02.04.2009 by Shannon
Hello, Hanoi
(Part 2 of Many)
If you think that traveling halfway across the world to live in a busy Asian city where you don’t speak the language, don’t know your way around, and have a very thin grasp on where you’ll find your next meal will make it easier for yourself to write that elusive novel you’ve been dreaming about– I have some advice: it won’t. (more…)
Category Adventures in Asia, Location-Location, Narrative | Tags: hanoi,vietnam | 1 Comment
02.02.2009 by Shannon
Hello, Hanoi
(Part 1 of Many)
I love that Taipai airport.
Most of us may have lost touch with nature, and now run frantically toward technology to make us happy, but at least the Taiwanese know how to make a good substitute.
Category Adventures in Asia, Location-Location, Narrative | Tags: airport,green relaxing room,layover,massage chair,taipai | No Comments
12.29.2008 by Shannon
“Calling noise a nuisance is like calling smog an inconvenience. Noise must be considered a hazard to the health of people everywhere.”
— Dr. William H. Stewart, former Surgeon General of the United States
* * *
Outside, the air was cold and swirling.
“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the waaaa-aayy!” A car full people, laughing and yelling, the car idling, the stereo booming. Bright lights, banner ads, and music streams out of storefronts, festivities flaking across Union Square. There is a moment every winter where I stop loving Christmas and cannot wait for January 2. This moment is about to happen.
Category Narrative, This Modern Life | Tags: hip hop yoga,noise pollution,noiseoff,silence,yoga | No Comments
12.08.2008 by Shannon
Hi, love. Another email for you, coming from the beautiful (but currently stormy) Cook Islands. I wrote you a little narrative of my day. Hope you like it.
Rough Seas do Shake, O Darling Come What May: A Story
Today we tried going out for another dive day. It is Sunday, and
everything around the island is closed (fairly religious here). It is
mom’s official BD, and so we thought a nice repeat dive, yesterday
being so great, would be just the thing. The weather was a bit stormy
again, but the dive place we went with said they were still good to
go, so we packed our bags and met them out from this morning.
I was already seeing ominous signs before we even started. (more…)
Category Location-Location, Narrative | Tags: boat,cook islands,diving,Rarotonga,scuba | No Comments
11.30.2008 by Shannon
The sun, ferns, salt and dark lager have bleached my brain. I am now sitting by myself at the (mahogany? kaori wood?) bar at a place called “Schnappa Rock” and enjoying a very tall pint while I write and look at the ocean:
Category Location-Location, NaNoWriMo, Narrative | Tags: crayfish,diving,NaNoWriMo,new zealand,nudibranch,octopus,open water certification,PADI,poor knights,poor knights island,schnappa rock,scuba,scuba diving,SSI,stingray,tutukaka | No Comments
09.17.2008 by Shannon
Stuck, already, at the car rental.
Category Location-Location, Narrative | Tags: Las Vegas,New Mexico | 1 Comment
09.06.2008 by Shannon
I thought it would be fun.
A 6-day getaway to laid-back, green&lush Seattle. Hang with The Girls. Get a little crazy.
In SF, my “color girls” (3 friends I’ve known since about 6 years old) wouldn’t stop until the whole town was painted red, red, red. Only thing is, suddenly I’m… old[er]. And definitely, certainly, unquestionably un-hip.
Category Location-Location, Narrative, This Modern Life | Tags: beck,bumbershoot,death cab,eaten alive by cats,feeling old,seattle | 6 Comments
07.09.2007 by Shannon
Yesterday was my official One Month Until Departure to my next travel adventure: Vietnam and China. The countdown reminded me of what a nice time in my life this is — being home, time to pursue personal projects, friends and family close by, and the joy of being in the Sonoma County for the quiet and slower pace it affords — and how I have to appreciate it while it’s here.
I keep telling myself “enjoy the moment” before I go away again. Simple things have felt deeply important: coffee with friend, evening walks around the neighborhood, breakfast with my mom, morning tea with my cat, hours of personal writing time — little things that remind me: this is home, now.
It reminds me that a deadline shouldn’t be necessary to feel this kind of appreciation.
* * *
I had dinner with my friend J. the other night. She has spent the last 8 months traveling through India and Asia. Change was apparent: Her hair was blonde and stylishly cut, she had many stories to tell, and she looked softer and happy. Even the cadence was different when she spoke, more knowing, and when I pointed this out she responded, “well, I feel different!”
After dinner we went for a walk around Sebastopol. She began to speak of this evolution. As she touched on theme after theme of what she had learned while abroad, I couldn’t help but smile and realize that these same themes had woven themselves through my past half-a-year as well: balance, finding a healthy pace of life, the courage to deviate from plans, acceptance of self As Is.
And in fact, how no matter where you go or are, how readily those lessons seem to pop up in anyone’s life who’s looking for them.
