| Day 17 |
|
|
October 17, 2004 This month brought the first stirrings of winter, and our contributors caught colds, took pictures of trees with no leaves, and experienced envy, sadness, anxiety and relief. It is hard to pick out the common theme from this month's submissions, although we detect threads of both resolve and acceptance in the wind. One of our contributors wrote in to share his last farewell to Mookie, who seems to have been a good dog. Goodbye, good dog. Tara Ballentine (Seattle, WA)
Eric Webster (Minneapolis, MN)
Cheryl Huber (Brooklyn, NY)
Sarah Lyon (Washington, DC)
Meredith Bragg (Alexandria, VA)
Jill McElmurry (Minneapolis, MN)
Amanda Cardone (Port Jefferson, NY)
Nick Beley (Winnipeg, Canada)
Sam Engel (Washington, DC)
Elizabeth Edwards (Champaign, IL)
Puja Telikicherla (New York, NY)
Emily Troiano (New York, NY)
Jenny Miller (Washington, DC)
Pete McClymont (London, England)
Kirsten Carleton (Amherst, MA)
TARA BALLENTINE
My favorite thing about this 17th day of the month was waking up in a real apartment after six weary days of bad party hostels and pensiones in Spain, not to mention a long month and a half in a scuzzy international student dorm (even at the tender age of 28, I'm too old for that). And, despite the fact that I knew a mouse was living in this apartment, and had slept on an inflatable raft (me, not the mouse), the night and morning felt absolutely dreamy by recent comparisons. My other happy moment of the day was eating a bagel, especially, I thought, since everybody knows bagels are hard to come by in the old country.
ERIC WEBSTER
Mookie: 1990-2004 I remember bringing you home in the Citroen like it was yesterday. At Robbie’s house in Alexander Valley you came up to me as if you knew me. How you watched the other dogs in the farmhouse-yard, and learned to use the automatically-refilled dish, although you had to stand on your hind legs to get a drink. I slept alongside you that first night, and when you stirred at 3 a.m., I whisked you outside to the dewy lawn. You just looked up at me. When we woke up again at a more reasonable hour, you peed outside first thing. I remember carrying you across Dry Creek when the current frightened you. After that, you were fearless in the water. Life was good then, and easy. The prime of life is almost always a waste; you redeemed mine. The handful of photographs which seemed like the indulgence of a too-proud parent now seem too few to capture a fraction of our life together. Godspeed, faithful friend. :: website ::
CHERYL HUBER
Too Bad, So Sad 1. It was cold, and all day I wished I had my scarf. (Sad) 2. I wore a new hat that I got on the street for $2. (Good) 3. Several people mentioned that it seemed my new hat was hiding dreadlocks, as if it were the sort of a hat a "rasta" would wear. (Bad, as I am no rasta) 4. I threw a football and roasted marshmallows on a grill at the park. (Good; delicious in fact) 5. I saw new and old friends there. (Good) 6. But didn't talk to everyone I wanted to. (Sad) 7. The lake at the park for once did not smell of fresh manure! (Good) 8. I came home and studied. (Sad, so sad)
SARAH LYON
Today I went to a baby shower for a friend of mine -- I have a crush on her life. She and her husband are the Ken and Barbie of upper Northwest. They have a Georgetown dream house on the Potomac, everything in their home is classy and carefully appointed. The leather sofa smells like old money. Their pedigreed chocolate lab is well-behaved. I have a crush on their even white teeth and the way their expensive clothing hangs on them. I have a crush on their casual vacations to Martha's Vineyard. I have a crush on their gym membership at the Ritz. To compound the issue, they are gracious, kind and thoughtful people and I can't resent them at all. Then I went home to my house. There is cat barf on my bedroom carpet. Our kitchen smells like day-old shrimp and we haven't taken out the recycling in a month. My roommate and I ate Saltine crackers on the sofa and watched television all afternoon. I'm pretty sure I'm getting a zit on my chin. Everything looks perfect from far away.
