> tapioca world tour

Been listening to Modest Mouse’s “Gravity rides everything” and Mana’s “No voy a ser tu esclavo” on repeat like a shamelessly lame eighth grade girl. Had an anxiety dream about gender roles in video production last night. I fought off comments from male crew members that I should be a makeup artist, or an actress, or something less technical. “No!” I yelled. “I wanna shoot! I’m gonna shoot video!” Right, I don’t have any hangups about this topic or anything…

Last night we ate dinner at this place called the Liberty Bar. Part of its appeal is that it’s an old house that’s leaning sideways, literally about to fall over. The food was amazing, and the waiter was funny. Afterwards we drove around downtown San Antonio and J. showed me the church where she’s to be married in a few months. She’s 25 with a good job and a great guy and a smart plan, a very pretty engagement ring and alot of other mid-20s friends in Texas who are engaged. Made me think about how urban, northeastern life is so different, at least in terms of advocating individualism, more personal agendas, less traditionally domestic expectations for life. It’s neither good nor bad, it’s just different — way different — from Texas, where the highways are wide and the air conditioning is always on and people much younger than me are buying houses and having children. Whoa! I feel an urge to run away to Europe coming on…

Courtesy of Baghdad Burning, which you really need to read:

What people find particularly frustrating is the fact that while Baghdad seems to be falling apart in so many ways with roads broken and pitted, buildings blasted and burnt out and residential areas often swimming in sewage, the Green Zone is flourishing. The walls surrounding restricted areas housing Americans and Puppets have gotten higher- as if vying with the tallest of date palms for height. The concrete reinforcements and road blocks designed to slow and impede traffic are now a part of everyday scenery- the road, the trees, the shops, the earth, the sky… and the ugly concrete slabs sometimes wound insidiously with barbed wire.

“The Americans won’t be out in less than ten years.” Is how the argument often begins with the friend who has entered the Green Republic. “How can you say that?” Is usually my answer- and I begin to throw around numbers- 2007, 2008 maximum… Could they possibly want to be here longer? Can they afford to be here longer? At this, T. shakes his head- if you could see the bases they are planning to build- if you could see what already has been built- you’d know that they are going to be here for quite a while.

The Green Zone is a source of consternation and aggravation for the typical Iraqi. It makes us anxious because it symbolises the heart of the occupation and if fortifications and barricades are any indicator- the occupation is going to be here for a long time. It is a provocation because no matter how anyone tries to explain or justify it, it is like a slap in the face.

I just went swimming, but it’s not the same as nights in the Marriott pool. That’s N. on the left, looking artistic. That’s me on the right, looking wary. Ever seen the movie “Swimming Pool”? I want to be French.

Texas is a strange world. Tonight we’ll be visiting downtown San Antonio; tomorrow, Austin. I keep fighting the urge to do actual work, instead remembering this is vacation, supposedly…

It was a weird dream night last night: first, J. woke up at 3a from a scary dream screaming, “Oh God no! Get away! Ahhhhh!” which, por supuesto, was a bit terrifying. I busted into her room to fight off the bad guys, but they were only in her head.

Then I went to sleep and dreampt that there was this group of people I either worked with or went to university with, and there was a comic book that was hugely popular, the text of which was based on pieces of fictional dialogue that had been submitted by children to narrate the story. Anyway, the story told of a vortex, or another world — much like Narnia — and I for some reason had acquired a copy of the draft of the next book, which I brought to a pool and showed all my coworkers. As they were eagerly reading it, someone tattoo’d things on either of my arms. I didn’t really realize this was happening until it was over: they’d tatto’d a vented window on one upper arm and a door on the other. “You have to have a way to get in as well as get out,” was the explanation when I asked. They were referring to the other world in the story. I looked in the mirror and freaked out because the tattoos were large and not that well done, and I looked like a huge punk with them. “How can I ever be taken seriously as a professional now?” I thought. “I already look 14, I already have a nosering and wear weird clothes — now with this ink all over me I’m really doomed.”

And then I slept past noon and finally woke up.
Had a long conversation late last night with a dude I haven’t met. We compared notes on Neruda and politics. It was refreshing.