With gratitude infusing her breath, she said, “I’d have never learned these things had I not traveled; I learned all this because I left home.”
I smiled at her, and nodded quietly, knowing that I learned all this because I’d returned.
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05.28.2007 by Shannon
Driving through town today.
Radio scanning, lingers on male a cappella group singing “Star Spangled Banner.”
Stop to listen.
Take a moment to see the stars and stripes flick in the wind out the corner of my eye. Cotati Veterans Memorial.
Listening to the lyrics, never made the Orwell-Buddhism connection before:
“And the rockets red glare
the bombs bursting in air
gave proof thorough the night
that our flag was still there.”
(from Francis Scott Key’s SSB)
“War is Peace”
”Freedom is Slavery”
”Ignorance is Strength”
(from Orwell’s 1984)
A monk asked Tozan, “How can we escape the cold and heat?” Tozan replied, “Why not go where there is no cold and heat?” “Is there such a place?” the monk asked. Tozan commented, “When cold, be thoroughly cold; when hot, be hot through and through.
(from Zen Koan)
Through something’s opposite a thing itself is defined; understanding of what something is by what it is not. Or, we have greatest proof of the value of our country, our home, our freedom (our peace) when we are faced with its opposite.
This is not a political statement. On this Memorial Day, I am driving around aimlessly to procrastinate working on my poetry, having slipped under a covering of self-doubt. Listening to 98.3 Froggy FM (“real country variety”), I think about why we remember the dead, duality, and how it relates to the death of our selves — and the importance of remembering and then accepting this death. And the need for it.
I know what I am by what I was, am not, and will never be.
Or: Death is Life
There are so many dead of me. Each life I cannot live blossoms wastefully before me — unpluckable. Not able to bouquet. Perhaps I have grown to be a woman of grand accomplishment, a propeller spinning glorious, creating her own wake of energy: she the boat, she the passenger. She: the water.
Yes. I thought I would someday be standing on top of a very tall mountain, my achievements littering the mountain-side like wild flowers. All paths taken, multiple lives lived. There — I would see in the town below, where night has come to kiss roof-tops, only the glow from neon humming: my name in lights.
But instead down below, I, through the graveyard of my possible selves, unborn: “We all must put to rest Possibility under headstones ever-multiplying.” Laying down the flowers.
I could have stayed in San Francisco;
I could have gone to law school;
I could have married my high-school boyfriend;
I could have gone into farming;
I could have worked my way still up corporate america, jet-setting until death by vertigo;
I thought I would be a teacher, an academic, an actress, a writer. I thought I might be skinnier, suicidal, married, have a master’s degree. I thought I’d be living in Spain.
I am none of these things. Instead I am
I have life but one. And sweet that it is this. So now there is no remedy for anxiety of what is not, except for medicating with what is. Mediocrity must be swallowed.
And who is this that wanders, tripping on epitaphs fresh from the chisel? It is “I” and she, too, must be put to rest.
There is a singular experience, yours the grass crunches. Softly, dried carnations: winter not far behind. It is stated. The headstones shrug, silent.
No time for mourning undone acts. Lay down the death of lives possible. Thank them for their death, what they’ve done: they are there to show you what you are not, you are not to know what you are. From death, life.
“True words seem paradoxical”
(from Lao-tzu’s Tao Te Ching)
And did you know? The “Star Spangled Banner” has four stanzas? Enjoy:
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight
O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting in air
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen thro’ the mist of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream
’Tis the star-spangled banner. Oh! long may it wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation,
Blest with vict’ry and peace, may the Heav’n-rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: “In God is our Trust”
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave
. . . [ ] Memorial day
Category Narrative | Tags: | 1 Comment
05.27.2007 by Shannon
I went to post today, and my blog didn’t recognize me.
At first with the low rumble grows.
Next to a defensive bark, hurt echoing under.
“It’s me!” I soothed. “Hi there, sweetie. Remember me? I write you?’
Starting in with a wimper, scrunched face: “Where the hell have you been?”
I stumble, “oh, geez. Don’t give me that face… you know I can’t take that face.”
“Well I — I can’t help it. I’m — mad at you.” Lips tremble.
“No! No!” I reach out with apologetic hands. “Don’t now with the tears, look — I’m sorry, sorry, hear me? Don’t be mad. Really, don’t be mad.”
Digital eyebrows curling together, a Kahlo: “I — waited. I waited a long time, but you — nothing. Okay, like every once awhile — some damn post about dead deer or a human bridge or, or, or — stupid YouTube videos — what the hell was that? You don’t have enough time to write but you can fuck off and video tape it and then post it on me?!? How do you think that makes me feel?”
“Look, I — things are picking up again. You know, despite my best efforts, how busy I can get. I’m workin’ on my poetry, writing a memoir, getting ready to travel, learning French, freelancing — I even managed to acquire a boyfriend for christ’s sake! You know how time consuming those can be!”
