No Room For Doubt

Within twenty four hours of landing, I have already eaten an alligator po'boy, drank an Abita Lite out of a paper bag, had a to-go hurricane while walking through the French Quarter, and seen a kick-ass zydeco band on Bourbon Street.

Actually, all of that was within the first handful of hours.

And then, before nine o'clock this morning, I was balanced on scaffolding putting up siding on a house.

On this trip, there's no waiting around.

We arrived on-site by 8am this morning for "orientation," which last approximately fifteen minutes, and then were divided into two groups: those afraid of heights, and those not afraid of heights. I, apparently, am not afraid of heights.

Twenty minutes later, I was balancing siding with two other team members as we gauged the appropriate spot and measured to make sure everything fit flush. The houses we are building are meant to withstand 135-140 mph winds, and to wick heavy rain water away. They're built on pilings the height of telephone poles driven into the shifty sand. Should another Katrina blow through uninvited, these houses will stand.

But there's a certain degree uncertainty involved with building a house, especially when you've never built one before, and, in my opinion, a very high level of trust from our site coordinators. As I beat nails into the side of the house, caulked the edges, and made sure everything was level, I couldn't help but wonder where I'd suddenly acquired these skills. I suppose if you stick anyone fifteen feet up in the air, hand them boards and point to the appropriate places, things will get done eventually.

And this job site is no place for doubt or uncertainty. Measure twice, yes, but don't stand around wondering if you're capable. Just do it.

Our site coordinators are watching us like hawks, knowing when we're apt to make a mistake. It's not that they're waiting for us to mess up, it's that they deal with hundreds of volunteers coming through each week, most of them as inexperienced and hopeful as we, and they know precisely the areas in which we'll falter.

For the most part, however, they're not asking us to do anything we're incapable of doing. It's not as if they are going to point out a misplaced nail and cry, "YOU! YOU THERE! CEASE IMMEDIATELY! YOU HAVE RUINED THE HOUSE! YOU HAVE RUINED EVERYTHING! PEOPLE WILL DIE BECAUSE YOU FAILED TO MEASURE CORRECTLY AND MISSED THE STUD BY 1/16ths OF AN INCH!"

Still- there is something, a fear, a phobia, an area of extreme difficulty and insecurity for me, that I have had to confront on this trip.

Math.

Building a house is nothing more than placing the right things in the right areas according to minute mathematical logistics. Everything is measured in 16ths of an inch. 1/16th too far, and the board of siding won't fit. 1/16th too short, and water can leak in. It has to be done right. A board placed just a tiny bit too far to one side creates a negative balance that only increases. Where a problem begins as a quarter of an inch, it soon becomes six inches off. It adds up.

We aren't in the Ninth Ward, but in a similarly distressed area just west of downtown. The levees held in our area but many of the houses were damaged or destroyed due to the high winds on top of what is termed "generational neglect." The brightly-painted Habitat houses stand out against the rows of abandoned houses in the neighborhood like Easter eggs; bright little spots of hope where progress is being made.

And I could see progress by the end of the day, which is something that surprised me, and although I broke out in a major case of hives from the insulation (and got a stupid sunburn on the back of my neck despite the fact that I swore I put sunblock on this morning), I'm tired and achey in all the right places. With this program, however, there's never a dull moment. I'm blogging in the few snippets of time I have between showering and a group dinner and discussion, and then (because my group is, fortunately, a party group) there are bars to be hit and beers to be drank in celebration of our first day.

The Flight

There are two things about which I am currently ecstatic.

One would be the seven CDs' worth of ambient/instrumental music Jackal gave me that I loaded onto my iPod. Alpha, Riceboy Sleeps, Amiina, Valgeir Sigurosson. Soothing, contemplative, fantastic.

The second is free WiFi access on board. Thanks, American Express. (Valued at $12.95, available only on flights between March 13-27. Just so you know what a great deal you're getting.)

I love travelling. I love airports, I love people watching.

Free-association:

The teenage girl slumped in her seat in business class wearing a black T-shirt and hot pink knee-high Doc Martens. Spring break at Dad's house? Upgrade courtesy a stepfather's credit card miles rewards?

Business travelers are exact; so functional. Everything fits neatly into everything else and is designed for flawless maneuvering, yet never allowing functionality to eschew aesthetics. Like Sweden.

