In the months leading up to our impending wedding (19 days, and couting!), the Donald and I have been thinking a lot about faith and spirituality. And talking a lot about faith and spirituality. And being faithful and spiritual. But not in the ways you might expect.
I'm not religious. I was raised in a church-going house. My mother is one of the most wonderfully faith-filled people I know. I went to Catholic school, know all the words to all the prayers, and catch myself wanting to cross myself whenever I hear an ambulence or police siren, a remnant of Sister Virginia's third-grade classroom. But I'm not religious.
Incongrously however, I'm a very faithful person. I believe in God, though I struggle to decide if that should be a capital or lowercase gee. I believe in love. In compassion. In empathy. In selflessness. In charity. In accountability. And when I hear thoughtful mention of ideas like those related to religion, I can almost see religion in myself.
But then, something happens. Someone in a cassock or with a Rev. in front of his/her name starts using religion as a weaponized form of faith. And because these individuals "speak witht he voice of god," it becomes hard for us everyday people to get a word in edgewise. For me, religion is oppositional to faith. The machinery of organzied religion feels so antithetical to the private and humble practice of faith.
In religion, it's okay (and encouraged) for someone "with religion" to make statements that are so jarringly antithetical to my understanding of what faith is and can be. That a religion can promote contradictions like "Like thy neighbor, unless he/she is gay." Or "judge not that ye be judged... unless you're holier than the other person." And so on. That's not to say that people who are religious are contradictory. I simply mean that I can find no home within an institution that doesn't see these cracks in its own foundation.
I am not religious, and it is because of my faith. I don't believe that God is capable of hate, because if a force in the universe is strong enough to create love, that same force wouldn't waste its time with the far weaker power of hate. I believe that all people are worthy of love, and respect, and equal rights before God and man. I believe that it is not my job to judge people around me, even though sometimes I find myself angling for that temp work. I believe that children should be loved to bits and raised responsibly, and that, because parenting is the hardest profession in the world, it must be taken seriously and not undertaken lightly. I believe that a relationship in which one partner is subservient to the other is fundamentally flawed, because it does not draw on the godgiven talents of each member of the partnership. I believe that I make good decisions about my body and what happens to it (and it) and that my uterus does not require external religious legislation. These beliefs are part of who I am. And they come from my faith.
As the Donald and I thought about our wedding, and what kind of expressions of faith we wanted to make, we struggled with the question of religion. I requested from the beginning that we plan a wedding ceremony outside of a church. To me, our wedding is rite of passage, both for us each individually, and also for us as a couple. It marks a transition from separate into together, and is the knot that will bind our lives. The symbolism and significance of this day is so important to me that I could not fathom building our marriage on false premises. My faith precludes a church wedding because I do not feel I can be faithful to something that stands more for judgment than acceptance, for hate over love, for dictating over questioning. I cannot in good conscience stand in front of priest or minister who is a respresentative of an organization I do not endorse, and make the tremendous promise to join my life with another person's. I would be a liar. Not about my love for Donald. But about my support for organized religion. And I couldn't imagine making my share of our mariage promises while feeling like a hypocrite.
This put Donald and I in a bind. What kind of wedding could we have, that would both honor our families that are religious, and serve as a fitting basin for the promises we want to fill our lives with? We explored our options, and decided instead to have a self-uniting ceremony, in grand Quaker tradition. In this style of ceremony, there is no officiant. We will not be standing in front of a judge, a minister, a priest, or a ship captain. Instead, we will stand beside each other, and make our promises in the witness of our beloved family and friends. We will celebrate the first day of our marriage by making our wedding promises in our own voices, in our own time, and in our own way. We have crafted a ceremony with texts and voices that resonate for us. Some of these words will be familiar from church weddings. Others will be uniquely and honestly representative of us. Creating our ceremoney has been an exercise in love. And in faith. And we are so moved to have the opportunity to share it with so many of you.
We understand that our decision is a departure from how things are "usually" done. And we understand that some of you feel that our choice is not as appropriate as a church wedding may be. We hope that that you will be open-minded and open-hearted, so you can see our ceremony for what it is: our promise to love and support one another for the rest of our journey. Faithfully.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Thursday, January 5, 2012
If Santorum is Elected, "That Girl" Might Die. Literally.
It could be easy to read the title of this essay as a preemptive panic attack of a liberal Democrat (which I am) towards a candidate who espouses every attitude and value I hate (which he does). But I didn’t actually mean “die” in a metaphorical sense. I meant that a President of the U.S. like Rick Santorum could actually kill me. And here’s why.
I’m a member of the GenY: I'm an overeducated, high-achieving, baby boomer-spawned middle class. I hold honors degrees from college and graduate school, and carry the hefty student debt to back up those accolades. I was raised on the rhetoric of second-wave feminism and nurtured with the fervor of independence, self-reliance and a heady dose of the “be all that you can be’s.” I am trying desperately to be an artist and writer, while also holding down two jobs to pay the rent. I regularly work 60 hours a week at paid employment, and devote another large chunk of unpaid time to my real career, the arts. I do not qualify for health insurance from my employers, I make slightly too much to fall into a assistance program, and cannot afford shoulder the staggering cost of an independent health care plan.
And I am at high-risk for cervical cancer.
Risk so high in fact that, for the past several years, I have been instructed to receive Pap Smears 3-4 times a year to monitor any changes to my cells. That means that I need one doctor’s appointment for tests, and a possible follow-up to get results every time. It also means that sometimes, I have to have more invasive (read: costly) procedures done as well. Colposcopy, biopsy, electric loop… scary words with even scarier price tags.
Cervical cancer used to be one of the most common causes of death for women, a silent killer that took otherwise-healthy women seemingly all of a sudden. But then, starting in the mid-1950s, survival rates climbed because early detection methods became more widespread. That’s right. Pap smears save lives. They also cost women like me a fortune.
To manage the high cost of looking after my own health, I have explored most of the low-cost medical options known to (wo)mankind. Clinics, medical schools, drop-in offices. You name it, I’ve dropped my drawers and my dollars there. Affordable care is sometimes terrifying. I had my very first gynecology in the big city done at a teaching hospital facility with approximately 20 students watching and a doctor who told jokes to “lighten the mood” as he probed my cervix. As a person who has had a brush with sexual assault, this experience set my teeth on edge. I hovered on the brink of a panic attack and cried through the entire exam. Why would I put myself through that, you ask? Because it only cost $20, that’s why. That price point suited my actress-cum-waitress-cum-office monkey bank account. I have been terrified into looking out for my reproductive health, but still must be mindful of the bottom line.
