1/25/09 I need this amount of calories to maintain present weight if i lightly exercise:
2191.127
My BMI currently is:
21.52
I have decided to adopt a healthier lyfestyle in the area of exercise and fitness!
My goal in the next three months (be specific!) is to safely lose five or more pounds and gain some muscle.
And I will accomplish this by walking to work everyday and doing sit-ups and exploring other ways to move my body.
Step 1 (Tomorrow) I will walk to work.
Step 2 (By Next Week) I will have reliably performed my every other day progressive abs program.
Step 3 (By Next Month) I will have mastered doing abs and cardio alternatingly every day. (Abs monday, walking, or swimming or biking on tuesday, etc.)
I will measure my progress by how I weigh on the scale, but more importantly how energized I feel.
I am going to enlist the support and encouragement of DAN HELTON!
In other areas of my life, I've demonstrated the ability to get things done, and I've overcome challenges to make this happen. I can use those same skills to improve my personal fitness.
Rewards or incetives for achieving my goals: better self-esteem, new pretty clothes, better lifestyle... Um... fun.
I have the power to choose a healthy lifestyle. Even though I'll encounter challenges and setbacks, I can make these important changes. I'm committed to making a difference in my health and deveoping a phsyically active lifestle that works for me.
Signed,
Katarina Michelle Countiss
4/08/08 Notes: carbohydrate sensitivity
Ten reasons to lose weight
1) more confidence
2) more choices for clothes
3) living life to the fullest
4) better health
5) more attractive
6) possible modeling career
7) I can think about something else
8) better habits for the future
9) be able to keep up with active friends and family members
10) more aesthetically pleasing to myself
I first applied to the University of Washington for the major of Painting and Drawing. I wasn’t accepted. Artists have a knack of taking the contemporary issues and causing people to talk about it. At that time, I couldn’t tell you the difference between a democrat and a republican. It was through the evening degree program that I was guided to try my hand at Communication. My first UW class was with Taso Lagos. I really had no idea what the degree consisted of, but being in his class, there was an “aha!” moment. Every joy that I experienced from a past political science class was echoed in the teachings of the class. He had a contagious fervor with the sentiment that we can make a difference. The people of the present have more tools for communication than ever before. I learned what rhetoric is and how the media is a distortion of reality. I learned the difference between democrats and republicans. I learned what post-modernism is! To me, that was mind blowing, to learn about how American society transformed from being a community to be segments of a market. How can we navigate these troubling waters of consumerism?
I look around myself at the upcoming generation of iPhones and Internet and I realize that post-modern society is exponentially innovating. The technology of communication is altering communication itself, making the topic elusive, and at the same time, rich with meaning and open to much interpretation. This new decentralized structure of communication is going to change the way people relate to, for better or worse.
The most fascinating aspect to me about political science is the utopian constructs of what society could be. Throughout history, there have been different versions of the future, some positive, some negative. Which ideologies have positive consequences? Are we implementing them? I have a great interest in exploring different structures and how communication in civilization reifies certain identities. Any great revolution is a slow process of “aha!” moments. What could be better about society? How is the structure of democracy an outdated one? A major in Communication would help me decipher the complexity in post-modern life. What would a painting of democracy’s dysfunction look like? Communication is vital to people living and working together and to understand that process is the most important knowledge to have in these changing times, politically and socially.
essay (up to 400 words) explaining what led applicant to apply to the major. This can refer to an issue of concern, an inspiring book or article, or a relevant experience;
After all my course work in communication classes, I now have to actually explain how that happened... Honest answer: I didn't get accepted into the painting and drawing major and the Art Institute was expensive and wouldn't take a lot of my Olympic college credits. But what to say to the beaurocrats who will give me a piece of paper... Geeesh. The other answer is it was Communication or something more vague like Social Science, because of the evening degree's limited options. Now, it's up to me to b.s. my way over the last application hurdle of my education career.
New Year's Resolutions
A tradition not soon forgotten, I try my best to gain the distance between me and my potential self. I am self concious in the most positive way. It is only the fact that I love myself that I would want to change myself, to be better and happier and healthier. I cannot set goals. I don't know what is realistic and more over what is appropriate. Science and life in general find ways to be contradictory and conflicting with actual numbers of anything. Balance is a constant discourse that is not going to be solved in one year, much less this one.
1. Drink more water
It has only been with the time spent recently drinking water because I was sick that I realized how much water is soothing and contains healing powers.
2. Exercise more.
With a modification to this, to be active. Not necessarily hardcore exercise, walking and bustling, the stairs instead of the elevator and things of that nature is included in this effort.
3. Read more.
It is only recently that I have discovered the potential of the Seattle Public Library and my own free time. I don't know quite yet what career I want to be pursue, so I might have some leisure time yet.
5. Explore more.
Sometimes I feel that I am less inclined to try new things, especially if I am hesitant. I want to say "yes" to more things than I am. I can't imagine a world without limits, but I hope to find a world bigger than the one I am currently living in.
6. Create something new everyday.
Today's creation being this list.
7. Make more sense.
It has been proven that women are irrational creatures. I wouldn't debate this, but help to amend it. Evaluate emotions.