MEREDITH BRAGG
Walking between the massive limestone buildings that make up the heart of federal Washington normally fills me with wonder and awe, but on the 17th I couldn't shake the strong stench of foreboding. 1930s eagles carved over locked iron doorways will eventually turn your mind to world wars, secret plans and the historic danger of corrupting authority. I needed an escape. I decided to duck into the Renwick Gallery of Art, a quaint turn of the century building just a stones skip away from the White House. Inside the main gallery, from floor to ceiling, over one hundred paintings from American artists line the walls. Massive canvases depicting flappers, naval war battles, distant vistas, lounging women and severe portraits of doubtless important men filled my field of vision. Nothing but a few shuffling feet and the occasional floorboard creak broke through the reassuring quiet. I sat on a bench and let my focus amble around the largest wall while the tension released from my shoulders. And then I saw the boy. Smack dead center in a Charles Willson Peale painting sat a little boy forever pointing at book open to Hamlet's soliloquy. A message perhaps? A secret wink for the Masons/Illuminati/Skull and Bones? I turned to notice the small but perceptible oddities within other paintings. A knife resting at an impossibly odd angle in what is otherwise a perfectly literal still life. A book behind a standing General with a title of scrambled letters. The precise rip of parchment on the table in a colonial oil painting. Are these the codes of yesteryear? The number-stations of a pre radio-era? Have hundreds of thousands of visitors walked past canvases with secrets to tell? I still feel an urge to rip the paintings from the wall and check the back for treasure maps. :: website ::
JILL McELMURRY
Inside = River water: Green with algae, cloudy with debris dislodged by recent heavy rain, no rock river bottom, no splintered glass surface, no source, no direction. Outside = All the President's Men, Freaks, The Artist's Way, Why is the Buddha Smiling?, Faith, Certainty, and the Presidency of George W. Bush, I Capture the Castle, (the book, not the movie). :: website ::
AMANDA CARDONE
After an exciting, taxing, and occassionally uncomfortable Saturday, I crawled into bed a bit congested. Unsurprisingly, I awoke late on the 17th with a real honest-to-goodness cold. The bug in my nose told me to do exactly nothing (unless you count reading, watching tv, and napping) until 6 p.m. or so, and I obeyed. When a bit of energy finally seeped into my veins, I decided to whip up some pistachio-encrusted red snapper with basmati rice, and set the table with candles in order to soothe myself and Joe, who was also feeling under the weather. Three-fourths of the way into the meal, Bob Cat became interested in said candles and proceeded to knock over not one, but FIVE of them in a cranberry, cilantro-lime, buttercream, and asian spice-scented domino effect. There was wax everywhere -- in drinking glasses, on food, skin, cat fur, and the nicest piece of furniture in the house. Sick or not, we had to jump into action to take care of the mess. Needless to say, the meal turned out not to be very relaxing, so returning to inactivity afterward suited me just fine.
NICK BELEY
Apparently I'm a Sexual Predator Now Tonight I attempted my first internet communication with a stranger. I emailed a girl who had posted a comment on the weblog of a certain author. This girl mentioned in her comment that she lived in the same city as me, and that she had a hard time finding books written by this author. As her email address was included in her post, I figured I would drop her a line. Graciously, she promptly replied demanding to know where I had gotten her email address from, as she does not give it out to anyone. I think the implication is that I got her address through some illicit, sinister means. I emailed an apology, but it is too late. I have frightened a (presumably) young girl, and I have discovered the online version of inadvertant stalker guilt syndrome. Damn you, 21st century!
SAM ENGEL
The first event: On Monday the 11th, before leaving to see the Mountain Goats and John Vanderslice at the Black Cat here in Washington, DC, I became curious whether John Darnielle had ever read John Berger; I imagined that if I had the opportunity, I would make sure that they became great admirers of each other. So I typed "darnielle john berger" (not in quotes) into Google. In hindsight, I'm not sure why that seemed like a good idea. One web site that turned up was the archive of the blog of one Jenny Miller, who also happens to live in DC (consider that a corollary coincidence). It seemed interesting. I've been checking it every few days since then. The second: Earlier today, on the 17th itself, I was finishing my reading of a book of discussions the Surrealists had about sex, aptly titled "Investigating Sex". Among other supplementary material is the text of an inquiry Breton and Eluard wrote and distributed in 1933. According to Breton's commentary on the results, they received "140 replies to some three hundred questionnaires sent out". The similarity of their project to yours is worth noting in some detail. The inquiry consisted of the following questions: "Can you say what was the essential encounter of your life? How far did you think, and do you think, that this encounter was fortuitous? Necessary?" Responses came from many interesting and famous people, mostly writers and artists, including Brassaï, Giacometti, Huxley, Jung, Kandinsky, Pound, and a few of the Surrealists Breton hadn't excommunicated yet. We do not get to read these responses. Hopefully, they are archived somewhere. Breton concludes his commentary thusly: "We relied on every observation, however absent-minded or apparently irrational, which could have been made on the conjunction of circumstances which prevailed in such an encounter to reveal that this conjunction is not at all inextricable, and to indicate the links of dependency which unite two causal series (natural and human) - links which may be subtle, fleeting, disturbing to knowledge in its present state, but which can sometimes throw a dazzling beam of light on to man's most faltering steps." The third: Later this evening, Jenny Miller's blog informed me of Bears Will Attack and Day 17. And it all seemed to come together.
