tequilacon '05
Dude. They were going to kill me. Really. Tear-me-to-shreds kill me. But I was high above them (Them, who? I don't know. Maybe my co-workers? They didn't have faces.) on this platform, a platform with a grate in it and I could see them looking up at me but I knew that I was okay. I knew they couldn't touch me. I think I actually yelled the word, "HA!" as I swung off the grate via this chain and then. . . and then I started walking the walls and swinging about ala the aerial acrobats of Cirque du Soleil or Angelina Jolie in Tomb Raider. It was ridiculous fun. And then before I knew it all my faceless didn't-get-around-to-killing-me-co-workers were swinging on the chains ala Angelina Jolie in Tomb Raider too and I was crowded out. Back on the ground, I saw a door. So I left.
"Well, yeah," Sadie said after I finished telling her the dream.
"Well, yeah, what?"
"That's what you do."
"What's what I do?"
"You find something you enjoy doing and then you find out that you're not the only one on the planet to have ever done it, or that others also enjoy what you enjoy and then you quit."
"I do not."
"You do to."
"That's a crazy-person thing to do."
"Oh, sweetie," she replied, "you thought you weren't?"
* * *
I make it a habit to avoid other people who write. I don't join discussion groups and writers' circles. I don't go for the open mic readings or poetry slams. When someone wants to introduce me to this writer guy with a book or that other friend with a freelance career, I tend to do the uh-huh thing. The uh-huh thing that says, whatever. The whatever that means, forget it. Because he's published, so he's automatically better. And when you say she's a really good writer, do you mean better than I am? Because I'm a really good writer, right? Different? Different how? Forget it. I don't want to know. Okay, yes, I do. But only if she's a poet (for hire?) or, you know, writes instructional manuals. And regardless, I don't want to meet them -- him or her. Ever. Because a little of me maybe hates them for being better. And yes, I'm that small.
* * * Note retro-fitted to last week:
Hey. You. You reading this. You, who I've never met. I have a secret for you. You're not real. You think you are, but I know better. I'm sorry to tell you like this and I don't mean anything untoward by it, but it's important that you know this, so you'll understand. You'll understand why going to Chicago to meet unreal people very much like yourselves seems the fool's errand.
* * * I go to Chicago.
Jenny and Brandon are real.
And so are the Romanians.
Crap.
* * *
I could recount for you our adventures together, but the benefit of posting late and slow is that Jenny and Brandon have already done all the heavy lifting. The narrative of the weekend you can read here or here. And they've done such a fine job that it would be difficult for me to add more physical detail.
So I'll skip all that and tell you this:
Brandon gave us each a box of candy -- chocolate covered cherries for Jenny, dark chocolate covered almonds for me and he pegged our likes perfectly. Brandon, you should know that slowly consuming the entire box in one sitting upon returning home to Atlanta was a decadent treat for me and the perfect way to end the weekend. The rest of you should know that he's just as sweet and perfect as that candy. With just the right touch of salt.
Jenny's apartment (even down to the contents of her fridge), reminded me of my grandmother's place in Rego Park where I spent a great deal of my childhood. Walking in the door was a little bit like going home, but happily, without the ghosts. Jenny, you should know that I'm inspired by the way you live life, with your care for the small details and the lovely touches. That one of my favorite moments of the weekend was when you suggested, "Let's go buy some books, get a cup of coffee and read." Were we separated at birth?
The three of us could have met in a café in Kabul, in a tent in Tanzania for all I cared. On Pluto, even, as long as we had air. Because as we sat around the little table in Millennium Park and watched a wedding walk buy, imagined a monkey in diapers, dreamed up a history for an elderly couple in comic glasses and yes, discussed several of you -- you invisible people -- it was nice to get and be gotten. It was fun to share the adventure. Compare notes and anxieties and secrets and tricks. And I'd forgotten how delightful it is to be adored by your peers. To adore right on back.
I didn't think I'd be much for writing after this trip. It's what I do. Or rather what I don't. Typically. But I think they may have helped me turn a corner, my two new friends. My two new friends as real as you.
May I just say thanks? Thanks to Jenny and Brando, for being SO SUPER FECKING COOL?! (Sorry, you had to be there.)
* * * And then this.
In high school, Katrina and Stephanie and I, we were "the writers," and it occurs to me that these girls are the only writer-friendships that before now I ever truly fostered. And until recently I'd neither seen nor heard from either of then in more than ten years.