8. Be more musical.
I have been interested in music for a long time, though it has less manifested itself in the past couple of years.
9. Connect with old friends.
It's funny how you don't notice the trail of broken hearts as you make them, but call upon old friends and there's a sad truth waiting. Are there second chances?
10. Form better eating habits.
I've been reading a lot of nutrition books. Some contradict each other, so a lot of it is instinct. I think common sense is a little skewed on the matter, but I am considering vegetariansim and organic foods to be top investigation.
11. Drink less coke.
Though this goes under number ten, it has been a surviving vice in my life and I hope to end it this year. Nostalgia is a great marketing tool.
12. Watch money spending.
I don't know how frugal I can actually be. I am a hedonist and often impulsive.
13. Define style.
Not a super high priority, but looks do matter. There is an artistry in that particular expression andI intend to find it.
14. Eat fruits and vegetables.
See ten.
15. Cultivate friendships.
They need attention, support and stability.
16. Travel.
I should have been out sooner.
17. Social conventions.
What are they? Where can I get some? Normal friends, what is that?
18. Never stop learning.
19. Use precise language.
May I mention here that this is the tricky part of these troubled times. I don't know if people realize that they are being raised by the television and it lies. It wasn't a clean solution. I couldn't trick my parents falling back in love. I wouldn't see their second wedding album in the credits of the movie of our lives. I learned this earlier than some kids, I suppose, but the lie doesn't hurt less. It's that pessimistic quality of adolescence. Kind of like the Nietchziean revelation, "there is no god."
So, I go. I go with my father to his hometown and possibly his resting place. He's still there now, defending fans of NASCAR and enjoying hot cider. To me that is the definition of Bristol, Virginia. Where everyone's great-aunt knows each other and meets to hear the clavicord on their porches. Living there is bizarre. Probably the most profound experience of my life. (So far.) Traveling to another country might have been easier on my system. At least there are big cities closer together. More culture. I guess, more of the culture I am used to.
Small town Virginia, connected to Tennessee's cliff-edge, it is only kind to call it rustic. There, my father and I frequented the Cracker Barrel, (so aptly named), the local Chinese food restaurant, which was some strand of familiarity and who could forget Dollywood! In a couple of cities over, there was a theme park dedicated to the Country Music Pop Star, Dolly Parton. It is such a treat for all of you who've never been. More of a theatre-goer's delight.
I am the youngest of my father's three daughters, and it seems like I never understood him the same way others have. Or, I guess that he is never understood in the same way twice. Every year, I learn something more about my father. It seems that childhood has a glaze over it, to make it shiny and wonderful, but as the years pass, the past fades, and the father reveals his cracks, his quirks and his weaknesses.
When I was twelve, I witnessed my father in the floodlight on the porch in the humid Viriginian heat, crying. I know he was crying because he was drunk, regretful and feeling unloved. When I was eleven, I noticed how strange and vibrant he looked when he dyed his beard brown from the silvery gray. When I was nine, I saw him in the hospital with stiches in his head from when he fell in front of the apartment building. When I was seven, I remember turning off the television, listening to him snore, only to hear him call out that he was watching the program. Even younger, there are memories that seem kind of strange and wonderful. How he watched the superbowl while eating fish eggs. Or how sweaty and smelly he was after playing soccer. How he got mad at himself when he was supposed to be angry at me.
Everyone in the family knew that he was an Alcoholic. That was allowed. We went to a divorce seminar for children, once, me and my sister. We were separated by age, so while she was participating in a mock trial, I watched a video of the "Purple House. " How one day the mother started liking red, and the father started liking blue. At first it was a blue tie, or a red pair of shoes, (I imagine now, a redder shade of lipstick) and then it became obvious to the Purple children, that something amazing was happening. Amazing is not the right word... Significant.
My sister and I were told before the time. My parents are very organized. They're lawyers. It shows in the small quirks of my childhood. How shredding paper was a chore. How fun the xerox machine was. The times when Lia (my sister and I) would play with the intercom system on the phones. Where you could press a button to the kitchen or dining room. Anyways, the time was when mom and dad sat us down on the bed and gave us typed-up letters starting "Dear Daughters." I have this vivid memory at the ice skating rink where I recall my mom promising me that she and Dad would never get a divorce. That's why I cried the most, I think. Because I kept repeating "but you promised." The letter was pretty frank and it explained how they met, had sex, had beautiful daughters and would rather be "happily unmarried than unhappily married."
Now, my mother has been married five times? Hmm... I always list the names when I count, otherwise, I never keep track. Jim, George, Jim, Steve. Okay, four. But, she did threaten to leave Steve once, involving this grandeur gesture of packing. Anyways, she was on her way to being Steve's wife when I was twelve. Lia viewed Dad as being irresponsible and drunk and smelly. She would go with mom the day after Christmas to Washington. I am my father's daughter, I pitied him and loved him. I knew that I would be the compassionate one and be his daughter, while my sister was my mother's. I was comforted by this fact because I watched the Parent Trap, where twins are separated, and they're pretty happy. And it's a clean solution.
(word count 642).