After some additional exam-room drama, I finally found a healthcare provider where I felt comfortable and taken care of. Enter Planned Parenthood, where overall, I have received the most comprehensive care that I have ever received. For preventative care, Planned Parenthood is the bee’s knees… or the Queen bee’s queen-parts, however you choose to think of it. The physicians and other medical staff members are committed to compassionate patient care, with an eye for more than diagnosing symptoms. My Planned Parenthood doctors have held my hand both figuratively and often literally as I wend my way through this difficult reality of my own life. While I do not have the luxury of always seeing the same physician, I always have a positive experience talking to a provider who is an expert in women’s health, and who is genuinely interested in helping me maintain my health and sanity. For a place I spread my legs roughly four times a year, Planned Parenthood is a-ok in my book.
I would like to clarify here and now however that it is not cheap. I pay a small fortune for an appointment with the wonderful people at PP, usually at or about $100 per visit. Four times a year, at least. But, that fee buys peace of mind for me. So I pay it, and have my Paps done by PP.
At least, I do for now. Here is where it gets terrifying. In continuation of the moral crusade being waged by conservative American politicians, Planned Parenthood has been cast as the baby-killing, premarital-sex pimping, contraceptive-slinging bad gal attacking the America That Jesus Built. And yes, I am not going to say that Planned Parenthood doesn’t provide abortions. They do. At Planned Parenthood, abortions are provided for an out-of-pocket fee to the consenting clear-minded women who come in wanting one. For a myriad of reasons, none of which matter one bit to anyone except the woman (and sometimes her partner) who is pregnant. And let’s be very clear here and now that abortions are legal in America. Legal. But, because this legal medical procedure remains an option to informed and consenting women, the Republican wheels have hate-mongered Planned Parenthood, and have threatened to defund and in effect shut down this crucial healthcare provider. In the past few years, we have also seen bills placed before our elected representatives that sanction, or at the very least turn a blind eye to, the harm of the medical providers who perform this legal medical procedure. In the name of morality.
So, I can’t help but wonder where that leaves me. I have never had an abortion at Planned Parenthood, or anywhere else. Taking a way a woman's right to choose a (legal) abortion is bad enough, but eliminating Planned Parenthood has a far greater impact: it takes away my ability to choose to take care of my own health. I cannot afford health insurance, but need regular care from a physician, at the very least for cancer screening. Without options like Planned Parenthood, how will I know if my risk level increases? If I should go from “high-risk” to “cancerous,” how will I know if I can no longer have my quadrennial visit to the gynecologist? I think about cancer a lot. I worry that someday, some of my cells will go rogue, and start my body on a crash course that I may not be aware of. I am terrified I might die of something that is utterly treatable if caught early, simply because I am poor.
I’m getting married this year, to a partner I love more than ice cream. And, in this same year, presidential candidates like Rick Santorum make it abundantly clear that they care less for me and my concerns than they do about ice cream. I’m stuck in the middle, rapidly approaching my winter visit to Planned Parenthood. I’m scared like I always am in advance, wondering how my cells have behaved in the past few months. But I also am experiencing a new subeterranean kind of panic: what if this is my last appointment with a gynecologist I trust and can afford? What if Rick Santorum gets elected, Planned Parenthood ceases to exist, and I have to stop seeing a gynecologist (much like I have already stopped seeing a Primary Care Physician, dentist, optometrist, etc.) because my already-stressed budget does not allow it. What if the death-do-us-part part of my wedding vows comes much sooner than my husband and I have anticipated.
What if cervical cancer kills me, and thanks to morality in politics, I never even knew I had it...
I’m a member of the GenY: I'm an overeducated, high-achieving, baby boomer-spawned middle class. I hold honors degrees from college and graduate school, and carry the hefty student debt to back up those accolades. I was raised on the rhetoric of second-wave feminism and nurtured with the fervor of independence, self-reliance and a heady dose of the “be all that you can be’s.” I am trying desperately to be an artist and writer, while also holding down two jobs to pay the rent. I regularly work 60 hours a week at paid employment, and devote another large chunk of unpaid time to my real career, the arts. I do not qualify for health insurance from my employers, I make slightly too much to fall into a assistance program, and cannot afford shoulder the staggering cost of an independent health care plan.
And I am at high-risk for cervical cancer.
Risk so high in fact that, for the past several years, I have been instructed to receive Pap Smears 3-4 times a year to monitor any changes to my cells. That means that I need one doctor’s appointment for tests, and a possible follow-up to get results every time. It also means that sometimes, I have to have more invasive (read: costly) procedures done as well. Colposcopy, biopsy, electric loop… scary words with even scarier price tags.
Cervical cancer used to be one of the most common causes of death for women, a silent killer that took otherwise-healthy women seemingly all of a sudden. But then, starting in the mid-1950s, survival rates climbed because early detection methods became more widespread. That’s right. Pap smears save lives. They also cost women like me a fortune.
To manage the high cost of looking after my own health, I have explored most of the low-cost medical options known to (wo)mankind. Clinics, medical schools, drop-in offices. You name it, I’ve dropped my drawers and my dollars there. Affordable care is sometimes terrifying. I had my very first gynecology in the big city done at a teaching hospital facility with approximately 20 students watching and a doctor who told jokes to “lighten the mood” as he probed my cervix. As a person who has had a brush with sexual assault, this experience set my teeth on edge. I hovered on the brink of a panic attack and cried through the entire exam. Why would I put myself through that, you ask? Because it only cost $20, that’s why. That price point suited my actress-cum-waitress-cum-office monkey bank account. I have been terrified into looking out for my reproductive health, but still must be mindful of the bottom line.
After some additional exam-room drama, I finally found a healthcare provider where I felt comfortable and taken care of. Enter Planned Parenthood, where overall, I have received the most comprehensive care that I have ever received. For preventative care, Planned Parenthood is the bee’s knees… or the Queen bee’s queen-parts, however you choose to think of it. The physicians and other medical staff members are committed to compassionate patient care, with an eye for more than diagnosing symptoms. My Planned Parenthood doctors have held my hand both figuratively and often literally as I wend my way through this difficult reality of my own life. While I do not have the luxury of always seeing the same physician, I always have a positive experience talking to a provider who is an expert in women’s health, and who is genuinely interested in helping me maintain my health and sanity. For a place I spread my legs roughly four times a year, Planned Parenthood is a-ok in my book.
I would like to clarify here and now however that it is not cheap. I pay a small fortune for an appointment with the wonderful people at PP, usually at or about $100 per visit. Four times a year, at least. But, that fee buys peace of mind for me. So I pay it, and have my Paps done by PP.
