding YES!!
Then came the hatchet (for me). Fowler said that you cannot write and have an exciting life. Writing obligates you to sit day in and day out at your computer, shunning experience in favor of the dullness of producing something credible.
So how do you come up with material? You surround yourself with friends, she tells us, who make dreadful decisions about their own lives and who then can’t wait to tell you about them. And then you steal their stories.
I fail on both counts. My life is not dull. It grows so un-dull by the minute that I want to shout – alright already! Back off with all the excitement! I am not asking for it, so keep it off my front porch. Jesus.
As for friends? All wise and prudent types who make, in my opinion, wise and prudent choices. Or so they tell me.
And so, if I am to listen to Fowler – an award winning, published author – I should admit defeat. There is no hope for me. Though there on my shelf rests Paradise Regained, with Milton glaring at me, telling me I should tally forth, because what the hell do I have to lose?
If there be worse, the expectation more
Of worse torments me than the feeling can.
Of course, Milton has no real say over my life. His problems are not my problems. Four times married, (twice to the same woman), wives dying on him left and right, sight failing – I mean, he had a choice: go to bed and write about Madeleines brought up to him by his mummy, or forge ahead with his Lost then Regained Paradise.
Me, I’ll probably pick myself up as well, Fowler notwithstanding, and stumble along, without hope, without fear, sort of like I do on Ocean, daily, in the dull way that I do, with excitement raging around me, distracting, sure, but not completely standing in the way of me plunking away at the keyboard.
I admit it: in the back of the head there is this idea that “someday I will really write.” Like, sit down and eek out a novel, for example.
Last night, however, any hope of ever becoming one of the greats (meaning: someone who actually does produce a text) was seriously shaken.
It happened at Borders. B and I took a run down in the evening to listen to Karen Fowler talk about her newest novel – The Jane Austen Book Club. Actually B did not listen – he waited outside. There are never many men in Fowler’s audience when she talks about Jane Austen. Madison astonished her with 4, which she said was twice her highest thus far.
Me, I absolutely love, almost more than anything else, listening to authors talk about their work. But eventually we came to the Q/As. Someone asked Fowler if, when she wrote, she found herself stealing the stories of people she knew.
Fowler responded with a resounding YES!!
Then came the hatchet (for me). Fowler said that you cannot write and have an exciting life. Writing obligates you to sit day in and day out at your computer, shunning experience in favor of the dullness of producing something credible.
So how do you come up with material? You surround yourself with friends, she tells us, who make dreadful decisions about their own lives and who then can’t wait to tell you about them. And then you steal their stories.
I fail on both counts. My life is not dull. It grows so un-dull by the minute that I want to shout – alright already! Back off with all the excitement! I am not asking for it, so keep it off my front porch. Jesus.
As for friends? All wise and prudent types who make, in my opinion, wise and prudent choices. Or so they tell me.
And so, if I am to listen to Fowler – an award winning, published author – I should admit defeat. There is no hope for me. Though there on my shelf rests Paradise Regained, with Milton glaring at me, telling me I should tally forth, because what the hell do I have to lose?
If there be worse, the expectation more
Of worse torments me than the feeling can.
Of course, Milton has no real say over my life. His problems are not my problems. Four times married, (twice to the same woman), wives dying on him left and right, sight failing – I mean, he had a choice: go to bed and write about Madeleines brought up to him by his mummy, or forge ahead with his Lost then Regained Paradise.
Me, I’ll probably pick myself up as well, Fowler notwithstanding, and stumble along, without hope, without fear, sort of like I do on Ocean, daily, in the dull way that I do, with excitement raging around me, distracting, sure, but not completely standing in the way of me plunking away at the keyboard.
posted by nina, 6/15/2005 09:45:00 AM
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yesterday evening, at Borders
posted by nina, 6/15/2005 09:37:41 AM
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Tuesday, June 14, 2005
An ode to olive oil
I would not be the person I am today without olive oil. I worship the places where it is made. Cold pressed. Virgin. Extra virgin. Sexy words for a sexy liquid gold. A deal-breaker for me: I could not have affect for anyone who did not also like, nay, love olive oil.
Another break from work, another moment to fiddle with the camera, focusing it this time not on a mirror but on my two treasures, pushed back into the shadows of the kitchen, but within sight, so that I can make myself happy just looking at them:
Another break from work, another moment to fiddle with the camera, focusing it this time not on a mirror but on my two treasures, pushed back into the shadows of the kitchen, but within sight, so that I can make myself happy just looking at them:
posted by nina, 6/14/2005 05:05:00 PM
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my gift to me, from France
posted by nina, 6/14/2005 05:00:13 PM
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One of your own kind…
So B and I have been spending a lot of time together. We are not inseparable, but when I need to go somewhere, I usually call on him to go with me.
I do think, though, that when you have this connection going, you tend to assume that the other is comfortable adjusting to your pace, your world, your ideas. You forget that they have a past, that they have roots that are often quite different from your own.
I know very little of B’s background. Since I want to show more respect and concern for his past, today we went exploring it together. Suddenly I was in a place which had more looking like him than like me. For once he was among his own kind. B’s relief was palpable. We’ll go back Thursday evening and hang out. They’re so nice to him there – they treat him like he’s something special. He really is starting to shine with so much attention and I am happy about that. He and I – we do things for each other.
I do think, though, that when you have this connection going, you tend to assume that the other is comfortable adjusting to your pace, your world, your ideas. You forget that they have a past, that they have roots that are often quite different from your own.
I know very little of B’s background. Since I want to show more respect and concern for his past, today we went exploring it together. Suddenly I was in a place which had more looking like him than like me. For once he was among his own kind. B’s relief was palpable. We’ll go back Thursday evening and hang out. They’re so nice to him there – they treat him like he’s something special. He really is starting to shine with so much attention and I am happy about that. He and I – we do things for each other.
posted by nina, 6/14/2005 04:10:00 PM
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B's world
posted by nina, 6/14/2005 04:07:26 PM
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Where I politely decline
There is a list of law profs who blog going around. I read that if we put all five blogging profs from our Law School on it, we will boost our position to second place in the country. And we’ll boost the distressingly low numbers of women law profs who blog.
My loyalty to my school abounds. I would do much for the place, and not only because it has done tons for me. But here I must politely decline.
Whereas my colleagues here and elsewhere intersperse light posting with serious notes and commentaries, Ocean sticks to a path that does not fit well with the law prof blog mold. It runs posts on love affairs with B, on Cosmo indulgence and trains speeding through rzepa fields. And the author – me, kep, or the latest name picked by a fellow blogger – coyote camic, I’m just not meant to have my portrait up with the blogging academicians. I’m the type that thinks nothing of taking a picture of myself in the mirror and posting it the next day, just for the hell of it (see sidebar and photo below). And I’m not wearing silken robes or tailored suits either. Yesterday I worked all day dressed… informally, and I don’t mean corporate casual:
My loyalty to my school abounds. I would do much for the place, and not only because it has done tons for me. But here I must politely decline.
Whereas my colleagues here and elsewhere intersperse light posting with serious notes and commentaries, Ocean sticks to a path that does not fit well with the law prof blog mold. It runs posts on love affairs with B, on Cosmo indulgence and trains speeding through rzepa fields. And the author – me, kep, or the latest name picked by a fellow blogger – coyote camic, I’m just not meant to have my portrait up with the blogging academicians. I’m the type that thinks nothing of taking a picture of myself in the mirror and posting it the next day, just for the hell of it (see sidebar and photo below). And I’m not wearing silken robes or tailored suits either. Yesterday I worked all day dressed… informally, and I don’t mean corporate casual:
posted by nina, 6/14/2005 10:15:00 AM
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work break: playing with the camera
posted by nina, 6/14/2005 10:09:31 AM
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So, no listing for me, thanks. But I applaud those (here and here) whose efforts are in line with what is expected of a law prof. Their texts are noble vintage. Mine – it’s table wine, nothing more.
posted by nina, 6/14/2005 10:05:00 AM
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Confession
I read with interest Oscar’s deliberations about buying a cup of coffee in Germany. He was posting away at a Berlin Starbucks and assuring us that mutter necessity (really: a better than average brew, in a smokefree environment) drove him to it. Me, I’d do it for the sleek and comfortable looking ambience. (Scroll down to the second photo here.)
I’ve written before about my horror when Starbucks put up a drive-through on University Ave. in Madison. And how I now routinely violate my own “horrified stance” by driving up (only when I am in a hurry, I promise).
But all this made me think that, unlike Oscar, I am without principles – or, at the very least, mine are thinly drawn and definitely arbitrary. I admit it. I make no sense. Here’s my honest list of when I will cave for the love of the service or product (or for the sheer convenience associated with it), overcoming my feeling of loyalty to the little guy and when I absolutely will not touch the tainted stuff:
1. I will drink Starbucks coffee (even though its corporate goal is to operate more than 30,000 retail outlets worldwide);
2. I will shop endlessly at Borders (even though it has some 500 stores, to say nothing of the horrible Walden chain, also under its management);
3. I will shop at Whole Foods and I’ll even write a letter of love and devotion to the owner of the chain for substantially improving my grocery shopping experience (even though I hear he is an arrogant jerk face);
4. I would rather hunt nuts and berries than set foot in Taco Bell, McDonalds or KFC. The last time I was in one was a year ago when the person I was with developed a severe hydration need. I was in pain the entire three minutes we were there. Never, ever, ever will I willingly set foot in one again.
5. And here’s a weird one: champagne. It’ll always be from the little guy. I have such great affection for those who are figuring out ways to turn the fermenting bottles by hand and trying to make a go of it with tiny tiny fields of rock and dirt that I want to put in my pennies into their coffers.
I could go on, but I think this short list says it all: I have sold my soul and conscience. I am without scruples. Mostly, I really like to be surrounded by yummy foods and good books, while sipping a steaming cup of dark roast with frothy milk. Those cravings satisfied, I'll take a look at the corporate ledger. But first thing's first.
I’ve written before about my horror when Starbucks put up a drive-through on University Ave. in Madison. And how I now routinely violate my own “horrified stance” by driving up (only when I am in a hurry, I promise).
But all this made me think that, unlike Oscar, I am without principles – or, at the very least, mine are thinly drawn and definitely arbitrary. I admit it. I make no sense. Here’s my honest list of when I will cave for the love of the service or product (or for the sheer convenience associated with it), overcoming my feeling of loyalty to the little guy and when I absolutely will not touch the tainted stuff:
1. I will drink Starbucks coffee (even though its corporate goal is to operate more than 30,000 retail outlets worldwide);
2. I will shop endlessly at Borders (even though it has some 500 stores, to say nothing of the horrible Walden chain, also under its management);
3. I will shop at Whole Foods and I’ll even write a letter of love and devotion to the owner of the chain for substantially improving my grocery shopping experience (even though I hear he is an arrogant jerk face);
4. I would rather hunt nuts and berries than set foot in Taco Bell, McDonalds or KFC. The last time I was in one was a year ago when the person I was with developed a severe hydration need. I was in pain the entire three minutes we were there. Never, ever, ever will I willingly set foot in one again.
5. And here’s a weird one: champagne. It’ll always be from the little guy. I have such great affection for those who are figuring out ways to turn the fermenting bottles by hand and trying to make a go of it with tiny tiny fields of rock and dirt that I want to put in my pennies into their coffers.
I could go on, but I think this short list says it all: I have sold my soul and conscience. I am without scruples. Mostly, I really like to be surrounded by yummy foods and good books, while sipping a steaming cup of dark roast with frothy milk. Those cravings satisfied, I'll take a look at the corporate ledger. But first thing's first.
posted by nina, 6/14/2005 08:35:00 AM
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Monday, June 13, 2005
Spit spat
B and I have had our first ugly little spat. Things had been running oh so smoothly and then yesterday I suggested an evening run to Borders. Once there, I did indeed intend to leave him to his own devices. At Borders, I like to be unencumbered. B took offense. Something about liking to be by my side – chained is the way I viewed it. Well okay, but I’m not a chainer. I trust that at the end of our separate time, B will be there and I will be there for him and we’ll do our thing and the world will be a cool place.
I was miffed and so I went alone. I was even more miffed because my summer-of-no-car resolve meant that I had to hike to Borders and back, thereby wasting valuable time. When I’m with B, I never consider that time wasted. I am energized. Time flies. My soul is nourished.
This morning I was still slightly put off by the entire episode and so I gave B the cold shoulder. I not only went walking alone at dawn (sacrificing that tickle on the tattoo), but then I ran an errand by car and ignored B’s reproachful positioning of himself, almost as if to block my way out. “How could you be doing this…” B seemed to be saying. Suddenly, in that moment, B looked sad and old to me. I left, but I felt that I was being too unforgiving.
By afternoon I’d melted. I needed an espresso, B was around and so off we went together again. Things are better and there weren’t any significant bumps along the way, but you know how it is: once you have had that first spat, you’re wondering how long until the next one.