Moments are strange. They are. You can share a moment? No. Maybe. According to some, we all have our moments. But, they are different because of perception and such, you cannot experience the same moment as someone else. But what happens if the same things happen to the same people at the same time at the same place. For example, there is a beautiful sunset, and then POW! a lightning bolt strikes a tree ten feet away from two people and they both think "wow!" and jump back at the same time. Was that a shared moment? Maybe, just feeling the same thing is enough, rare enough. I think there is a principle that the greatest things are often the rarest. Or is it that the rarest things are just incredibly great.
Speaking of which, I am incredibly great. And I will tell you why. I was born and I lived and one day I will day. The course of human history has changed? or was it always meant to have me in it? I am supposed to accomplish truly amazing things? and can you say that anyone has lived up to their potential? Perhaps it is the potential that was poorly graphed, because the word means to me that there is something possible to be done in life and to say that was done, well, what kind of sneaky potential is that? And what does a person do after that? "Well, I reached my potential, I am going to take a nap and possibly die." He said aloud to no one in particular. (360 words)
How I am diverse: I can spell well, I enjoy the idea of every bit of our political system being destroyed at rebuilt, and I like the color purple. Strike that, I can spell okay, better than most, but in a law school, I'd do just the same as everyone else, I'd hope. I think that educational standards are a little warped, so I wouldn't be surprised if an institution of supreme standard let someone in who couldn't hit the spellcheck button. Though, albeit, there are plenty of words that fly right by under that system.
That's kind of why I would like the knowledge confined within the walls of law school. People are like words, they seem the same, but they're not, and they fly right under the spellcheck, going unnoticed, or sometimes corrected to be something they never intended to be. Law is about labeling things, categorizing them, making legitimacy out of chaos. I could do that. I spell really well.
I can spell reconciliation. In this society, there are many messages to racial minorities. One of them is reconciliation. After all the systematic racism, how can we put things right, make the race card not an option to play? How can we work together to give everyone equal opportunities for a bright future? I feel as a person with two races, or in some cases none, I have the power to play on both sides until we all reach an agreement we're satisfied with. Despite our multi-racial president, there are still more bridges to build.
It's been a long time since you've heard from me. Life just gets this certain momentum and I just keep postponing writing because there seems to be more over the horizon that I would want to tell you guys. I want to keep you all updated, but I also forget or don't feel like writing.
My summer has been amazing and interesting, hard work and no work, a lot of hotness (Seattle summers are not rainy) and some of the romance.
I quit my job at the kabobery. (Kabob's Exrpress sells shishkabobs). Anywho, they stopped giving me hours that I liked and I wanted weekends off because... I met Dan.
Dan, I think I might have briefed you guys on Dan, maybe not, but here's some info once more: he's a data insurance person at Regence (computer dude), he doesn't have a favorite color, his mom is an artist, he speaks a little Japanese, he's tall (I like that), he's into concerts, movies, and art (especially my art). We met online at the beginning of summer. We also have similar politics. He graduated from UW with a major in some sort of Society Ethics degree, so we really get on about postmodern families and the fragmentation of culture.
Meranda and I were flat mates for a bit, but then she went back to the dorms. Lia wanted to have a place closer to the University and I didn't want to pay so much rent (I got used to saving money when Meranda and I split rent). So, I moved in with Dan and Lia moved into my apartment. You can imagine that she didn't exactly like the purple curtains in the bathroom or the striped rug in the kitchen; it has been revamped. It is IKEA-stylish, which is a half compliment from me, but you know, I'll always like slightly mismatching, if not complete design chaos. I have made new paintings for Dan's condominium and helped him pick out curtains and paint colors, etc. It's a work in progress, but I have recently learned that home improvement always is.
Due to my new location and distate for the Kabobery, I looked for a new job. A lot of pulls, but less takers, then the magical work place Tully's Coffee lured me into their fantasy land. I work mornings until 1:30. ( I will never be late for my classes that start at 4:30!) I have weekends off! Hooray! And most importantly, they have met my demands of matching my previous salary, but the tips are mega-awesome. Words can't describe that amazing moment I felt when I went for my tip jar for the first time. I could shower in those coins. It might not seem like a lot to the jobbers who make more than a Seattle Barista, but don't rain on my financial parade. My math shows that this job has the greatest profit margin in the history of me. And the people are nice. My boss is nice. Life is nice.
School is a little trickier. Some teachers are a little... unconventional. I am not sure what to expect from them so far. A lot of interpretative assignments and the phrase 'Personal Learning Project' kind of freaks me out because that means I have to dig deep for something that really intrigues me about Intercultural Communication while I barely know what it is. I am reading some interesting books for my contemporary novel class. Some include: No Country for Old Men by McCormac, When the Emperor was Devine by Otsuka and Everything Loud and Incredibly Close by the same guy who wrote Everything is Illuminated. I am not worried about enjoying them, but I am concerned about analyzing their emotional content. And Negotiation class reminds me of what my mom and dad do, hopefully my upbringing will be a resource onto itself.