“Excuses. All excuses — what you’re telling me, the ‘posts’ you’ve done over the last few months… nothing but excuses.” Voice gets soft: “I thought you wanted a venue to write… I thought you were committed.”
I get the back side of her monitor. I reach out my hand, stroke the machine.
“I — I am… I’ll make it up to you, promise. I’ll post, like, a bunch of times in the coming weeks — and not lame shit like before — I’ll actually write something. Promise. Look: how’s this, right now?”
The glow of the computer screen faces me: “It’s a start.”
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01.08.2007 by Shannon
[Scene: A country house that sits in an idyllic setting. Shannon, a woman in her mid-twenties, rises from her slumbers. She stretches with smile upon her cherub face, Edvard Grieg's "Morning" playing in her head. She places her palms against the windowsill and gazes at the redwood trees beyond. There are small birds perched in the branches, singing.]
Shannon: Good morning, my fine feathered friends!
[She slides her sleepy toes into her slippers, wraps her happy body with a robe and tip toes down stairs. Her parents, Kathryn and David and sitting at the table.]
Shannon: Why, hello, mother; hello, father.
Kathryn & David [in unison]: Hello, dearest daughter.
Shannon: What a glorious morning this day hath brought to us.
Kathryn & David: This day is glorious, verily. What doth this day bring for you, oh sweet daughter of ours?
Shannon: Well, oh kind and unceasingly generous parents of mine, I did have it in mind that upon this most beauteous morn of the first Monday of 2007 I would awaken with the birds and, after watching the frost melt off the fingers of the redwoods and listen to the sheep begin to nibble upon the green backsides of the hills that stretch like the expanses of my dreams — all while sitting in the rejuvenating comfort of the hot tub — I would make myself a pot of green tea and write a “Welcome to 2007!” post to Not Keeping Score. This, my dearest of dear parents, would truly ring in the new year proper, for although I have resolved to make no resolutions, and am trying to be contented with my life “As Is” (no trip to the gym, the therapist’s office, or The Container Store necessary) old habits die hard and this one here [Shannon points to herself enthusiastically] likes to feel the thrill of pro-ac-tivity. You can take the girl out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the girl…
[Shannon kisses each of her parents on the forehead and begins to walk away. David and Kathryn exchange glances.]
Kathryn: Shannon dearest?
Shannon: Yes, mother, Oh Light of my Life?
Kathryn: Darling daughter, your father and I commend you on your ambitious plans for the day. It is truly honorable that you should, despite being unemployed and with absolutely no life plan whatsoever of which to speak, you have so asserted yourself as to, in one single day, plan to take a dip in the hot tub, make yourself green tea, gaze at the countryside,
David: — and it’s nearly noon.
Kathryn: –but we wish you all the luck in your endeavor.
[Shannon takes pause. A shadow of confusion washes over her face as she processes this information. Suddenly, her brow furrows and she looks pained. Suddenly, in a huff she stomps up stairs and turns up Yo-Yo Ma to an obscene volume. A moment later she returns to the hallway and yells downstairs.
Shannon: Oh yeah? Well, let's see who's a banana slug now! Just to prove how motivated I am, I'm going to read my entire e.e. cummings collection! And not just the smaller anthologies -- my whole collection! And then I might even write a poem of my own! What do you have to say about that, huh? Who's unemployed now, eh? Eh?!
[David and Kathryn look at each other, smile, and shrug their shoulders, magnanimous in their silence]
[for M&D, who truly are magnanimous]
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12.09.2006 by Shannon
“HAPPINESS RUNS IN A CIRCULAR MOTION”
Such is the case tonight as rain’s fingernails scratch down my windowsill, customary wailings from lost sirens, strings of sighing traffic — a San Francisco swan song about to be sung.
There are globes of lights everywhere — glass orbs of water lit from the Party Store’s winking strobe, Christmas strings languid and loose, fractured spray spit against the sidewalk from car wheels, and one big glowing screen in front of me like always.
Like always.
And like always, the rain steps on the black streets with his tiny feet, but this time I am not alone with my city. We, two, in love, must share each other tonight, and make room.
Future tip-toes in.
Time moves in a circular motion, too.
Suddenly it is no longer night’s soft belly, but the cool breeze blowing in late afternoon. You are reading to me, in smooth lyrical whispers, like old satin ribbons, African creation stories — why death exists, where the world was born — when my old lover the city taps at my window. I turn to his familar coos, VIBRANT courtings, twisted banter, green lights! Doors
Open: pulsings, f r e e d o m s, frac tured, panting –
I stand up and leave you. Go the window. Sit down and write. You remain on the couch reading alone as the frenzy consumes me again. You’ll never love another but me, the city whispers, my writing whispers, my heart whispers, there is no room for another.