At least, I do for now. Here is where it gets terrifying. In continuation of the moral crusade being waged by conservative American politicians, Planned Parenthood has been cast as the baby-killing, premarital-sex pimping, contraceptive-slinging bad gal attacking the America That Jesus Built. And yes, I am not going to say that Planned Parenthood doesn’t provide abortions. They do. At Planned Parenthood, abortions are provided for an out-of-pocket fee to the consenting clear-minded women who come in wanting one. For a myriad of reasons, none of which matter one bit to anyone except the woman (and sometimes her partner) who is pregnant. And let’s be very clear here and now that abortions are legal in America. Legal. But, because this legal medical procedure remains an option to informed and consenting women, the Republican wheels have hate-mongered Planned Parenthood, and have threatened to defund and in effect shut down this crucial healthcare provider. In the past few years, we have also seen bills placed before our elected representatives that sanction, or at the very least turn a blind eye to, the harm of the medical providers who perform this legal medical procedure. In the name of morality.
So, I can’t help but wonder where that leaves me. I have never had an abortion at Planned Parenthood, or anywhere else. Taking a way a woman's right to choose a (legal) abortion is bad enough, but eliminating Planned Parenthood has a far greater impact: it takes away my ability to choose to take care of my own health. I cannot afford health insurance, but need regular care from a physician, at the very least for cancer screening. Without options like Planned Parenthood, how will I know if my risk level increases? If I should go from “high-risk” to “cancerous,” how will I know if I can no longer have my quadrennial visit to the gynecologist? I think about cancer a lot. I worry that someday, some of my cells will go rogue, and start my body on a crash course that I may not be aware of. I am terrified I might die of something that is utterly treatable if caught early, simply because I am poor.
I’m getting married this year, to a partner I love more than ice cream. And, in this same year, presidential candidates like Rick Santorum make it abundantly clear that they care less for me and my concerns than they do about ice cream. I’m stuck in the middle, rapidly approaching my winter visit to Planned Parenthood. I’m scared like I always am in advance, wondering how my cells have behaved in the past few months. But I also am experiencing a new subeterranean kind of panic: what if this is my last appointment with a gynecologist I trust and can afford? What if Rick Santorum gets elected, Planned Parenthood ceases to exist, and I have to stop seeing a gynecologist (much like I have already stopped seeing a Primary Care Physician, dentist, optometrist, etc.) because my already-stressed budget does not allow it. What if the death-do-us-part part of my wedding vows comes much sooner than my husband and I have anticipated.
What if cervical cancer kills me, and thanks to morality in politics, I never even knew I had it...
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
"That Girl" is No Longer International!
And it's weird.
Very, very weird.
I've been back in the U.S. since October 1st, exactly one year after leaving. I made a quick detour to visit the family in Pennsylvania and then, a week and half later, resumed life as "usual" in Brooklyn. Went back to the same apartment, one of the same jobs, and have been trying to get back to my same life. But it's not working.
I suppose it's no big secret to anyone that I haven't been the happiest in the past two months. It's a little combination of a lot of different things. Missing friends in the UK and trying to reestablish friendships in the U.S. that have grown apart. Staggering student debt coupled with paychecks that don't come close to keeping up. Hugely long work days, at two bordering-on-full-time jobs. And always, a crushing fear that my life will never, ever feel as satisfying as it did last year. During my Gap Year.
In Europe, it's very common for kids to take a year off between high school and college. This "gap year" is used for travelling, experimenting and general adventuring. It's a rite of passage between 17 and 18, sort of paving the way to becoming a grown-up and making the transition as fun as humanly possible. It's a lovely concept, and one that is sorely lacking in our American "hurry up" style of living. In a lot of ways, last year was my gap year. But, not quite.
See, there's a big difference between taking a gap year at 17, and doing it at 28. at 17, all of those adventures feel like firsts. Beginnings. The start of something wildly awesome. When you're 28, those same adventures feel a little more like once in a lifetimes. And they serve as an intermission between the stress of the few years prior, and the uncertainty of the rest of one's life. In the academic sense, my year in London is a gap year, but as the eponymous Tube announcers like to remind us, mind the gap... it's tricky to navigate.
In a lot of ways, I should be very happy now. I earned my Master's Degree with Distinction from a UK institution. I've published several different essays in the past two months, have presented work at one conference, and been inciting to be a panelist at another in a few months. I'm in love with a terrific guy. My family is healthy and supportive and well. All in all, everything outside of me is perfect. It's just everything inside of me that is rebelling. Big time.
I'm prone to anxiety and fits of melancholy as it is, as high-strung and Victorian as that sounds, but this has been a particularly bitter few months. There's this almost hysterical kind of sadness that sets in nearly everyday, in which I start to tell myself that no year will ever afford me as much artistic freedom, as much space for professional growth, as much job satisfaction as a year that I have already lived. As a goal-oriented, always jumping for the next thing, kind of person, this is maddening. And, to put it simply, depressing.
I had amazing experiences in Europe. Travelling, meeting people, performing in different countries... normal, awesome gap year components. But I also stole a year away from American adulthood. In my stolen days, I made art. Full-time. With incredible people. And, most importantly, I made art in an environment where art was important. Never once did the words "would you like fries with that" have to pass my lips. Life revolved around studio time, museum visits, artist talks, critiques. The British library and I became BFFs. I filled 11 journals with writing, serving as fodder for an art practice that I didn't know I had. If life is a donut, then last year, I filled that bad-boy with the warmest, most delicious, gooey, gourmet artistic filling I have ever tasted. And dammit if now, I don't want eat anything but donuts. Ever again.
Since i've been back in the States though, financial contraints have required me to go on a no-sugar diet. No sweets, no extra calories, and definitely no donuts. If you're following my now-laborious metaphor, you understand that I am craving art like Chris Farley as a Gap Girl.... I'M STARVING.
Of course, this leads to a shaky emotional state for your narrator. I try to give myself a talking-to when the panicky Jane Austen's set in, and sometimes, it works. I can head it off by telling myself that this is just a phase. That I won't always have to work two jobs just so I can home and work my real job. I assure myself that someday soon, I'll just be happy. And I will finally, finally, just let myself be content... an elusive feeling upon which my elusive fantasies are built.
Most of the time though, I resist my own efforts at soft-kittying myself. Instead, I sit in the bathroom, and I cry. I keep a travel eyeliner in my pocket at all times to destroy the evidence before I go back to life as "usual." It's a weird kind of sad, growing not out of an immediate stimulus, but instead a deeper, more profoundly odd place, a fear that the gap between me and my gap year will become a chasm. I know I can't live the last 365 days over again, and I'm strangely okay with that. I just don't ever want to get to a point where I forget WHY I did, and why it was worth it. That's the gap I need to mind, to keep everything I have worked for alive.
It's time... Time to make the donuts!
Very, very weird.
I've been back in the U.S. since October 1st, exactly one year after leaving. I made a quick detour to visit the family in Pennsylvania and then, a week and half later, resumed life as "usual" in Brooklyn. Went back to the same apartment, one of the same jobs, and have been trying to get back to my same life. But it's not working.