That's all for now folks. Meanwhile, enjoy some lovely photos. The guy in one of them is Dan. : 0
Love and miss,
Kati
Fair Stuff- a corn dog, burrito, samples of coke zero, energy bars, granola cereal, rockstar, red bull, starbucks, blue sweater, free bus passes, spray-on tattoo, t-shirt decal, some familiar faces, shopping through handmade clothing and ocarinas.
Janeane Garafalo-- "He's not for McCain... he has a 'dead' shirt on... (Meranda's father stormed out of the show calling the comedy a "political tirade.) She commented on the politics of today, remarking crudely how conservative republicans are missing parts of their brains.
Bumberlesque Apocalypse from Coney Island-- full frontal nudity, something esquisite about a stripper and a big shiny latex balloon... also "tassel twirling"... I found it odd to be viewing this pleasure with the most prudent person I know (Meranda). None the less, enjoyable, flamboyant, and you'll never see a man with no arms stripping ever again, if not at Coney Island. (To be exact, his act involved arms, they just came off as well as the other garments.)
Gage Art Inducement-- Listened to a small playing of The Monday Mornings while charcoal drawing (this space gives you the materials and the models for possible art, and the uninspired, the possible crumpled up paper).
Strange Fruit-- theatrical dancing on what could only be described as a tall black rubbery pogo stick that wobbled side to side instead of bouncing up and down. Innovative.
Flatstock-- A lot of conceptual art with simplistic lines and brightly colored bunnies with their heads sewn on. Daniel Danger, with his dark stormy seas or an intimate spot in a deciduous forest, shines like a new penny among rubble. Might get a poster tomorrow.
Final Fantasy-- One man band. Plays something on the keyboard (or lovely violin) and loops it, so it's really himself... and himself! Did falsetto like an angel. His light show involved the unique stylings of a girl with a top knot for a hairdo playing with some hand-done stencils and an old school projector. Inspiring.
Ingrid Michaelsson- "The Way I Am" being her famous thang in the limelight, I also enjoyed singing along (at her request) to a song where the chorus goes "I should tell you that you were my first love." Beautiful. Sweet. Bubbly.
The two slips of paper slipped off the bed. We were going to see Conor Oberst and his Mystic Valley Band. This was our first concert together. The days approaching this event, my heart filled with anticipation of a musical experience that I only truly was acquainted with by Dan horribly singing "Milk thistle, milk thistle." Thank goodness Oberst could hit pitches better than my sweet humorous boyfriend.
When we arrived at the venue Neumos, I was suprised by the line leading down the block and trailing around some cars and an abandoned green couch. I had never been to a concert with a line like that. I felt that we were all following each other to some imminent doom. This sentiment was confirmed after twenty minutes of waiting, the show-goers filed inside the building, became branded by an orange bracelet and then herded towards the stage, void of performers. This seemed to me to be some awful government trick where they lure you in with hope and alternative rock and then brainwash you or gas-shower you, or something of that hideous nature.
After twenty or so minutes, the lovely blonde named Dree and her nameless accomplices blessed the stage with slow melodic coos and a shaking tambourine. They were nice and from Kansas, but I guess I am a sucker for blonds like that, with hair that shines like the twine of heaven, except it's soft and cascading. She wore a round piece of metal around her neck that reflected some of the stage lights. Though all the songs sounded similar, this opening band was a seemingly endless lullaby that would put all the herd into a sweet stupor, so when Conor came to chop off our heads with his acoustic guitar, we'd be happy about it.
After maybe six or seven songs, (one has to count how many times one has applauded to measure these "songs") the namesless musicians and their Pied Piper, Dree, went away for maybe a day, or what seemed to be. Conor and his band of six came onto the stage, their boyish encountences emanated from their persons. They were what an alternative band would strive to. They had the aloof confidence of a band of their fame and fortune. As if he almost was suprised to see all these people and feigned a humble sensibility, the lead, Conor, addressed the audience "Hey, what's up?"
They played and they played. I watched Dan close his eyes, open his eyes, sway to the beat and later tear up from the sweet lyrical sentiments of the songs that he had grown attached to, like these songs were viny tendrils of all the sad and aspiring feelings of his soul and they creeped and extended outward from him to other people, and seeing the fathers of these songs were welcome sunlight nourishing these extensions.
I heard the crowd scream that they love Conor. I heard them demand for autographs and clap and clap for the band's return to the stage when they left. I wish they weren't there. Looking over all the heads of the show-goers, crammed in this little space, with their breaths inevitably mingling with mine until creating this bog of sweat and sighs that made Dan blow down his shirt with his own breath to relieve the humidity.
Dan had his predictions, shared his past knowledge of bands and Oberst with me, and some of it was right and some of it wasn't so. He didn't know how many opening bands there would be or how long it would last. Til the very end, I didn't know when the songs would stop coming. They would say just a couple more, and then after that song, just a couple more. I adored the eternity standing next to Dan listening to something he enjoyed for hours by himself.
We left, me with the souveniers of a tee-shirt and a Taylor Hollingworth CD, and him with the satisfaction of going up and down.