I write like the rain. The clicking of keys floods the room as I drown myself back into safety. You ask what I’ve written. Would I like to share? The cold breeze blows in harder. The city’s seductions louder: It’s me and you, babe. Me and you. Don’t leave me now, we’ve only begun… The sirens are back, and the traffic is haunting, pulling at old demons that shed long shadows, and deep. There is a sudden stiffness about the light, my toes have gone numb and I am certain I have to run to the store to buy… anything.
But you don’t say another word. You light up your cigarette, and watch time wobble in circles around our heads. My typing slows. My sentences shorten. I finish. I’m done. I look at you. You look back.
“It’s cold,” I say.
“Sure is,” you smile.
“Shut the window,” I ask. You do.
“Wanna hear what I’ve got?” I ask. “I’m ready to share.” You look at me and say:
“I do.”
[for I.G.]
Category Narrative, San Francisco glory | Tags: | No Comments
08.08.2006 by Shannon
It had been months — no, probably closer to a year — since she had been camping, an activity that ranked among her favorite but had somehow managed to go unperformed. The last time she had done any sort of camping, much less back-country camping, was with her now-ex-boyfriend. The two, in love with each other and with nature, had had entire summer’s where every weekend was a trek to another part of the state, the country, the world — always the goal of walking out into The Great Outdoors, pack upon back, able and ready to disappear from reality for days at a time.
She imagined her camping skills at this point had become much like her sex life — after all this time a bit rusty.
She had visited REI with her future camping compatriot, a beautiful jewelry-maker living in Sebastopol who’s daal was as killer as her verbal rapier. Old friends from high school, they had reconnected when the one had moved back to California.
“You like camping?” the girl had asked. “I like camping.” And it was settled. They’d go camping. It had been awhile for either and would serve as a trial run for more camping to come.
Gliding through the cool aisles of REI felt like visiting a childhood home — she knew intimately the feel of every stair, could blindly navigate among the sultry camping stoves and alluring water purifiers, could feel without touching the shape of SmartWool socks in her hand…. mmmm, SmartWool.
Category Narrative | Tags: | 3 Comments
07.24.2006 by Shannon
(A Sunday Morning Story)
I walked up the long black cement road that wound around Highland Hill like a concrete river. I had just come from running, the first attempt since my knee injury; I had been curious for motion, but I wasn’t an idiot, pushing past patience’s pace, so I only ran the flat parts, leaving downhill to be walked. When it was level, I made sure to run with more of a squat-glide than a proper high-impact run. I would curl my tailbone under, shifting my pelvis forward, sinking low into my thighs, and hinge from my waist to allow for a pivoting in my mid-section, avoiding the up and down, up and down.
The sun was beginning to thicken the air with heat, which radiated off the concrete. I was tired. As I rounded the last corner, my temple beginning to pound, I saw the blackberry bushes I had noticed on the run out. There hadn’t been many left – the birds had nearly picked the bush clean – but I did notice a few small berry-heads poke out from disclosing leaves. Sweet dessert!
I plucked the four I was able to find in the long minutes of searching. Be satisfied with four, I whispered, nodded, and prepared myself to enjoy the fruits of my labor…
The first one was tart, near to bitter, and I cringed on first taste. The next one was a bit better, slightly sweeter, and the third was tart again, un-enjoyable nearly. I saved the last, noting it was much plumper than the previous three, and that it must be the sweet relief I was waiting for. I looked at it to marvel at the girth — what a berry! – to take it in, enjoy the process, ritualize the experience. Holding it up to the light, I noticed a small white speck, which began to move. Watching longer, I realized the glorious berry was swarming with those white specks, like television static. Mites. I decided even in my adventurous spirit I’d hold off on the mite eating, would wait until I could rinse it off. I wondered if the tart ones had had mites and I just hadn’t noticed, or maybe the pale ivory bugs knew to only congregate on the sweet ones – the best ones.
I walked further on, promising this berry would be worth the wait, and worth the wash. Then, as quickly as I stumbled into a pothole just off the road and let loose a yelp as I swiped my leg against a reaching berry vine, my eyes met a cluster of glory-berries; the berries were as fat, if not fatter, than the one I held so preciously. Jackpot.
Ha, I winced, my pain is worth it, lest I never discover this abundance the birds seem to have missed. I picked and I picked. Two hands full, some were so ripe they fell apart in my soft two-fingered grasp. Every berry I picked swarmed with mites but I didn’t care because I knew, oh I knew, the sweet reward that awaited my patience at the end of Lau Lane – knew the heaven that would adorn my bran cereal. Perfection. The sun beat down and I was dripping with sweat. My hands were sticky and wet. I was feverish with triumph.
This is not a metaphor for life. This is a story about berry picking.
Category Narrative | Tags: | 2 Comments
06.02.2006 by Shannon
It’s a matter of fact life ain’t easy
but they say that from Rough, life turns Breezy
so a smile I keep
and I take a breath deep
(but it’s hard to Breathe In when you’re wheezy)
There once was a girl in the city
Her outlook on life: ~happy*Giddy!