I was miffed and so I went alone. I was even more miffed because my summer-of-no-car resolve meant that I had to hike to Borders and back, thereby wasting valuable time. When I’m with B, I never consider that time wasted. I am energized. Time flies. My soul is nourished.
This morning I was still slightly put off by the entire episode and so I gave B the cold shoulder. I not only went walking alone at dawn (sacrificing that tickle on the tattoo), but then I ran an errand by car and ignored B’s reproachful positioning of himself, almost as if to block my way out. “How could you be doing this…” B seemed to be saying. Suddenly, in that moment, B looked sad and old to me. I left, but I felt that I was being too unforgiving.
By afternoon I’d melted. I needed an espresso, B was around and so off we went together again. Things are better and there weren’t any significant bumps along the way, but you know how it is: once you have had that first spat, you’re wondering how long until the next one.
posted by nina, 6/13/2005 02:15:00 PM
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Where I am still preoccupied with a yukky phone conversation from yesterday
I read this wonderful book called 2016. Did you read it?
No.
You should. The author takes you through the next presidential elections – shows how the death of Castro just before November would unseat the Republicans, because of Florida you know… and then all the way to the 2016 elections.
Imaginative.
No, it’s not fiction, it’s for real.
Anything that describes what happened in the year 2016 cannot be described as "for real."
You don’t understand, it is for real. A third party will unseat both the Republicans and Democrats you know. That’s after the Republicans carry it away once Osama is surprisingly captured.
(tempted to say “whatever” but instead, offer up the following:) Ah.
But am I being unfair? Let me see: could I write a post that would describe my life in the year 2016 and not call it fiction? Here’s a stab at it: from Ocean’s author in the year 2016:
People tell me that the sixties are the quiet before the storm. I believe they are talking about the sixties age-wise, not calendar-wise. My sixty-three is definitely quieter than the year 1963 was for the country as a whole. The turning point for me, I know will be 64. It will feel weird to pass the age of the song “When I’m sixty four.” The need me, feed me bit sounded then rather poignant. Now, of course, I’ve learned that being needed and being fed are sort of opposites. What you want to aspire to is feeling needed and not needing someone to spoon food into your mouth. It’s worked for me. And I do predict that next year, when I turn 64, I will get both birthday greetings and a bottle of wine, so that’s good.
Someone said to me that they like the place I’m living in this year. I think people say things like that when they first enter an uncluttered house. Clutter is never visually appealing, especially someone else’s clutter. I remember being stunned when I last visited my old family apartment in Warsaw – mountains of clutter, piled high, to the ceiling, all significant to the resident therein but terrifying to the visitor who is standing there worrying that one little move will disturb the balance and it will all come crashing down on everyone in sight. No one likes thinking that any second they may be gasping for a last breath from under volumes of political essays and postcards received and read more than 70 years ago.
Some people think that my clutterlessness is born in part out of my moving so much. But I have moved only eighteen times in my life, which means that on the average, I move every 3 years, but that is so totally misleading because by far the vast majority of my moves took place before I turned 32, meaning in the first half of my life.
The irony is that during the time of all those moves, I experienced the greatest amount of personal stability. Not that I am spinning in some incoherent direction right now. Becoming a grandparent has given me a schedule for one thing. And I stick to it. Little toddlers and big daughters expect that of you. But I think I have to admit that something happened after fifty that blew up the notion of predictability. I would not have predicted ten years ago where I’d be living now, for instance. Nor what I would be doing. It shocked everyone. Most of all, it shocked me.
There – it’s fiction, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
No.
You should. The author takes you through the next presidential elections – shows how the death of Castro just before November would unseat the Republicans, because of Florida you know… and then all the way to the 2016 elections.
Imaginative.
No, it’s not fiction, it’s for real.
Anything that describes what happened in the year 2016 cannot be described as "for real."
You don’t understand, it is for real. A third party will unseat both the Republicans and Democrats you know. That’s after the Republicans carry it away once Osama is surprisingly captured.
(tempted to say “whatever” but instead, offer up the following:) Ah.
But am I being unfair? Let me see: could I write a post that would describe my life in the year 2016 and not call it fiction? Here’s a stab at it: from Ocean’s author in the year 2016:
People tell me that the sixties are the quiet before the storm. I believe they are talking about the sixties age-wise, not calendar-wise. My sixty-three is definitely quieter than the year 1963 was for the country as a whole. The turning point for me, I know will be 64. It will feel weird to pass the age of the song “When I’m sixty four.” The need me, feed me bit sounded then rather poignant. Now, of course, I’ve learned that being needed and being fed are sort of opposites. What you want to aspire to is feeling needed and not needing someone to spoon food into your mouth. It’s worked for me. And I do predict that next year, when I turn 64, I will get both birthday greetings and a bottle of wine, so that’s good.
Someone said to me that they like the place I’m living in this year. I think people say things like that when they first enter an uncluttered house. Clutter is never visually appealing, especially someone else’s clutter. I remember being stunned when I last visited my old family apartment in Warsaw – mountains of clutter, piled high, to the ceiling, all significant to the resident therein but terrifying to the visitor who is standing there worrying that one little move will disturb the balance and it will all come crashing down on everyone in sight. No one likes thinking that any second they may be gasping for a last breath from under volumes of political essays and postcards received and read more than 70 years ago.
Some people think that my clutterlessness is born in part out of my moving so much. But I have moved only eighteen times in my life, which means that on the average, I move every 3 years, but that is so totally misleading because by far the vast majority of my moves took place before I turned 32, meaning in the first half of my life.
The irony is that during the time of all those moves, I experienced the greatest amount of personal stability. Not that I am spinning in some incoherent direction right now. Becoming a grandparent has given me a schedule for one thing. And I stick to it. Little toddlers and big daughters expect that of you. But I think I have to admit that something happened after fifty that blew up the notion of predictability. I would not have predicted ten years ago where I’d be living now, for instance. Nor what I would be doing. It shocked everyone. Most of all, it shocked me.
There – it’s fiction, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
posted by nina, 6/13/2005 10:30:00 AM
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Sunday, June 12, 2005
Where I again do not have kind things to say about my encounters with the phone
You’re home? I thought you’d gone away for the week-end.
I’m home.
You did not answer the phone the last two nights, I thought you were gone.
I’m home.
Friday, I called late, Saturday too.
I’m home. All day (neglect to mention that B and I had a date already).
I sent you a book and a long letter. Did you get them?
Not yet (kind of not true: I got them but did not open the package; now that I hear there is a “long letter” I am even less anxious to open the package).
I decided that since you don’t call, I’d write you a long letter. About your lack of communicativeness.
Thanks. (didn’t we just talk? Oh no, I let a week go by. Darn.)
So anything exciting to tell me?
No, not really. It's hot. I'm working. Same old.
You’re not sick or anything? You know health can be precarious. Bubbles start bursting, things go wrong, if not today then tomorrow.
I’ll be on the lookout for bubbles bursting.
And so on. I can offer up my day as evidence that one can actually have this sort of non-conversation for well over an hour. Really.
Day thus far:
Date with B.
Excitement at the kitchen sink.
Phone nonconversation.
Wee hoo!
I’m home.
You did not answer the phone the last two nights, I thought you were gone.
I’m home.
Friday, I called late, Saturday too.
I’m home. All day (neglect to mention that B and I had a date already).
I sent you a book and a long letter. Did you get them?
Not yet (kind of not true: I got them but did not open the package; now that I hear there is a “long letter” I am even less anxious to open the package).
I decided that since you don’t call, I’d write you a long letter. About your lack of communicativeness.
Thanks. (didn’t we just talk? Oh no, I let a week go by. Darn.)
So anything exciting to tell me?
No, not really. It's hot. I'm working. Same old.
You’re not sick or anything? You know health can be precarious. Bubbles start bursting, things go wrong, if not today then tomorrow.
I’ll be on the lookout for bubbles bursting.
And so on. I can offer up my day as evidence that one can actually have this sort of non-conversation for well over an hour. Really.
Day thus far:
Date with B.
Excitement at the kitchen sink.
Phone nonconversation.
Wee hoo!
posted by nina, 6/12/2005 02:45:00 PM
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Saturday, June 11, 2005
On how I managed to look anti-French even though I was riding a bike and had a baguette slung over my back
It’s the latte. No French man or woman would take their coffee on the run like that, or rather on the ride. In spite of past experiences that should have taught me lessons on how not to ride a bike uphill (with a skinny mezzo, extra hot), there I was again, sweating and cursing and holding on to that precious latte during my rendezvous with B, continuing with my resolve to make this a (virtually) car-free summer.
If you’re going to sell lattes in a bread store, you’re going to tempt me, that’s all.
At least I remembered to preset the speed. By the time I got home I thought myself to be so adept at this, that I even took occasional sips, looking very cool, riding and sipping a latte with that bread cheerfully bopping up and down over my back shoulder – cool, but not French.
If you’re going to sell lattes in a bread store, you’re going to tempt me, that’s all.
At least I remembered to preset the speed. By the time I got home I thought myself to be so adept at this, that I even took occasional sips, looking very cool, riding and sipping a latte with that bread cheerfully bopping up and down over my back shoulder – cool, but not French.
posted by nina, 6/11/2005 12:25:00 PM
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So if I am such dedicated cook, how come the last time I cooked a full dinner was over a month ago?
Yes, yes, I’ve been gone, I’ve been gone, but I’ve also been back now – for two weeks! And it’s early summer, my absolutely favorite time for working with produce – the light greens are what fresh and honest* is all about.
No excuses. Today I cook. First though, came the marketing and if ever there was a perfect morning for it, today was it. So, I'm throwing in just three photos, to show off that color that I so completely associate with June markets.
* okay, everyone knows that this is my set of words for describing what I like to find in restaurants or at any dinners. I’ll eat and love anything, no matter how simple or how artful, so long as it is f & h.
No excuses. Today I cook. First though, came the marketing and if ever there was a perfect morning for it, today was it. So, I'm throwing in just three photos, to show off that color that I so completely associate with June markets.
* okay, everyone knows that this is my set of words for describing what I like to find in restaurants or at any dinners. I’ll eat and love anything, no matter how simple or how artful, so long as it is f & h.
posted by nina, 6/11/2005 11:45:00 AM
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only half done. I need another basket.
posted by nina, 6/11/2005 11:35:42 AM
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a June meal without these? not possible.
posted by nina, 6/11/2005 11:34:31 AM
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what every kitchen table needs
posted by nina, 6/11/2005 11:33:27 AM
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Puzzle
Last night, at a meeting of the neighborhood Sad Liberals (would you believe it, there was not a small amount of disagreement amongst us, triggered by my recounting of the discussion taking place at Marginal Utility), I took this photo. I did it for a post today, of that I am certain. However, I have no idea (anymore) what it is nor what I intended to say about it. Here it is, whatever it is:
posted by nina, 6/11/2005 11:00:00 AM
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??
posted by nina, 6/11/2005 10:56:00 AM
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Dear B,
I love you, I really do. You suddenly came back into my life and I was ready for you. And I don’t mind going public – sooner or later people will see us around town.
This morning when we went out together at dawn and you showed me how a gentle breeze can tickle my tattoo*, I was in heaven.
I let you go all the way, full speed ahead, even though we’ve been going out together for just a few days. I felt that I used all the proper precautions. I felt safe with you.
Is it only a summer fling? One of those short lived romances? I hope not. Oh, but I do adore you, no matter what, it will have been worth it.
N.
* It's not that low, for Pete's sake!
This morning when we went out together at dawn and you showed me how a gentle breeze can tickle my tattoo*, I was in heaven.
I let you go all the way, full speed ahead, even though we’ve been going out together for just a few days. I felt that I used all the proper precautions. I felt safe with you.
Is it only a summer fling? One of those short lived romances? I hope not. Oh, but I do adore you, no matter what, it will have been worth it.
N.
* It's not that low, for Pete's sake!
posted by nina, 6/11/2005 10:45:00 AM
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meet Bianchi
posted by nina, 6/11/2005 10:30:28 AM
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Friday, June 10, 2005
Choices 2
Today, unexpectedly, I heard from Q (that is indeed his name, or at least the way he signs things).
Less than two weeks ago I was on a train, with African air blasting away at Poland, creating furnace-like conditions throughout the country. After two weeks of savoring Europe, I was now returning home. I had already that Saturday traveled by car in the mountains with my ailing father, traveled by bus to Krakow, to connect now to Warsaw, returning within the next handful of hours back to Paris and then Madison. All this in the spin of one day. It was like pulling in an extended tape measure: you let it out slowly, slowly, and then press a button and it rewinds itself at ten times the speed.
Throughout so many of the days in Poland, I had been feeling increasingly…. empty. Like this country was moving away from me, or I from it, and perversely, I was feeling like this emptiness was traveling with me right back to Madison, where it would stay with me on my return. Yeah, it did just that.