I suppose it's no big secret to anyone that I haven't been the happiest in the past two months. It's a little combination of a lot of different things. Missing friends in the UK and trying to reestablish friendships in the U.S. that have grown apart. Staggering student debt coupled with paychecks that don't come close to keeping up. Hugely long work days, at two bordering-on-full-time jobs. And always, a crushing fear that my life will never, ever feel as satisfying as it did last year. During my Gap Year.
In Europe, it's very common for kids to take a year off between high school and college. This "gap year" is used for travelling, experimenting and general adventuring. It's a rite of passage between 17 and 18, sort of paving the way to becoming a grown-up and making the transition as fun as humanly possible. It's a lovely concept, and one that is sorely lacking in our American "hurry up" style of living. In a lot of ways, last year was my gap year. But, not quite.
See, there's a big difference between taking a gap year at 17, and doing it at 28. at 17, all of those adventures feel like firsts. Beginnings. The start of something wildly awesome. When you're 28, those same adventures feel a little more like once in a lifetimes. And they serve as an intermission between the stress of the few years prior, and the uncertainty of the rest of one's life. In the academic sense, my year in London is a gap year, but as the eponymous Tube announcers like to remind us, mind the gap... it's tricky to navigate.
In a lot of ways, I should be very happy now. I earned my Master's Degree with Distinction from a UK institution. I've published several different essays in the past two months, have presented work at one conference, and been inciting to be a panelist at another in a few months. I'm in love with a terrific guy. My family is healthy and supportive and well. All in all, everything outside of me is perfect. It's just everything inside of me that is rebelling. Big time.
I'm prone to anxiety and fits of melancholy as it is, as high-strung and Victorian as that sounds, but this has been a particularly bitter few months. There's this almost hysterical kind of sadness that sets in nearly everyday, in which I start to tell myself that no year will ever afford me as much artistic freedom, as much space for professional growth, as much job satisfaction as a year that I have already lived. As a goal-oriented, always jumping for the next thing, kind of person, this is maddening. And, to put it simply, depressing.
I had amazing experiences in Europe. Travelling, meeting people, performing in different countries... normal, awesome gap year components. But I also stole a year away from American adulthood. In my stolen days, I made art. Full-time. With incredible people. And, most importantly, I made art in an environment where art was important. Never once did the words "would you like fries with that" have to pass my lips. Life revolved around studio time, museum visits, artist talks, critiques. The British library and I became BFFs. I filled 11 journals with writing, serving as fodder for an art practice that I didn't know I had. If life is a donut, then last year, I filled that bad-boy with the warmest, most delicious, gooey, gourmet artistic filling I have ever tasted. And dammit if now, I don't want eat anything but donuts. Ever again.
Since i've been back in the States though, financial contraints have required me to go on a no-sugar diet. No sweets, no extra calories, and definitely no donuts. If you're following my now-laborious metaphor, you understand that I am craving art like Chris Farley as a Gap Girl.... I'M STARVING.
Of course, this leads to a shaky emotional state for your narrator. I try to give myself a talking-to when the panicky Jane Austen's set in, and sometimes, it works. I can head it off by telling myself that this is just a phase. That I won't always have to work two jobs just so I can home and work my real job. I assure myself that someday soon, I'll just be happy. And I will finally, finally, just let myself be content... an elusive feeling upon which my elusive fantasies are built.
Most of the time though, I resist my own efforts at soft-kittying myself. Instead, I sit in the bathroom, and I cry. I keep a travel eyeliner in my pocket at all times to destroy the evidence before I go back to life as "usual." It's a weird kind of sad, growing not out of an immediate stimulus, but instead a deeper, more profoundly odd place, a fear that the gap between me and my gap year will become a chasm. I know I can't live the last 365 days over again, and I'm strangely okay with that. I just don't ever want to get to a point where I forget WHY I did, and why it was worth it. That's the gap I need to mind, to keep everything I have worked for alive.
It's time... Time to make the donuts!
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
"That Girl" is at the End!
Well, it's my last night in the UK. Twelve hours from now, I'll already be in the air, heading back to the US of A, stopping in Pennsylvania before returning to wreck havoc on New York City. There are a lot of things I could tell you about right now, as my my brain is buzzing with so many thoughts and feelings and stories from this past year. I thought though that, as a way to narrow it down a bit, I'd tell you a few favourite moments from my magical year in London... a sort of recap before the next adventure begins....
No highlights list of mine would be complete without mentioning the night in Dublin when I crashed a posh 21st birthday party. A fellow female traveller and I had met earlier that week on a tour of Tara and Newgrange. We decided to meet up for an evening out, starting out normally with a dinner and some drinks. We then started wandering through the city, laughing and taking ridiculous pictures with some of the cheesiest of statues... including that tart Molly Malone. We were waking near Temple Bar when we heard an incredible (yes, that's right) piano rendition of Britney Spear's 'Hit Me Baby One More Time' wafting out of what I assumed to a bar... Naturally, we followed it to the source, which turned out to be the very classy foyer of some sort of private club, currently playing host to a birthday party full of very young, very blond party people. Helen and I were the only two brunettes in the bunch, and we quickly attracted a lot of male attention.... unfortunately, it all came from one guy, Colin, who was approximately 65, probably related to the birthday girl, and very very drunk. While we did rebuff his affections, we also did take him up on his offer of free drinks. So, to the unknown birthday girl, hope it was a happy one, and that you got all the blond hairdye you asked for!
Performing at the Battersea Arts Centre has to go on my list as well. Our sort of "Masters showcase" was held there this past May. If you've not been to the BAC, I can't recommend it enough! It's an old town hall building, with character coming out the wazoo, and lots of quirky rooms for performance. By a weird turn of events, I wound up having a room to myself... I veyr very quickly fall in love with the cavernous Council Chambers, with its stripped-down wooden floor and incredible acoustics. Plus, this marked my first international performance, in a piece that I had both created and performed in. A total out and out highlight!
But, performing theatre here isn't the only highlight... I also have been so fortunate to see some gorgeous stuff in the past 365 days. Productions at the Globe and the RSC, opera and ballet at the ENO, edgy work in pub theatres, the Proms at Royal Albert Hall, etc. etc. etc. I really feel in love with the arts scene here in the UK, with particular regard to experimental and envelope-pushing theatre. The performance community here is so rich and diverse. Some of my favorite shows have been Frankenstein at the National Theatre, Oh What a Lovely War at the Greenwich Theatre, Henry IV at the Globe and Krapp's Last Tape with Michael Gambon. I've really been able to see so very much here, and have loved being an audience member for some thought-provoking work.
