840 Valencia (Part 2)

The ambiguity of who was going to stay coupled with personal allegiances made for a particular mix of entitlement. I, on the one hand, felt entitled because I was better friends with Chris (a friend from graduate school) than Casey was, and so it made more sense that I stay on in the apartment if Amy left. On the other hand Casey's rental agreement was with Amy and not Chris. If Amy decided not to come back (and Chris did) then Casey could stay in Amy's room and it would be an easy transition. There were two ways to argue and both were fair, depending on who you knew.

What Casey and I didn't know, but soon learned, was that Amy and Chris' communication about all of the above was less than fluent. Amy might talk to Casey on the phone about her plans, Casey would relay the information to me, now taking the form of gossip, and in turn I would pass it on to Chris. Or I would hear something from Liz (a mutual friend of Amy and I), I would pass the information on the Casey, etc. It became apparent that Amy and Chris weren't speaking to each other and to be fair, they tried, but both being absorbed in two different worlds / time zones made things difficult. Maybe this is how information gets spread (selectively) when nobody is in the same place at the same time. Anyway, the effect of all this was four different ideas of the future.

Meanwhile, Casey and I lived relatively peacefully in the apartment, neither of us unable to unpack our boxes or settle. This lasted for six months until Casey volunteered to leave. I write this as a post-script in the apartment, Friday morning San Francisco rain and finally at a (make shift) desk. Not because the story is finished, but because over the winter vacation I had trouble getting to sleep thinking that I had been screwed over after Casey had left. When I got back yesterday I was still angry, the flip flopping and positioning and how leaving the apartment seemed like a better option than to be caught up in some weird drama with people that I apparently didn't know very well. Anyway, I might get into trouble writing like this, so I have to be careful to not spill my angst in a way that does more harm than good. My hope is that I can tell the story in a way that everybody can agree on. It is probably this instinct that keeps the conflict open.

My brother and I listened to Obama's inauguration address on the radio of a Mazda 3 in the hills of West Virginia. We were on our way back from our great aunt's memorial service that we had left for on Sunday morning. An eleven hour car ride from New York, we passed the time on our way there playing silly road games and a long discussion that hinged on the assertion that in reading our brain pays attention to every letter in a word and processes it subconsciously while our conscious mind handles the meaning making portion of reading. Regardless, we got to our uncle's around eight, sister and husband and baby and dogs got in from D.C. at nine. The next morning along with cousins and cousin's children, we set aunt Jean's coffin on a wooden palette and the grave diggers did the rest. Aunt Jean didn't want any services and her wishes were respected.

She was the youngest of three sisters, my father's mother the middle sister, and all three were buried next to each other. She was the grandparent that would come with us to Dollywood, take us to the pool, and in general, make efforts to meet us kids wherever we were at; probably our only grandparent to do this, the fun one. She was also incredibly stubborn and had a reputation for constant criticism spilling out of her mouth, quick to tell you that your haircut is terrible and that your hand writing sucks. Just as quick to love, a squeeze or to give some sugar (her word for a kiss), this honesty, if that is what we call it, was also what made her endearing and there was no doubt how much she loved her sister's children, and their children (us).

After a pizza wake we all went over to her house and began the process of figuring out what to do with her stuff. My sister claimed some light fixtures, I got some end tables and some pans, my brother took with him an eight pack of twelve ounce bottles of Coke, cousin David joking/asking if he could drink my brother's inheritance. I found in an old box of jewelry, the names of my grandmother's children, my brother sister and I and our two cousins, etched on bracelet and a locket containing an old picture of aunt Jean and grandmother Anderson, what looked like a high school picture of them both, fresh faced and smiling in the sun. I sat down thinking that I would write about Obama's speech, reacting to the silliness of pundits talking for six hours about a twenty minute speech, instantly analyzing what might be better left to simmer, but never mind about that. My brother and I made it back to New York last night, and I leave for home (is where one starts from, T.S. Eliot) tomorrow.

840 Valencia (Part 1)

Last march I moved out of the Oakland apartment into a two bedroom San Francisco sublet on Valencia in the Mission district. I was going to take over Chris' room until the end of May while he was away in France doing some movement related studies. He got back in June but was again headed away to teach in El Salvador and a residency out in New York (state), so it made more sense for me to stay until he got back from the second trip, extending the sublet until the end of October.