But then she fell down
Broke her knee on the ground
New outlook on life? Not so pretty…
I have a funny story.
It’s about how life sometimes is most humorous when you have little humor left, and the only next place to fall is up.
* * *
Finding myself again afflicted, for the fourth time this year, with a bronchial malady, I was resolved to recuperate– “slow down.” You see, I have a wee tendency to, as is fruitfully dictated by our modern urban culture, “do too much” — I like to call it the Hare Syndrome. Leading research shows the only cure is a “less is more” diagnosis. (Rx=Tortoise).
I don’t not know how to relax; I’m simply chasing the principals of Nietzsche’s Superman, or one who “battle[s] modern values and overcome[s] the flaws of humanity.” A tall order.
So, with this, I pledged I’d back off on social obligations, reign in work hours, go easy on the ole asthmatic lungs, and finally see someone about why I can’t get more than 3 hours of sleep a night. Promise.
(Behind my back, however, I had fingers crossed while I wasn’t looking: work longer. Socialize more. Stay up later. Push harder. This was my pledge manifest.)
I had blood work done to figure out why I haven’t had a period or slept in eight months, and saw a physical therapist to address a wonderful pre-carpel tunnel shoulder affliction, tingly elbows and all. I asked my therapist if perhaps I wasn’t addicted to melodrama? Or a hypochondriac? She said, “no, you’re probably just mortal.”
Brilliant.
I had scheduled a physical therapy appointment during my lunch hour one sunny Monday, and in an effort to get back to work quickly I decided to run the distance — exercise and efficiency, I thought. Kill two birds with one stone. (This is a turning point in the narrative for those who are paying attention)
I sprinted from Van Ness @ Sutter to the TransAmerica building (for you non-San Francisco folks, that’s just under two miles)– no biggie.
But I was running downhill and I was running hard and I was running out of shape but damn did it feel good – I was running! – to zip through the financial district in my new tennis shoes tightly tied and feeling my youth and then something in that moment told me I never took a moment to pause when perhaps, don’t know why, should have.
The rest of the day: easy, breezy.
For the next two days, however, my right knee proceeded to swell — slowly as if a sneaking child– to the size of a grapefruit.
And then came the fall. (This, for those still looking for a plot line, is the climax of the story).
Doing laundry one night, with knee aching but ignored– brushed aside as another pesky detail of life to be overcome rather than addressed– I headed downstairs to remove the delicates fresh from the spin cycle and load up the next. Stepping precariously on this newfound inconvenience, and with laundry basket in hand, I caught the edge of the top stair, the worn navy blue carpet easily acquiescing to my weight. I slipped–
I’ve worked very hard to create for myself a Life Independent. I’m a “modern” woman; I self-support; I take pride in my autonomy; I am emotionally open but without vulnerability; I enjoy but don’t need others…I am full of bullshit. I tell myself I’m career-bound but furtively dream of marriage and children and dog to disrupt this path of success I seem to be sprinting.
Tumbling down the flight of stairs, the basket of dirty clothes cart-wheeling after me, I suddenly realized how funny this all had become: I was living a crab-shell of a life-fragile: thick cover but with all the squishy gut-less insides sloshing about.
Because, when I got to the bottom of the stairwell, hitting the cold marble floor with a grimace and a thud, I could not get up for the life of me. My knee was bent back underneath me at an unnatural angle, the right ankle tweaked and screaming.
I sat there in a snowfall of white cotton, crying then laughing, because I had no one to pick me up; I had planned it that way.
The next day I was on crutches with possible surgery and a hand-full of painkillers. I sat on the empty hardwood floor of my studio scheming, determined to get through the next week without asking for help.
Category Narrative, This Modern Life | Tags: | 1 Comment
05.17.2006 by Shannon
As I snaked my way through the sloping streets of Chinatown this morning, skirting along shaded alleyways and sliding down sun-licked sidewalks, I let momentum tug at my weight, carrying me downhill, thighs remaining liquid, and used my eyes as breaks.
Gravity pulled me along as gravity has a tendency to do, and every time I met someone’s eyes or saw something that struck me, I would allow it to anchor my momentum, push back a bit, and slow me.
It became an interesting exercise in speed and connection: the more connections I made to people or things that were visually arresting, the slower I would go. Conversely, the less I saw that resonated with me, the faster I began to move. And, of course, the faster I went the harder it was to see any one thing.
Nearing the belly of Washington Street’s slope, I locked eyes with a little boy in the arms of his mother. She was just embarking upon the hill on the opposite side of the street, and he faced her back.
I passed the mother. When I glanced back over my shoulder, I caught the boy’s gaze and let it stop me like a kick-stand. His eyes lit up and his fists went into the air and he squeezed them open and shut like traffic signals. I couldn’t help but mimic the salute with blinking hands of my own.