When I was working for the Flare Festival in Manchester, I spent my last day in town nursing a tremendous hangover, the kind that just punishes for hours and hours and hours. I decided that, in true British fashion, all that I really needed was a good roast dinner. So I asked around, and found a little local pub to chase away my hangover with lots and lots of meat. The barmaid instantly recognized my symptoms, and with an understanding, "oh my poor darling," ordered me a huge roast, never-ending Coca Colas, and a three hour chat. I was introduced to all the regulars, and we all bonded over baskets (yep. baskets!) of Yorkshire puddings. Not only did my hangover disappear, but I had a great afternoon, feeling like I was somehow back in a small town, hanging out with familiar faces.... it was worth almost bursting the button on my trousers on the train home just to have such a cosy afternoon!
In another performance realm, I had the pleasure of seeing a pre-season friendly football match in London as well, which was terrific. I went to see my local team, the Tottenham Hotspurs, play Bilbao. Even though I went by myself, I instantly had friends in my section, namely a grandpa with his two very young grandsons. They taught me all the cheers, told me all about the players, and generally included me in their football revelry. The Bilbao supporters were a lot of fun too, starting a "wave" that made it's way around the grounds five times, and prompting the Tottenham crowd to give them a hearty round of applause. Interestingly, this same evening, the riots broke out in the same neighborhood, just as I was travelling home. It was surreal to have the two experiences so directly juxtaposed.
There are so many other things that have just been incredible this year.... visiting Stonehenge, running into Clive Owen in the checkout line at Whole Foods and chatting to him about pumpkin pie, visiting Paris at Christmas time, climbing the hills of Salzburg, standing in Kilmainham Jail, being my parents' tourguide for a whirlwind week visit, earning my Master's degree and completing a dissertation that I am really proud of, living with fantastic flatmates and making great friends in my class, sitting in the British Library to work and feeling like a part of history... the list goes on and on and on. This year has been the best of my life, and I couldn't be more grateful for this chance to take a chance.
I don't know what the next chapter in all this is, but do stay tuned. That Girl may be coming back stateside, but she's always an International at heart.
Love, Crumpets and Sandwiches with Butter,
TGI
No highlights list of mine would be complete without mentioning the night in Dublin when I crashed a posh 21st birthday party. A fellow female traveller and I had met earlier that week on a tour of Tara and Newgrange. We decided to meet up for an evening out, starting out normally with a dinner and some drinks. We then started wandering through the city, laughing and taking ridiculous pictures with some of the cheesiest of statues... including that tart Molly Malone. We were waking near Temple Bar when we heard an incredible (yes, that's right) piano rendition of Britney Spear's 'Hit Me Baby One More Time' wafting out of what I assumed to a bar... Naturally, we followed it to the source, which turned out to be the very classy foyer of some sort of private club, currently playing host to a birthday party full of very young, very blond party people. Helen and I were the only two brunettes in the bunch, and we quickly attracted a lot of male attention.... unfortunately, it all came from one guy, Colin, who was approximately 65, probably related to the birthday girl, and very very drunk. While we did rebuff his affections, we also did take him up on his offer of free drinks. So, to the unknown birthday girl, hope it was a happy one, and that you got all the blond hairdye you asked for!
Performing at the Battersea Arts Centre has to go on my list as well. Our sort of "Masters showcase" was held there this past May. If you've not been to the BAC, I can't recommend it enough! It's an old town hall building, with character coming out the wazoo, and lots of quirky rooms for performance. By a weird turn of events, I wound up having a room to myself... I veyr very quickly fall in love with the cavernous Council Chambers, with its stripped-down wooden floor and incredible acoustics. Plus, this marked my first international performance, in a piece that I had both created and performed in. A total out and out highlight!
But, performing theatre here isn't the only highlight... I also have been so fortunate to see some gorgeous stuff in the past 365 days. Productions at the Globe and the RSC, opera and ballet at the ENO, edgy work in pub theatres, the Proms at Royal Albert Hall, etc. etc. etc. I really feel in love with the arts scene here in the UK, with particular regard to experimental and envelope-pushing theatre. The performance community here is so rich and diverse. Some of my favorite shows have been Frankenstein at the National Theatre, Oh What a Lovely War at the Greenwich Theatre, Henry IV at the Globe and Krapp's Last Tape with Michael Gambon. I've really been able to see so very much here, and have loved being an audience member for some thought-provoking work.
When I was working for the Flare Festival in Manchester, I spent my last day in town nursing a tremendous hangover, the kind that just punishes for hours and hours and hours. I decided that, in true British fashion, all that I really needed was a good roast dinner. So I asked around, and found a little local pub to chase away my hangover with lots and lots of meat. The barmaid instantly recognized my symptoms, and with an understanding, "oh my poor darling," ordered me a huge roast, never-ending Coca Colas, and a three hour chat. I was introduced to all the regulars, and we all bonded over baskets (yep. baskets!) of Yorkshire puddings. Not only did my hangover disappear, but I had a great afternoon, feeling like I was somehow back in a small town, hanging out with familiar faces.... it was worth almost bursting the button on my trousers on the train home just to have such a cosy afternoon!
In another performance realm, I had the pleasure of seeing a pre-season friendly football match in London as well, which was terrific. I went to see my local team, the Tottenham Hotspurs, play Bilbao. Even though I went by myself, I instantly had friends in my section, namely a grandpa with his two very young grandsons. They taught me all the cheers, told me all about the players, and generally included me in their football revelry. The Bilbao supporters were a lot of fun too, starting a "wave" that made it's way around the grounds five times, and prompting the Tottenham crowd to give them a hearty round of applause. Interestingly, this same evening, the riots broke out in the same neighborhood, just as I was travelling home. It was surreal to have the two experiences so directly juxtaposed.
There are so many other things that have just been incredible this year.... visiting Stonehenge, running into Clive Owen in the checkout line at Whole Foods and chatting to him about pumpkin pie, visiting Paris at Christmas time, climbing the hills of Salzburg, standing in Kilmainham Jail, being my parents' tourguide for a whirlwind week visit, earning my Master's degree and completing a dissertation that I am really proud of, living with fantastic flatmates and making great friends in my class, sitting in the British Library to work and feeling like a part of history... the list goes on and on and on. This year has been the best of my life, and I couldn't be more grateful for this chance to take a chance.
I don't know what the next chapter in all this is, but do stay tuned. That Girl may be coming back stateside, but she's always an International at heart.
Love, Crumpets and Sandwiches with Butter,
TGI
Thursday, September 15, 2011
"That Girl" is Not a Size Zero...