Oh, yes. His name was Mischa. Is Mischa, still. I don't think people change their names when they die. He won't be jovial, so that's a temporary descriptor, but his name will remain. At least that's how I will remember him, because Raven called him that... I remember (as most sentences will start this memoriam), I remember that first day I met him. Meranda had described her dance partner as without a chin. I just thought that meant he was fat. I was surprised to see her scrawny dance partner with a mouth full of braces and brown curly hair, and most memorably his furry vest. After he spoke, I understood that he was Russian in some sense of the culture. He certainly had that regality that most Tolstoy novels are drenched in. He would later tell me that he read War and Peace in its original language. What a worldly guy. Though he stood four inches shorter than me and weighed about half as much, I was intrigued even then. He left through the Hansee Hall, doors and I swooned to my friend "isn't he cute?" For a moment, she thought I was talking about Ben, my dance partner, though that wasn't the case. I said, "No... Mischa."
All fall, I had fantasies about my Russian doll. How I'd lose weight and he'd grow a little more and we'd be such an exotic couple. Like his name, it was alliterative, like mine. I would brush up on my Russian, and when we would go to dances, it would be with hands interlaced whispering sweet schtoi eto koi's to each other. (That's the only phrase I know in Russian. "What is that?") But, it didn't turn out that way. I asked Cory for advice on how to swoon him. "Show interest," he said. I invited him to Meranda's Halloween party... He showed up in a black leather vest and black leather pants! He always had a flair for that kind of thing. For the Halloween dance, he arrived in a sumo costume, inflating motor and all. He was proud and jovial, though the motor didn't last long. A few minutes later, he revealed a stunning skeleton costume. Kind of on both sides of the spectrum there. The visible bones reflected his grace on the dance floor, as if he didn't need muscles, but instead was animated by some other force. At the masquerade, he donned a mask, when not many did. He was reported to look like the Phantom of the Opera. I had become a phantom in his life by then.
We did go on a date, once. What I assumed to be one. I gave all the clues of interest. Asked if he had a girlfriend and that kind of thing, and showed some concern when he felt that he did something irrevocable to a girl. He felt that he was unnecessarily cruel, though I never had the whole story. And, I never got it. On our date, though he accused me of being too interrogative, he rarely volunteered information about himself. His last name, where he was going for Christmas vacation and that sort of thing.
I believe I lost interest in the entire of the dancing scene for a while, and fell of the face of the dancing planet. And didn't see him after that. I heard when he was at something through Meranda, but even those reports faded. I could have forgotten my girlish crush. But, I saw him on a street corner tying his shoe. I didn't recognize him right away, he wore those sunglasses that either aviators or cops wear, but only he could pull them off with a kind of European aloofness. I stared on the brink of being rude, to know for sure. And I said "Hey. How are you?" and he replied distantly "Oh, hey Katarina." And that's it.
The next time I saw him was today. Meranda called me and told me where he was. Swedish Medical Center. He fell into a coma and he was going off life support. You have hypothetical conversations, "If I was a vegetable..." but it doesn't happen to you! And it doesn't happen to your friends. But here, he was and I wanted to say something about what if he's still in there, loving life and trying to cry out "don't pull that plug, don't say your good byes!" but, all we could hear was the kaping of the heart monitor. To be honest, the machine was silent in that regard. I thought I was on the edge of having some kind of soap opera moment, but there wasn't even the kaping! They deprive me of any sort of amusing value. Me, Gentleman Johnny, Elizabeth, Matt Legacki, Christian, and his computer programming classmate "Carrot" visited him at the same time. A congregation brought together by Facebook notes and some clever calling. I was glad to have been called. I felt that this was a moment I would have regretted to write about in the third person. I would regret that this feeling of loss didn't happen to me.
After finding each other, and the right elevator, (The East Elevators, so you know) we went to room 759. Gentleman Johnny inquired the androgynous receptionist if we could see him. She/he told us that it was only why he was there and confirmed that he was alone and ready for visitors. The head nurse explained to us what happened. I didn't listen entirely, though I wanted to memorize exactly what she said. What could people do to explain that someone you liked is practically gone? Jaw surgery... pain medicine... antibiotics, same time... don't know what caused it... lack of oxygen... hole in throat... crap shoot. Basically, Mischa is allergic to having a chin. I feel bad for making tasteless jokes, but life seems like one, sometimes.
I was in the hospital a month earlier for the heavy water study, but this visit seemed more ominous. That I would look at someone for the last time. After the nurse's explanation, and how Mischa would be alive until about Monday noon, so family and friends could see him--not that he could see them-- Gentleman Johnny started off the sort of progressive eulogy. We all said something nice about him. I said how I wanted a second date. Christian said that Mischa was well-lived. That he lived to the fullest. At the time, I was grateful that he said it and wouldn't have contradicted him, but thinking back on it now, I wanted to say "No. He's not ready. I can't see him so great at living being torn away so quickly."
We talked about our fondest memories. Things he wore, how he danced, Christian commented that he never saw Mischa sleep. Even at the parties that lasted till four in the morning, he would say with a characteristic gipper, "now, who's ready to clean up?" Carrot retorted that Mischa slept in class, only waking to make a comment, semi-on topic, before hitting the table once more. It was incredible how we could come together and share these sentiments where there was that uncertainty of whether to use the present or past tense. I made the comment on how soft his hands were, and then stumbled to say that they probably were still. "Good trait to have in a lead." Gentleman Johnny's voice boomed. In the same intonation "Congratulations, my boy" would have.
