December of This Year
I have been without my iPod since Thursday. About three months ago, I was at a bar. At some point, I had to go to the bathroom. And I did. And so did my iPod. I dropped it right in the toilet. (The water was clear.)
For a split second, one which felt actually like an eternity, I stared at it, considering all the while what was happening. The water was going into every orifice of the unit. It was getting in between the case and the unit. Surely I need to go in after it. And I did, a split second after it splashed in. After drying it off furiously and checking to see that it still worked, I realized the gravity of what had just happened. My buzz helped alleviate the impact. And I was fine. Just like my iPod would be ... a couple of days later. Now, three months later, it's with Apple at its Elk Grove, Calif., facility, which happens to be one freeway exit away from where I used to work.
It started losing battery power after only playing for a little while. This, combined with the mysterious lines that appeared in horizontal and vertical formations on the face, meant it was time to repair the poor thing. But that's not all. In addition to its physical ailments, I realized I started harboring negative feelings for it.It was not meeting my needs. I'm hoping it comes back to me soon, brand new would be preferable. For I wasn't attached in any particular way to this specific unit. I just want one that works.
Why after not writing for a month I decided to start with this, I do not know. I just needed to write. Because, as usual, my project is plaguing me. I'm going back and forth with places and people to start with. Each time I feel I have a breatkthrough, it ends being a false alarm. It taunts me.
That blank page, as if it is hiding the words I'm supposed to be writing. Oh well, I say now. It'll come if it will. The last month has been long, but has flown by. It has been full of epiphanies of all sorts. Two, actually, but their intensity made it seem like I had one daily. I imagine they will find their way in here eventually. But not tonight. Nor will I play catch up. So let's start with this weekend.
I did not write. But I did go to a museum. My mild Marilyn Monroe fascination continued at the Brooklyn Museum of Art with a wonderful 250-photograph collection of the blond iconic beauty. I'm glad my journey through the museum began here, because it ended with something much less interesting, but with something that evoked a similar reaction, though at the other end of the spectrum. 14 Stations:Photographed is, I must say, an ambitious project.
Each photo "depicts the traditional Christian devotional Stations of the Cross enacted by men and women who were recently homeless," according to the Web site. All right. Let's see this thing. As I stood before each picture, I remembered being eight and standing in St. Elizabeth's in my ridiculous brown jumper, brown socks with no elastic slipping down to my ankles. "Jesus Falls for the First Time." Oh yeah. I remember that. It was terribly boring, and something no eight year old should have to endure. Plus, the girls I had a crush on where in fourth and fifth grade, so I couldn't even enjoy the view.
Though I am fascinated by the place in my brain that all of this religious education has gone, I decided against this exhibit. It wasn't until station six or seven that I started to be put off by it. Jesus falls for the third time, I think was this station, and I was looking at a black and white photo of a black woman, lying on the ground in a s park. Her eyes are half open and, well, she's "fallen." I started getting angry. I am being asked to look at this photo and think of Christ. Or maybe not. But I wanted to feel sympathy for the woman on the ground. Not think of Christ. And are we supposed to look through the subjects? If so, what are supposed to think? That god's got their backs? Or am I to feel guilt, which I'm sure was mixed up in here to some extent. Guilt? Catholicism?
Gee, I've never considered that those are synonymous. Juxtapose this trip down religious lane with the movie I saw the previous night: Bad Education. See it. Everyone. Take your children. And your homophobic relatives. This is one of those films that affects on more than one level. It's been compared to Hitchcock, a comparison I would usually distrust given my infatuation with the cinematic heavyweight. But I buy it. And I'll buy the movie when it comes out on DVD. And it puts the Catholic church on trial in a different way.
The gay theme proliferates, yet it doesn't obscure. I wouldn't even call it a gay movie. And that's what I like. Since the election debacle, I've been thinking about ways to change this world. Of getting rid of this ridiculous discussion of "Morality" and "Values." I don't know what those are. And I cringe at accusations against the gays losing this election.
I became obssessed with figuring out ways to tell homophobes that it hurts the same way when I get hurt. Obssession mixed with frustration at my inability to write stories that have the potential to affect like this film does. How can you scoff at true love as seen through the eyes of a child? As seen from the distance of time and life through a story one of the protagonist's writes about the love he had when he was young. Well, I imagine some folks can. Screw them, then. And come buy me a beer when my heart breaks. It's done not only through film but through the stories I can't write. Like the ones James Baldwin penned. The dude could write. Up to now, I had only given one of his novels a chance. But I understood anyway his impact on American literature. His place in the canon. I can't put this latest one down. I'm half way through it and I know I won't want to finish it. He details the struggle patiently, and, I think more importantly, accessibly. What a person to share a birthday with. The leo that he was. I'm going to discuss it in a couple of weeks with a bunch of folks who read more than I do and who have read much more of Baldwin than I have. My professors always wished I had talked more in class. Perhaps this will be my chance. Speaking of James, I'm going to go read till I fall asleep. Ain't it the life?