But on this train ride, the one from Krakow to Warsaw, I met Q. It happened like this: I was in a hot compartment, reflecting on the Polish definition of air conditioning: an open train window. I was sitting with my back to the direction of travel. A young family with a toddler were facing me. As soon as the train started moving, the toddler got fidgety and the mom got up to close the window. Drafty – she said. I had just ran across Krakow’s Main Square with my bag and computer and so I was plenty toasty. Thus, basically, I wanted to strangle her, then her child, then her again. Instead, I left the compartment and stood in the hallway, gazing out and feeling empty.
Eventually, a guy from a neighboring compartment came out as well and we stood and talked. He was clearly an American and I welcomed that for once. His name – Q.
Half an hour later, standing was wearing on me. I reentered the compartment and endured for two minutes the willful toddler, who was now testing seats on both sides of the aisle. Then I bolted.
Can I hang out with you guys? I asked Q and his wife. And I did, for the rest of the trip. I sat there and listened, watching the same green fields, then golden ones fly past, the same ones I had watched a week earlier, and then again a week before that. What is that yellow field? I’d asked a fellow traveler on an initial spin through this countryside. Rzepa, for sure, he had replied. I did not translate it until now: turnips, they were turnip fields. Golden yellow, like mustard greens and golden lupine. But with the homelier turnip under the soil.
My American compartment “hosts” were the ones who were searching for a balanced life, living now in Switzerland, earlier in the Netherlands.
But today, Q wrote me about something else. He gave me tips on what to see and do when I some day visit Croatia
He had noticed that I have a Croatian name. I do – it belonged to my now deceased father-in-law. Q told me I really must go there – there are spots that are breathtakingly beautiful (I thought of his words today as on NPR, someone was saying about Poland: you can travel a great distance without seeing a single pretty thing... sigh...).
I’m looking at Q's list now, his descriptions and I am wondering if connecting with Croatia, someone else’s homeland, inherited artificially by me, through my name, will feel less empty than connecting with a homeland that was mine or a home that is now mine. If so then I should start making plans. Thank you, Q.
Less than two weeks ago I was on a train, with African air blasting away at Poland, creating furnace-like conditions throughout the country. After two weeks of savoring Europe, I was now returning home. I had already that Saturday traveled by car in the mountains with my ailing father, traveled by bus to Krakow, to connect now to Warsaw, returning within the next handful of hours back to Paris and then Madison. All this in the spin of one day. It was like pulling in an extended tape measure: you let it out slowly, slowly, and then press a button and it rewinds itself at ten times the speed.
Throughout so many of the days in Poland, I had been feeling increasingly…. empty. Like this country was moving away from me, or I from it, and perversely, I was feeling like this emptiness was traveling with me right back to Madison, where it would stay with me on my return. Yeah, it did just that.
But on this train ride, the one from Krakow to Warsaw, I met Q. It happened like this: I was in a hot compartment, reflecting on the Polish definition of air conditioning: an open train window. I was sitting with my back to the direction of travel. A young family with a toddler were facing me. As soon as the train started moving, the toddler got fidgety and the mom got up to close the window. Drafty – she said. I had just ran across Krakow’s Main Square with my bag and computer and so I was plenty toasty. Thus, basically, I wanted to strangle her, then her child, then her again. Instead, I left the compartment and stood in the hallway, gazing out and feeling empty.
Eventually, a guy from a neighboring compartment came out as well and we stood and talked. He was clearly an American and I welcomed that for once. His name – Q.
Half an hour later, standing was wearing on me. I reentered the compartment and endured for two minutes the willful toddler, who was now testing seats on both sides of the aisle. Then I bolted.
Can I hang out with you guys? I asked Q and his wife. And I did, for the rest of the trip. I sat there and listened, watching the same green fields, then golden ones fly past, the same ones I had watched a week earlier, and then again a week before that. What is that yellow field? I’d asked a fellow traveler on an initial spin through this countryside. Rzepa, for sure, he had replied. I did not translate it until now: turnips, they were turnip fields. Golden yellow, like mustard greens and golden lupine. But with the homelier turnip under the soil.
My American compartment “hosts” were the ones who were searching for a balanced life, living now in Switzerland, earlier in the Netherlands.
But today, Q wrote me about something else. He gave me tips on what to see and do when I some day visit Croatia
He had noticed that I have a Croatian name. I do – it belonged to my now deceased father-in-law. Q told me I really must go there – there are spots that are breathtakingly beautiful (I thought of his words today as on NPR, someone was saying about Poland: you can travel a great distance without seeing a single pretty thing... sigh...).
I’m looking at Q's list now, his descriptions and I am wondering if connecting with Croatia, someone else’s homeland, inherited artificially by me, through my name, will feel less empty than connecting with a homeland that was mine or a home that is now mine. If so then I should start making plans. Thank you, Q.
posted by nina, 6/10/2005 04:55:00 PM
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fields of rzepa, first time around
posted by nina, 6/10/2005 04:49:00 PM
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Choices
I have a bike. I have not used it much in recent years. This week, my neighbor helped me fix it up. Yesterday, I rode it to work. An exhilarating twenty-five minute ride. All downhill. Yeah. Then there was the return trip. 11% grade hill included.
Undaunted, late in the day I rode it to the local café to pick up an afternoon latte. Thought process: it would be nice to work with a latte on the table, next to my computer. The café is a short 5 minute ride away. The latte will stay warm. It did stay warm. As it splattered all over everything on the ride back. Impossible to change gears riding a bike and holding a latte.
Daunted, in the evening I did not ride the bike downtown to meet up with some bloggers. We had a Crave-ing, each for something else. Someone was in the mood for crab cakes. Another was in the mood for strawberry shortcake. The third was in the mood for Cosmos. Not hard to figure out who wanted what, is it? (hint: see photos below)
In the end, there is always a setting sun and a boat to haul in.
Undaunted, late in the day I rode it to the local café to pick up an afternoon latte. Thought process: it would be nice to work with a latte on the table, next to my computer. The café is a short 5 minute ride away. The latte will stay warm. It did stay warm. As it splattered all over everything on the ride back. Impossible to change gears riding a bike and holding a latte.
Daunted, in the evening I did not ride the bike downtown to meet up with some bloggers. We had a Crave-ing, each for something else. Someone was in the mood for crab cakes. Another was in the mood for strawberry shortcake. The third was in the mood for Cosmos. Not hard to figure out who wanted what, is it? (hint: see photos below)
In the end, there is always a setting sun and a boat to haul in.
posted by nina, 6/10/2005 09:15:00 AM
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two use a camera, one waits
posted by nina, 6/10/2005 09:09:34 AM
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easy guess
posted by nina, 6/10/2005 09:08:42 AM
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(Union Terrace) at the end of the day
posted by nina, 6/10/2005 09:05:16 AM
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Thursday, June 09, 2005
Outing Kep
Dear Ocean readers,
So Kep is me.
I mean really me. A literary construct, true, but not a totally fictionalized one. Everything he has said, I have thought or felt at some point in recent times. His events have been my events -- from getting toe rubbing (but not really toe rubbing) thrown in my face, and pining for a nick name, to listening to female orgasm talk in mixed company (mid-May, just as Kep said). The people in his life are variously drawn from the people – friends, loves, all important people – in my life, though with flipped genders and statuses, mostly. His stupid dilemmas have been my dilemmas as well (milky lunches, bitche-y holes in the wall, misplaced over-inflated degrees, comments on newsstories, all of it).
A couple of Ocean readers wrote to tell me that they found Kep annoying. “Once a bastard, always a bastard,” said one. Maybe. So I guess that makes me the female version of one, since I think that I’m capable of sulking at the store clerk and being culturally confused and annoying, and manifesting all sorts of misplaced behaviors when the world feels mean and rotten. And the emails I can write then! Yeah! Oh, believe me, Kep was a tame dude by comparison.
A far larger number said that they were entertained. Some even recognized the not-so-thinly-veiled sadnesses in Kep’s posts (three separate people picked up on the sadness of writing daily and losing my reach of so many close to me people who read, but assume that they owe no message in return).
A few kept saying Kep writes too much about me. I think if I were asked to jump into someone’s personal (as opposed to commentary) blog, I’d feel inclined to do the same. Wait. That’s just what I did! That’s right, I forgot. Kep is me (as is regular joe, tadpole, nina – hello Sybil!). It’s a tough assignment: no one knows or cares about you, yet you’re there, helping your pal entertain readers who are totally not used to you. Or rather -- me as him.
Of course, the vast majority of Kep-readers was silent, just as it is in regular daily posting. One has to get used to the silence that follows blogging. So I flipped on the meter for the week that Kep was writing. Perversely, Kep numbers kept shooting up, even as in general, Ocean numbers move up very incrementally. At some point I had to wonder whether the Kep voice is a better voice than my regular writing voice. [There is some delicious irony in the fact that, even if I wanted to -- and I don't -- I could not write as directly about myself as Kep wrote about me!]
Whatever it did for you, it was good for me to release a side that was less audience-driven, that could write crudely, childishly, realistically, that could more freely deal with the brassier side of any issue.
Why did I do it? For any number of reasons, you may find yourself facing a set of days where you cannot keep writing in the same way that you have in the past. You don’t want to pick anything from your current state to put on the blog. You don’t want readers to read you face-on. During such times you can step back and look at yourself from some other vantage point. That’s what I did.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to another was intentional. You would not have been fooled unless you had a vision of someone who also would be trying hard not to sound like him or herself. The toughest part? Not to inadvertently insert my usual (foreign-born) language idiosyncrasies. You would have guessed right away then. Though I did post a caveat that Kep might try to mock my Eastern European tone, in case I absolutely could not keep it out of his posts.
God, I miss him already!
Kiss and make up for all those who felt offended by the Kep week? Here, some flowers for you to calm you down:
So Kep is me.
I mean really me. A literary construct, true, but not a totally fictionalized one. Everything he has said, I have thought or felt at some point in recent times. His events have been my events -- from getting toe rubbing (but not really toe rubbing) thrown in my face, and pining for a nick name, to listening to female orgasm talk in mixed company (mid-May, just as Kep said). The people in his life are variously drawn from the people – friends, loves, all important people – in my life, though with flipped genders and statuses, mostly. His stupid dilemmas have been my dilemmas as well (milky lunches, bitche-y holes in the wall, misplaced over-inflated degrees, comments on newsstories, all of it).
A couple of Ocean readers wrote to tell me that they found Kep annoying. “Once a bastard, always a bastard,” said one. Maybe. So I guess that makes me the female version of one, since I think that I’m capable of sulking at the store clerk and being culturally confused and annoying, and manifesting all sorts of misplaced behaviors when the world feels mean and rotten. And the emails I can write then! Yeah! Oh, believe me, Kep was a tame dude by comparison.
A far larger number said that they were entertained. Some even recognized the not-so-thinly-veiled sadnesses in Kep’s posts (three separate people picked up on the sadness of writing daily and losing my reach of so many close to me people who read, but assume that they owe no message in return).
A few kept saying Kep writes too much about me. I think if I were asked to jump into someone’s personal (as opposed to commentary) blog, I’d feel inclined to do the same. Wait. That’s just what I did! That’s right, I forgot. Kep is me (as is regular joe, tadpole, nina – hello Sybil!). It’s a tough assignment: no one knows or cares about you, yet you’re there, helping your pal entertain readers who are totally not used to you. Or rather -- me as him.
Of course, the vast majority of Kep-readers was silent, just as it is in regular daily posting. One has to get used to the silence that follows blogging. So I flipped on the meter for the week that Kep was writing. Perversely, Kep numbers kept shooting up, even as in general, Ocean numbers move up very incrementally. At some point I had to wonder whether the Kep voice is a better voice than my regular writing voice. [There is some delicious irony in the fact that, even if I wanted to -- and I don't -- I could not write as directly about myself as Kep wrote about me!]
Whatever it did for you, it was good for me to release a side that was less audience-driven, that could write crudely, childishly, realistically, that could more freely deal with the brassier side of any issue.
Why did I do it? For any number of reasons, you may find yourself facing a set of days where you cannot keep writing in the same way that you have in the past. You don’t want to pick anything from your current state to put on the blog. You don’t want readers to read you face-on. During such times you can step back and look at yourself from some other vantage point. That’s what I did.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to another was intentional. You would not have been fooled unless you had a vision of someone who also would be trying hard not to sound like him or herself. The toughest part? Not to inadvertently insert my usual (foreign-born) language idiosyncrasies. You would have guessed right away then. Though I did post a caveat that Kep might try to mock my Eastern European tone, in case I absolutely could not keep it out of his posts.
God, I miss him already!
