Never Go Back?

A friend of mine told me recently that you can never go back. I thought about all the possibilities or the missing ones since you are, in a way, limiting yourself. Basically, I’m trying to understand what never going back or not really means. What the connotations are. Backwards bound seems always to fall in the negative and here I’ve done it 100 times. I told my friend that change, growth, and maturity makes revisiting what’s back there a completely different experience. But still, I had a hard time pleading my case. Maybe I was unsure it could be a good experience. I know I’ve changed, grown, matured, actively. Of course, when those changes are physical, I’m actively trying to halt the process, thank you very much strand-of-gray-hair. Anyway, I want to change (for the better presumably). Others do, too. So not everyone gets stuck and the journey can be positively grand. I guess my friend's point, because the comment was really about something specific, was to move forward and recognize that if the past doesn’t work, you can’t go back and even if it did work, you can’t go back... unless... What I say now is I go back because it IS there sometimes. I see it there waiting to be plucked and prodded. Waiting to be written about and painted. Waiting to be serenaded. To be loved. And sometimes it just fades like Hiroshima.

My Weekend

After being ravaged by a bloody cold that forced me to sleep my Friday away, I decided to head east for the weekend. My mom was having a dinner party, which could only mean one thing - good food. She made the best Colombian beans ever with tajadas (green banana), beef, avocado salad, and tortas de maiz (corn cakes)! I remember first tasting tortas de maiz when I was five. My mom used to make them all the time back then and now only does so on special occassions. I was in heaven. After all the guests left, I decided to stay over. It felt nice being home, so close to heaven and all. I intended to go out for a drink or a movie or do whatever it is young-ish people do, but fell asleep (again) with my clothes on. When I woke up, everything else was on, too. The tv, the computer, the lights, the sun. I performed last night's ritual (brushed teeth) and knocked on mom & dad's door like I was five. They were already up chatting in bed, so I crawled in. My dad made the best Colombian instant coffee ever. One cup, which we all shared. I was in heaven.

Later that day, like an hour later, my sister came over with Ricky & Lucy (doggies). We salsa danced for 2 hours. You can imagine where we all were, how it felt, laughing, dancing together. Heavenly.

Sitting in a Jacuzzi...

filled with bubbling hot water that oozes and overflows, transforming into steam, rising, like a mad scientist's giant glass beaker, on a crisp night, under thousands upon thousands of stars peppering the sky, overlooking downtown San Diego, from the edge on the hill of a small mountain, alone and exposed, felt like I was on another planet... from another planet. It made me miss being young.

Pi

I finally finished my final paper on the film Pi incorporating Plato, Sedgwick, and Freud. It was a stretch at times, but not really. Maybe it was just my organizational skills, which are rather lazy lately. Anyway, as always, I found new parts to pick apart. The sun behind the trees especially. I never noticed that in the last scene, the leaves are very much gray instead of black. And that nature prevails in so many other ways - the ants! And that some things are too bright for us to see and better left there in our darkness. And sometimes I think finding meaning in Pi is         i n f i n i t e.

The Forgotten

I saw Hiroshima Mon Amour. It was an "artsy" French black and white 1959 film about the idea of forgetting... or at least that's what I understood. The director fuses the storytelling narrative and techniques used in documentaries against the backdrop of the reconstruction of Hiroshima - well after the bombing. History and love are sort of made to parallel each other. It was strange, a Japanese man and a French woman making love, but trying to forget. Recognizing they will forget. Meaning their meeting is more than just a secret affair. Each has caught a glimpse of the other's history and believes they have seen. Neither allows the other to really see. Their reflections taking on new meaning. I'm not sure why I'm even writing about this. Towards the end, the French woman, an actress, becomes this symbol of what has been forgotten... maybe along with what happened to Hiroshima. The Japanese man, an architect, names her Nevers (in France) after the rural place where she was born, but hadn't returned to. The film made me think of December and how most people reflect during this time. Some people unknowingly are choosing what to forget. What should be forgotten. So they breathe new life into it. Or never see it again.

Red Hook

I went to Red Hook.       Change is what kept me. I've always been afraid of it. Something so arbitrary, yet essential. Inevitable really. It is more like reluctance than fear. Waiting by a window for it. That anticipation. The smell of winter. The budding bloom of color in Spring. I look at my dying plants, because there is never quite enough light, and the thought of ending it, possibly changing the landscape makes me uneasy. Maybe it’s the letting go more than the change.        I went to Red Hook.         Thoughts of change. A city of change. Constant. Moving around like yellow cabs or sleepwalking city dwellers. Stop and go. Stop. Go. Thank G*d I’m here and not there. That’s too much change, too fast. I let go all the time. Honest, I do. Getting used to that was never easy. Not with all the dried flowers in my room. And even that kind of change is palatable. The easing into. Slow moving change. Candle wax and sandy scrolls and ever-changing patterns in the sky.        I went to Red Hook.        I hated not knowing. So I went. Maybe they’ve changed? And what if I haven’t? I’m still here while they rotate right along with everything else. Or what if I’ve changed? And my change is just plain different. So different that going no longer matters and you end up with nothing but letting go.        I made it to Red Hook.        I realized it didn’t matter. I have changed, but was willing to rub up against theirs. Fearless. Letting go, but also taking in. Just my thoughts that kept me. Too much thinking. Something worse than change. I got there and was hooked. Like the red of a flower still standing up straight. I got there and was hooked.