And now it’s time to eat a yogurt parfait and swim in the GORGEOUS, HUGE POOL in J.’s apartment complex, then in a few hours work out in the GORGEOUS, HUGE GYM that’s also in J.’s apartment complex. Aint got much to complain about, yeehaw.

Ahora, en medio
de la velocidad desestimada, al lado
de los muros sin hilos,
en el fondo cortado por los terminos,
aqui estoy con aquello que pierde estrellas,
vegetalmente, solo.

Now, in the midst
of unesteemed velocity, beside
wire-less walls,
at the bottom bisected by terminals,
here I am with what shipwrecks stars,
vegetably, alone.

(from “Bruselas”)

I bought a collection of Neruda poems for my long 45-minute flight from Fort Worth to San Antonio. And here I am, in the cubbyhole office of J.’s apartment, full off Texas noodles and cookies and Starbucks Odwalla smoothies. My aim was to embrace the solitude of these daytime hours while J. is at work, but solitude always takes a little getting used to before I’m ready to embrace it. Without internet, what would we be? Much more educated, I imagine.

This is N.’s stolen phone photo of me looking sad while watching a cute webcam music video that I edited last year of me and G. The vacant stare is actually the outer manifestation of my insides combusting into a million pieces. This is how death will be: a climactic sadness, an implosion. And then I’ll laugh about it when it’s all over.

Went for the now ritual 10-11p swim tonight with N. Pool looked chrystalline and beautiful, all empty and half-lit. I’m getting used to living in a hotel; pity it’ll all be over soon. I always dread traveling — the details, the laundry, the lack of personal ammenities — til I do it. Then I never ever want to come home. I want to come home now, but a week in San Antonio comes first. More photos, more Texas, and an excellent old pal to visit. But all I can look forward to is my yogurt and fruit parfait tomorrow morning in the cafe downstairs.

I know you understand.

And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats,
None knew so well as I:
For he who lives more lives than one
More deaths than one must die.

-From The Ballad of Reading Gaol

That’s my favorite excerpt from Wilde, but I can’t explain why. I think the notion of living many lives is appealing, and possibly familiar, in a metaphorical (as opposed to metaphysical) sense.

N. is eating sunflower seeds. It has been well established that our hotel room is better than those of our coworkers. It’s on the top floor, giving us a charming view of buildings and Texas haze over the highway. I hear there’s a crazy heat wave sweeping Boston. I also learned there’s a “developing hybrid” off the coast of Florida. Shameful about my meteorological ignorance of the term “hybrid”, I watched an online news clip about it — seems a killer cyclone might develop, or something like that. Has to do with low-pressure systems. I love learning about the weather, I really really do.

And thus ends this lame post.

Been working hard, all of us here in Texas. We get silly at night, even during anti-torture lobbying, as evident above. Everyone seems to be struggling with some physical problem — I puked up a lot of dirty salad the other night, several people couldn’t sleep, or body parts were aching, or sinuses were clogged — it would almost be funny, if it weren’t funny at all. Good thing I don’t believe in sickness. Fortunately health is on the rise again, a necessary thing and happy fact.

The one thing I do love about Texas (since it certainly isn’t the food) is the clear sky. Every day, no clouds. I didn’t realize how much of a difference it makes — but I find myself with more energy and uplift, despite the 100 degrees. Am on a break now, which I’ve capitalized on with a long swim in the hotel pool, although I guess it was more of a mini-swim, since you can only take a few strokes before hitting the other side. Unitarians, being the insane hippies they mostly are, are everywhere at this convention, and it’s been fun to see them in restaurants and on the street with their Birks and rainbow bags, blending like an armadillo in soup with the poofy-haired, pink-pumped, lipsticked business women of Fort Worth. I wish I could film all of this…

Seriously man, we must have walked for miles. This mini-city is a tourist trap targeted towards convention-goers. The food is all pre-made and pre-frozen and no good. You have to spend at least $30 to get a decent meal. It’s depressing, although we were able to score some fresh salads off a nice lobster waiter named Tyler.

After dinner we dressed up like Spice Girls and walked around downtown until we found a big rig that said “Let’s get this show on the road” written on the side. I echoed its sentiments.