It was fuzzy., what we shared emotionally in that room, though everything was sterile and uncomfortable. There was the screen with the indicating lines, conveying that the body was alive, and not much more. There was the bed, a kind of medical cradle, with the railings up on both sides and a foot board, all the same grey plastic. His chest rose and fell mechanically. There were no short hiccups or deep sickened sighs of resignation, just the up and down of a machine doing the work a human should be doing. His throat had dried stains of blood and his chin looked bruised and his mouth was the definition of lifeless. His braces had a dull shine that ironically reminded me of the nurse's story.
I don't know if the others were aware of the fact that we had witness him pee. Or his new version of it. The nurse when to the foot of the bed, where a plastic pouch collected some liquid. She drained the container into a clear cup. After a couple of tablespoons, one could tell that it was definitely urine. When it was emptied, she went to the adjacent bathroom, with the door ajar, pour the liquid into the toilet and gave it an obvious flush. He seemed to lose all his humanity, then. There were tubes, connected to pumps, bags, and to areas beneath the white sheet. I lowered the sheet on the right side of the bed, just a little to touch his hands and stroke his fingers... Briefly. The head nurse said we could talk to Mischa and touch him and I did, both, though I felt I had nothing to say to him. I felt guilty for not having something sentimental to say, like "I'll have a white chocolate chip cookie and think of you," or "I wish we went to that movie..." But, I just tried to remember how soft his fingers were, though the body in this bed wasn't his. He was bloated,. For once, he was not just a lithe little Russian sprite in my mind, but this weighty thing who wouldn't smile or laugh or flirtatiously say "maybe." His fingers weren't bony like I remember, weren't delicate. They seemed gelatinous and heavy. I didn't hold his hand. That seemed to be a gesture to intimate for a person like me. I danced with him, hugged him, fantasized about him, but I knew my place was not to hold his hand like I knew him.
After I replaced the sheet, I quickly stepped back, as if I was afraid he'd wake up and realize that I was touching him. There was nothing else I thought would make this experience anything else. I didn't want to drain the potency of the moment by staying there until I was drowned by the crowd of people that actually loved him. I said my goodbyes to my fellow mourners of the living dead, and I couldn't think of any last words to the boy except "Bye, Mischa" and I waved. On the way home, I bought some spray roses. They were white. They were the only flowers at the shop that reminded me of him and I felt that I needed a last memory prettier than the tubes taped to his arm. The remind me of the white rose that he held in a picture that was taken before he attended the Vienna Ball. I remember a couple days before that picture, we had danced the polka at a lesson, and continued long after the others had walked towards the edges of the room; we pranced. I felt I could follow him forever. And now, I have white roses that hide the secret of death: Beauty fragile and often fleeting.
He has been named Yoks. It comes from a Japanese word for welcome. And he knows it. He extends all soft hooves to befriend someone new. A person who comes into his bed late at night, he is still soft for her. Still waiting and sharing. I wanted to tell him everything. Tell him that my day has been wonderful because I was thinking of him. Tell him that his tee-shirt strip over his head makes him such a goofy sight, it is mentally tickling me. Why doesn't the world work like it used to, fueled by all the soft replies, so soft that only baby horses can truly understand what it means to me to have him consistently the baby horse. Even at three in the morning, five in the morning, five thirty in the morning, there are still the soft replies, eager just to be sharing the same warmth underneath a white dry wall sky. We are both domesticated in a way. The baby horse has left pastures it never knew. I have left intimacy I feel like I've never known. It is here under the reflected light of the floor lamp, or in the darkness with light seeping in from fashionably misguided blinds. Maybe, Yoks is as disturbed by the Nine Inch Nails poster as much as I am. The shiny reddish black coils of centipede legs and shell, how we both see the legs moving in the shifting light.
Yoks is not my friend. I can't imagine being his friend as of yet. I am scared, I keep my emotion distance when I cuddle with him. I like to think that he doesn't know, but I am sure he can feel it some nights when I refrain from asking burning questions and I roll over away from the coils, and away from him. When he bounces on my chest, trying to get my attention, I just sigh. Maybe, I am not enough for him, enough for the being that will see right through me if I look into his eyes. The baby horse that can tell that I am hurting but doesn't say anything. I don't know what's worse. That he knows, or that he won't tell me. The lack of the response is unsettling sometimes, I just want a coo, a purr, a wistful sigh. Any sign that he is that baby horse in my dreams. That entity in my dreams that says you're something. You're something, so that's why I'm with you. But, mostly I feel alone with him. I mean, even with him, I am alone. I am dreamy eyed and seeing through the lens of a nightmare at the same time. That feeling seeps into my skin through his inanimate limbs. He's a witch doctor, but I can't be cured by any of his magic. When dawn comes, and responsibility kicks in. The rays of reality drench the room in its harshness, I cannot help but to remind myself that he is just a baby horse.