Hippies with their giant carry-ons and trail mix, enraged that security regulations still do not allow for full Nalgene bottles.

Turbulence is key. A little bit of turbulence is a reminder that you are, in fact, enclosed in a metallic capsule speeding through thin air so many miles above terra firma. You are not in a bus, a cab, or a train. Slight turbulence is getting your money's worth in flying. A little hint of danger, a lilt of adrenaline. I'm more than ok with turbulence.

I have to sit next to the window. I have to. Last summer when Lee and I flew to San Antonio for a friend's wedding, we discovered that we both have to have the window seat, which meant that we could not sit together. The woman at the ticket counter was confused.

"If you want, I can seat you together," she said, helpfully.

"No thanks," we answered.

"Are you sure? Because we have two seats available-"

"-No! We're fine!"

I'm almost certain she thought we were a couple that had gotten into a spat and were now refusing to sit next to one another on the plane. I'm also certain that she felt she had failed as enthusiastic airline employee to repair our damaged relationship and enact peace between us with the offer of adjoining seats.

Turbulence. A little dip. A thank-you-ma'm. A tip of the hat from the friendly skies.

I'm pretty sure I could just free-associate myself through this week. I'm enamored with this minimalist, post-modern methodology.

I haven't uttered a sentence like that since grad school.

I blame all of this free WiFi and open skies.

Naptime.

Rebuilding Hope: A Mission Trip

Yet New Orleans didn't die, proof, perhaps, that cities are more than functional conveniences. They inspire affection, emotional ties and loyalty. It is now the fastest growing city in the United States, at 7-8% per year, even if, at about 340,000, it is still below pre-Katrina levels. If people persist in living in earthquake-prone Los Angeles and San Francisco, why would they not return to New Orleans? This renewal is despite, more than thanks to, the efforts of the city's government. New Orleans has suffered from what the New York Times called the "dysfunctional stalemate that has bogged down the city's recovery". The dysfunction is both between black and white populations and between city and federal government, and the consequence is that swathes of the place are still visibly ruined, and homeless rates remain high.

[in] the nearly five years since the storm, a "recovery plan" was drawn up, often reviewed, and barely implemented. The city, according to one involved in reconstruction, "has hundreds of millions of dollars committed but not spent". The recovery plan was created "without a drop of sense as to what was implementable".

Into the vacuum of action created by government, individuals and independent agencies have piled in. Self-organised groups that have grown up since 2005 have become significant forces of renewal.

Habitat for Humanity, an international charity, has built more than 1,300 "simple, decent, affordable homes" in the four states effected by Hurricane Katrina and her nasty little sister Rita, which followed shortly after.
The Observer
Sunday March 14, 2010

these days that you were waiting for
will come and go
like any day
just another day

there's never gonna be a moment of truth for you
while the world is watching
all you need is the thing you forgotten
and that's to learn to live with what you are

sometimes
everything you've ever wanted
floats above
sticking out his tongue and laughing
while everything
anyone can ever need
is down below
waiting for you
to know this

Learn to Live With What You Are
Ben Folds


I'm doing loads of laundry and only-slightly-ok-mostly-sort-of-absolutely freaking out about leaving tomorrow to spend a week in New Orleans helping to build houses with RHINO (Rebuilding Hope In New Orleans) and Habitat for Humanity.

I'm freaking out because I'm afraid I'll forget something vital, like protective eye wear or my journal, and I'm freaking out because I haven't done anything this before. In the ultimate paradigm shift, I am abandoning a lifestyle to which I've grown accustomed and complacent in the hopes of shifting my perspective enough to find some new stability in life. Which is really just a high-falutin' way of saying: "I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and devote a week of my life to helping others." The fact that I get to travel, and the fact that I get to travel to a kick-ass city, is sheer luck.

Mochi once told me her theory about listening to music, and how instead of separating you from reality it makes you hyper-aware. As though you're in a movie. The music creates a temporal space that forces you to focus on minute details. The wash of sun on your face, the stitching on the handbag of the woman standing next to you, the smell of a street vendor's fare. Your mind creates a cinematic landscape, flush with flashbacks and day dreams, and the music guides this little moment in time.

The same can be said for travel. A change of scenery, biologically, creates in us a hyper-aware sense. Constant vigilance is required, because there's no telling what might be a threat or potential food item. Evolution has done nothing to tamper with our natural instincts, despite our best efforts to numb them on a day to day basis.