Directly in front of the boy, and within my line of vision, an old caramel-brown Honda was parked, and inside that taffy-colored car sat a man mid-breakfast-bite looking out his window.
When he saw me giving this two-fisted wave, it jolted him. With mouth full and hands occupied he looked around trying to figure out a way to wave back.
He quickly released one hand from under the paperbag he was holding, the same color as his skin, and lifted one finger in acknowledgment, a small bit of food trailing from the corner of his mouth. He looked very confused.
A woman walking to my right paused a moment, and in my periphery I could sense her processing the index-finger hello from the man in the bister vehicle eating a steaming bun from a paperbag and what this all could possibly mean. She seemed to quickly decide that the salutation was not for her and continued on.
When I looked back across the street the mother had walked farther uphill, and the child had diverted his eyes elsewhere, my windshield-wiper hands no longer captivating his attention.
All this took place in about 7 seconds.
Isn’t that just the way it is, I thought, a slew of missed and mistaken connections strung together like pearls. Between Timing and Attention, I wondered how any two people ever connect.
* * *
When I got into work I plunked down in front of my computer. Lo and behold, I had an email from one Adrian Tan — the conductor of the Vietnamese National Symphony Orchestra.
Tan, it seems, discovered and read my “review” of a symphony performance with Tang Yun, a prodigy violinist, under Tan’s direction. He wrote to thank me for my rather “fascinating” review and for “writing what I felt.”
Adrian Tan: the pleasure was all mine.
I have to admit, I was a smidgen embarrassed that Tan read the review, it being more of an emotive creative-piece than an out-and-out music review (aside from the fact that I mentioned in the review that I “wanted to make love to the conductor.”)
But overpowering the embarrassment was excitement at the enabled connection made through space and time thanks to this funny little thing we call the World Wide Web.
I mean, I’m a young cosmopolitan professional; I’m well versed in modern technology. But this internet thing is pretty darn amazing. Here I was, sitting in San Francisco, California and someone I saw on stage weeks ago — but never met — in Hanoi, Vietnam is able to contact me.
The “ever increasing pace” of life and technology is often touted as the inhibiting factor to genuine connection– the more plugged in to technology we become the more disconnected from the present, nature, or other people we are, it is argued.
But as things move “faster and faster,” the potential for connection becomes more pervasive, and I’m caught between thinking that human connectivity is impeded by technology and thinking it’s made more ubiquitous.
How many pairs of eyes did I miss this morning as I picked up speed? And, more importantly, would I have still caught the eyes of that little boy at the base of the Washington hill if I had kept a more moderate clip? The timing would have different; I might have been looking elsewhere.
I typed up my response to Adrian Tan, thanking him for his email. And as I hit the Send button, I wondered how anything in this world is ever not connected.
Category Narrative, This Modern Life | Tags: | 1 Comment
03.12.2006 by Shannon
Dear Book-Nerd Readers,
There’s something wonderful about a library, don’t you think? And I don’t mean all the books and learning and shit. I mean that it commands its own quiet energy, connecting yet un-intrusive; that although this is a public space, there is a kind of imposed isolation, too. It’s the quiet:
“I am sitting next to you, and we are connected in this way, but you are under no circumstance permitted to talk to me. Because this is a li(shhh!)brary, that’s why.”
There’s beauty in that. It’s the same reason why I secretly think the iPod is so popular: headphones.
Everyone, in a library, is free to feel safe to go about his or her business ( “I’m into beat poetry. You’re into civil war anthologies? Great” ) without feeling obligated to mind the Other — which is rare in a city — and in this way there is perhaps a more genuine connection between civil members of a collective group through isolated co-habitation of thepublicsphereheretofore –
oh-my-god-you’ll-never-guess-what-just-happened.
So, I’m sitting in the SF Public Library, right? I mean, really, I’m just sitting here working on a book review I’d like to publish — and then, of course, I’ve allowed myself to get distracted with posting to my blog about the Inherent Goodness of Libraries (see above) — when this guy, my age, friendly-looking, walks over to where I’m sitting, doesn’t look at me, but sets a book down beside me.
I don’t look over, thinking, you know, he’s just putting a book down and plans to sit there and, um… read. Like what you do in a library. Then he walks away. Sure. He’s going to go look for something else but is just “saving his spot,” right? He walks around the library, sort of eyeing me, as if he’s watching to see if I noticed him, or his book. I can feel his gaze on me. Then he leaves leaves. Like, walks across to the elevators, pushes the down button, the doors slide open, he gets in, looks at me hard one last time, the doors slice closed, and he’s gone.