Or a 2, or a 4, or a 6, or, one some days, not even a size 8. She's curvy, womanly, fuller-figured, natural, buxom, round, soft, thick, flabby, substantial, fat, etc. Use whatever word you like to describe the fact that, if spandex is a privilege and not a right, then she probably should abstain. She likes eating far more than she likes treadmilling. It's unhip to admit that, by there you go. And it's cool. I love my body. That sounds like a warm-and-fuzzy thing to say, but it is honestly true. I like being the way that I am. I don't hate myself. I don't cover up under layers and layers of baggy clothes. I wear clothes I like, in current styles, even though I don't have a flat stomach (and never ever had, nor will ever ever have). And in fact, I like my body so much that I don't mind when a performance calls for revealing a lot of it. Truth is, I feel confident inside my skin, and that's what really matters.
Nevertheless, I've been called a host of incredibly offensive things, because I have the audacity to reveal my imperfect body to the light of day. It seems that, because I feel ok wearing a bikini on the beach at Coney Island, it is also all right for people (generally men) to criticize my choice, and mock my figure. Or, because I don't believe in wearing multiple pairs of Spanx underneath my day-to-day wardrobe, it gives a guy the right to tell me I'm 'tubby' when I turn down giving him my phone number at a pub. It's not my body that bothers people... it's my confidence in my own shape, my own size, my own skin. That unnerves people, I think, and is threatening because it seems to be outside of the norm.
And that "norm" is frightening. I've been following the story of Nancy Upton, a gorgeous and incredibly clever woman who entered American Apparel's recent "The Next BIG Thing" competition, ostensibly a response to media flack stemming from their official comment that plus-sized women "just aren't [their] demographic." That may well be, but to me, this is endemic of a larger problem. This attitude towards "plus size" (which at American Apparel means anything above a size 10 generally -- ridiculous, as the average American woman these days is a 14) feels more like marginalization and a push for invisibility than savvy marketing. It also suggests that I am not a woman, but a "plus size woman," my body shape and weight determining my identity. In the AA contest description, they ask for "bootylicious" models who want to fill out their various spandex wares to send in photos, which will be voted on. The name of the contest and the language and terms that apply to it are mocking, suggesting a divide between the normal current AA consumer, and the giantesses on competitive display. The wording feels so silly that it doesn't surprise me that, when entrant Nancy Upton crafted her submission, she did so with a healthy dose of irony and a wealth of body positivism.
If you're new to this recent event, check out coverage here. Her photos are genius because they both comply to the demands of the contest, and show off Upton's creative mind in tandem with her beautiful body. Yes. These photos of a curvy gal covered in food were probably not what AA anticipated receiving. They are extraordinary because they take they piss not just of a contest looking for girls with plenty of junk in the trunk, but highlight the fact that AA is not truly aiming to cater to a new demographic. Calling girls like me out on our body flaws is a marketing method predicated on self-loathing, and not one I am particularly keen to get on board with. While Upton won the popular vote in this contest, but, as the article above points out, she will not be modelling for the company, because AA wants someone who "truly [exemplifies] the idea of beauty inside and out, and whom we will be proud to have representing our company." Apparently, creativity, sense of humor, body positivism and keen observation skills do not exemplify the mission of American Apparel.
To me, Upton's photos are genius, because she takes a central criticism of larger women in a modern American context and harnesses the power in it to turn it around on the fashion industry. She swims in food, covers herself in it, and gorges on it, making a spectacle of prevalent attitudes conflating curves with gluttony and a lack of self-control. The images are lush, made rich because Upton 'owns' this criticism, and throws it in our face. It's already a mindset propagated by companies like American Apparel, so why not use it to its best advantage. But, the bottom line here is that American Apparel had no intention of taking their own contest seriously. In seeking a "big" model, what they were really asking for was a somewhat-magnified clone of their current modelling stock, not someone who brings intelligence, humor and candor to the camera.
It's too bad that American Apparel feels that stocking clothes in my size is beneath them, as I really would enjoy protesting them. But, sadly, they're just not interested in self-loving fatties like me. Perhaps if I hated my body just a little bit more, I'd be welcome. But, that's just going to happen. Call me any name in the book you like, but you can't diminish my confidence in myself, jiggly bits (of which I have a lot) and all. Belive it or not, American Apparel, body fat percentage has no bearing on my "beauty." Just like the gorgeous Nancy Upton encourages us to believe, we DO INDEED embody beauty inside and out. Take pride ladies.
Love and 7 course dinners!
Nevertheless, I've been called a host of incredibly offensive things, because I have the audacity to reveal my imperfect body to the light of day. It seems that, because I feel ok wearing a bikini on the beach at Coney Island, it is also all right for people (generally men) to criticize my choice, and mock my figure. Or, because I don't believe in wearing multiple pairs of Spanx underneath my day-to-day wardrobe, it gives a guy the right to tell me I'm 'tubby' when I turn down giving him my phone number at a pub. It's not my body that bothers people... it's my confidence in my own shape, my own size, my own skin. That unnerves people, I think, and is threatening because it seems to be outside of the norm.
And that "norm" is frightening. I've been following the story of Nancy Upton, a gorgeous and incredibly clever woman who entered American Apparel's recent "The Next BIG Thing" competition, ostensibly a response to media flack stemming from their official comment that plus-sized women "just aren't [their] demographic." That may well be, but to me, this is endemic of a larger problem. This attitude towards "plus size" (which at American Apparel means anything above a size 10 generally -- ridiculous, as the average American woman these days is a 14) feels more like marginalization and a push for invisibility than savvy marketing. It also suggests that I am not a woman, but a "plus size woman," my body shape and weight determining my identity. In the AA contest description, they ask for "bootylicious" models who want to fill out their various spandex wares to send in photos, which will be voted on. The name of the contest and the language and terms that apply to it are mocking, suggesting a divide between the normal current AA consumer, and the giantesses on competitive display. The wording feels so silly that it doesn't surprise me that, when entrant Nancy Upton crafted her submission, she did so with a healthy dose of irony and a wealth of body positivism.
If you're new to this recent event, check out coverage here. Her photos are genius because they both comply to the demands of the contest, and show off Upton's creative mind in tandem with her beautiful body. Yes. These photos of a curvy gal covered in food were probably not what AA anticipated receiving. They are extraordinary because they take they piss not just of a contest looking for girls with plenty of junk in the trunk, but highlight the fact that AA is not truly aiming to cater to a new demographic. Calling girls like me out on our body flaws is a marketing method predicated on self-loathing, and not one I am particularly keen to get on board with. While Upton won the popular vote in this contest, but, as the article above points out, she will not be modelling for the company, because AA wants someone who "truly [exemplifies] the idea of beauty inside and out, and whom we will be proud to have representing our company." Apparently, creativity, sense of humor, body positivism and keen observation skills do not exemplify the mission of American Apparel.