I laid in the pool tonight for an hour, alone. It was great. I cherish these conventions for the sole purpose of getting the opportunity to practise how to float. This time, as I struggled to keep my stomach and nose above water, I stared out at the building across the street. It had about 17 stories and three open windows on one side, in which crows were flying. The sky was huge and blue and when the generator went on by the pool, it sounded (underwater) like jets were about to crash above me.

In other news,
There’s an apartment complex in Dallas called Harvard Square. N. got the housing classifieds so we can see what amazing lofts we could have if we wanted to live in this God-forsaken state. In Harvard Square, rents start as low as $405. Check, please.

Texas is a strange place. There are many brand new babies that are being held incorrectly (I’m serious, there are all these moms and dads in restaurants who hold their newborns upright, not supporting their heads at all — it’s disturbing) and bleached blondes wearing pastel skirts.

After entering our hotel, this is one of the first signs you see. To answer your question, I have no idea.

This is the view from our hotel window. The reflection of our pool in the opposite building has been very helpful for reconaissance. We don’t want to walk around half-naked in front of our CEO, but we definitely want to go swimming, constantly.

So, we swam around half-naked in complete automony tonight, since the masses for this convention don’t arrive til tomorrow. N. just got a new tattoo, which I stealthily captured on camera when her back was turned.

We went for a walk after dinner and took lots of pictures next to cowboy statues and lone stars. You can tell, but I’m standing between the legs of a big cowboy-businessman statue in this photo. The moon was huge tonight. Its aesthetic appeal was just enough to squash the knawing reality that, alas, we’re in Texas, land of Herr Presidente and guys who whistle at us out the window of their pickup trucks. Thank you, God, that I don’t live here and never will.

When I was terribly sick a few weeks ago, Ry stood at the end of the bed calling, “Jumping jacks! Get up, buddy! Let’s do jumping jacks!” After a sour, busy busy day, I need that kind of ridiculous uplift again. Alas, I found out Ry is por fin returning, but he’s literally entering town the hour I leave en la manana — bah! — although with enough time to bring me breakfast and drive me to the office, being the cool friend that he is. Vete, Tejas! No me gusta los viajes!

And now, in completely unrelated news, except for the fact that complaining about my inability to meet the right person has become the anthem to my existence, I introduce you to my favorite discovery of 2005, quite possibly the best “About Me” description on any online community forum ever.
Credit goes to a guy named M., found on myspace.com:

I would like to meet somebody who will add good things to my life.
A woman who will help me grow day after day. I already had enough
of the stupid ones. I have made all my mistakes, so now I know what
I want from a woman. She does not have to be the most attractive
woman in the world, but must have the biggest heart of this world.
A good family relationship is a must. I have a good relationship with
my family and friends, she needs to have the same or at least trying
to have. Also religion is important, if you have some faith in your heart
you can make life easier, because you have hope. I hope there is some
good girls out there with goods values, otherwise I will be single
for the rest of my life.

Dude, whoever you are, I totally understand.

So we did the postnatal workout video shoot yesterday, me and the video boys, above. It was 13 hours long. Three cameras. Many lights. An incredibly cool refinished warehouse studio. There were something like seven babies, since the workouts involved using babies as weights and at any given time, half were crying or napping. It went remarkably well, considering. I actually had quite a lot of fun, despite the shoot’s extensive length and my inability to chew solids. I love production.

Afterwards, I followed the crew to the birthday party of a girl I’ve never met. All I figured out was that she’s a nice girl with a crush on my ex-boyfriend, who was among the production entourage. “Back off, bitch,” I would have said, had I been a person who says or thinks such things. But being the nice person I am, I bought her a cannoli and let her banter with my ex, calling him affectionate nicknames, etc. [Puke] Am still torn up about the G-factor, but that’s obvious and boring, so we’ll move on to other obvious and boring topics, like my teeth, which hurt really badly, but whatever.

It feels like late fall or early spring, not nearly July. I need to go to Home Depot — with a jacket on — but all I want to do is sleep. 4-eva.

Because there is a God, I was spared from further surgery (or rather, it was delayed) until after I return from Texas in another two weeks. However, I did get to hang out with my favorite orthodontal team as they poked and pulled wires and plastic chains. Woo!

“Are you going to cry again today?” was the first thing Doc said as I walked in the door. I gave him a patented Glare of Death. “Probably,” I snipped.