Kiss and make up for all those who felt offended by the Kep week? Here, some flowers for you to calm you down:
posted by nina, 6/09/2005 04:45:00 PM
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There are close to a thousand plants and blooming flowers in my yard, each and every one planted (somewhat wildly) over the years by me. Am I attached to them (even through periods of neglect)? Of course!
posted by nina, 6/09/2005 04:21:29 PM
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guest post 16
More from Kep:
Hey, a message from tadpole (with minor editing by me): Kep: I promised that I would not keep you blogging for more than a week and my week is up so you can go ahead and write your last post. Save the disclosure for me. Sometime this afternoon I’ll let my readers know more about you. Some of them do know you, so you can go ahead and hide to avoid their wrath for some of the things you’ve said. Thank you thank you thank you for stepping in! I needed that. A lot.
My last post! Am I happy? Not at all. It was awesome getting on Ocean daily and writing from under the kep shield. If I had my own non-kep blog I would worry to death about the topics and comments I would put on it. I am sure as hell that I’d be so worried, it would paralyze me and I would turn into a clump of twisted matter, slouched in a fetal position, unable to write more than one or two sentences about the weather.
Because my colleagues might be reading. And (gulp) Jill. What about Jill? I would have to layer over all the stuff I do not want her to know about me right now. I could not even type out the words f-e-m-a-l-e o-r-g-a-s-m in the blog, even though it was a legitimate news story, because Jill would find my writing about it grossly irritating. So I’d have to adjust my tone. I would have to bring out the side of me that is for her eyes. At the same time that I would have all those other non-Jill readers. And what do they know about my dealings with Jill? Or with katie? Or tadpole? Hey, how do you do it, Nina, how do you write for all your friends and family, the bosses and students, strangers, all mixed up, expecting you to be one way or other, looking at you with their own sharp eyes, ready to dig in and feast on your remains if you step out of their idea of what you should be like on any given day?
But from what I hear in your email, you are back at it later today. Welcome back, taddie! After a week of riding this boat, let me tell you, I forgive you in advance for all your future posting mistakes and misfires. And if anyone tells you you’re too this, or too that, shrug it off and call me. We’ll drink some Cosmos and I’ll let you bitch about the AC.
Hey, a message from tadpole (with minor editing by me): Kep: I promised that I would not keep you blogging for more than a week and my week is up so you can go ahead and write your last post. Save the disclosure for me. Sometime this afternoon I’ll let my readers know more about you. Some of them do know you, so you can go ahead and hide to avoid their wrath for some of the things you’ve said. Thank you thank you thank you for stepping in! I needed that. A lot.
My last post! Am I happy? Not at all. It was awesome getting on Ocean daily and writing from under the kep shield. If I had my own non-kep blog I would worry to death about the topics and comments I would put on it. I am sure as hell that I’d be so worried, it would paralyze me and I would turn into a clump of twisted matter, slouched in a fetal position, unable to write more than one or two sentences about the weather.
Because my colleagues might be reading. And (gulp) Jill. What about Jill? I would have to layer over all the stuff I do not want her to know about me right now. I could not even type out the words f-e-m-a-l-e o-r-g-a-s-m in the blog, even though it was a legitimate news story, because Jill would find my writing about it grossly irritating. So I’d have to adjust my tone. I would have to bring out the side of me that is for her eyes. At the same time that I would have all those other non-Jill readers. And what do they know about my dealings with Jill? Or with katie? Or tadpole? Hey, how do you do it, Nina, how do you write for all your friends and family, the bosses and students, strangers, all mixed up, expecting you to be one way or other, looking at you with their own sharp eyes, ready to dig in and feast on your remains if you step out of their idea of what you should be like on any given day?
But from what I hear in your email, you are back at it later today. Welcome back, taddie! After a week of riding this boat, let me tell you, I forgive you in advance for all your future posting mistakes and misfires. And if anyone tells you you’re too this, or too that, shrug it off and call me. We’ll drink some Cosmos and I’ll let you bitch about the AC.
posted by nina, 6/09/2005 11:30:00 AM
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guest post 15
More from Kep:
I regret the time I was rude to a sales clerk. She was a moron, I was in a hurry, the moment was tense, but still, I regret it.
I do not think that I am generally moody with clerks. But I don’t go out of my way to kiss their noses either. Have you ever gone to a store with Nina? She can be over the top obsequious. Or worse, try sharing a cab with her, like in Madison maybe, with failed poets and aging hippies behind the wheel. She gets all engaged in getting at the hidden story of the driver. Whatever for? Man, who cares about the cab driver! Give them a huge tip if you have this guilt trip going about your station in life versus their station in life. I’m for big tips anyway. But taxi time should be shut-your-mouth-already-and-get-me-there-asap time.
I asked Nina once if she has some warped insecurity problem that leads her always to engage that person behind the counter. Is it that you’re looking for validation, or what? She told me that it’s a Poland thing. (That word again! Dust off the roots and find all sources of personality dysfunction among your ancestors.) But no, really, she says that in Poland, you can divide people engaged in the exchange of services into two camps and two camps only. No one is straddling the fence and there is no third set of miscellaneous others. You are either a rude bitch/bastard or you are an engaging, caring, curious soul. And if you are the latter, that then is your style and you carry it with you everywhere.
And where would I fit in? I did not ask her that because I fear, after my last rudeness, I crossed the line, putting me forever out of touch with my engaging, caring and curious inner self. Brace yourself, here comes that mean bastard again, give a little squeeze to the egg carton so that he gets home to some leaking cracked shells, ha ha ha, he deserves it, that arrogant jerk face.
Even though I am really sorry I acted like such a wiseass.
I regret the time I was rude to a sales clerk. She was a moron, I was in a hurry, the moment was tense, but still, I regret it.
I do not think that I am generally moody with clerks. But I don’t go out of my way to kiss their noses either. Have you ever gone to a store with Nina? She can be over the top obsequious. Or worse, try sharing a cab with her, like in Madison maybe, with failed poets and aging hippies behind the wheel. She gets all engaged in getting at the hidden story of the driver. Whatever for? Man, who cares about the cab driver! Give them a huge tip if you have this guilt trip going about your station in life versus their station in life. I’m for big tips anyway. But taxi time should be shut-your-mouth-already-and-get-me-there-asap time.
I asked Nina once if she has some warped insecurity problem that leads her always to engage that person behind the counter. Is it that you’re looking for validation, or what? She told me that it’s a Poland thing. (That word again! Dust off the roots and find all sources of personality dysfunction among your ancestors.) But no, really, she says that in Poland, you can divide people engaged in the exchange of services into two camps and two camps only. No one is straddling the fence and there is no third set of miscellaneous others. You are either a rude bitch/bastard or you are an engaging, caring, curious soul. And if you are the latter, that then is your style and you carry it with you everywhere.
And where would I fit in? I did not ask her that because I fear, after my last rudeness, I crossed the line, putting me forever out of touch with my engaging, caring and curious inner self. Brace yourself, here comes that mean bastard again, give a little squeeze to the egg carton so that he gets home to some leaking cracked shells, ha ha ha, he deserves it, that arrogant jerk face.
Even though I am really sorry I acted like such a wiseass.
posted by nina, 6/09/2005 08:45:00 AM
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Wednesday, June 08, 2005
guest post 14
More from Kep:
So I thought that Nina’s willingness to tamper with the template signaled her return to blogging but I got an email from her saying thumbs down to that. A few more posts from you, kep, please – she writes.
Okay. So long as it’s sweaty hot outside, why not stay indoors during my lunch break and pound away at the keyboard. I mean, it’s not as if I would be doing something useful instead, like learning a language.
It was mentioned that I might try my hand at news story commenting. That I should pick something that pulled me in this morning and blog about it. Truthfully, the story that was most interesting to me was on the female orgasm and a blogger already wrote about it here. Why should I jump in on that one? It would be dicey for a guy to write extensively about what he thinks of the female orgasm anyway. I can see getting myself into hot water with it. I remember when in mid May, the New York Times printed its story on the evolutionary purpose of the female orgasm (there was none, it was argued), a discussion about it among pals quickly degenerated into the women outshouting each other on the issue (raised in the article) of whether it was even possible to have an orgasm without external stimulation. I felt pretty left out. Though I did run through, in my head, my encounters with this and came to the conclusion that, at least theoretically, I had something to contribute to the topic. But I kept quiet.
I am not anti-news stories, by the way. I read newspapers and magazines: I want to know who got busted and what crap happened while I was sleeping. And sometimes I shred them out of anger and other times I make paper funny hats because I know how and it’s a neat thing to do. But my thoughts about what I read are for myself. Sure, people can engage me in a political discussion, but they wont do it easily. I don’t like to sound off on things that are outside my own backyard. I know my own backyard damn well and there are things I can say about it that would astonish you – things you would never believe could be true: festering and rotting right there for me to see if I look out my window. Cool things too, like there is a flower. Maybe even two or more flowers.
But place me in front of a paper and I feel I am reading about someone else’s backyard and that I should take it in, rather than spit it out. It’s not happening to me, I’m thinking. The Supreme Court decision about growing pot in your yard? It’s interesting, but it’s not my story. I haven’t worried about the Commerce Clause in years: I figure that commerce will keep on moving this way and that and I stand to lose or gain, sure, if it does move this way or that, but I can’t worry about everything. I am already obsessing about global warming ever since that New Yorker series on it this spring.
And I can’t really immerse myself on the other side of the issue either – you know, the side of the person growing corn for his own use or pot for her own malady because at this point I don’t think I have any wasting disease and so I would be lying if I were to claim that my pot was to keep me from freaking out. If I grew it, it would be for my own pleasure and I don’t really care for pot pleasure unless it’s the pot of gold kind of pleasure: I am not above spending big money to have a nice time with a friend. Or with Jill the Pill. Or with plain old tadpole.
So I thought that Nina’s willingness to tamper with the template signaled her return to blogging but I got an email from her saying thumbs down to that. A few more posts from you, kep, please – she writes.
Okay. So long as it’s sweaty hot outside, why not stay indoors during my lunch break and pound away at the keyboard. I mean, it’s not as if I would be doing something useful instead, like learning a language.
It was mentioned that I might try my hand at news story commenting. That I should pick something that pulled me in this morning and blog about it. Truthfully, the story that was most interesting to me was on the female orgasm and a blogger already wrote about it here. Why should I jump in on that one? It would be dicey for a guy to write extensively about what he thinks of the female orgasm anyway. I can see getting myself into hot water with it. I remember when in mid May, the New York Times printed its story on the evolutionary purpose of the female orgasm (there was none, it was argued), a discussion about it among pals quickly degenerated into the women outshouting each other on the issue (raised in the article) of whether it was even possible to have an orgasm without external stimulation. I felt pretty left out. Though I did run through, in my head, my encounters with this and came to the conclusion that, at least theoretically, I had something to contribute to the topic. But I kept quiet.
I am not anti-news stories, by the way. I read newspapers and magazines: I want to know who got busted and what crap happened while I was sleeping. And sometimes I shred them out of anger and other times I make paper funny hats because I know how and it’s a neat thing to do. But my thoughts about what I read are for myself. Sure, people can engage me in a political discussion, but they wont do it easily. I don’t like to sound off on things that are outside my own backyard. I know my own backyard damn well and there are things I can say about it that would astonish you – things you would never believe could be true: festering and rotting right there for me to see if I look out my window. Cool things too, like there is a flower. Maybe even two or more flowers.
But place me in front of a paper and I feel I am reading about someone else’s backyard and that I should take it in, rather than spit it out. It’s not happening to me, I’m thinking. The Supreme Court decision about growing pot in your yard? It’s interesting, but it’s not my story. I haven’t worried about the Commerce Clause in years: I figure that commerce will keep on moving this way and that and I stand to lose or gain, sure, if it does move this way or that, but I can’t worry about everything. I am already obsessing about global warming ever since that New Yorker series on it this spring.
And I can’t really immerse myself on the other side of the issue either – you know, the side of the person growing corn for his own use or pot for her own malady because at this point I don’t think I have any wasting disease and so I would be lying if I were to claim that my pot was to keep me from freaking out. If I grew it, it would be for my own pleasure and I don’t really care for pot pleasure unless it’s the pot of gold kind of pleasure: I am not above spending big money to have a nice time with a friend. Or with Jill the Pill. Or with plain old tadpole.
posted by nina, 6/08/2005 01:05:00 PM
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guest post 13
More from Kep:
Hey, when kep talks, tadpole listens! Get a load of that side panel-- way to go, Ocean authoress!
Hey, when kep talks, tadpole listens! Get a load of that side panel-- way to go, Ocean authoress!
posted by nina, 6/08/2005 10:05:00 AM
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guest post 12
More from Kep:
It’s weird how I suddenly have a nickname (Kep – Nina picked it). Jill the Pill once tried using a nickname on me, but it was strained. It didn’t really fit. It’s like you love or like someone to death and you want to use some endearment to show them they’re not just your regular joe, but whenever you say something other than “hey there, regular joe,” it sounds like you’re talking to someone else.
I use nicknames on others anyway. Sometimes I add “little” to a friend’s name, especially if the friend is a woman. Little Jill, little sue, little katie – like you want to make them small, for one short second, so that you can hold them and protect their little fragile selves. Just like I would like to have my big fragile self protected. But I can’t force people to call me things: hey, call me little joe from now on, will you? I kind of want to be your little joe once in a while. (It has nothing to do with size. Little katie, one of my best pals ever, is way bigger than me, I swear. So little joe should work, only no one sees me that way I guess.)