I find myself dampening these instincts, tuning out, turning off, and focusing instead on the rhythms of everyday. Get up, go about the day, eat at prescribed times, and follow a routine and pattern so exacting that it's stultifying to suddenly realize how much time has gone by. I decided at the beginning of November to enact a radical life change for myself and set about trying to find what, exactly, that change might be. A new job, a new city, a new religion, a new career?

And then, suddenly, I fell back into the routine. Like a mechanical ticking, my days trickled through my hands, the hours gone and wasted. And it's March. And nearly five months has gone by since my "wake-up call."

What I did do, smartly, was to sign on for this trip in the height of that flurry of decision-making. Whatever it was I was planning to find for myself and do for myself, I committed to this trip and decided it would be the anchor. If everything else fell through, I would still have this thing that I had agreed to, worked for, and am now finally embarking upon.

A week in a different city with people I barely know, focusing on a cause that has always plucked at my heart strings and doing brute manual labor is certainly a cause for hyper-awareness. An appreciation for different sounds, smells, flavors.

One of the things I was always so amazed about when I moved to Florida was the change in light. A monstrous, flat sky with intense light that cut through everything for twelve hours a day. Nothing like the thin, milky light that comes and goes with the seasons in the north east. Florida is nothing but light and air and water, and for three years I never got used to the intensity of it.

This is what I mean by hyper-awareness. Who thinks about light, unless it's Daylight Savings time, or a shift in the seasons? You travel, you think about light. Your perception is skewed and acute.

I've never traveled without some evolution or revolution. I'm a thinker, and airports and buses and independence and time alone and away breeds new visions and hopes and choices. This is such a ripe moment of my life, with everything marinating and culminating and the past few years slowly beginning to slide away leaving only the meaningful and taking with it the petty, but insurmountably heavy, baggage and heart break and doubts and failures.

And so I take up my proverbial hammer, and I head to NOLA with hopes of transformation, transition, and making some small dent of a difference in the overwhelming mountain of need. I'm searching for some moment of truth, I know, but attempting to keep everything in perspective and let things happen organically.

Mostly, I'm there to rebuild. Houses, of course, but myself too. However selfish that sounds.

Stay the course with me, and we'll see what comes out of all this.

Arrivederci.

Felly Jish

National Aquarium, March 2010

Sexy Spring

"You know what's almost here?" Jaunt said to me last Friday night. We were in our natural habitat (read: in a bar, drinks in hand), recovering from a very exciting moment where we energetically "cheersed" one another with such velocity that I cracked her pint glass. These things happen.

"What?" I asked, thinking "End of the school year" (as Jaunt is a teacher) or "birthday season" (as we have a lot of birthdays, hers and mine included, coming up.)

"Sexy Spring!" she squealed.

Oh, Sexy Spring. How we've missed you. Bare feet and swishy skirts, and mojitos made with mint from the backyard. Sitting on the patio in the evenings with books in hand, spicy food on plates, and white wines. I've already decided that my wine of choice this summer will be a pinot grigio. I spent all of last summer lapping up Albarinos and sauvignon blancs, but I recently felt my palate shift again and I'm craving something with a little more body.

Spring is my most favorite time of year. Things get done in the spring. I am at my best in the spring.

Despite the fact that the local meteorologists have warned of impending Days Upon Days of Rain, it's a beautiful morning and I can feel spring edging up through the scant piles of snow that are still desperately trying to melt.

And, in exciting news, Book Club now has a website thanks to our brilliant Joel. It's absolutely beautiful, and will at some point display all of the books we've read as we come upon our three-year anniversary this summer. So you can all see what we're reading, and Joel smartly included links to purchase the books on Amazon, because you should.

Also, a friend of mine sent me this link of ultimate multi-tasking. I've been searching for a way to combine working out with artistic creativity and, naturally, drinking. Search no more.

I'm slowly but surely getting my life together and ready to leave on Monday for New Orleans. The anxiety is slowly waning and excitement is beginning to edge in.

Stay tuned, Glitteratis. Sexy Spring is in the air, and I couldn't be happier.