Concurrently, Chris' roommate Amy was also going to be out of town, working on a Sol LeWitt installation at Mass MoCA until the end of August. Amy found Casey to sublet her room. Since Amy was leaving a month before Chris, I moved into Amy's room in the month of March, the plan being that when Chris left at the beginning of April I would move into Chris' room and Casey would move into Amy's room. In theory I was subletting from Chris and Casey was subletting from Amy, and both Chris and Amy would deal with any subletting issues that came up based on this division.

The trouble, or ambiguity of who is where until when, began when instead of me moving out of Amy's room in April when Chris left and Casey came, I stayed in Amy's room and Casey moved into Chris' room. Though this didn't create any immediate problems for Casey and I, or Chris and Amy, it mucked up the clear cut lines of communication and division of responsibilities.

Originally Amy was due back at the end of August, but having met and fell in love with Nobu out in Massachusets, her plans changed. Instead of coming back immediately, she and Nobu decided to come back to San Francisco and live together. This meant that Amy would be moving out of the Valencia apartment for a number a reasons, the most important being that the apartment was not big enough for three people (Amy, Nobu, and Chris). Thus raising the question: who was going to take Amy's place?

But let's back up a little bit. Casey and I had been living together since April and were getting along just fine. We weren't the best of friends but were both semi-reasonable people, relatively clean, respectful of each other's space, etc. and happy to be in the apartment. At some point early in the summer the possibility was raised that Amy might not be coming back and we talked a little bit about who would stay. Around that same time Chris was in between trips and was around the apartment to pick up some things. He was frustrated at not being able to find what he was looking for through the hubris of Casey's things, and offhandedly, walking down Valencia after lunch, told me that if Amy moved out he would rather live with me than Casey.

A couple days latter, fueled by the idea that if I know what I want I have every right to pursue it (as opposed to passively hoping that things and people will work out in my favor), I mentioned to Casey Chris' remark and the bad blood began to flow.

Brief shout out to Tim DeChristopher the environmental activist / graduate student who mucked up an oil-lease auction in Utah. Civil disobedience at its 21st century best! Here is today's Washington Post article that reasonably summarizes his actions (it requires creating a washington post account which only takes a second...sorry. Newspapers are hard up anyway these days).

Dreaming, in college (will I ever leave?) that part my my final assignment was that I was going to burn down the library. I got it cleared with everybody in the library, and nobody seemed to be bothered by my ambition, so I picked a time right before it closed and wadded up some newspaper and sticks, set fire to it around the computer station and left. Soon I found out that the fire didn't catch and I out one final project. I was disappointed and a little embarrassed that I had failed. What am I going to tell all those people who find out that I didn't burn it down?

Anyway, dreaming in DC, at my sisters and husband's house. I've been in nanny mode feeding the baby mangoes while sister is at work and husband is working on finishing the kitchen. This weekend I am off to Virginia to see friends Erika and John.

Snitznoodle + Neice

Time Life Love Poem

Let’s suppose there’s an unbreakable bond
between us that transcends (supposing
still) space and time, okay?
A psychic connection
like that man who gets on a plane
or doesn’t. The plane crashes
after he hesitates to board:
a feeling out of nowhere, he puts his fingers
to his temples, squinting as if
receiving a transmission.

And then there’s the lady
burning her hand while three
thousand miles away her twin
feels a sharp pain. Let’s say
these kinds of bond exist
instinctively, or we are attuned
to these types of disturbances
in others, or vice versa,
another’s pleasure. Let’s suppose
and I remember
after a long visit we left each other
and listened to the same song
without any premeditation.

The other night I knew
you wanted to call me, and I felt that
twinge, that cosmic foam popping
between us. That pull.
And I called and was right:
you were in love with somebody else
again, and again I too was in love
with all this beyond us.

The woman at the airport security gate asked me if I was "all together." I asked her what she meant ("what do you mean?"), and she made a gesture indicating the person ahead of me: was I traveling with this person?

For a second I thought she meant it like the expression "pulling it together" or "keeping it together," like she knew I was going through a difficult time and was offering support.