A Twang To My Chord

I saw Tom Stoppard tonight and listening to him was more
like a perfectly tuned F sharp than a "twang,"
but the remark itself was one of many
wonderfully witty ones.

A Past

Recognizing the past is always a struggle for me. Perhaps because in the present, the past seems to come from a better, more productive place where there is no alone. As if then, I knew less, but cared more. I was watching myself as a child in a home movie my dad insisted upon. In those days, the 70s, my "artistically inclined" uncle studied film. And so there is endless footage of expression and movement from our family and his friends. Not really a home movie. This particular film, myself as a child, was really about my parents on a motorcycle. They were in a gang. Hippies with a sense of responsibility and desire to succeed in the land of opportunity. Success, of course, meaning a home and an education. But my parents were young and still learning. They rode motorcycles and listened to Zeppelin. My uncle intended to capture their lifestyle. The film itself was silent. Sound erroded with time. In this scene, the one I saw, mom and dad kissed me goodbye. I watched from the alleyway as they got on the bike, strapped on helmets, and rode off into the sunset. For that moment, my uncle kept the camera on me. I stood there with an aunt, a year older, and a childhood friend. We waived, but I wasn't smiling. I stopped. They, the two delighted little girls, continued to waive and as the camera focused in, I blocked their arms - I looked down -
For that second, past becoming present.

Darth

Vadar says happy halloween



and enjoy the dark side people.

Boy Discovery

Wow. The boy called. He learned something, I think. I hope. I'm dumbfounded. Great. Now I have to tell him it's over. I mean, um, I'm not interested, but yeah, it was really great meeting...yadda, yadda, yadda.

Boy Disaster

I called the boy. I kept my word. It was pouring out, so I couldn't concentrate because my hands were on the wheel. The boy kept asking questions. He's not really my type, but the attention felt nice. The first thing I said was, "I just wanted to call because I said I would and it was great meeting you and - " Boy talks too much. Turns out he plays bass. I tried again with, "Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that it was nice meeting you and well, I think it's - " Coincidence, we both go to school at night. I began again, "So I think it's best that - " Nope, didn't get it out then either, but I did spell my name out for him. Lets just say my call was a disaster of sorts. Oh yeah, he wants to go on a date. With any luck he learned nothing from my attempt to keep my word and will just completely bail. Ha!

Boy Dilemma

On Friday night, I stopped by a bar in Long Island where my friend's band was playing. I wasn't feeling particularly great about being in public just because I was tired and thought it was noticeable. Who wants to socialize with some tired girl? Once I found my friends in the audience, I woke up a bit. In fact, I actually had a Bass and a Lemon Drop, wo! We watched the Mets get slaughtered on tv, chatted, listened as singer/songwriter, Glenn Geiger and crew, rocked the melodies. Anyway, it was almost time for me to leave when some dudes walked in the bar and came straight toward our group. One of them immediately started asking me questions. What's your name? Do you live around here? Would you like a drink? It was all very smooth and I just smiled demurely. There might of been a little eyelash batting action, but it certainly wasn't a typical reaction from me when approached. Then he asked for my number. I avoided the question. Once I realized that was just silly I said, "I'm much older than you." He's 23, by the way. "No you're not" and "Age is just a state of mind" were his responses. So I said, "Listen, I'm 35." Not even a flinch. He countered that with a, " my last girlfriend was 37." Now, the boy lives out east, works as an electrician, talked like a player, most likely is a player, but the fact that he was unphased, um and easy on the eyes, was refreshing. He asked for my number again. I said, "How about you give me yours?" After some more attempts, he finally caved. He wrote down his number on a napkin and made me promise to call. I did and even said I was too old not to keep my word. Yikes, dumb move. Now it's Sunday. I'm still tired. I have the wrinkled napkin resting on my coffee table. What to do, what to do. Mind you, I have no interest in dating a 23 year old, but I promised one phone call and can't stand when boys flake on girls. It's just so immature. So I ask you, my blogger friends, do I call or just let it lie?

Review: A Trip To Canterbury

Snap Dragon and I, Blue Violet, met in Huntington Village yesterday evening to celebrate our fabulous 25th (plus 10) birthdays. To do so, we decided to journey into Olde England. We were on a quest for her fine cuisine and knew just the place. We walked into The Original Canterbury Ales shivering. Being seated in the coldest corner next to the wooden saloon doors didn't help. It did, however, add to the ambience. We could almost hear the galloping horses, and the carriages, and the jousting, etc...