One of My Favorite Photos

photo courtesy Morgan Miller, MOMO PHOTO
Stupid's wedding
Kansas City, November 8, 2008

Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, "What! You too? I thought I was the only one!"
CS Lewis

One measure of friendship consists not in the number of things friends can discuss, but in the number of things they no longer need mention.
Clifton Fadiman

Solid Gold

"That guy over there? He's wearing an Olympic gold medal," the bartender whispered to Josh and I.

We were having a late-night Monday-night post-trivia drink, Josh and I, and he immediately leaned over to me and whispered, "This is why I go out on week nights."

"Should I ask him if I can hold it?" I asked the bartender.

"Sure, he's totally cool. He's been talking to people about it all night."

Josh and I approached the man that I would later learn is Steve Holcomb, who led the American Olympic bobsled team to victory this year for the first time since 1948. Not only did he let me thoroughly manhandle his medal, he was kind and outgoing and clearly just fine with the attention.

"It's got teethmarks on it," he joked.

Once we'd gotten our fill of completely molesting an Olympic gold medal (which, by the way, is incredibly heavy), we ambled back to our bar stools.

"He was so nice about that!" I said to Josh.

"Well, I imagine if you're wearing your gold medal out to a bar, you don't mind people asking you about it," he said. Touche.

"I have met the cast of The Wire in here," the bartender said, "and I will tell you that meeting that guy was so much cooler to me."

There is something pretty amazing about meeting someone who's a celebrity because of a pretty kick-ass victory. I've met film and television stars (including the Epic Subway Ride of 2002 when I got into an argument with Katie Holmes back in the day when she was more Pieces of April and less Batshit Crazy), I've met politicians and musicians, and somehow I was more floored by holding an Olympic gold medal worn by a guy who brought his team to victory. He's famous because of a hefty accomplishment.

This isn't to say that actors and musicians are somehow less worthy of idolatry or that their talents rank somehow less than that of an athlete, but it is worth pointing out that Olympic athletes are famous for not being famous. They're not professionals, they do it because they love the sport. And there are thousands of people who can claim celebrity for being an actor or a musician, but there's only a handful of gold medals out there.

And, holding that heavy piece of metal in my hands reminded me that there are so few material objects in the world that can sum up an entire career. A medal, an Oscar, maybe. Something so iconic and blatant is rare. To me, it will be a book. And rest assured if I can figure out a way to get a silky blue ribbon attached to it, I'll sure as hell wear it out to a bar, and I'll sure as hell let people touch it.

One Week

July 17, 2009
I am always so homesick for a place that doesn't exist.

Leaving for New Orleans next week, and found myself smack in the middle of a sleepless night last night.

I couldn't tell you exactly what set the thoughts to percolating and spinning around (Maybe the Oscars? Sorely disappointed in the Martin-Baldwin pairing. Had expected so much more.) but I found myself staring at a re-run of Big Love at three am and thinking about things that happened years ago and wondering what it is that has me so anxious about this trip.

I think, mostly, I've come to view my week in New Orleans as the parenthetical end to a distinct period of my life that's been characterized by a lot of uncertainty, doubt, and anxiety. It caps off my 3-year mark in Baltimore, and I think back to the girl who swept the sand off of the doormats and unpacked boxes of Cuban seasonings and a shared DVD collection after the two-day drive in a U-Haul from Florida and I find great disjoint.

Not that this is a bad thing.

The thing that has set this period of my life apart from any other is my ready acceptance of the mantra "all I know is that I know nothing." Because, mostly, I knew everything before. I knew exactly where I was going, one foot in front of the other, one box checked and on to the next. Diplomas in hand, wedding plans sketched out. I knew what I would be eating for dinner each night, and made plans six months in advance. I followed all of the stepping stones thinking they were laid out for me and not realizing that they were laid out for others, and that I was just following along without ever questioning if there were alternatives.

And then, one by one, I strayed from the stones. First it was the job, then it was the long-term relationship, then it was every idea of who I was and who I wanted to be. I pierced my nose, cultivated a new identity, dated interesting people, and tried on one persona after another. I cobbled together a haphazard existence of vampire hours, exotic foods, fascinating hobbies, and enviable day trips. I don't regret a thing.

But, as I threw all of these ideas against the wall, one by one they began to slide and nothing seems to stick. There is nothing of permanence in the life I built and this was in direct re-action to the seemingly permanent life I'd previously thought I had.

I wouldn't even buy fresh produce because my dinner plans were so likely to change, most of it went bad before I got around to cooking it.