For an American Contemporary Literature class, this book, The Counterlife was introduced for conversation on the topics of Anti-Semitism, male potency and the role of the author. This is a novel; critics would say that the book is written in a post-modern style. Like a dream sequence that folds onto itself until the lines of reality are blurred, this novel plays with characters, setting and plot to give the reader not a coherent story, but apparent patterns that say a little something about the human longing for a different life, one where the template of who they are supposed to be isn't forced over them. Nathan, the author, and his brother Henry, the dentist, react to their environment, it affecting how jewish they are in comparison. The scenes are stippled with Maria, who is an ideal that can not be reached. She is in another life perspective that is not tangible for either brother. Through the journeys to London, Tel Aviv, New Jersey, the English countryside, a prevalent theme rises to the surface: we can't escape other people's stories that they have already made up for us. Labels are easy to put on and hard to take off.
I didn't really understand this book from the beginning. Roth's occuring topics about male potency, a.k.a. the penis, and about jewishness is something I will not and cannot take in know ing all the consequences that weigh down a male jew, or any jew. The class was very priviledged to have a lovely articulate Jewish woman in the class share how significant this book is in the jewish aspect. How appropriate the meadering plot is, for jews don't have a home either. Or at least not for two thousand years. Israel, or Judea, has created the place for roots, but is it fair to say that Judaism is a race and it's inherent? Roth explores his definition of jew and how he exaggerates it depending on the situation.
What I enjoyed most about this book was how the characters seemed more real when they were inconsistent. That's life, really. It has been said in class discussion that post-modern characters, real and fiction are not stable entities. Some people change their jobs and their lives three, five, many times. Each of the stories in the book express a longing for that otherlife, that counterlife, and it is never reached. Perhaps more successful in the imagination of Nathan, the author as he weaves a web of what he'd like to happen with what is happening. As a writer, there is that unpredictable factor that everything might be made more interesting instead of real to fit his perception of how the world should be. In a way, we all do that, put little twists on our realities to allow them to fit more readily into our preconceived notions.
Today was the event of my third or fourth dream this week. I don't really count dreams, as OCD as that might be, but I love them. I love the nonreality, the drama, the tension, the characterized people that I feel like I know more intimately than my casual friends. I can't remember the plot, but I remember the strange assemblage of buildings, as if there was a landscape in my mind, permanent as any rock in a river. Today's dream was from 12:40 ish to 2:30. A perfect time frame for something delectable to flourish.
I felt like I've been there before. At one point in the dream, a map flashed on the dreamscreen, and I knew I was in Palm Springs, or there about. It was in a kitchen, afternoon sliding off into night. I was with Stuart, who has been in many dreams, telling me that I am the one, or how sorry he has been, or that he's leaving again. This time, he was saying how he wants to pursue a relationship with me. His head hair was short, and his stubble only half shaven. His hair was still a glorious rusted blood color, and that's primarily how I had identified him. He takes me by the hand. Though as the dream grows long, I realize what a relationship it would be when he pulls out this strange device powered by human electricity, or at least augmented by it. It could be a typewrighter. It seemed more like a transistor radio for extraterrestrials. I was coerced to put my hand in the orifice that was a lengthy pocket filled with plastic rubber and a small channel for me to put one of my fingers in. When I did so, and the machine was activated, I felt the alarming sensation of a possibly lethal thrum. I knew I wouldn't be brave enough to stand the duration of what was needed for the machine to run properly. Somewhere in the dream, Lia had ruined my apartment, claiming stuff for herself. The mirrors against the hallway (there was a proper hallway) and somehow backlit with colorful lights like a model's catwalk. I remember not liking it, though. Later in the dream, there were people dressed up like Ninja Turtles.
I feel odd, but strangely content. This sleepy hallucination that people call dreams allow me to see people that I wouldn't in reality. And see the ones that I do quite differently. I wish I could reproduce the dreamscape for people to see, but it's so elusive, as if my brain paints with colors that don't exist and every building moves more than it should... In astronomy class, we learned about the stellar parallax. It's where in a different position, stars seem to be near other stars, (try watching a streetsign "move" against a mountain in the background while driving past). It's like that, only the buildings move not relative to the rate and angle that the viewer does.
Happy Fourth. The holiday where United States citizens activate millions of explosives and call other people terrorists. Patriotism is misused... just like Christmas is a way to get presents, this day is just another reason to pollute the air with our fancy barbeques and brightly colored compounds that only last for some glimmering moments and return to the environment more ghastly than before. I don't know why this is even a family holiday. A good portion of my friends and acquaintances spent this last evening with their family, joining in the smoke causing frenzy. The rumbling of people's celebrations thrummed the walls of the kabobery as I grilled skewers. I suppose that half the allure of fireworks is the lights and sounds unusual to daily life. The controlled thunder and the colorful lightning, fireworks are simply a way to express dominance over the environment. A mockery of a storm to draw people's attention to the artistry that people refuse to see in nature itself.