ELIZABETH EDWARDS
A perfect Midwest afternoon. Lunch with the girls, who will no longer be a collective in a few months, then to the orchard, where we bought squash and wandered the corn maze. Hannah saw and was able to identify horses and a goat. The air was crisp in the sort of way that means jackets and apple pie. :: website ::
PUJA TELIKICHERLA
The black shroud covered my eyes for hours on end. In the darkness I could feel the churn of wheels against pavement, I could hear the coughing and stirring of the unknown allies surrounding me. Drunk on cheap beer and late night romance, I hunched like a corpse in the darkness. There was a lurch, then a jolt, and then bedlam. Monsters of steel and electricity rumbled above my head, the cold air brought the metallic smell of rotting flesh to my face, my eyes strained and only saw strangers. The Chinatown bus had delivered me, once again, to madness.
EMILY TROIANO
I was on a return flight from four days in Las Vegas. The flight was longer than I would have preferred. First I had to fly to Los Angeles, where I did not get bumped for the reward of a free flight, and then I headed back to New York, losing many hours in the process. In Vegas, I did not do the following:
What I did was much better. I looked at the mountains, swam in the pool, won $20 on blackjack, and drank 1,500 fruity cocktails with my three oldest friends, all meeting from our current homes across the country to celebrate the last of us turning 30. It was divine.
JENNY MILLER
On the seventh day I made a killing on football. Yes, it was a gorgeous day, and all afternoon I felt guilty about sitting in my room, behind the twin screens of laptop and television, when back in the old days I'd be outside playing football myself. I worry my adulthood is turning into a series of cynical compromises. But as consolation prizes go, taking money from bookies is all right. :: website ::
PETE McCLYMONT
Pete's Law of Shopping: For every trip to the store you must spend at least three times what you intended to spend. Batteries not included. Sunday, home improvement day. One trip, two stores. First, B&Q, Britain's answer to Home Depot. Then, the ubiquitous yellow and blue box called Ikea. Flat pack hell. From B&Q, requirement one two way dimmer light switch (cost: 19 pounds). Er, at the check out it came to 80 pounds. Those replacement flashlight bulbs were essential. Oh, and the greenhouse heater. A must. Off the Sweden's big joke on the western world. Needed several storage jars (cost about 20 pounds). Total purchases came to nearly 80 pounds. Quod erat demonstratum. :: website ::
KIRSTEN CARLETON
I had a camera, two rolls of film, and a mission: scavenger hunt. Leaving my dorm, I saw a tree, empty in the middle and fringed with red. It was dying from the inside out. Sparse, I thought to myself, and snapped a picture of the last few forlorn leaves against the white sky. I wandered around campus, looking for what I needed. Sharp: a blade-like leaf slicing through needles of grass. Creepy: blunted trees against a foreboding sky. Tired: a dandelion puff swaying in the breeze. Silly: a single bicycle tire chained to a rack. As I bent down to photograph wet: a muddy puddle formed in a footprint, a student-led tour passed behind me. I could feel the kids looking at me, wondering if I was their future self. Everybody was trying to get the assignment done. I developed my film, and then print print printed until the darkroom closed. I returned to my room in time to see Manny at bat at the bottom of the ninth. I had reading to do, but couldn't look away until the Sox forced Game Six an hour and a half later. I fell asleep, and dreamed of black and white batters, caught and frozen mid-swing. :: website :: |