Hey, weirdly, I have never called Nina little Nina. I know she can be more fragile even than katie, but somehow I don’t think “vulnerable” when I think of Nina. I think Polish peasant stock, probably because that’s the way she describes herself. Once I thought I should call her tadpole – you know, she is a tad Polish. But it was like Jill fixing me with a nickname, it seemed strained. Maybe if everyone started calling Nina tadpole, it would stick, so there’s an idea for all you Ocean readers.
I gave tadpole (there, I’m following my own advice) some tips about Ocean, by the way. I told her she should put up a photo in the sidebar. Her response: I can’t even write posts at the moment, don‘t bug me about Ocean improvements. You, however, should post some photos occasionally.
My response: Photos, yes I know. I was told this already. More than once. But of what? Last night I clipped my nails while watching TV. You want to see nail clippings photos? Or work-pile-on-the-desk photos? I’m living a calm life – not much goin’ on right now. Besides, Ocean is your blog, ms. tadpole, not mine. Let’s not confuse things around here with kep’s crappy artwork.
Maybe once I’m done blogging, I can ask the world to call me kep. I’ve developed a weird attachment to the name. Like I should now sign emails and letters that way: best regards, kep. It gives me another shot at redrawing myself: I’m not just a regular joe, I’m also kep. You know kep – the guy who bailed out Ocean while tadpole was slumbering.
It’s weird how I suddenly have a nickname (Kep – Nina picked it). Jill the Pill once tried using a nickname on me, but it was strained. It didn’t really fit. It’s like you love or like someone to death and you want to use some endearment to show them they’re not just your regular joe, but whenever you say something other than “hey there, regular joe,” it sounds like you’re talking to someone else.
I use nicknames on others anyway. Sometimes I add “little” to a friend’s name, especially if the friend is a woman. Little Jill, little sue, little katie – like you want to make them small, for one short second, so that you can hold them and protect their little fragile selves. Just like I would like to have my big fragile self protected. But I can’t force people to call me things: hey, call me little joe from now on, will you? I kind of want to be your little joe once in a while. (It has nothing to do with size. Little katie, one of my best pals ever, is way bigger than me, I swear. So little joe should work, only no one sees me that way I guess.)
Hey, weirdly, I have never called Nina little Nina. I know she can be more fragile even than katie, but somehow I don’t think “vulnerable” when I think of Nina. I think Polish peasant stock, probably because that’s the way she describes herself. Once I thought I should call her tadpole – you know, she is a tad Polish. But it was like Jill fixing me with a nickname, it seemed strained. Maybe if everyone started calling Nina tadpole, it would stick, so there’s an idea for all you Ocean readers.
I gave tadpole (there, I’m following my own advice) some tips about Ocean, by the way. I told her she should put up a photo in the sidebar. Her response: I can’t even write posts at the moment, don‘t bug me about Ocean improvements. You, however, should post some photos occasionally.
My response: Photos, yes I know. I was told this already. More than once. But of what? Last night I clipped my nails while watching TV. You want to see nail clippings photos? Or work-pile-on-the-desk photos? I’m living a calm life – not much goin’ on right now. Besides, Ocean is your blog, ms. tadpole, not mine. Let’s not confuse things around here with kep’s crappy artwork.
Maybe once I’m done blogging, I can ask the world to call me kep. I’ve developed a weird attachment to the name. Like I should now sign emails and letters that way: best regards, kep. It gives me another shot at redrawing myself: I’m not just a regular joe, I’m also kep. You know kep – the guy who bailed out Ocean while tadpole was slumbering.
posted by nina, 6/08/2005 08:30:00 AM
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Tuesday, June 07, 2005
guest post 11
More from Kep:
Is it only me who is sweating it out today? The Dew Point – a summer match to the wind chill index, except, take note all you weather people, it is way less comprehensible, so quit acting as if we understand what it really is – it’s high though. That means my shirt and my skin are stuck in some infernal way, bonded through the heat and humidity. (I am offering up a better marker here: why don’t you, weather types, instead of measuring Dew Points, measure how many men it would take to pry the shirt off my damp back? So much easier to visualize than Dew Points. Who the hell cares about Dew Points.)
Nina once proclaimed (that is a verb that sooooo suits her) that she hates air conditioning. So I was going to ask her to have a late night drink this week but I remembered how unpleasant it is to sit next to her at a bar in summer hell weather days. She pulls on sweater after sweater and complains how the coldest day in Wisconsin is actually right now just because the inside temperatures are hovering near 49 degrees F., thanks to this state’s love affair with the AC.
Of course, this is all one of those Nina-ggerations. I happen to know that she has snubbed the Polish way of controlling the heat inside as well. She tells me Poles pack in a bunch of people, turn off the fans and leave you to take a whiff of the ten different types of body odor that quickly fill the space. Fun! And the much adored by her (okay, and by me) French? Obviously they love to feel warm and French toasty. They’re forever choking themselves in scarves and wearing tailored coats and it’s hard to ever lay eyes on that awesome, curvaceous French shoulder because it is always hiding under some silky number or other. Indoors, they sit tightly together and smoke cigarettes and do all sorts of things to ensure that there is no flow of cool air anywhere around. So Nina, let me say this much: all countries seem to have their own issues with temperatures, inside and out.
I find myself lapsing into silence when Nina goes on one of her “in this country” or “in that country” spins. There's this desperation about it, have you noticed? I'm thinking that she is really culturally confused and always evaluating these easy clichés to help her sort through the muddle she is in. I’m silent and I am also sorry for her. I would hate not having a home base. She talks about having roots in Poland, but what kind of roots are we looking at? Pretty thin roots if most of her years have been in Wisconsin. Next time you see her, go ahead: ask her where she’s from. She cannot answer that without pausing for ten minutes and looking pained. She will not just blurt out Wisconsin, or Poland, or New York, or America. She deliberates, she qualifies and she looks stupid doing it. She should just pick a place, say Greenland, nice and exotic, and stick with it.
Hey, let me offer my own generalization: here in America, we don’t really care where a person’s from anyway when we ask, we’re all just making polite conversation, biding our time until we can get to the real stuff that’s troubling us – whether the person voted for Bush, or whether they share our deep-rooted fears of communism and naked bodies. Whereas for Nina, the question of “where you’re from” brings on the beads of sweat and causes her internal organs to convulse.
Which brings me back to the beads of sweat. Hey, Nina, let’s wait with the drink until the heat breaks. Or if you don’t want to wait – no more about the air conditioning already, okay?
Is it only me who is sweating it out today? The Dew Point – a summer match to the wind chill index, except, take note all you weather people, it is way less comprehensible, so quit acting as if we understand what it really is – it’s high though. That means my shirt and my skin are stuck in some infernal way, bonded through the heat and humidity. (I am offering up a better marker here: why don’t you, weather types, instead of measuring Dew Points, measure how many men it would take to pry the shirt off my damp back? So much easier to visualize than Dew Points. Who the hell cares about Dew Points.)
Nina once proclaimed (that is a verb that sooooo suits her) that she hates air conditioning. So I was going to ask her to have a late night drink this week but I remembered how unpleasant it is to sit next to her at a bar in summer hell weather days. She pulls on sweater after sweater and complains how the coldest day in Wisconsin is actually right now just because the inside temperatures are hovering near 49 degrees F., thanks to this state’s love affair with the AC.
Of course, this is all one of those Nina-ggerations. I happen to know that she has snubbed the Polish way of controlling the heat inside as well. She tells me Poles pack in a bunch of people, turn off the fans and leave you to take a whiff of the ten different types of body odor that quickly fill the space. Fun! And the much adored by her (okay, and by me) French? Obviously they love to feel warm and French toasty. They’re forever choking themselves in scarves and wearing tailored coats and it’s hard to ever lay eyes on that awesome, curvaceous French shoulder because it is always hiding under some silky number or other. Indoors, they sit tightly together and smoke cigarettes and do all sorts of things to ensure that there is no flow of cool air anywhere around. So Nina, let me say this much: all countries seem to have their own issues with temperatures, inside and out.
I find myself lapsing into silence when Nina goes on one of her “in this country” or “in that country” spins. There's this desperation about it, have you noticed? I'm thinking that she is really culturally confused and always evaluating these easy clichés to help her sort through the muddle she is in. I’m silent and I am also sorry for her. I would hate not having a home base. She talks about having roots in Poland, but what kind of roots are we looking at? Pretty thin roots if most of her years have been in Wisconsin. Next time you see her, go ahead: ask her where she’s from. She cannot answer that without pausing for ten minutes and looking pained. She will not just blurt out Wisconsin, or Poland, or New York, or America. She deliberates, she qualifies and she looks stupid doing it. She should just pick a place, say Greenland, nice and exotic, and stick with it.
Hey, let me offer my own generalization: here in America, we don’t really care where a person’s from anyway when we ask, we’re all just making polite conversation, biding our time until we can get to the real stuff that’s troubling us – whether the person voted for Bush, or whether they share our deep-rooted fears of communism and naked bodies. Whereas for Nina, the question of “where you’re from” brings on the beads of sweat and causes her internal organs to convulse.
Which brings me back to the beads of sweat. Hey, Nina, let’s wait with the drink until the heat breaks. Or if you don’t want to wait – no more about the air conditioning already, okay?
posted by nina, 6/07/2005 12:05:00 PM
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guest post 10
More from Kep:
The Ocean bloggerette herself (nlc) suggested that I tell you something about relationships. Specifically: my relationships. I think she thinks they are totally weird and therefore good posting material.
Fine. But let me say this first: however you read this post, I do not think that I am a mean kind of guy. I’m not demanding either. The women in my life have left me because they did not understand the complicated way I function under emotional pressure. (Did I already say how awesome it is to write anonymously?)
I do get prickly when people, okay women-type people, claim they understand my little quirks and then six months into the relationship – whammo! – it’s suddenly an issue that I like my toes rubbed in a certain way. Six months they rub and tickle and pinch and then suddenly it’s ew, you’re gross and too demanding and don’t ever ask me to do it again! But you knew this about me! It’s not like I was going to change something so major! I’m speaking metaphorically here. I don’t really like having my toes rubbed.
My current love interest is different. Let’s call her Jill the Pill. Jill and I, we have been damn mean to each other from like day two. So it’s the sex that keeps it alive, you say. Bullshit. I mean, sure, sex is sex. But the real reason we keep at each other is that there is this Magnetic Force coming from Mother Earth herself and it does weird things to your insides. I’ll be damned if I know how else to explain it. I know that I do not have the strength to resist The Force. When Jill’s there again, vibrating the cell in my pocket, I crumble faster than overcooked bacon. At least until we turn all mean again. This has been going on for a long long time.
How does this post relate to the Ocean author? Nina and I have talked about this and she told me how she had to jump an ocean to avoid repeatedly going back to a certain dude who, I am told, tortured her inside and out for like five or six years straight (I don’t know how she was to him; women never give you that kind of info about themselves – they’re all honest and full of revelations about how the other person is to them, but about their own behavior? Zippo. For all I know, she kicked his ass hard).
Jumping an ocean. That’s kind of drastic. I couldn’t do it. For one, I don’t think I’d fit in with the French, even though I love ‘em all to pieces. And the Italian women would drive me insane. I heard they really scream during sex. Ever see that Italian movie, was it by Lina Wertmuller? Like maybe the Seduction of Mimi? Man, that woman could not keep quiet!
But I admire Nina for ditching the Polish dude in the end. Just as I know that any year now, Jill and I will split for good. Hell, you have got to keep the cruel stuff way suppressed, at least until the waning years of life when you can let it loose, knowing that no woman’s going to dump you at a time when you are still capable of taking her to the hospital for her hip replacement surgery or something.
The Ocean bloggerette herself (nlc) suggested that I tell you something about relationships. Specifically: my relationships. I think she thinks they are totally weird and therefore good posting material.
Fine. But let me say this first: however you read this post, I do not think that I am a mean kind of guy. I’m not demanding either. The women in my life have left me because they did not understand the complicated way I function under emotional pressure. (Did I already say how awesome it is to write anonymously?)
I do get prickly when people, okay women-type people, claim they understand my little quirks and then six months into the relationship – whammo! – it’s suddenly an issue that I like my toes rubbed in a certain way. Six months they rub and tickle and pinch and then suddenly it’s ew, you’re gross and too demanding and don’t ever ask me to do it again! But you knew this about me! It’s not like I was going to change something so major! I’m speaking metaphorically here. I don’t really like having my toes rubbed.
