This is how we got around in Denver.Friday, June 20, 2008
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Tack!!
At the end of the night last night I counted the number of miles I had traveled during the week: I had ridden about 50 miles by bicycle, 4 by car and 5 by sailboat. Today I will travel by plane a thousand miles to Denver.
For me, the most enjoyable mode of transportation is a toss up between the sailboat and my bicycle. There is no more beautiful path than the wake of the boat catching the waning light in green glints off of the waves. But a racing sailboat with a competitive and experienced crew is not the best place to leisurely bask in the awesome sights of nature, as I came to find last night.
I had only been out sailing with these guys once before, a couple of weeks ago. None of the sails got put up that day - we traveled in a thick fog that reduced visibility to a 20 meter radius around the boat to the starting point, where the race was cancelled. I stood on the bow talking shop and watching lookout with the guy who normally handles bow duties as we drifted through the ghostly spectral waters. I loved it.
This time the weather was cool, the winds were sweeping and the skies were clear to the stratosphere. I felt like a wide eyed ingenue or provincial cousin as the weight of my inexperience and technical incompetence was hard to shrug away when I stepped onto the boat. The best thing to do was to keep busy and out of the way when necessary. I found myself at a woeful disadvantage: upon biking six miles to get to the harbor, I discovered that I had only one shoe in my backpack. I distinctly recalled seeing the other shoe in next to my closet at home and realized that I had forgot to grab it on my way out. When I looked at the slippery flip flops on my feet, I knew I had to resign myself to a long night of feeling like an idiot.
Before all the roll tacking and jibing would take place, I still took time to marvel at the systems on the boat and the simple mechanics behind them. I helped pull down the mouselines and uncover the mainsail, and felt the gears turn in my head in high drive listening to the organization of the ropes that would control the main sail, jib and spinnaker. As we reading the boat to leave the port, a small Beagle with soft enormous ears was carried onto the deck clad safely in a life vest. He was carried by the handle that attached to the back of the life vest and would occasionally pop his head out throughout the rest of the evening.
"Hopefully next time you'll have some real shoes on," said the bowman from last time.
"Young lady, not only is it crazy to have those on your feet, it's dangerous!" scolded DS.
We had too many inexperienced sailors on the boat to have had a good showing in the race, but the boat was full of smiles as we parked it in the dock. We had towed a Rhodes 19 rocked precariously by three dorky, overly enthusiastic and breezy young preppy looking guys in khaki shorts, and as we turned into the boat's space one of the young men fell in the lake when they rocked him over. I rode the six miles home in two stages and stopped to eat, and when I got to bed I fell into a dead sleep.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
I can't stoooopppppp!!!!!!
Last Saturday our house turned into a vortex of travelers on the move... fifteen minutes into our evening house party/ bbq/ soiree, I sat for a quick shot of rum with a few gentlemen in my backyard. Ben had his backpack packed and his boarding pass in his pocket - in a few moments, I would walk him to the train to the airport, where he would not breathe fresh air until he would disembark 14 hours later in Berlin. Coco's brother, Christophe, and his friend Didier had just put down their bags in my living room, fresh off the plane from Paris the night before. And my friend Mike wandered in, just in from hanging out in a boat off of Cape Cod photographing whales.
I raised my glass to life being a great adventure.
Later on that night many more people would wander in and out of our backyard in various states of inebriation. This time of the year brings many visitors to Chicago. Aside from our new houseguests, my roommate's friends and colleagues drifted in to help celebrate her birthday. Friends of friends of friends of friends, who I had never met before. I saw old loves meeting again for a brief moment in my living room, having been parted by the distance the length of the Mississippi, in the same town for just one night. The city opens up as the weather gets warmer, and the heat of the sun matches the strength of the wind - and the lake is a gleaming showcase of water and light. It would be crazy to come here when the weather is cold and people stay burrowed in, bound tighter that a nut, when the skies are high pressured and gray. I am not used to inviting people into my house, meeting strangers in my own personal space. I am used to being the one doing the visiting and then coming home just for a breather, doing laundry and sleeping for hours and hours in my small dark room.