Now it's important when looking over a menu of this caliber to plan ahead. Snap Dragon and I were well aware of their secret weapon - dessert to die by a sword for. I meant to order light, but Snappy has a big firey belly and I am not one to be outdone. She ordered the Buffalo Canterburger with Canterbury Chili, fries, and a glass of pinot noir, the alcoholic. I love getting tipsy myself and beer seemed appropriate. Unfortunately, I was sniffling. A reprieve was best. I also figured that in the comfort of my own bed, I could "wine taste" without worrying about driving, the alcoholic, too. Anyhoo, I ordered the Young Squireburger with cheddar, nothing better, and the killer fries.

As we perused Canterbury's delights, we admired the Common Market section with such classic dishes as Fish & Chips (I've had this. Yes, it's fresh, greasy, & delicious), Scottish meat pies, Ploughman's Lunch, and Scottish Bridies, which is basically a meat turnover. The Beefeaters Section, for the "snappier" types (who order wine at pubs), included English Brown Stew, Shephard's Pie, Steak & Kidney Pie, Prime Rib, etc.... The House Sandwiches section, usually considered food for pansies, tips it's feathery hat to Mr. Chaucer himself with names like The Prioress and The Pardoner. I've had the Lady Diana (sauteed onions, mushrooms, garlic, on a kaiser roll - heaven) Lastly, but not leastly, were the Canterburgers. We like our meat cheap... or cheapER, anyway, than the Beefeaters. And they don't mess around with hearty meals like the Archbishop's Squireburger, Archbishop's Canterburger, and of course what we ordered, which was jolly good. The meat was meaty and cooked exactly how we wanted. The vegetables and fruit (tomato, hello) were fresh. Oh and the fries were fried in potato slices, as they should be. Sidenote: if you want to go the extra mile, try their sweet potato fries. Yummmm.

After all that eating, we did our best to make room for the ultimate birthday gift. It was totally sinful. We ordered Marianne's Toffee Fudge Brownie and Marianne's Raspberry Fudge Brownie. These desserts are so rich and smooth, you feel like a Queen...or King... or Queenie. Marianne is a real person and makes these treats from scratch. "A worthy woman," as Chaucer would write.

The place is a pub and damn it I'll have the beer next time. The service was excellent and everyone is friendly. In fact, two older gentlemen saw me trembling and one offered his coat. He insisted I wear it around my shoulders. How chivalrous. Some of the windows are stained glass and the rest of Canterbury is all wood. Worth the slightly higher price on the menu.

The Original Canterbury Ales gets 4 out of 4 pints from Snap Dragon and Blue Violet.

At The Movies

I was dreaming about the movies today. The role they play in our lives. How we are drawn in. Why certain stories resonate. And I wanted to be that someone on screen. Finding resolution the way most characters do. To project that feeling you get from a good one - the wishes of never fading to black.

My Friend, the Chip Eating Monster

F Zero

Speaking of weather, yesterday an F zero tornado hit East Massapequa, Long Island. It was predicted, at first, that there was a possibility of one forming in Manhattan, Bergen County, and the Bronx. Then television showed us a funnel cloud on the Doppler Radar or some other fancy machine. It was nearing Queens. You can imagine my delight! The day did go dark and at some point it was thundering rain. Maybe even hail! But then the sun shined as if it had been there all along. So my little storm headed east and spun it's mighty wind and I just waited for more rain and more wind.

Someday...

Fair Weather

I think fair weather friends are much like erratic storms and wonder if I have been like this to anyone. I bet it’s difficult to see clearly since that one lazy eye is covered in a world of agendas. I know I’ve got mine. Still, what's troublesome is that there are too many wrecking what we build and I can’t hold onto something securely with my shoulders up against the walls, so there is nowhere to rest my head.

X

Last night Los Angeles ruled NYC.
One of my favorite punk bands played
their aging little hearts out
and put the city youngin's to shame.
Last night I wanted to be a rockstar...

in the form of Billy Zoom, Exene Cervenka, John Doe, or DJ Bonebreak

Rock n roll!

Eagle Eye

I saw a bald eagle perched on a tree from a reservoir. We were close to Woodstock, but I couldn't tell you exactly what town. She was 2 feet in length and had a 5 foot wingspan is all I really know. Her expression seemed pensive and maybe they just look this way. Facing the water. Head held high. Alive, yet focused. Looking beyond the horizon. Perhaps wondering about a lost love or her nest and lack there of.

Off the Mark

I got a phone call today from my friend, "Mark." It happens every so often and I do welcome the chat. I've known him since I was 8, I think. A long time. We flirted, rode our bikes, played shark, swam in the river, went on camping trips, watched "The Dukes of Hazzard" together every Friday. It was interesting to grow into adulthood & discover that nothing had changed. We were still goofing around like a couple of prepubescent kids. So I never understood why, when we kissed, because that did happen once or twice, he never took it to the next level. I say he because I was willing to try. We enjoyed each other, so I know it might have been wonderful. I wondered why until I got tired and bored and moved on. Yesterday, when "Mark" called, he wanted to revisit this "issue." Why? I'll never know.