My current love interest is different. Let’s call her Jill the Pill. Jill and I, we have been damn mean to each other from like day two. So it’s the sex that keeps it alive, you say. Bullshit. I mean, sure, sex is sex. But the real reason we keep at each other is that there is this Magnetic Force coming from Mother Earth herself and it does weird things to your insides. I’ll be damned if I know how else to explain it. I know that I do not have the strength to resist The Force. When Jill’s there again, vibrating the cell in my pocket, I crumble faster than overcooked bacon. At least until we turn all mean again. This has been going on for a long long time.
How does this post relate to the Ocean author? Nina and I have talked about this and she told me how she had to jump an ocean to avoid repeatedly going back to a certain dude who, I am told, tortured her inside and out for like five or six years straight (I don’t know how she was to him; women never give you that kind of info about themselves – they’re all honest and full of revelations about how the other person is to them, but about their own behavior? Zippo. For all I know, she kicked his ass hard).
Jumping an ocean. That’s kind of drastic. I couldn’t do it. For one, I don’t think I’d fit in with the French, even though I love ‘em all to pieces. And the Italian women would drive me insane. I heard they really scream during sex. Ever see that Italian movie, was it by Lina Wertmuller? Like maybe the Seduction of Mimi? Man, that woman could not keep quiet!
But I admire Nina for ditching the Polish dude in the end. Just as I know that any year now, Jill and I will split for good. Hell, you have got to keep the cruel stuff way suppressed, at least until the waning years of life when you can let it loose, knowing that no woman’s going to dump you at a time when you are still capable of taking her to the hospital for her hip replacement surgery or something.
posted by nina, 6/07/2005 08:45:00 AM
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Monday, June 06, 2005
guest post 9
More from Kep:
Okay, Nina and I talked tonight and here’s the scoop: she wants me to continue for a little while longer, so bear with us here. She wants me to say something reassuring, ‘cause the emails are pretty freaky concerned. So: she is healthy, wealthy and wise. Okay, one and a half out of the three are for real.
After all is said and done, I agreed that she can “out” me, but in the meantime, quit asking her who I am. She wont tell and neither will I. If you approach me and ask: is it you? I’ll say: of course not, I swear! So don’t ask. I prefer it this way and so does she.
Listen, if you’re a good friend of hers, it’s a good time to send your kids over so that she can feast on their awesome grins. She told me today that she was sitting at a table tonight watching three little tikes wolf down food and she felt the world was a good place again. If you don't have kids, then go buy her some diamonds or pearls or something (see Nina: I look out for you!). Whatever you do, don’t pay much heed to me. I’m just the blogger de jour. There’s a real person behind Ocean, and it ain’t me.
Okay, Nina and I talked tonight and here’s the scoop: she wants me to continue for a little while longer, so bear with us here. She wants me to say something reassuring, ‘cause the emails are pretty freaky concerned. So: she is healthy, wealthy and wise. Okay, one and a half out of the three are for real.
After all is said and done, I agreed that she can “out” me, but in the meantime, quit asking her who I am. She wont tell and neither will I. If you approach me and ask: is it you? I’ll say: of course not, I swear! So don’t ask. I prefer it this way and so does she.
Listen, if you’re a good friend of hers, it’s a good time to send your kids over so that she can feast on their awesome grins. She told me today that she was sitting at a table tonight watching three little tikes wolf down food and she felt the world was a good place again. If you don't have kids, then go buy her some diamonds or pearls or something (see Nina: I look out for you!). Whatever you do, don’t pay much heed to me. I’m just the blogger de jour. There’s a real person behind Ocean, and it ain’t me.
posted by nina, 6/06/2005 09:55:00 PM
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guest post 8
More from Kep:
I had lunch with Nina last month, just before she left for Europe. I should have taken a picture of it, because I find her lunch habits so irritating that it’s time to shame and humiliate her in public. Nina – you knew this was coming!
You ask her out to lunch and right away she says: fine, but it has to be at a place that has good coffee.
So I am rackin’ my brains: what’s close to campus, has good food and good coffee? I give up. You pick, I tell her. So we wind up not at all close to campus, at a place that has no food to speak of (“oh, I guess they ran out,” says ms. charmer herself), and I have to watch her slurp milky caffeine, all hour long. I mean, how long can you work a cup of coffee, for God’s sake.
I noted that she carries with her chewing gum which is good. Friends, if you drink milky coffee, do remember that the combo gives a person terrible halitosis. Try riding in the front seat with someone who insists on swinging by Starbucks drive-up and then orders some latte or cappuccino and neglects to pop a spearmint baby into the mouth. Crank open the windows!
But about the lunch. I asked Nina if she thinks it’s healthy living to crunch a bar, drink coffee and then devour a pear back in the car (did anyone besides me ever get her lecture about healthy living? I know what I am doing wrong, damn it. It’s the doing it wrong that’s the problem, not my lack of knowledge about it!) and she ticks it off on her little Polish fingers: protein, produce, grains.
All the women I have ever lived with did lunch basically around rabbit food. There were piles of greens, mixed with more greens, with an occasional orange carrot or red radish thrown in (talk about fetid breath! Do not smooch after a radish; just write the day off for intimacy; your partner will understand and be grateful, believe me). And when I was in college, all the women would band together around lunchtime and do yogurt. Yogurt. Pop the lid, dig in the spoon and you’re done in 25 seconds. I defy anyone to take longer than that over a yogurt.
So fine. Protein, produce, grains. My asiago roast beef sandwich (roast beef, smoked cheddar, lettuce, tomatoes, red onions and creamy horseradish sauce, on an asiago cheese demi) happens to have the same. We swung by Panera on the way back and Nina did one of those fake hit her hand on her head routines, with an “oh yeah, I forgot they had good coffee here!” as I rushed through my prize meal in the five minutes we had left for our break.
I had lunch with Nina last month, just before she left for Europe. I should have taken a picture of it, because I find her lunch habits so irritating that it’s time to shame and humiliate her in public. Nina – you knew this was coming!
You ask her out to lunch and right away she says: fine, but it has to be at a place that has good coffee.
So I am rackin’ my brains: what’s close to campus, has good food and good coffee? I give up. You pick, I tell her. So we wind up not at all close to campus, at a place that has no food to speak of (“oh, I guess they ran out,” says ms. charmer herself), and I have to watch her slurp milky caffeine, all hour long. I mean, how long can you work a cup of coffee, for God’s sake.
I noted that she carries with her chewing gum which is good. Friends, if you drink milky coffee, do remember that the combo gives a person terrible halitosis. Try riding in the front seat with someone who insists on swinging by Starbucks drive-up and then orders some latte or cappuccino and neglects to pop a spearmint baby into the mouth. Crank open the windows!
But about the lunch. I asked Nina if she thinks it’s healthy living to crunch a bar, drink coffee and then devour a pear back in the car (did anyone besides me ever get her lecture about healthy living? I know what I am doing wrong, damn it. It’s the doing it wrong that’s the problem, not my lack of knowledge about it!) and she ticks it off on her little Polish fingers: protein, produce, grains.
All the women I have ever lived with did lunch basically around rabbit food. There were piles of greens, mixed with more greens, with an occasional orange carrot or red radish thrown in (talk about fetid breath! Do not smooch after a radish; just write the day off for intimacy; your partner will understand and be grateful, believe me). And when I was in college, all the women would band together around lunchtime and do yogurt. Yogurt. Pop the lid, dig in the spoon and you’re done in 25 seconds. I defy anyone to take longer than that over a yogurt.
So fine. Protein, produce, grains. My asiago roast beef sandwich (roast beef, smoked cheddar, lettuce, tomatoes, red onions and creamy horseradish sauce, on an asiago cheese demi) happens to have the same. We swung by Panera on the way back and Nina did one of those fake hit her hand on her head routines, with an “oh yeah, I forgot they had good coffee here!” as I rushed through my prize meal in the five minutes we had left for our break.
posted by nina, 6/06/2005 11:55:00 AM
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guest post 7
More from Kep:
I was sitting around trying to get work done while watching the Tony Awards last night – don’t ask, don’t ask, I do not know why – when I get a “you got mail” on my computer. It was an email from Nina.
You are alive! I wanted to shout, but it was email and so I just kept quiet.
She wrote the following (edited by me for reasons of readability here):
Kep, thank you. (This is good, I thought, she’s not firing me. She is saying thanks.)
… can I tell you this: the language of your posts is at times is a bit …colloquial. You never talk like that when you and I connect. Be yourself. (Oh God, I hate it when people say that to me. What does it mean to be not yourself? If I am a certain way, I am myself, Nina, shut up!)
I was surprised that you had to resort to that bean-up-the-nose story. You do not have to write about me, but if you do and you are short on material, ask me. I’ll give you some pointers. (Hey, you have given me years’ worth of material! No worry there. Simmer down, I have stuff on you!)
But really, you're terrific, thank you. I have had nothing but positive emails about you. (So why didn’t you share them with me? Your box is littered with precious little notes, and me, I am sitting here in my wicker chair wanting someone to say: you are an okay human being. Do not hold back on the praise for shit’s sake. Oh, I don’t care if the rule is that I keep curse words out. So kill me for saying shit on the blog. Oh fine, I’ll try to do better tomorrow. Okay, Nina, send me the next message – I can take it!)
I was sitting around trying to get work done while watching the Tony Awards last night – don’t ask, don’t ask, I do not know why – when I get a “you got mail” on my computer. It was an email from Nina.
You are alive! I wanted to shout, but it was email and so I just kept quiet.
She wrote the following (edited by me for reasons of readability here):
Kep, thank you. (This is good, I thought, she’s not firing me. She is saying thanks.)
… can I tell you this: the language of your posts is at times is a bit …colloquial. You never talk like that when you and I connect. Be yourself. (Oh God, I hate it when people say that to me. What does it mean to be not yourself? If I am a certain way, I am myself, Nina, shut up!)
I was surprised that you had to resort to that bean-up-the-nose story. You do not have to write about me, but if you do and you are short on material, ask me. I’ll give you some pointers. (Hey, you have given me years’ worth of material! No worry there. Simmer down, I have stuff on you!)
But really, you're terrific, thank you. I have had nothing but positive emails about you. (So why didn’t you share them with me? Your box is littered with precious little notes, and me, I am sitting here in my wicker chair wanting someone to say: you are an okay human being. Do not hold back on the praise for shit’s sake. Oh, I don’t care if the rule is that I keep curse words out. So kill me for saying shit on the blog. Oh fine, I’ll try to do better tomorrow. Okay, Nina, send me the next message – I can take it!)
posted by nina, 6/06/2005 09:15:00 AM
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Sunday, June 05, 2005
guest post 6
More from Kep:
When Nina first asked me to guest post here, I was skeptical. How many readers do you have? I wanted to know.
Two – she answered.
I’m doing this for two readers?? Christ, tell them to pick up a comic book in the interim, what’s the matter with you – you’re worried about pleasing two readers?
No, I’m only worried about pleasing one. The other is an add-on.
Okay, ha ha ha, so funny. How many then?
Forget about numbers – she tells me. Write for the person you respect most as a reader and don’t worry about the rest. I switch back and forth. Typically there is a person or two in my mind’s eye when I’m thinking of a post.
Alright. My sister – hey, are you reading this, sis? I hope not! I just insulted you here yesterday – but maybe her anyway. She’s pretty loosey-goosey about stuff. So this story is for you, sis:
Nina once told me that one of her earliest memories is from back in Poland, playing with her sister, saying to her -- I can, too, stick string beans up my nose if I want to! Then she proceeded to demonstrate. Up, up, up, went the skinny bean. Her sister watched, horrified. Eventually, parents were summoned and all hovered over Nina with her nose plugged by two very far-reaching beans. Special tweezers had to be used to get the damn things out. She says she’s glad her grandparents farmed organically (this was Poland in the fifties – I did not think anyone farmed organically then, but she assures me that her ancestors were the original composting anti-pesticide freaks) because it made the beans stronger and therefore they did not fall apart and cause trouble up her nose.
So look what we have here: a sib who is an audience for her, who will allow her to perform and test new things, even if it is just sticking beans up the nose. Today it’s beans, tomorrow it’s some impressive cure for the common cold. From buggered beans to the Nobel Prize in chemistry maybe. Of course, I don’t think Nina is on anyone’s short list for a science prize, but still, you could say that her experimental, daring-to-be-different nature started to develop right there, with her sister watching.
Hey, sis, at least I wasn’t a handful for you: I don’t remember sticking anything up my nose, your nose, anyone’s nose.
Not that I wasn’t tempted sometimes.
When Nina first asked me to guest post here, I was skeptical. How many readers do you have? I wanted to know.
Two – she answered.
I’m doing this for two readers?? Christ, tell them to pick up a comic book in the interim, what’s the matter with you – you’re worried about pleasing two readers?
No, I’m only worried about pleasing one. The other is an add-on.
Okay, ha ha ha, so funny. How many then?
Forget about numbers – she tells me. Write for the person you respect most as a reader and don’t worry about the rest. I switch back and forth. Typically there is a person or two in my mind’s eye when I’m thinking of a post.