There were several elements that appeared at the party that reminded me of how close to home here I have come - my brothers arrived to sit and philosophize under the tree, and were thrust with my old skatergirl friend's newborn baby and toddler to hold for a brief moment, my old schoolmate appeared and commiserated with my old neighbor. We were on a street I have lived on for years, in a city that I have come home to every time I have traveled anywhere and I still felt the push of life in motion.
Yesterday I went downtown to an Irish Pub with the Paris crew to watch the soccer match between France and Italy. The four of us rode there on three bikes - Christophe was heroically transported on the rack they had just attached to the back of Corinne's vintage Schwinn road bike. A towel was wrapped around it for comfort and he held on for dear life as she struggled up hills and across bridges to get downtown. Her tireless efforts were shaded somewhat by the easy birdlike gliding flow of my racing bike and the girl's cruiser Didier was stylishly swooping around on.
She yelled at me for blocking the way.
"I can't stop!!!" she screeched in a nerve wracked warble, as they hobbled across the intersection. I moved forward just quickly enough to not get crashed into. After we passed the intersection, balance and composure were regained and we arrived just in time to see the start of the game and for me to finally let out my chuckle.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Mi Ultimo Adios by Dr. Jose Rizal
Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed,
Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,
With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed;
And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,
I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.
On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,
Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,
The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white,
Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site,
It is the same if asked by home and Country.
I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show
And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;
If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow,
Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,
And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light!
My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,
My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,
Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient,
Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane
Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.
My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,
Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;
Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;
To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire,
And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity !
If over my tomb some day, you would see blow,
A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses,
Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,
And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,
Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness.
Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,
Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,
In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,
And should a bird descend on my cross and alight,
Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site.
Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize
And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;
Let a friend shed tears over my early demise;
And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,
Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.
Pray thee for all the hapless who have died,
For all those who unequalled torments have undergone;
For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;
For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,
And pray too that you may see you own redemption.
And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry
And only the dead to vigil there are left alone,
Don't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery:
If you hear the sounds of cithern or psaltery,
It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone.
And when my grave by all is no more remembered,
With neither cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered
And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,
Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space.
Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me:
Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep;
Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:
Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,
Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.
My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,
Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken
There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,
I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen
Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign.
Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,
Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed;
Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;
Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;
Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest.
Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost,
With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed;
And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best,
I would still give it to you for your welfare at most.
On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight,
Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy,
The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white,
Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site,
It is the same if asked by home and Country.
I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show
And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night;
If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow,
Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so,
And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light!
My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent,
My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain,
Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient,
Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane
Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain.
My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire,
Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee;
Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire;
To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire,
And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity !
If over my tomb some day, you would see blow,
A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses,
Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so,
And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow,
Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness.
Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry,
Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light,
In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh,
And should a bird descend on my cross and alight,
Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site.
Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize
And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky;
Let a friend shed tears over my early demise;
And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high,
Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I.
Pray thee for all the hapless who have died,
For all those who unequalled torments have undergone;
For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried;
For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied,
And pray too that you may see you own redemption.
And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry
And only the dead to vigil there are left alone,
Don't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery:
If you hear the sounds of cithern or psaltery,
It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone.
And when my grave by all is no more remembered,
With neither cross nor stone to mark its place,
Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered
And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored,
Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space.
Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me:
Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep;
Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be:
Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep,
Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep.
My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine,
Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken
There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine,
I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen
Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign.
Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me,
Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed;
Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day;
Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way;
Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
How to Be a Great Lady Part II
Everything happened on a damp afternoon of a Spring day. The phone call, the text messages, the heartdropping news. It was a day like this and the smells on this day sparked a memory chain that unraveled me back to the past
I burned incense to fill my little space, my writing nook, with the smell of spices and to clean the air. The curls of the smoke danced in the air, charming the wind and dancing in whirls and spins. They spun through the windowsill as the rain misted, it was the kind of rain that if I turned my face up to the sky, would cover me from ear to ear with an instant light dew. The dead leaves of winter were soaked and the chill in the air was a happy one because for once, at least, it was just no longer cold.
When the smoke started sifting its way through the window, I had been listening to music with the sound of bells and women singing and in the light of the afternoon sky I suddenly became stricken and broke down in tears. The sounds of ringing and full throaty declarative harmonies of their voices bore my memory back, and when the scent of the incense reached my nose I was instantly transported. I wept with my face turned back, and felt the tears stream endlessly down the sides of my face, dripping past my ears, falling into my hair.
I remembered climbing with curiousity into my aunt’s room, on bandy nine year old legs with wild hyper hair and excitement in my eyes. It was connected to a terrace that overlooked the sea, where she would stretch in the mornings those days she didn’t rush out for business, listening to opera arias in her wide sleeved robes. There would be incense burning, the smell masking the smell of her cigarettes and tea as she thoroughly enjoyed herself in the morning light. I would climb the steps hewn from native canes, with bamboo to glide my hands on. With my young impatient steps I would barrel into her open doorway into a room lit by low lamps and lanterns of diffused light.
It was the treasure trove of an explorer; in every corner were jewelry boxes laden with gold chains and precious gems that spilled out, inviting me to try them on and give myself a glimpse of my young self in the costumery of a princess from a faraway land. There were dusty antiques, warriors carved out of tropical wood that stood in attack mode under faded paint and a collection of fearsome crucifixes sacrilegiously adorned with leis and NY Knicks caps. All the mirrors had been dulled of their silver. I could pull hats off of mannequins posed exquisitely, limbless. I was surrounded by all of the accoutrements and accessories of various grand places in time.
Across the world in her midtown Manhattan apartment, I slept fitfully in the week after she died. I couldn’t even think about the exact place where she might have dropped dead, or the sinister shadows in the demonic faces of the cherubs in the dawn light. It was no longer charming to be surrounded by so much haunted history, because now I was living that haunted history. I coasted forward during those days, not stopping to sink, breathing steady.
She left me, my sister and her granddaughter some of her shoes and clothes, and we bedecked ourselves in her things like costumes that somehow became molded to us perfectly by the time we left New York. My sister’s leopard print boots and my niece’s fur coat suited them because she had imparted in us some of the personality that it takes to pull off that kind of fashion showmanship. I came home with a floor length giraffe print jacket, and a pair of water shoes that I secretly always wanted.
This afternoon as I felt the low pressure of the weather system lull me, and the scent of the incense haunt me I remembered those shoes and felt compelled to pull them out. My friend sat patiently in my living room as I dug through my closet flinging shoes across the room, looking for the pair. I could find one, but not the other. I panicked, knowing that I hadn’t seen or wore those in a while.
"Freaking shizz! I lose everything!!! I can’t freaking lose those."
A breath and a step later I looked aside and under a pile of my clothes peeped the toe of her shoe mysteriously, as though her spirit had nudged it into my sight. It’s moments like those that I felt that she might still be close to me. I stepped into her shoes and trod through my backyard across the wet leaves to call my dog in. I was stricken though with the thought that almost a year after she had gone the shoes were relatively still kind of new and with the style of my time, since she was always slightly ahead of the curve with her fashion instincts. One day they wouldn’t be and in the years ahead her things would wear away. It has already taken me a whole year to begin adjusting to all the things she left in the vacuum of her presence, and I am left with a great legacy to one day start writing. What I want to hold on to are the things about her that are timeless, the things that will travel with me decades down the line. All she could really leave us were those instincts and that sensibility. The rest will fade, or harden into relics, but my life is too dynamic to carry around dusty baggage.