In exchange for his crack, I walked strategically past him after my wires were tightened, just as he was leaning over a new teenage patient with her doting mother. “Thanks for not using the knife today,” I snickered. About ten feet behind me, I could hear the mother asking quizzically, “The knife?” followed by my doc’s nervous responses of “Err, um…” Ha ha.

At least next time I’ll be getting a Brazilian pop cd from hot Gael, which is a belated pity present for sobbing like a fool in the surgery chair the other day and an early pity present for getting my gums sliced up a second gruesome time. “Hey, in exchange for giving you the cd, what do I get?” Gael asked me on my way out. “You get nothin, buddy,” I said, “until I get something from you.”

Always leave them wanting more.

I wrote a stunning and lengthy (stunningly lengthy) summary of my ortho exposure surgery yesterday, but alas, due to Round/Wordpress updates, it got deleted.

I will repeat none of it, since it was bloody and awful anyway. Just know it was bloody and awful and, although without much pain, I don’t recommend you run to your orthodontist and allow him to razor-blade a hole through your upper gums anytime soon, cause it aint no good. No good!

*** On edit ***
Ok fine. Here’s a brief, monosyllabic summary:

Novocane. Cutting. Blood. More blood. Hot orthodontal assistant Gael promises to sing to me. Impacted tooth is exposed. Waiting. More waiting. Novocane starts wearing off. Gael attempts to clean off tooth but I can feel it. It hurts. It keeps bleeding. I start crying. Whoa! They get freaked out. They send me home. Gael promises to bring me a CD of Brazilian pop when I return later this week. Doc calls me late tonight, making sure I don’t hate him. Assures me we won’t continue with the surgery this week if I don’t feel I can handle it. A six-year old jumps around on my lap during the entire phone conversation, waiting for me to continue reading Deltora Quest, a sci-fi adventure series for first graders. “I’m ok,” I tell the doc. “I’m not in any pain. I’m fine.” And I am. The end.

I still don’t recommend this procedure. If you have an impacted canine tooth, bang it against a doorknob til it gets loose on its own or just falls out. Because not only is this procedure painful and disgusting, it’s also expensive. Boo! But it makes you feel tough — and that, as we know, is priceless.

Some months ago, I vowed I would get in shape or die trying. On my 60th sit-up the other night, I realized the dying part was a very near reality. I am so painfully out of shape. Therefore let it be known: I am beginning a strict regimen of physical activity, beginning today and ending never. Or ending when its starts getting cold again.

Been hanging out with M. a bit lately, which is roughly the equivalent to eating pistachio gelato on a hot day in June, which from experience I can attest is lovely. I realize I have not understood his depth and integrity as well as I could have; it’s so neat to then rediscover these friends, like clams, full of shiny things at the bottom of ocean. That’s a lame metaphor, but M., you know what I mean.

We took an extended sabbatical at the pub last night. Many many hours. Lots of ginger ale and cranberry seltzers. The purpose of the field trip was, at least for me, to break in my new birthday darts. Everybody smeared everybody else, S. and I with our long overdue double bull’s eyes. What fun.

Missed N.’s bridal shower today, because I’m a big fat chump who completely forgets to borrow cars in advance, and then isn’t able to, and then doesn’t have a carpool, and then oversleeps anyway, and then I feel bad, and then Jason reminds me it’s our birthday rain date for golfing. (N., in spite of the fact that I’m an awful friend incapable of making it to Wakefield by noon, I will make up for this by taking you to the movies. It will be glorious!)

Reminiscent of my grandfather’s greatest dream for my athletic future, I spent the first hour of our driving range adventure slamming the hell out of an entire large bucket of balls. By the time I got through with them, my arm was about to fall off, I’d acquired four new callouses, and J. wasn’t even halfway through his bucket.

He bought a third, gave me some pointers, and I finally started developing and using technique. By the end of our session, J. was driving all his balls way down against the net at the end of the green, and I was getting 150 yards at best, but that’s not too bad. I like golfing with J. because he’s the one person you can invite to any sporting event ever created and he’ll hop in the car with a Powerade and a Sox cap screaming “Let’s go for it!” The best part about tonight was when I noticed that we were the dirty hippies of the driving range, although we are neither dirty nor hippies. We just wore baggy ripped khakis and giggled our way through hundreds of golf balls while everyone else strode around with fancy clubs and tucked-in polo shirts and pristine girlfriends to whom they called out tips on improving one’s swing, one’s aim, one’s image. Thank you, God, that we are who we are.