Alright. My sister – hey, are you reading this, sis? I hope not! I just insulted you here yesterday – but maybe her anyway. She’s pretty loosey-goosey about stuff. So this story is for you, sis:
Nina once told me that one of her earliest memories is from back in Poland, playing with her sister, saying to her -- I can, too, stick string beans up my nose if I want to! Then she proceeded to demonstrate. Up, up, up, went the skinny bean. Her sister watched, horrified. Eventually, parents were summoned and all hovered over Nina with her nose plugged by two very far-reaching beans. Special tweezers had to be used to get the damn things out. She says she’s glad her grandparents farmed organically (this was Poland in the fifties – I did not think anyone farmed organically then, but she assures me that her ancestors were the original composting anti-pesticide freaks) because it made the beans stronger and therefore they did not fall apart and cause trouble up her nose.
So look what we have here: a sib who is an audience for her, who will allow her to perform and test new things, even if it is just sticking beans up the nose. Today it’s beans, tomorrow it’s some impressive cure for the common cold. From buggered beans to the Nobel Prize in chemistry maybe. Of course, I don’t think Nina is on anyone’s short list for a science prize, but still, you could say that her experimental, daring-to-be-different nature started to develop right there, with her sister watching.
Hey, sis, at least I wasn’t a handful for you: I don’t remember sticking anything up my nose, your nose, anyone’s nose.
Not that I wasn’t tempted sometimes.
posted by nina, 6/05/2005 04:55:00 PM
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guest post 5
More from Kep:
We have this Deep Throat thing going. I am to get a cryptic signal from the Ocean author herself when she is ready to resume her blogging duties. No sign of anything this morning, so here I am posting again.
I woke up this morning thinking that bookstores are overrated. I see it this way: I go to one, I pick something and either it’s interesting and then I am there reading and getting cramps in my legs, how stupid is that, or it bores the crap out of me and I feel like a complete moron, not worthy of the various academic degrees stuck in a moldy box in some basement. (Mom? Dad? Do you know where my degrees are? Yes, I finished school already! Jesus!)
Nina is in love with Borders. She told me that when it was abandoning its original Madison building, she felt emptier than when her last kid left for kindergarten. She has one of those frequent everything cards – buyer, drinker, Internet user, all for Borders Borders and more Borders. Sick.
I asked if she was equally fascinated with bookstores in Poland and France and she gave me one of those “you poor pathetic chump” looks. Apparently bookstore-love does cross oceans. Of course, it’s not like Borders. At Borders you can eat, read, drink and play footsie with your loved one for all they care. In Paris, she tells me, the atmosphere is more serious. In fact, after her last trip to one this past month she wrote me this: God, I love how all the bindings there are so white that when you enter a bookstore you feel like you’re in a book hospital!
These days, she says she is especially drawn to leafing through Gogol. Okay, fine, make me feel like a moron. It’s not as if I hang out at Farm and Fleet on my days off. I have my special places. If I blog here long enough, I’m sure you’ll hear about them.
I need to say this: everything I write here about the Ocean author is true. She swore that if she ever caught me doing anything more than giving slight poetic flavoring to a story about her, she’d fire me without pay (the compensation being our friendship). I take her seriously. Polish women can really deliver on the threats, I’m told.
We have this Deep Throat thing going. I am to get a cryptic signal from the Ocean author herself when she is ready to resume her blogging duties. No sign of anything this morning, so here I am posting again.
I woke up this morning thinking that bookstores are overrated. I see it this way: I go to one, I pick something and either it’s interesting and then I am there reading and getting cramps in my legs, how stupid is that, or it bores the crap out of me and I feel like a complete moron, not worthy of the various academic degrees stuck in a moldy box in some basement. (Mom? Dad? Do you know where my degrees are? Yes, I finished school already! Jesus!)
Nina is in love with Borders. She told me that when it was abandoning its original Madison building, she felt emptier than when her last kid left for kindergarten. She has one of those frequent everything cards – buyer, drinker, Internet user, all for Borders Borders and more Borders. Sick.
I asked if she was equally fascinated with bookstores in Poland and France and she gave me one of those “you poor pathetic chump” looks. Apparently bookstore-love does cross oceans. Of course, it’s not like Borders. At Borders you can eat, read, drink and play footsie with your loved one for all they care. In Paris, she tells me, the atmosphere is more serious. In fact, after her last trip to one this past month she wrote me this: God, I love how all the bindings there are so white that when you enter a bookstore you feel like you’re in a book hospital!
These days, she says she is especially drawn to leafing through Gogol. Okay, fine, make me feel like a moron. It’s not as if I hang out at Farm and Fleet on my days off. I have my special places. If I blog here long enough, I’m sure you’ll hear about them.
I need to say this: everything I write here about the Ocean author is true. She swore that if she ever caught me doing anything more than giving slight poetic flavoring to a story about her, she’d fire me without pay (the compensation being our friendship). I take her seriously. Polish women can really deliver on the threats, I’m told.
posted by nina, 6/05/2005 09:05:00 AM
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Saturday, June 04, 2005
guest post 4
More from Kep:
So the day after she got back from Europe, I asked Nina what she was up to and she said that she was searching for a hole in the wall. Say what? That kind of answer just demands clarification.
She told me she had to be in France again in July to present a yet-to-be-written paper at a conference. The plan was to hide out in some rural hole for a few days before the conference and write like mad until something presentable appeared on paper.
I told her to do a no-show. Your heart’s not in it – screw the French and their damn homards and coquilles. They think just because they cook like there’s no tomorrow that they’ll have us running there at a snap. (Okay, that was transparent. I am enamored with all things French.)
But what’s with the hole in the wall?
Nina said that she had absolutely no cash to put up for this project, so she was looking at her voluminous Gault Millau, le guide, to find the cheapest possible room anywhere within a day’s train ride of Paris.
So any luck? She pointed to a listing – at 31 Euro per night it had to be a hole. Le Stasbourg. Sounds like crap, I told her (I was bluffing; I don’t read French). Is it at least in an interesting location? Her answer: There are many ways to view a location as interesting. There’s one thing about it that appeals to me. The name of the village* is a name I’ve heard quite recently, thrown out by a woman who clearly was displeased with my way of handling things. So maybe it’s a match. I sent them an email. We’ll see what they say.
The thing about being friends with Nina is that it gives you plenty of screwy stories to recount for the blog. One of our common friends said that she is a complete wild card. Oh yeah! Now, if I had to do this for my sister, for example, I’d be stumped after the first post.
*name of village: Bitche
So the day after she got back from Europe, I asked Nina what she was up to and she said that she was searching for a hole in the wall. Say what? That kind of answer just demands clarification.
She told me she had to be in France again in July to present a yet-to-be-written paper at a conference. The plan was to hide out in some rural hole for a few days before the conference and write like mad until something presentable appeared on paper.
I told her to do a no-show. Your heart’s not in it – screw the French and their damn homards and coquilles. They think just because they cook like there’s no tomorrow that they’ll have us running there at a snap. (Okay, that was transparent. I am enamored with all things French.)
But what’s with the hole in the wall?
Nina said that she had absolutely no cash to put up for this project, so she was looking at her voluminous Gault Millau, le guide, to find the cheapest possible room anywhere within a day’s train ride of Paris.
So any luck? She pointed to a listing – at 31 Euro per night it had to be a hole. Le Stasbourg. Sounds like crap, I told her (I was bluffing; I don’t read French). Is it at least in an interesting location? Her answer: There are many ways to view a location as interesting. There’s one thing about it that appeals to me. The name of the village* is a name I’ve heard quite recently, thrown out by a woman who clearly was displeased with my way of handling things. So maybe it’s a match. I sent them an email. We’ll see what they say.
The thing about being friends with Nina is that it gives you plenty of screwy stories to recount for the blog. One of our common friends said that she is a complete wild card. Oh yeah! Now, if I had to do this for my sister, for example, I’d be stumped after the first post.
*name of village: Bitche
posted by nina, 6/04/2005 01:55:00 PM
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guest post 3
More from Kep:
Nina’s still out, so it’s back to me posting here. I am told not to worry too much about what I write on a Saturday since it appears that no one reads blogs on the week-ends. Don’t you feel stupid, you few who are glued to the screen? And what does it say about me that I am both reading and writing on this great big beautiful day? I should be swinging a bat or building a shed or doing something manly and worthwhile. Instead I am dutifully typing away, trying to play the good guy here.
I like blogs. I’m new to them, but I like them. People seem to be chasing their dreams and fulfilling their creative impulse right there on the Net and I am all for it. Show us your closet artwork! Come on, post it and let us take a quick look!
But here’s the truth of it. We, the readers, are cheating. We give you just a minute, maybe two, and we walk away thinking – okay, we’re done. We can return to shed-building, duty to friend discharged.
I had the following happen to me with respect to Ocean and its author. Some weeks ago I sent Nina a message with a direct reference to a recent post, telling her that it was awesome how she was enjoying a spring walk or something to that effect. Hey, I thought I was being decent by going to the trouble of emailing, given that Ocean does not permit the easy route of commenting with a click on the blog.
I got a chilly note back with this little jab: “how little you know.” Holy Hannah (I was warned not to use curse words in posts here), open up your comments if you want a discussion of your internal state, I retorted (using a nicer tone; I know all about the fragile feelings of friends and bloggers). She said something like – if you can’t even go to the trouble of typing in an email address then obviously you do not have anything important to tell me.
She is right of course. Her post on the spring walk said nothing about her day really. I imputed into it stuff that wasn’t even there. And I wanted to be done with it quickly, before shed building and bat swinging.
So now I think that blogs kill the impulse to write an email or pick up the phone and ask “how’s it goin’.” I counted up the minutes I give to checking Ocean per day: maybe five, at most. And I looked at my saved emails and counted the number I’ve exchanged with Nina since she’s started posting. It’s down. And since I hate the phone and she hates the phone, that says something about what her blogging has done to the frequency of our contact. Even as I relish having a quick peak at the life of an Ocean liner every single day that she posts.
Okay, now I really want to go out and pound a few nails.
Nina’s still out, so it’s back to me posting here. I am told not to worry too much about what I write on a Saturday since it appears that no one reads blogs on the week-ends. Don’t you feel stupid, you few who are glued to the screen? And what does it say about me that I am both reading and writing on this great big beautiful day? I should be swinging a bat or building a shed or doing something manly and worthwhile. Instead I am dutifully typing away, trying to play the good guy here.
I like blogs. I’m new to them, but I like them. People seem to be chasing their dreams and fulfilling their creative impulse right there on the Net and I am all for it. Show us your closet artwork! Come on, post it and let us take a quick look!
But here’s the truth of it. We, the readers, are cheating. We give you just a minute, maybe two, and we walk away thinking – okay, we’re done. We can return to shed-building, duty to friend discharged.
I had the following happen to me with respect to Ocean and its author. Some weeks ago I sent Nina a message with a direct reference to a recent post, telling her that it was awesome how she was enjoying a spring walk or something to that effect. Hey, I thought I was being decent by going to the trouble of emailing, given that Ocean does not permit the easy route of commenting with a click on the blog.
I got a chilly note back with this little jab: “how little you know.” Holy Hannah (I was warned not to use curse words in posts here), open up your comments if you want a discussion of your internal state, I retorted (using a nicer tone; I know all about the fragile feelings of friends and bloggers). She said something like – if you can’t even go to the trouble of typing in an email address then obviously you do not have anything important to tell me.
She is right of course. Her post on the spring walk said nothing about her day really. I imputed into it stuff that wasn’t even there. And I wanted to be done with it quickly, before shed building and bat swinging.
So now I think that blogs kill the impulse to write an email or pick up the phone and ask “how’s it goin’.” I counted up the minutes I give to checking Ocean per day: maybe five, at most. And I looked at my saved emails and counted the number I’ve exchanged with Nina since she’s started posting. It’s down. And since I hate the phone and she hates the phone, that says something about what her blogging has done to the frequency of our contact. Even as I relish having a quick peak at the life of an Ocean liner every single day that she posts.
Okay, now I really want to go out and pound a few nails.
posted by nina, 6/04/2005 09:55:00 AM
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Friday, June 03, 2005
guest post 2
More From Kep:
Culinary pickings
Not too long ago Nina asked me what I thought of Polish cooking. She explained how it’s come a long way since some abysmal levels of gastronomic hell (her words). I listened patiently and then responded with a somewhat more tentative assessment.
And then I watched that furrowed brow of hers grow deeper – you know how she gets, so that you become convinced that you have committed some gross violence against humanity by implying that an aspect of Polish culture is less than perfect.
I explained that my assessment was merely based on color. I am a color guy. I like to see reds, greens, pale yellows on my plate. I think a cuisine that parades all those shades of brown, virtually in every plate of food, cannot aspire to anything but secondary status.
Of course, Nina got all defensive, claiming that if I wanted something more piercing than burgundy – another common hue on the Polish plate – I was a little too demanding.