I burned incense to fill my little space, my writing nook, with the smell of spices and to clean the air. The curls of the smoke danced in the air, charming the wind and dancing in whirls and spins. They spun through the windowsill as the rain misted, it was the kind of rain that if I turned my face up to the sky, would cover me from ear to ear with an instant light dew. The dead leaves of winter were soaked and the chill in the air was a happy one because for once, at least, it was just no longer cold.
When the smoke started sifting its way through the window, I had been listening to music with the sound of bells and women singing and in the light of the afternoon sky I suddenly became stricken and broke down in tears. The sounds of ringing and full throaty declarative harmonies of their voices bore my memory back, and when the scent of the incense reached my nose I was instantly transported. I wept with my face turned back, and felt the tears stream endlessly down the sides of my face, dripping past my ears, falling into my hair.
I remembered climbing with curiousity into my aunt’s room, on bandy nine year old legs with wild hyper hair and excitement in my eyes. It was connected to a terrace that overlooked the sea, where she would stretch in the mornings those days she didn’t rush out for business, listening to opera arias in her wide sleeved robes. There would be incense burning, the smell masking the smell of her cigarettes and tea as she thoroughly enjoyed herself in the morning light. I would climb the steps hewn from native canes, with bamboo to glide my hands on. With my young impatient steps I would barrel into her open doorway into a room lit by low lamps and lanterns of diffused light.
It was the treasure trove of an explorer; in every corner were jewelry boxes laden with gold chains and precious gems that spilled out, inviting me to try them on and give myself a glimpse of my young self in the costumery of a princess from a faraway land. There were dusty antiques, warriors carved out of tropical wood that stood in attack mode under faded paint and a collection of fearsome crucifixes sacrilegiously adorned with leis and NY Knicks caps. All the mirrors had been dulled of their silver. I could pull hats off of mannequins posed exquisitely, limbless. I was surrounded by all of the accoutrements and accessories of various grand places in time.
Across the world in her midtown Manhattan apartment, I slept fitfully in the week after she died. I couldn’t even think about the exact place where she might have dropped dead, or the sinister shadows in the demonic faces of the cherubs in the dawn light. It was no longer charming to be surrounded by so much haunted history, because now I was living that haunted history. I coasted forward during those days, not stopping to sink, breathing steady.
She left me, my sister and her granddaughter some of her shoes and clothes, and we bedecked ourselves in her things like costumes that somehow became molded to us perfectly by the time we left New York. My sister’s leopard print boots and my niece’s fur coat suited them because she had imparted in us some of the personality that it takes to pull off that kind of fashion showmanship. I came home with a floor length giraffe print jacket, and a pair of water shoes that I secretly always wanted.
This afternoon as I felt the low pressure of the weather system lull me, and the scent of the incense haunt me I remembered those shoes and felt compelled to pull them out. My friend sat patiently in my living room as I dug through my closet flinging shoes across the room, looking for the pair. I could find one, but not the other. I panicked, knowing that I hadn’t seen or wore those in a while.
"Freaking shizz! I lose everything!!! I can’t freaking lose those."
A breath and a step later I looked aside and under a pile of my clothes peeped the toe of her shoe mysteriously, as though her spirit had nudged it into my sight. It’s moments like those that I felt that she might still be close to me. I stepped into her shoes and trod through my backyard across the wet leaves to call my dog in. I was stricken though with the thought that almost a year after she had gone the shoes were relatively still kind of new and with the style of my time, since she was always slightly ahead of the curve with her fashion instincts. One day they wouldn’t be and in the years ahead her things would wear away. It has already taken me a whole year to begin adjusting to all the things she left in the vacuum of her presence, and I am left with a great legacy to one day start writing. What I want to hold on to are the things about her that are timeless, the things that will travel with me decades down the line. All she could really leave us were those instincts and that sensibility. The rest will fade, or harden into relics, but my life is too dynamic to carry around dusty baggage.
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