To me, Upton's photos are genius, because she takes a central criticism of larger women in a modern American context and harnesses the power in it to turn it around on the fashion industry. She swims in food, covers herself in it, and gorges on it, making a spectacle of prevalent attitudes conflating curves with gluttony and a lack of self-control. The images are lush, made rich because Upton 'owns' this criticism, and throws it in our face. It's already a mindset propagated by companies like American Apparel, so why not use it to its best advantage. But, the bottom line here is that American Apparel had no intention of taking their own contest seriously. In seeking a "big" model, what they were really asking for was a somewhat-magnified clone of their current modelling stock, not someone who brings intelligence, humor and candor to the camera.
It's too bad that American Apparel feels that stocking clothes in my size is beneath them, as I really would enjoy protesting them. But, sadly, they're just not interested in self-loving fatties like me. Perhaps if I hated my body just a little bit more, I'd be welcome. But, that's just going to happen. Call me any name in the book you like, but you can't diminish my confidence in myself, jiggly bits (of which I have a lot) and all. Belive it or not, American Apparel, body fat percentage has no bearing on my "beauty." Just like the gorgeous Nancy Upton encourages us to believe, we DO INDEED embody beauty inside and out. Take pride ladies.
Love and 7 course dinners!
Monday, September 12, 2011
"That Girl" Has Just Ten Days Left....
It's very difficult
to find the way to articulate
how this all feels.
It's not that I hate change.
In fact, it's not that at all.
I love flux, shifting, moving from one thing into another.
Staying still scares me, so I'm always moving into a different something.
It is endings that I loathe.
The goodbyes, the finishing, the ending of a fantastic chapter,
with no way of knowing how the next one will start.
When things end, I find myself here.
In this sad little selfish place.
I don't want this year to end.
I want to get married, and see my beloved Apple...
And cuddle my sweet grey kitten.
But I don't want to lose the things I've found,
the life I wasn't sure I wanted until it found me in London.
I want to be an artist,
but not an actress that waits interminably on audition lines
for roles she, if she's honest, doesn't much care about,
and hope desperately for that one in a million chance.
I want to be an artist,
not shoving in stolen seconds of studio time around three part-time jobs
seeing the successful of the city sneer when I answer "what I do."
I want to be artist,
and pay my bills.
This shouldn't be so impossible.
Now that I've found all of this,
I'm afraid of losing it.
I have a heavy heart when I think of coming home
because I'm terrified that this will all disappear
in the haze of working and scrambling in the city.
I've been having a go at everyone who will listen
lately because of this terribly anxiety.
For that, I am sorry, but I just feel so inconsolably heavy.
I know I'm being incredibly unfair
to the people who love me at home
I sound ungrateful in this wanting to prolong
my time away.
I don't want to stay apart from you, no matter how it might sound.
I just don't want this past year to be the end
of this chapter of my life.
And I'm terrified that I don't know how to keep it carrying on.
I can already feel the weight of being a 'working artist' pressing into me.
The panic of not having enough 'real' work,
not being a commercial enough artist.
And it's dragging me down, making me heavy.
I want a space of my own, the chance to make work and write,
and the freedom to enjoy doing both.
This independence is precious, having had just a tease this year.
I'm already lonely
For this thing I wasn't sure I wanted,
and now can't bear to leave behind.
to find the way to articulate
how this all feels.
It's not that I hate change.
In fact, it's not that at all.
I love flux, shifting, moving from one thing into another.
Staying still scares me, so I'm always moving into a different something.
It is endings that I loathe.
The goodbyes, the finishing, the ending of a fantastic chapter,
with no way of knowing how the next one will start.
When things end, I find myself here.
In this sad little selfish place.
I don't want this year to end.
I want to get married, and see my beloved Apple...
And cuddle my sweet grey kitten.
But I don't want to lose the things I've found,
the life I wasn't sure I wanted until it found me in London.
I want to be an artist,
but not an actress that waits interminably on audition lines
for roles she, if she's honest, doesn't much care about,
and hope desperately for that one in a million chance.
I want to be an artist,
not shoving in stolen seconds of studio time around three part-time jobs
seeing the successful of the city sneer when I answer "what I do."
I want to be artist,
and pay my bills.
This shouldn't be so impossible.
Now that I've found all of this,
I'm afraid of losing it.
I have a heavy heart when I think of coming home
because I'm terrified that this will all disappear
in the haze of working and scrambling in the city.
I've been having a go at everyone who will listen
lately because of this terribly anxiety.
For that, I am sorry, but I just feel so inconsolably heavy.
I know I'm being incredibly unfair
to the people who love me at home
I sound ungrateful in this wanting to prolong
my time away.
I don't want to stay apart from you, no matter how it might sound.
I just don't want this past year to be the end
of this chapter of my life.
And I'm terrified that I don't know how to keep it carrying on.
I can already feel the weight of being a 'working artist' pressing into me.
The panic of not having enough 'real' work,
not being a commercial enough artist.
And it's dragging me down, making me heavy.
I want a space of my own, the chance to make work and write,
and the freedom to enjoy doing both.
This independence is precious, having had just a tease this year.
I'm already lonely
For this thing I wasn't sure I wanted,
and now can't bear to leave behind.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
"That Girl" is an Insufferable Swot.
I love words.
No, that's not entirely accurate. To love something implies at least a tacit desire for reciprocity, for a mutuality of feeling between lover and loved thing. That phrase doesn't quite get at it, in this case.
I am in awe of words.
Getting closer, but still not right. To be awestruck seems to me to have more in kind with idolatry, an admiration from a distance, always acknowledging the gap between worshiper and worshiped. Again, not exactly my position.
I hoard words.
Now we're getting closer. Much as I do adore words and am consistently amazed by their power, I am not content with other a loving give-and-take or a reverent admiration. My connection to words is far more covetous, more selfish, more self-indulgent. I want to fill my pockets with them, to take them in and make them mine, to re-present them as my own inventions.
I've been obsessed with words for a very long time. I was an early reader, encouraged by my parents to feed my imagination with books and language. Even as a small child, I showed signs of the covetousness I speak of now. My parents were convinced that I was reading by age three, because I could recite Bread and Jam for Frances word for word. I had not learned to read. I had taken the text in and absorbed it, through frequent aloud readings and the repetition from my record-player. I had memorized the words before I could read them, before probably I even completely understood what they meant. Textual theft. A trademark of mine.
Incidentally, I now make a living drawing on that behavior in my professional life. I pride myself on being a 'quick study,' memorizing lines easily, without really needing to apply myself to the task. Truth is, I don't know how I do it. I love re-reading things... to me, a familiar book is just as comfortable as an embrace from an old friend. I want to carry that feeling with me, so I tend to pull passages of writing into my memory unconsciously. I'm a magpie for language.