But, as these things tend to do, my priorities have shifted again and I find that my incessant seeking of new and interesting stimuli has me looking further into the future. What sort of identity do I wish to eke out that can encompass all of my interests and yet still have some semblance of stability and permanence? How can I find a way to take everything I like about both worlds and create a new one that will leave me creatively fulfilled, a little less selfish, a little more aware, and with a larger world view?

"I think you need to not look at this trip as the be-all, end-all," Snap cautioned me during one of our phone conversations (our heart-to-hearts now limited to digital voice transmission since she's relocated to San Fran.) "Just go." She's right- I do have a tendency to assign more meaning to things then is necessary, but I can't help but intuitively feel that everything has been culminating for some time and that, somehow, this trip is going to be a catalyst of some kind for figuring some shit out. I don't know how I could spend a week helping other people, listening, being present, and leaving all of my petty shit behind me and not come out of it with some different ideas or opinions.

That's not to say this will happen overnight. I need time to process, of course.

I stopped blogging awhile ago because, contrary to the idea that I no longer had anything to say, I now have a lot to say, but I also have a great deal of respect and sensitivity for my thoughts and feelings and do not wish to share them so readily. To embark on this trip, and to commit to sharing it with you via this blog again, is an act of courage that is also daunting for me. I'm opening myself up again, however briefly, and so felt the need to share these thoughts publicly to set the stage for the next couple of weeks.

I'm not saying that anything brilliant will emerge. It could be a very long and boring account of what I ate on the job site or the weather or a bunch of dry statistical facts. Who knows. But I'll be here, and I hope you will too.

Every time I think that I am stagnating again, I think back to the last few years of my life and see the violent twists and turns, upheavals and revolutions, radical changes of thought and ways of being and doing, and I realize that I'm still on the journey. Still on the road, on board the train, in the car, headed somewhere. I know not yet where, but somewhere other than here.

Winter: I'm Over It.

It's not February anymore, but this was sent to me and pretty much encapsulates my current state of mind.

I love Samantha Bee.

Current Obsessions

1. HBO's new gem, How to Make It In America. Because we're all hustling in one way or another to make a dollar. Good critique of the struggles of trying to eke out an identity while balancing debt, rent, and finding some semblance of pride in your work. Hilarious asides of art world critique as well, and amazing filmography of the best city in the world.

2. The Hour I First Believed, by Wally Lamb. As usual, Lamb's prose packs epic heartbreak into a single sentence, and then strings those sentences together with a bleak outlook on modernity. The third of Lamb's canon (behind wrenchers like She's Come Undone and I Know This Much Is True), Lamb once again finds ways to weave history and pop culture into bitterly painful narratives. This time, Lamb utilizes the 1999 Columbine shootings as the beginning of a troubled couples' undoing and traces their downfall with Katrina as another turning point in the plot. Epically long, but not a dense read as Lamb still relies on fairly conversational prose putting the reader inside protagonist Caelum's constant inner monologue.

3. John Mayer. At least he's honest. Still, it becomes problematic when the world begins to forget what it is he does exactly. You're a musician, Mayer. No one expects you to be squeaky clean, but at least let the tabloids do all of your dirty talk for you. Keep writing love songs. That's all anyone asks of you.

4. Californication. Finished with Season 1, onto Season 2. Further illustration of why those in creative fields have excessive problems with narcissism, alcoholism, and a host of other "-isms." The constant weight of carrying around a body of work within oneself that has yet to come forth in any logical or productive way, and the incessant existential fear of being forever unable to actually produce anything of value lead to self-medication, constant introspection, and an inability to properly relate to anything outside of oneself. Plus a whole lot of sex, drugs, rock-n-roll, and unrequited love. I can't get enough of Hank Moody.

5. New Orleans. As I gear up for my trip in two weeks to the still-recovering areas of America's messiest social-natural disaster, I'm doing my preparative research. What's being uncovered for me is a whole lot of realization of how much racism and classism play into these devastations and how, world-wide, these problems are the root of everything that's been forgotten as societies progress. So much has been swept under the rug, glossed over, and forgotten about five years after the fact.

Speaking of, thanks to those of you still hanging in there with this blog. My goal is to blog everyday during the trip to New Orleans, with pictures, commentary, and updates. I haven't forgotten about you, Glitteratis, I promise. Hang in there with me.

Cheers.