I look over at the book, and it’s a thick edition of MORMONISM – STUDY EDITION. I swear I feel him remotely wanting me to pick it up and have a look –
oh-shit-okay-now-he’s-back. He’s sitting right next to me, and he keeps looking over, wanting, wishing, willing me to make eye contact. I can only imagine what will happen if I do. I. Am. Concentrating. Very. Hard. To. Look. Busy. Okay, I have to end this post now because I swear if he looks over and sees the word “Mormonism” in all caps on my computer screen, I’m screwed.
Signing off,
Shannon
P.S. I hope no one reading this is Mormon / offended.
Category Narrative, San Francisco glory | Tags: | 5 Comments
02.25.2006 by Shannon
When speaking of love, it is important to acknowledge — in addition to the things which one does love — that which one does not. You know, for the sake of balance. God forbid I write of yin while neglecting the yang.
* * *
Scene: An apartment building in San Francisco. Morning. A light shines from a window on the second floor. Inside, a girl sits drinking tea on the couch. A Chet Baker CD is playing softly in the background. Out on the street, a car sits idling. Loud music is playing from inside it.
Shannon: What the fuck is that?
Chet Baker [singing]: Myyy, fuuunny valentiii– wha’s what?
Shannon: That. That noise. I can’t believe someone is playing the Beastie Boys before 6 in the morning. That’s just — wrong. The BB are for night time, yo — nighttime!
Chet Baker: I hear that. I’m for the morn, right, Shanny? I’m your morning dude?
Shannon: Damn straight, Chet. You and me, pal. In the A.M. It’s you and me. I don’t know what this person is thinking. Disrespect, man… disrespect.
Shannon walks to the window and looks out. Through the tinted windows of the car a thin ribbon of cigarette smoke leaks out, an extension of the driver’s wrist. Shannon slides open the window.
Shannon: Damn it. [speaking to the driver of the car:] Uh, excuse me? Hey, sweetheart — mind turning your music down? It’s not even 6 in the morning.
The girl in the car does not indicate she’s heard anything.
Chet Baker: Maybe she didn’t hear you.
Shannon [yelling]: Hey — hey! You, in the car! It’s SIX IN THE MORNING. Turn your music down, woudja?
Chet Baker: I didn’t mean yell.
Shannon: Go get lost, Chet.
Chet Baker [hurt]: Jus’ tryin’ ta help. You don’t have to get so — so, aggressive…
Shannon turns around, shuts the window. She turns up the music.
Shannon: Come on, Chet. You can take on the Beastie Boys, can’t you?
Chet Baker remains silent except for his lonely crooning. Shannon sighs in exasperation.
Shannon: Wussy.
The thumping of the car stereo below grows louder.
Shannon: (Beat.) Oh, so we’re going to play like that now, are we?
Shannon opens up the window, grabs the nearest object in site, and does what any mature, self-respecting city dweller would do: she throws the object out the window onto the hood of the car. The music stops. There is clicking of the car door handle as if opening. Shannon, in a moment of panic, dives away from the window. Yelling comes from outside.
Shannon: Shit. Now she’s pissed.
Shannon hears the car door shut again. Then the horn blares for 10 long seconds. The music resumes, louder than before.
Chet Baker: Now you’ve done it.
Shannon: Shut up, Chet! Man, I can’t believe this. What a bitch. When I say I love most everything about my city, you know — all this B.S. I write about on my blog –well, most of it’s true. From the places to the food to the people, I do, I really do love it all — the people! O! I love the people. From canvas-KQED-bag-toting literaries to suited bankers to barefooted neo-hippies to Timbuktu-saddled bike messengers — even right down to the goddamn pigeons, if only that I love to hate them.
Chet Baker: I don’t mind the pigeons so much.
Shannon rolls her eyes.
Shannon: But something I do not love at all, cannot love, with any portion of my expensive-yoga-class-induced open-heartedness, is what these people — always quirky, often stupid — do; I can love them when they manifest themselves as graceful extensions of the complexity and uniqueness of humanity, embodying the continual bliss and mystery of what it means to be a human being…
Chet Baker rolls his eyes.
Shannon: I do not, however, love these people when they decide to manifest themselves as skanky-ass, Hundai-driving, chain-smoking, crinkly-haired, music-thumping assholes. I love many things, but this? I cannot love this.
Shannon crawls to the window and peaks out. She can see the driver straining to see from where the aerial assault has come.
Shannon: Now, I’m a morning person you know?
Chet Baker nods.
Shannon: It wasn’t that she woke me up when she started blasting “Brass Monkey, That Chunky Monkey” from her cheap-ass speakers this morning at 5:45–and don’t get me wrong — the Beastie Boys and I go way back.
Chet Baker: That you do.
Shannon: It was her audacity, you know? It ruined my mood; I was drinking tea. I was chilling with you, my old buddy Chet Baker. I even had on slippers. Slippers! And then with the thump-thump-thump.
Outside the girl revs the engine of the car once, twice — three times. The music continues to play at an increased volume. The horn honks intermittently.
