christmas night
"I’m a burr in the throat of a beautiful bird."
I'm reading Larissa Pham, after a long night of transcribing interviews for the story that's been ruining me, plus a short break to workshop my best friend's personal ad (my Christmas gift to her), and I want to quote her, Larissa, on my Tumblr but I wonder if that kind of thing gets old. If you quote someone too much. When you adore someone's words too much.
"When glass is described as crazed that means that it’s full of fine cracks."
I'm pondering this when I realize she's describing kintsugi, the Japanese art of pottery repair that celebrates damage instead of hiding it, a technique that once captivated a former lover of mine, though I can't remember if he told me about it or I just saw him post about it on Facebook. At that time, if I recall correctly, we were already tapering off. Feeling fatalistic about it all, I sent him passive aggressive text messages from the empty journalist bar with poor service and distracted myself by listening to the only other patron's love troubles. Her name was Robin. He sounded like a piece.
Ah, this is what it is like to be a grown-up, I thought. Sisterhood at the bar at 7 p.m. A few nights later, alone again, close to black-out drunk and more lovelorn than ever -- but this time at 2 a.m., I saw her there with the piece in question. The doorman/bartender and I rolled our eyes at each other. I don't know if she saw me sitting at a table, my three-inch, rose-colored wedges unzipped and on the floor next to me, as I tried in vain to write my woes on a damp napkin. (However bad it sounds, this story ends well. I met the poet laureate of Philadelphia and we shut the bar down as I poured all my energy out. Later, I saw that he had written my name on his palm so he would remember.)
My back aches from working on Christmas night, I tell myself I must get acupuncture next weekend, I've been telling myself this for weeks. I've been sitting in my mother's chair all night -- it's the first Christmas she hasn't spent with us in New Jersey in years. Her father just died. He died in Manila. So that's where she is, with her siblings, dealing with the estate tax, "the business of death," she called it. She sounds remarkably clear-headed, not broken up, not out of control. She is coping. This is where I get it, I think to myself.
"You're becoming Mama," my younger brother tells me. "You're spending all night listening to WQXR and using an Apple product." Then, a joke: "And holding your hand like that."
I'm holding my hand up, as if waiting for something to be placed in it. It's greasy with popcorn oil and I don't want to get it on my keyboard but am also too lazy to find a napkin. Suddenly, Jimmy uses his dirty napkin to clean the grease off my hand. He asks if I want to share a grapefruit. "Suha," he says. He asks if I want a sandwich.
"Of what?"
"Turkey. Cold cuts. What else?"
Larissa Pham again: "Happiness is not a thing you earn or deserve. I wish I could explain it."
I'm reading Larissa Pham, after a long night of transcribing interviews for the story that's been ruining me, plus a short break to workshop my best friend's personal ad (my Christmas gift to her), and I want to quote her, Larissa, on my Tumblr but I wonder if that kind of thing gets old. If you quote someone too much. When you adore someone's words too much.
"When glass is described as crazed that means that it’s full of fine cracks."
I'm pondering this when I realize she's describing kintsugi, the Japanese art of pottery repair that celebrates damage instead of hiding it, a technique that once captivated a former lover of mine, though I can't remember if he told me about it or I just saw him post about it on Facebook. At that time, if I recall correctly, we were already tapering off. Feeling fatalistic about it all, I sent him passive aggressive text messages from the empty journalist bar with poor service and distracted myself by listening to the only other patron's love troubles. Her name was Robin. He sounded like a piece.
Ah, this is what it is like to be a grown-up, I thought. Sisterhood at the bar at 7 p.m. A few nights later, alone again, close to black-out drunk and more lovelorn than ever -- but this time at 2 a.m., I saw her there with the piece in question. The doorman/bartender and I rolled our eyes at each other. I don't know if she saw me sitting at a table, my three-inch, rose-colored wedges unzipped and on the floor next to me, as I tried in vain to write my woes on a damp napkin. (However bad it sounds, this story ends well. I met the poet laureate of Philadelphia and we shut the bar down as I poured all my energy out. Later, I saw that he had written my name on his palm so he would remember.)
My back aches from working on Christmas night, I tell myself I must get acupuncture next weekend, I've been telling myself this for weeks. I've been sitting in my mother's chair all night -- it's the first Christmas she hasn't spent with us in New Jersey in years. Her father just died. He died in Manila. So that's where she is, with her siblings, dealing with the estate tax, "the business of death," she called it. She sounds remarkably clear-headed, not broken up, not out of control. She is coping. This is where I get it, I think to myself.
"You're becoming Mama," my younger brother tells me. "You're spending all night listening to WQXR and using an Apple product." Then, a joke: "And holding your hand like that."
I'm holding my hand up, as if waiting for something to be placed in it. It's greasy with popcorn oil and I don't want to get it on my keyboard but am also too lazy to find a napkin. Suddenly, Jimmy uses his dirty napkin to clean the grease off my hand. He asks if I want to share a grapefruit. "Suha," he says. He asks if I want a sandwich.
"Of what?"
"Turkey. Cold cuts. What else?"
Larissa Pham again: "Happiness is not a thing you earn or deserve. I wish I could explain it."