A month ago, I saw Stephanie at another friend's bridal shower. A shock, a surprise, a surreal delight. She's teaching theatre and English. She's moved back to the South. She's writing a book.
And when I came home from Chicago, I found this, a comment left last Thursday:
* * *
"Well, yeah," Sadie said after I finished telling her the dream.
"Well, yeah, what?"
"That's what you do."
"What's what I do?"
"You find something you enjoy doing and then you find out that you're not the only one on the planet to have ever done it, or that others also enjoy what you enjoy and then you quit."
"I do not."
"You do to."
"That's a crazy-person thing to do."
"Oh, sweetie," she replied, "you thought you weren't?"
I make it a habit to avoid other people who write. I don't join discussion groups and writers' circles. I don't go for the open mic readings or poetry slams. When someone wants to introduce me to this writer guy with a book or that other friend with a freelance career, I tend to do the uh-huh thing. The uh-huh thing that says, whatever. The whatever that means, forget it. Because he's published, so he's automatically better. And when you say she's a really good writer, do you mean better than I am? Because I'm a really good writer, right? Different? Different how? Forget it. I don't want to know. Okay, yes, I do. But only if she's a poet (for hire?) or, you know, writes instructional manuals. And regardless, I don't want to meet them -- him or her. Ever. Because a little of me maybe hates them for being better. And yes, I'm that small.
Hey. You. You reading this. You, who I've never met. I have a secret for you. You're not real. You think you are, but I know better. I'm sorry to tell you like this and I don't mean anything untoward by it, but it's important that you know this, so you'll understand. You'll understand why going to Chicago to meet unreal people very much like yourselves seems the fool's errand.
Jenny and Brandon are real.
And so are the Romanians.
Crap.
I could recount for you our adventures together, but the benefit of posting late and slow is that Jenny and Brandon have already done all the heavy lifting. The narrative of the weekend you can read here or here. And they've done such a fine job that it would be difficult for me to add more physical detail.
So I'll skip all that and tell you this:
Brandon gave us each a box of candy -- chocolate covered cherries for Jenny, dark chocolate covered almonds for me and he pegged our likes perfectly. Brandon, you should know that slowly consuming the entire box in one sitting upon returning home to Atlanta was a decadent treat for me and the perfect way to end the weekend. The rest of you should know that he's just as sweet and perfect as that candy. With just the right touch of salt.
Jenny's apartment (even down to the contents of her fridge), reminded me of my grandmother's place in Rego Park where I spent a great deal of my childhood. Walking in the door was a little bit like going home, but happily, without the ghosts. Jenny, you should know that I'm inspired by the way you live life, with your care for the small details and the lovely touches. That one of my favorite moments of the weekend was when you suggested, "Let's go buy some books, get a cup of coffee and read." Were we separated at birth?
The three of us could have met in a café in Kabul, in a tent in Tanzania for all I cared. On Pluto, even, as long as we had air. Because as we sat around the little table in Millennium Park and watched a wedding walk buy, imagined a monkey in diapers, dreamed up a history for an elderly couple in comic glasses and yes, discussed several of you -- you invisible people -- it was nice to get and be gotten. It was fun to share the adventure. Compare notes and anxieties and secrets and tricks. And I'd forgotten how delightful it is to be adored by your peers. To adore right on back.
I didn't think I'd be much for writing after this trip. It's what I do. Or rather what I don't. Typically. But I think they may have helped me turn a corner, my two new friends. My two new friends as real as you.
May I just say thanks? Thanks to Jenny and Brando, for being SO SUPER FECKING COOL?! (Sorry, you had to be there.)
In high school, Katrina and Stephanie and I, we were "the writers," and it occurs to me that these girls are the only writer-friendships that before now I ever truly fostered. And until recently I'd neither seen nor heard from either of then in more than ten years.
A month ago, I saw Stephanie at another friend's bridal shower. A shock, a surprise, a surreal delight. She's teaching theatre and English. She's moved back to the South. She's writing a book.
And when I came home from Chicago, I found this, a comment left last Thursday:
You know, in high school, a bunch of good friends got together for Christmas and gave each other gifts of poetry. One girl, gave us each a bottle of rain. Do you still have yours? I do, but half of it has evaporated and I'm pretty sure I see something growing in the other half.
Katrina
Sometimes, I really love the way life works.
* * *
"HA!"
posted by jill at 9/28/2005 04:44:00 PM
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