Shannon: Wow. Okay — wow. This girl really just wants to piss somebody off, doesn’t she?
Chet Baker [mumbling]: Looks like she already has.
Shannon: I’m not listening to you anymore.
Shannon hits the pause button on the CD player and stomps to the closet, grabbing a sweatshirt. She grabs her keys, and runs down the two flights of stairs to the apartment building lobby. ‘Now you’re really going to get it’ she thinks. Just as she flings open the front door of the building, she sees the taillights of the Hundai as the car pulls away. Shannon, standing now on the sidewalk at 6:15am wearing nothing but a nightie, slippers, and oversized sweatshirt, fumes.
Shannon: Fuck!
A window above her slides open. A head appears out of the darkness
Head: Hey! It’s not even 6:30 in the morning. Mind keeping it down out there?
Shannon pauses for a moment, stunned. Then a smile cracks over her lips.
Shannon: I love this city.
Category Love Project, Narrative, San Francisco glory | Tags: | No Comments
02.22.2006 by Shannon
Although my “Poetry to a Transvestite Prostitute“ Project is now complete, I am not done with the poetry, nor the love. It may be a short month, but February ain’t over yet. For all of you wishing I would stop with the smoochy-smoochy-love-fluff stuff already, know that March is just around the corner, and it will be All Business.
But until then, I’m still operating within the confines of the The Love Project, even if all of the Valentine’s Day paraphernalia has been appropriately removed from store windows. With no further ado, I present a Poet I love, a Palliative I love, and a Place I love (mixing the three together comes highly recommended…)
Poet:
“The heart uselessly opens
To 3 words, which is too little”
– George Oppen
Palliative:
Woodford Reserve
Place:
Portsmouth Square on a cold sunny Wednesday (narrative):
I want someone with thin, intelligent wrists. I want him to own hands nimble and sure; that look like they’re capable of taking risks, capable of telling stories.
I love watching them. I love it when they squat, sit light and deep in their haunches. It makes me want to sit deeply, too, makes me want give up ferocious legs untamed for a sturdier stance. The men play Go in the Chinatown park, shifting like sea kelp from game to game. One man in particular, about 65 years, plays with such deliberate hand it shakes me, makes me feel cold with youth. He is losing — has lost every game he played since I started watching 2 hours ago –- but he plays with such confidence, moves each marble piece with a bittersweet smile that comes only from a reconciliation, a negotiation, with loss; it is a wisdom beyond acceptance, such that he has come to revel in — prefer it, even. He knows that even the losing feels good.
And with that, I’m ready to fall in love again.
Category Love Project, Narrative | Tags: | 1 Comment
02.05.2006 by Shannon
Dad came into room and said
“Shan, it’s 6:15 — you want another half an hour?” and when normally I would think no, no I need to get up now. I am visiting Sonoma County for only 48 hours; I must rise and meet the day like Sultan-Warrior-God and go forth and Accomplish (capital “a”), I instead pause for a sleepy moment and say “yes.” And so it was then, finally at 7:00, his second attempt, that dad came in with watery coffee, but warm enough, to summon me from bed, I decided my only thought for the morning would be all that I would not do.
I wrapped myself up in my old terrycloth robe, the one I’ve had since high school and hangs patiently waiting for when I return home, and padded downstairs. Dad had the fire going because he knows my thermastat runs cold (God bless him) and I paused for a moment before its hot breath. Then, into the backyard, where I shed my robe and felt the prick of the morning cold against my nakedness, and sunk deeply into the hot water. And then, I did nothing.
At first, I had to work for it. I thought Watch the birds, Shannon. Watch. The. Birds. But then I settled a bit, and all I did was look. I looked at the side garden, with it’s vines and plants I had planted a few years back after seasons of prepping the soil — naturally clay and unyielding to growth — so that I was proud just to see anything grown, no matter that they grew unruly and restless, all of them off-kilter and leaning East to catch the rising sun. I even stopped myself from thinking they needed pruning, because I was, after all, Thinking Nothing.
Then this thought crept in: I’m a fraud. I am a faker. Nothing is ever really as sentimental as you write it. Nothing is ever really as symbolic as it feels. All this poetry and beauty and shit, you write so that you can pretend it’s your life, when really, it’s all in your head. Everything you project out, to others, doesn’t exist.
But doesn’t it? I mean, I really did sit there, this morning, in that hot tub, and think of nothing, think a void, stopped thinking but for feeling, stopped feeling but for being — and it really was, if only for a moment, beautiful. And doesn’t it stand to reason, then, that everything is that way? That when I paused for a moment, and watched one bird fly across the synapse of one branch to another branch, to another branch — like a thought –
that I stopped, and when I stopped,
it really was?
And it was true when the freeway was so far away it sounded like rain.
[for M.W.]
Category Love Project, Narrative | Tags: | 1 Comment