And so, this quiet humid evening melts into itself and I’ve much video and web work to do, which I really need to focus on…all in good time…ciao ciao

Two stories, related by the appended poem:

1. A man threw himself in front of the inbound train at the Davis T today at noon, near where I sit and spread cream cheese on my bagel while waiting for the train in the mornings. This is where I run into Larry sometimes, this is where I get off to go to Ry’s, or to go to work from Ry’s. I can’t imagine the shock and sadness of the people who saw what happened today, and more than that I can’t imagine the sadness of the man who decided to do it. Elegies for strangers should take the form of someone else’s poem, always, I think, which is why I’ve decided to quote

2. Louise Bogan: On my 21st birthday, a boy named Will Orzo gave me a used copy of Bogan’s autobiography, which was basically her documentation into madness. There were some jewels in that book, though. I remember it to this day as an odd present, almost the best one — the brown pages, Will’s inscription written in Latin. Bogan was empty and full and witty and too little and too much all at once. Since this sad thing happened today, and we took a few moments of silence, and then we went on–going to concerts, eating ice cream, making jokes — and since it’s my birthday week again, I’m remembering Will and remembering this book and this author and so it is in her words I choose an elegy to replace my own awkward and inarticulate response to human tragedy, even in all its powerlessness:

Words For Departure by Louise Bogan

Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten.
When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements,
The window-sills were wet from rain in the night,
Birds scattered and settled over chimneypots
As among grotesque trees.

Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond.
Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour,
The afternoon sifted coolness
And people drew together in streets becoming deserted.
There was a moon, and light in a shop-front,
And dusk falling like precipitous water.

Hand clasped hand
Forehead still bowed to forehead–
Nothing was lost, nothing possessed
There was no gift nor denial.

2
I have remembered you.
You were not the town visited once,
Nor the road falling behind running feet.

You were as awkward as flesh
And lighter than frost or ashes.

You were the rind,
And the white-juiced apple,
The song, and the words waiting for music.

3
You have learned the beginning;
Go from mine to the other.

Be together; eat, dance, despair,
Sleep, be threatened, endure.
You will know the way of that.

But at the end, be insolent;
Be absurd–strike the thing short off;
Be mad–only do not let talk
Wear the bloom from silence.

And go away without fire or lantern
Let there be some uncertainty about your departure.

Tonight marks my first official boxing workout on the back porch. During a thunderstorm. In flip flops.

And then I did 100 sit-ups, which nearly killed me, but if you’re going to sweat, you might as well do it all at once.

I now have blisters on my feet from routine pivoting, the way you’re supposed to when you do a one-two-hook. None of the neighbors could see me, except when the lightning hit and I got lit up momentarily like something you suddenly discover in the basement with a flashlight. Felt kinda like the karate kid when he did that balancing foot act on a cliff somewhere: solitary and athletic and glorious. More or less.

Now I’m eating raspberries for dinner (no, sorry, leftover birthday mousse was for dinner, with the kids) and it’s still raining. When it was nicer, I helped the children fill up water balloons. They ran around the backyard shirtless, hurling the balloons against the fence instead of against eachother. Working for that family makes me realize how every family is crazy and normal, just different types of crazy and various types of normal. The father of these kids is a poet; he writes sad and beautiful lines about this new season and the unsettling inertia pushing him nowhere (a metaphorically-enhanced paraphrase according to moi). Not that I pause on the hallway steps to glance at his poems or anything. Ahem.

Am trying to find I. a unique nightgown for her birthday. Anyone have suggestions as to funky children’s retailers online? I want something really cool and different. She complains not enough people give her clothing, and not enough people pay attention to her, so I want to do both. I mean really, you only turn nine once.