I spent most of the day painting and working. So, working and working, but after work I did read more of the Curse of Lono. It is a Hunter S. Thompson book set in Hawaii. It is amusing pronouncing places I've actually been to, but now seem as far away and as foreign as childhood itself. Words that used to be so common and syllables with the exotic flair of island culture no longer fit me. I remember being there with the green covered cliffs that jut out from the sandy coast, and the orange and purple coral that lay in wait in the goregeous blue bays. Hearing someone else describe it reminds me that it wasn't my paradise alone. It wasn't even my paradise. All the things that I remember are filtered with the rosiness of childhood in general and the memories replaced by postcards and calendars. The Hawaii that I should remember is the bustling Asian business men and women, the rapid speech of tourists and the traffic on the Interstate, which seemed odd that there should even be one. Honolulu is not the forgotten paradise, but rather the one paved over with cement.
I am so joyous, mixed with feelings. I always think at the time of the feeling, that it is amazing and unbeatable, but then as life continues, I find that the complexities enrich my emotions, until I question the hierarchy of happiness. Was I just content before? Or too awe-stricken to properly evaluate what was really going on? I am so hopeful, and yet the main emotion I am feeling is the kind of cherishment for what seems like earth crammed with heaven. I am generally upbeat, though, so it's hard to say what is at play.
I cannot string together the awesome that has fallen upon me in actual sentences: lightning storms, Felix the Cat, Creme Angel walls, conversations, phone calls, remembering the past, understanding different kinds of friendships, new toys, home depot, rocky road and two open hands with golden keys resting in the palms.
I have been sitting here writing a sentence and then deleting it. And then doing it again. I'll just leave it at that.
The excitement mounted when I was asked to sign a sort of waiver, saying that I understood that there would be blatant sex acts, nudity and sex-positive paradigms floating around. Chris warned me that "there will probably be some girl getting eaten out in the corner." Dimlit, techno ablaze, I found myself in the kind of atmosphere that one would expect when dealing with prostitutes, strippers, and dominatrices. Red, blue, black lighting created a space that buzzed with a heightened splendor, nude and the semi-nude and the black leather glistened like figures in a dream. I felt disconnected, yet more at home in this space where it seemed that people just existed and neither came or went but were always looking for something. The lost, but wandering in one place, kind of people.
Dancing on their floor, I was surprised that the dancing was more appropriate than at the usual high school dances, where there is actually grinding, instead of the solitary convulsing that I witnessed. I tried some swing dancing, but found that Chris was only slightly more coordinated that a penguin in a rainforest. Though, amusingly, his friend Robin was a swinger and lindy hopped to the driving beat with me before he left to see a movie. Among the bondage, and the goth, there are the middle-aged, or just shy of that, who wear tennis shoes and some garish polo. They shouldn't be there. They seem to be the geezers who touch the strippers at the nightclubs. But, I guess, the whole point of the joint is sex-positive attitudes, and who has more than them?
I went to the Chill which is an adjoining set of rooms. This place is more intriguing than the Grind, because among the S&M chairs, there are couches, beds, and a shower. There was a shelf with bedding, pillow cases and sheets, etc, and it was cool how hygenic it this seedy center actually was. Also, a library filled with all the sexy literature one could ever want. Chris commented that the greatest thing about this library is you can look at some new trick in a book and immediately try it out. One of the few libraries that would permit/encourage sexual experimentation in between the stacks.
When I came back to the pulsing chamber of the Grind, the most beautiful girl in the whole place (because some of the nude, or getting there, were often older, or more curvaceous than my taste, so this was refreshing) was hanging from the ceiling. With ropes encasing her legs, tying her hands behind her back, pulling her hair taut towards her butt, and creating a harness for her breasts, the young girl seemed to swim in the air with what movement she could achieve with all the ropes. Her roper was older with glasses and a bald spot, but caressed and consoled and listened to the girl when she said something was too tight or not right. It reminded me of a Kurt Vonnegut moment when he described how human nature changed in certain situations.
Regarding his time as a prisoner of war: "When food came in, the human beings were quiet and trusting and beautiful. They shared." page 90 of Slaughter House Five.
When I saw this, among the throng of the naked and the amorous, the girl was in the amber of the moment. Trusting and serene, when she thrashed it was because her roper was tickling her with his black cowboy boots. The expertise of her roper was as equally impressive. His quick knots, and fast decisions to raise or lower her limgs, or in fact stick his hand up her crotch, seemed loving, but also meeasured, as if he played this scenario a thousand times in his mind and knew just what position to put her in next. At one time, her leg was tied to the wall, and other, it was tied to the equipment bag. He teased and laughed, soothed and kissed. I loved watching him dance with her, cradling her towards his chest while he swayed to the doon-doon of the booming speakers.
It made me wish someone else was there, someone with more tenderness than the Awkward Chris Huber, who has never loved a female physically. I wished that my sweet boyfriend who understood the beauty in these moments, who would touch me in the way that I wanted to be touched was there, with his soft feminine hands that knew my body so well, and the mind to match.
The act was coming to a close. The surrounding onlookers gazed quietly as they have since it started, and gently the ropes came down. The rapid movements of the roper wrapping the ropes up, cleaning up with a precision of a doctor. The girl seemed relieved when she was lowered to the ground, a pause of anticipation before she landed and she cuddled with the ropes as more came off of her breasts, legs, feet, and butt. When she was finally free from the ropes, her gentle warden snuggled with her. I couldn't find a more satisfactory ending than that kind of mellow passion and left.
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