To which I responded that her defense is fundamentally flawed, since burgundy beets and burgundy cabbage cannot, under any circumstance, elevate the cuisine of the land to great prominence. Cabbage and beets. Think about it. Are you excited? Likely not.
I stuck my ground. Work on the color and then come back and ask my opinion. (a little aside: anonymous writing on a blog rules!)
On the other hand, I have to say that the photo of the pan with wild forest mushrooms, sautéed with onions and doused with cream had me clicking endlessly on Ocean just so that I could lick the screen and pretend the stuff was real. And yeah, I understand that mushrooms look their best if allowed to remain in their brown incarnation. Brown is desirable. In mushrooms land. Whatever you do, great chefs of Poland, do not get rid of that dish of sautéed ceps and chanterelles. That’s just paradise.
Culinary pickings
Not too long ago Nina asked me what I thought of Polish cooking. She explained how it’s come a long way since some abysmal levels of gastronomic hell (her words). I listened patiently and then responded with a somewhat more tentative assessment.
And then I watched that furrowed brow of hers grow deeper – you know how she gets, so that you become convinced that you have committed some gross violence against humanity by implying that an aspect of Polish culture is less than perfect.
I explained that my assessment was merely based on color. I am a color guy. I like to see reds, greens, pale yellows on my plate. I think a cuisine that parades all those shades of brown, virtually in every plate of food, cannot aspire to anything but secondary status.
Of course, Nina got all defensive, claiming that if I wanted something more piercing than burgundy – another common hue on the Polish plate – I was a little too demanding.
To which I responded that her defense is fundamentally flawed, since burgundy beets and burgundy cabbage cannot, under any circumstance, elevate the cuisine of the land to great prominence. Cabbage and beets. Think about it. Are you excited? Likely not.
I stuck my ground. Work on the color and then come back and ask my opinion. (a little aside: anonymous writing on a blog rules!)
On the other hand, I have to say that the photo of the pan with wild forest mushrooms, sautéed with onions and doused with cream had me clicking endlessly on Ocean just so that I could lick the screen and pretend the stuff was real. And yeah, I understand that mushrooms look their best if allowed to remain in their brown incarnation. Brown is desirable. In mushrooms land. Whatever you do, great chefs of Poland, do not get rid of that dish of sautéed ceps and chanterelles. That’s just paradise.
posted by nina, 6/03/2005 07:00:00 PM
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guest post
From Kep:
Okay, Nina is indisposed so here I go:
I am so damn happy that it is June. Because if today had still been a May day, along with the message asking me to post something, I would have heard an “I told you so” from the Ocean author herself.
Nina wrote me this message early in the week (edited a little by me):
Did you know that there is a curse hanging over me? That the last week of May has always delivered the most violent assaults against my body and soul?
I don’t much subscribe to the supernatural and so I countered with:
Oh yeah, ms. smarty-pants, what violence against your body and soul was committed in the year…1969?
I was “taken advantage of” in matters of the heart.
In 1971?
I had major surgery. Don't even ask about '78: ditto.
In 1980?
My closest friend in Madison died of cancer.
Now I’m grasping for a really off year…1995?
My brain exploded.
Okay okay, she’s making this up. I don’t believe you! 1999?
It was freaky wild! (I remember now, she’s right, but I can’t post it. It is not for public reading.)
Ditto last year, ditto this year – man, she is so right! She is cursed.
So I did some research. A skill I have. I dug up on google a “how to” guide which had an entry on lifting curses. Unfortunately it also had the following: “how to become irresistible.” Please, do not tell me you would be so noble as to lift friends’ curses when you can, instead, make yourself out to be the most desirable human being on earth.
Because I got distracted, the Nina curse lives on. If you know anything about knocking down curses, write her, or me. I will do all I can, I swear.
Okay, Nina is indisposed so here I go:
I am so damn happy that it is June. Because if today had still been a May day, along with the message asking me to post something, I would have heard an “I told you so” from the Ocean author herself.
Nina wrote me this message early in the week (edited a little by me):
Did you know that there is a curse hanging over me? That the last week of May has always delivered the most violent assaults against my body and soul?
I don’t much subscribe to the supernatural and so I countered with:
Oh yeah, ms. smarty-pants, what violence against your body and soul was committed in the year…1969?
I was “taken advantage of” in matters of the heart.
In 1971?
I had major surgery. Don't even ask about '78: ditto.
In 1980?
My closest friend in Madison died of cancer.
Now I’m grasping for a really off year…1995?
My brain exploded.
Okay okay, she’s making this up. I don’t believe you! 1999?
It was freaky wild! (I remember now, she’s right, but I can’t post it. It is not for public reading.)
Ditto last year, ditto this year – man, she is so right! She is cursed.
So I did some research. A skill I have. I dug up on google a “how to” guide which had an entry on lifting curses. Unfortunately it also had the following: “how to become irresistible.” Please, do not tell me you would be so noble as to lift friends’ curses when you can, instead, make yourself out to be the most desirable human being on earth.
Because I got distracted, the Nina curse lives on. If you know anything about knocking down curses, write her, or me. I will do all I can, I swear.
posted by nina, 6/03/2005 09:05:00 AM
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Thursday, June 02, 2005
Meet Kep
I have to step off the planet occasionally in the next days. In the interim, Kep, a trusted soul who knows me inside and out, will fill Ocean pages with typical Nina-like dribble. Several things you should know about Kep:
He does not want his identity revealed (even though he will allow me to say that he is known to many of Ocean readers).
He may not even be a he. He may be a she. Though let’s not squabble and move back and forth between genders: Kep is a male in Ocean’s eyes.
He knows Madison.
He has a digital camera.
He does not want an email address set up for his (short?) stint as an Ocean blogger. If you have comments to him, send them to my address. I will be checking email and forwarding things.
Kep will be using my account rather than that of a guest blogger. It’s easier that way and I trust that he will not fiddle with Ocean’s past. Right, Kep?
Kep is kind of an audacious and quirky guy. I am not responsible for whatever he puts out on this blog! He said he’d adjust his style of writing to my Ocean tone, but I’m wondering if that’s just him making fun of my East European way of framing things. I’ll be reading and I’ll wrap his knuckles good and hard if he oversteps boundaries.
He does not want his identity revealed (even though he will allow me to say that he is known to many of Ocean readers).
He may not even be a he. He may be a she. Though let’s not squabble and move back and forth between genders: Kep is a male in Ocean’s eyes.
He knows Madison.
He has a digital camera.
He does not want an email address set up for his (short?) stint as an Ocean blogger. If you have comments to him, send them to my address. I will be checking email and forwarding things.
Kep will be using my account rather than that of a guest blogger. It’s easier that way and I trust that he will not fiddle with Ocean’s past. Right, Kep?
Kep is kind of an audacious and quirky guy. I am not responsible for whatever he puts out on this blog! He said he’d adjust his style of writing to my Ocean tone, but I’m wondering if that’s just him making fun of my East European way of framing things. I’ll be reading and I’ll wrap his knuckles good and hard if he oversteps boundaries.
I've asked him to write a few words by way of introduction in this post.
From Kep:
You know what is so fun about this project? I am to try writing as if I were a normal academic, with an oddball sense of humor and a lot of good ideas on what should go on a blog.
Only one of these three claims has any truth to it whatsoever.
I promised Nina I would post at least once a day on days where she goes into sleep mode. So, until further notice, I am here, ready to jump in and save the ship. It may be rocky, I may go overboard, but I am here to comment on things – and throw in some juicy gossip on the original Ocean liner herself, ms. nlc.
All this nautical lingo is really not my thing, by the way.
posted by nina, 6/02/2005 03:30:00 PM
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so, so, so...
So cool
A reader who happens to be a professional photographer took this Ocean photo, balanced the colors a bit and turned it into a poster. I found it in my office mail yesterday, on my first day back. Awesome! Thanks.
So good
… to slosh through cosmos and metros and eat this with a blogger friend:
A reader who happens to be a professional photographer took this Ocean photo, balanced the colors a bit and turned it into a poster. I found it in my office mail yesterday, on my first day back. Awesome! Thanks.
So good
… to slosh through cosmos and metros and eat this with a blogger friend:
posted by nina, 6/02/2005 10:30:00 AM
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where is it and what is it?
[ans.: seared tuna, at the Crave]
[ans.: seared tuna, at the Crave]
posted by nina, 6/02/2005 10:29:00 AM
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So pretty
Like a fresh dusting of snow, but really a neighborhood tree, releasing puffy clumps of seed.
Like a fresh dusting of snow, but really a neighborhood tree, releasing puffy clumps of seed.
posted by nina, 6/02/2005 10:28:00 AM
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white powder everywhere
posted by nina, 6/02/2005 10:27:07 AM
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a tree grows, then sows
posted by nina, 6/02/2005 10:24:42 AM
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Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Here comes my Polish thing again...
Today is a day of note in Poland. On June 1st, the country celebrates children. Oh, they say it's become too commercialized. I don't even know what that means, given that kids in general like to celebrate with things, prefereably acquired, preferably by them, preferably in huge amounts.
I understand that indulging greed is not the way to go to raise happy healthy people and I know it has not always been all about bribing a kid to be good by offering up a storm of gifts on this one June day. When I was a kid, I thought that all those ice cream cones freely handed out to kids on June first had more to do with a Lenin mentality (we learned young): you know, him saying "give me one generation of youth and I will transform the entire world" or words to that effect. I thought by dousing us with sugared treats, the country was saying -- hey, we want YOU to return the favor one day. [I wasn't really as cynical as that sounds. I just believed that Lenin was everywhere, much like some people believe that a divine spirit is everywhere.]
I'm straying here. I actually just want to say "happy children's day" and to throw out a few photos of Polish children, taken quickly, randomly as I jumped and skipped from one place to another in the last several weeks.
I understand that indulging greed is not the way to go to raise happy healthy people and I know it has not always been all about bribing a kid to be good by offering up a storm of gifts on this one June day. When I was a kid, I thought that all those ice cream cones freely handed out to kids on June first had more to do with a Lenin mentality (we learned young): you know, him saying "give me one generation of youth and I will transform the entire world" or words to that effect. I thought by dousing us with sugared treats, the country was saying -- hey, we want YOU to return the favor one day. [I wasn't really as cynical as that sounds. I just believed that Lenin was everywhere, much like some people believe that a divine spirit is everywhere.]
I'm straying here. I actually just want to say "happy children's day" and to throw out a few photos of Polish children, taken quickly, randomly as I jumped and skipped from one place to another in the last several weeks.
posted by nina, 6/01/2005 04:45:00 PM
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wanting to get to his juice, in Lazienki Park, Warsaw
posted by nina, 6/01/2005 04:42:15 PM
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before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, in Warsaw; "fix your hair for the photo!" the teacher shouted -- and they listened.
posted by nina, 6/01/2005 04:41:15 PM
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secrets
posted by nina, 6/01/2005 04:39:08 PM
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in a mountain village, near Zakopane
posted by nina, 6/01/2005 04:37:24 PM
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summer reading
I am well aware of the fact that Ocean has once again crossed over into light and airy land. Consider this: I was in Paris on the day of the French EU Constitution vote. I could have staked out polling places, interviewed people on the street, written a brief summary of why the left and the right fought hard to say Non! to the hefty tome that showed up in everyone’s mailbox just before the vote.
I did not of that. I wrote about parts of lobster swimming in some undefined yet lovely sauce.
Similarly, today, as I sat for hours at the dentist’s and listened to his analysis of the revelation made by Deep Throat (there is something quaint about your dentist talking about deep throat while poking inside your mouth), I thought – why didn’t I take on this interesting piece of political gossip on the blog? Why, instead, do I want to let the world know that my dentist eats cheerios for breakfast and cannot resist two cookies after every dinner?
It’s when my days become more serious that the blog becomes less so. And these days are all about serious. I predict a summer of light Ocean reading. For more serious blogs, check out just about any on the sidebar. They’ll deliver, even as I ponder about what would happen if I actually stopped reading the newspaper entirely and based my entire worldview on what the dentist tells me during my occasional visits to his office. He voted for Kerry, after all. I could do worse.
I did not of that. I wrote about parts of lobster swimming in some undefined yet lovely sauce.
Similarly, today, as I sat for hours at the dentist’s and listened to his analysis of the revelation made by Deep Throat (there is something quaint about your dentist talking about deep throat while poking inside your mouth), I thought – why didn’t I take on this interesting piece of political gossip on the blog? Why, instead, do I want to let the world know that my dentist eats cheerios for breakfast and cannot resist two cookies after every dinner?
It’s when my days become more serious that the blog becomes less so. And these days are all about serious. I predict a summer of light Ocean reading. For more serious blogs, check out just about any on the sidebar. They’ll deliver, even as I ponder about what would happen if I actually stopped reading the newspaper entirely and based my entire worldview on what the dentist tells me during my occasional visits to his office. He voted for Kerry, after all. I could do worse.
posted by nina, 6/01/2005 03:35:00 PM
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