In video news, aside from the pre-natal workout video I’ll be helping B. and G. to shoot next weekend in Beacon Hill, M. has finally returned from the other side of the world and when he stays with me next week we will map out the gorey details of editing his 200+ hours of video footage for the as-yet-unconceived documentary that I’d like my crew to make for him. If it works, it’ll be huge: ethnographic festivals, maybe broadcast, maybe a multimedia supplement to the book M. will publish next year about the Ho Chi Minh Trail… my head spins. But I no longer think of projects in terms of myself; I think of them in terms of my crew. I love them. I really think we can do well, and the potential distrubution opportunities from this Asia project could be huge, if M. concedes the job to us, which, in an overwhelming fit of desperation, I’m predicting he’ll do.

In the meantime we’ll eat potato leek soup from Matt Murphy’s pub and toast the happy fact that the Chinese military decided not to blow his head off a few weeks ago. My friends’ lives are so exciting.

Last night eight-year-old I. got a stuffy nose and couldn’t sleep, so I made some tea and let her stay up with me in the kitchen, talking about ghosts and God and animals.

“I’m very attached to my parents,” she told me in her frighteningly articulate little girl voice. “I think if they died, I’d want to die too.”

“Well,” I said, trying to be a mature babysitter, “I think a lot of people feel that way when their parents die. But it gets better.” We mused over what heaven might be like. I. thought it could include lots of spirits hanging out in some pleasant eternal void, while I believe heaven and hell are both states of mind. There was a banging noise outside; it was about to rain and we were huddled there, at the kitchen table, like two tired little kids — which, to an extent, I guess we were.

Later I met the guys who live in the apartment above me. They’re the same age and nice, and one also used to box. This will be an interesting summer.

Oh and by the way,
PLEASE WATCH THIS.
It’s hilarious.

What a birthday! The sun is out and the birds are singing and J. picked me up for a well-intentioned golfing extravaganza, which would have been awesome had I not made him turn the car around because I felt so ill. Instead of sleeping, I had a nice long phone call with my mom, after which I felt leagues better. Better enough, in fact, to rally myself to clean half the house — sweeping floors, scrubbing floors, bleaching the tub, throwing out heaps of plastic bags, washing countertops, changing the water in the bamboo vase, doing three loads of laundry, including all the bathmats and kitchen rugs.

To top it all off, my landlord stopped by and graciously offered to hang up my 100-lb punching bag which has been sitting dormant for months. Now it hangs gleefully on the back porch, waiting for me to slam the guts out of it. Boxing rocks.

And now, cake with kids. Afghan food. Tomorrow, a lovely sunny day by the water with Bayley, reading. Summer slipped in when we weren’t noticing; now it’s here and it’s happy and it’s full of white grape juice and Somerville smog and bumble bees. I love life.

The best way to spend a sick day is to sleep through it completely. Which is what I did, after driving E. to the airport and bringing a fairwell breakfast to Ry. I laid down to sleep in his room around 9a and woke up at 4p. And now he’s gone touring again for a month and E. and S. and H. are gone and I’m here busying myself with sleep and babysitting. But it’s birthday weekend — not just for me (27), but for J. (30) and N. (33) and O. (48) as well — which means billiards and golfing and cake with kids. The most exciting part of the weekend will be Sunday, when BB and I drive to Kowloon’s (infamous casino-stlye Chinese restaurant on the hill off Route 1) and reminisce about the days of minimalist interior design when she & I lived together. I don’t think our domestic era of cohabitation has ended just yet — we’re merely in a lull for now. Can’t wait til we find a phatty house next year and fill it with nothing but large paintings and burning sage. “Our voices will echo off all the walls,” I told her, “because the place will be so incredibly empty.” Why is it so hard to find roommates who cherish fung shui? I know not.

Oh and by the way — watch Tapioca (possibly, maybe, if we make it into the segment) next Thursday, 06/09, on Chronicle on Channel 5 at 7.30p. If nothing else, there might just be a clip from the interview I did. Or they might have axed my team altogether in the final edit. It’s true, we weren’t that interesting: we just made an award-winning film and shot a behind-the-scenes documentary and did it all with smiles on our faces. Nothing spicy enough for Channel 5. Seriously though, the reporter asked me: “Were there any conflicts? Fights? Drama? Anxiety?” How come the news has to equate to reality tv, based on bullshit and fake tension and stupidity? Because that’s not the industry I want to enter.

Eeny meeny miney mo…I think it’s time to move to Belgium.