I like the tactility of language. Words stab. Words caress. They soothe, they admire, they belittle, they humble etc. etc. etc. Small line and hatches cooperate with one another to create a world of meaning. I think of words as physical objects often, imagining their invisible lines tattooed on living surfaces; to carry this image, if you turned my skin inside out, I suspect the inside of it would be coated in ink scrawls. I like carrying language with me. I wear a poesy ring on my right hand, and have for years. The text is biblical, and is often used on Jewish wedding bands... I like it for entirely different reasons. The engraving contains the word 'Beloved,' a word I find utterly satisfying in its simplicity. I like that all three syllables are evenly voiced, and to me, it manages to sound like a contradiction, containing both suppleness and strength. Just the word itself suggests those things to me, and for that reason, I love it. Hence the ring, aside from its religious or spiritual overtones.
I am drawn to old writing, because to me, the tactility of language feels more acknowledged. I feel it when I read for Shakespeare for example. The language is so delicately crafted, both for literary meaning and a sheer pleasure of the word. Individual words each here serve their literal function, but are also arranged so carefully, with an ear for painting larger pictures through the rhythm of phrases, then sentences, then sonnets then etc. Iambic pentameter, echoing the rhythm of the human heartbeat, is to me a kind of textual acrobatics, crafted in language letter by letter. Its complicated construction becomes more exquisite as the power of the words distracts a reader from its scientific assembly, reason giving way to the pleasure of the words. I am drawn to Shakespeare as well because, when existing words didn't suffice, the poet invented new words to convey just the right 'something.' That is incredibly satisfying and almost heart-achingly beautiful to me, a fellow language-lover.
I sometimes wish that I were synasthetic, that is a person for whom written words carry color, taste etc. Intellectually, I feel like I grasp the concept. Words to me often carry sensibility outside of their individual meanings... I love the roundness and open space of the word "spoon" for example (and, in a nerdy reference, feel kinship with The Tick for choosing it as his rallying cry). It's an entirely satisfying word, outside of its use to describe a metal utensil. It's a pleasurable word to say and hear. Other words work on the opposite side of the spectrum for me... words like "moist" and "squat" never fail to sound horrid and unpleasant, no matter their context (much to the amusement of my father, who discovered this quirk of mine at dinner a few weeks ago). Sounds and cadences make an impression on me, with and without the prescribed textual meanings. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to see words "in color," as it were, though I suspect this would be so overwhelmingly distracting for me to carry on with any semblance of a life.
If you had any doubts before reading this of my insufferably nerdiness, I should think they'd be suitably assuaged now. Words have been my longest friends, and will continue to be my constant companions. Except for words like "slacks," which I can happily do without.
No, that's not entirely accurate. To love something implies at least a tacit desire for reciprocity, for a mutuality of feeling between lover and loved thing. That phrase doesn't quite get at it, in this case.
I am in awe of words.
Getting closer, but still not right. To be awestruck seems to me to have more in kind with idolatry, an admiration from a distance, always acknowledging the gap between worshiper and worshiped. Again, not exactly my position.
I hoard words.
Now we're getting closer. Much as I do adore words and am consistently amazed by their power, I am not content with other a loving give-and-take or a reverent admiration. My connection to words is far more covetous, more selfish, more self-indulgent. I want to fill my pockets with them, to take them in and make them mine, to re-present them as my own inventions.
I've been obsessed with words for a very long time. I was an early reader, encouraged by my parents to feed my imagination with books and language. Even as a small child, I showed signs of the covetousness I speak of now. My parents were convinced that I was reading by age three, because I could recite Bread and Jam for Frances word for word. I had not learned to read. I had taken the text in and absorbed it, through frequent aloud readings and the repetition from my record-player. I had memorized the words before I could read them, before probably I even completely understood what they meant. Textual theft. A trademark of mine.
Incidentally, I now make a living drawing on that behavior in my professional life. I pride myself on being a 'quick study,' memorizing lines easily, without really needing to apply myself to the task. Truth is, I don't know how I do it. I love re-reading things... to me, a familiar book is just as comfortable as an embrace from an old friend. I want to carry that feeling with me, so I tend to pull passages of writing into my memory unconsciously. I'm a magpie for language.
I like the tactility of language. Words stab. Words caress. They soothe, they admire, they belittle, they humble etc. etc. etc. Small line and hatches cooperate with one another to create a world of meaning. I think of words as physical objects often, imagining their invisible lines tattooed on living surfaces; to carry this image, if you turned my skin inside out, I suspect the inside of it would be coated in ink scrawls. I like carrying language with me. I wear a poesy ring on my right hand, and have for years. The text is biblical, and is often used on Jewish wedding bands... I like it for entirely different reasons. The engraving contains the word 'Beloved,' a word I find utterly satisfying in its simplicity. I like that all three syllables are evenly voiced, and to me, it manages to sound like a contradiction, containing both suppleness and strength. Just the word itself suggests those things to me, and for that reason, I love it. Hence the ring, aside from its religious or spiritual overtones.
I am drawn to old writing, because to me, the tactility of language feels more acknowledged. I feel it when I read for Shakespeare for example. The language is so delicately crafted, both for literary meaning and a sheer pleasure of the word. Individual words each here serve their literal function, but are also arranged so carefully, with an ear for painting larger pictures through the rhythm of phrases, then sentences, then sonnets then etc. Iambic pentameter, echoing the rhythm of the human heartbeat, is to me a kind of textual acrobatics, crafted in language letter by letter. Its complicated construction becomes more exquisite as the power of the words distracts a reader from its scientific assembly, reason giving way to the pleasure of the words. I am drawn to Shakespeare as well because, when existing words didn't suffice, the poet invented new words to convey just the right 'something.' That is incredibly satisfying and almost heart-achingly beautiful to me, a fellow language-lover.
I sometimes wish that I were synasthetic, that is a person for whom written words carry color, taste etc. Intellectually, I feel like I grasp the concept. Words to me often carry sensibility outside of their individual meanings... I love the roundness and open space of the word "spoon" for example (and, in a nerdy reference, feel kinship with The Tick for choosing it as his rallying cry). It's an entirely satisfying word, outside of its use to describe a metal utensil. It's a pleasurable word to say and hear. Other words work on the opposite side of the spectrum for me... words like "moist" and "squat" never fail to sound horrid and unpleasant, no matter their context (much to the amusement of my father, who discovered this quirk of mine at dinner a few weeks ago). Sounds and cadences make an impression on me, with and without the prescribed textual meanings. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to see words "in color," as it were, though I suspect this would be so overwhelmingly distracting for me to carry on with any semblance of a life.
If you had any doubts before reading this of my insufferably nerdiness, I should think they'd be suitably assuaged now. Words have been my longest friends, and will continue to be my constant companions. Except for words like "slacks," which I can happily do without.
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