I’m a Magpie
Spring seems to be coming to San Francisco. It must be the rain making that’s everything green and the early flowers bloom in spite of the awful cold (51 degrees today — I know, we’re wimps). All this wet is making me nostalgic for New England. The other night, I was talking in my sleep. I do this from time to time, and my boyfriend, Brian, likes to try and draw hypnogogic conversations out of me, and relay them to me in my waking state. I’m trying to train myself to speak when I feel myself start dreaming – on that threshold between awake and asleep. Its a tiny thing we share. Anyway, I was talking. And I said two things: 1. “Underneath the branches the people are wet, and made of bark.” And some time later: 2.”My legs were twigs, but I didn’t realize it at the time.” |
Eek! A Meme! The lovely Tricia sent this my way: 1. How many music files on your computer? Um. I don’t know. How does one tell? 2. Last CD you bought? If we’re talking ‘album of music purchased in any format, ‘The Life Aquatic Soundtrack (purchased of iMusic). If you mean last physical CD purchased, then CocoRosie’sLa Maison De Mon Reve (unless you count Songs of the Pogo, which I got my Dad for Christmas. I’m all about specificity, really). 3. What is the song you last listened to before reading this message? 4. Five songs you often listen to or mean a lot to you and why: Well, according to iTunes, these are the songs I listen to most often. I don’t know if the prejudice is mine or the iTunes’ shuffler (probably a bit of both). Notice how smoothly I got out of having to choose favorites? Note: I wanted to post MP3’s of these songs, but couldn’t figure out how to convert iTunes files into MP3 format. If any of you know a secret magic way, please clue me in. i. Arcade Fire’s Neighborhood #3 (Power Out) (off of Funeral). This is a fabulous album, though I’m not sure why this particular track gets preferential treatment. But there it is. ii. Bran Van 3000’s cover of Cum On Feel The Noise (off of Glee). Do I really need to explain why I love this? iii. Nina Simone’s cover of Here Comes the Sun. I defy you to listen to this song and not feel happy. In a melancholy kind of way. This is what the world would sound like if my Grandmama Mary had been one of the original Beatles. iv. Bob Dylan’s House of the Rising Sun . I’ve loved this song since I was a little kid. I can remember hearing it on the radio when I was about eight or so and begging my mother to get me a recording of it. She found me a really upbeat ‘New Main Street Singers’-esque cover. As the Fresh Prince once noted: sometimes, mothers just don’t understand. Although to be fair, she accepted her youngest daughter’s obsession with fallen women without blinking. v. Good Friday by CocoRosie. Yum. (UPDATE: this song can be downloaded here 5. What 3 people would you like to answer this and why? 1. Colin Bayly…because I haven’t gotten a phone call at 2:AM in a while, and he’s got impeccable taste in music |
Where the longhorn cattle feed/On the lowly jimpson weed As for tonight, nothing to report. Making dinner. Brian on shoulder. Pants on fire. The usual. |
I don’t know what I expected not working to be like. Sunnier, I suppose. And more productive. But I hadn’t accounted for myself in the equation: the lazy boring awefulness that is moi. And the disorganization. And the ennui. Brian and I are going to be housesitting starting tonight. Hurrah! Yard! And hurrah! Wacky dogs! I’m looking forward to writing (sans these distracting internets) in Shelly’s secret garden. |
Ooof. I can’t decide if I’m still jet lagged, or if I’m always this way: convinced that I suck irredemably & prone to run on sentences. I know a tremendous egoist lurks within me; I’m sure of it. Perhaps I need a bath? Yes. Perhaps I do. You can’t make me spellcheck. |
I’m typing from the Hong Kong Library, where I’m trying to get some stuff for school typed up and sent to Brian so that he can drop it off for me (proof positive that he’s the best boyfriend, ever). I cant seem to open Word, and the error message in Cantonese isn’t much help (neither, unfortunately, are the librarians, who don’t seem to speak much English. They must’ve moved here post-1997).
Liza and I are staying at Mirador Mansions – a ramshackle warren of hostels, low-end tailor shops and stores selling tacky souveniers and knockoff handbags on Kowloon’s ‘Golden Mile.’ Our first night here, having come from the internationally-renowned airport via sparking subways, we were a bit taken aback by the buildings deshabille (I really want that to be a word) charm.
Liza had detailed written instructions on getting to the hostel, and so (feeling very much the seasoned international travellers), we easily travelled through Hong Kong Island and across the bay to Kowloon. Night had fallen while we were underground, and through the bus window, the whole city sparkled. We’d asked to be let off at the Holiday Inn (as the hostel had instructed), and as soon as we disembarked, we were swarmed by solicitous bellmen.
“We’re not staying here.” Liza said, lurching after the uniformed attendant who had already taken her bag and was heading for the Holiday Inn’s bright doors, “Sorry – we’re not staying here.”
We stood on the street corner and examined her directions. Apparently, our hostel was right nearby.
“Yes? Can I help?” Two doormen stood by, watching us.
“Can you show us the way to the Kowloon Garden Traveller’s Friend?”
The solicitous doorman looked at us blankly, then pulled the directions out of Liza’s hand.
“Ah. Mirador Mansions. Just down the street. On the left, there.”
We followed the direction of his outstretched arm own crowded alleyway. A decrepit looking dog ignored us as we hurried past, its eyes rheumy and distant. We’d almost passed a brightly lit door when I stopped.
“This is it, isn’t it? ‘Mirador Mansions‘”
The directions had instructed us to ignore “beggars selling fake Rolexes and offering rooms unaffiliated with the hostel.” This relatively benign description had not prepared us for the scene that greeted us now: In the brightly lit entryway, vendors displayed every cheaply made souvenir of China imaginable: silk sheets, gongs, hats, even sex toys. Men crowded around us, calling out, “Fake watch? Tailor? Madam, yes? You need a room? Yes?”
“Can you tell me the way to the elevator?” Liza asked the nearest and most capable looking man. “The Kowloon Garden Traveller’s Friend?”
“Ah! You need room.” He hustled us over to a sign for the Lotus USA Hostel. “You want window?” He pressed a set of keys into Liza’s hand.
No. We have a reservation somewhere. Where’s the elevator?”
Just then, we spotted a bank of elevators. We hurried over, ignoring the men’s disappointed cries.
Liza’s directions told us to go to the thirteenth floor, where we’d find our hostel immediately to the right of the elevator doors. The doors opened to an dimly lit, sparsely populated hallway. We looked to the right — an open corridor, looking out onto a ramshackle courtyard. A man detached himself from the group standing by the stairway to our left.
“Hello, Yes?” You need a room?”
“We have a reservation at the Kowloon Garden Traveller’s Friend,” said Liza forcefully. “Which way is it?”
“Yes, yes” he brisked efficiently. “This way.”
He led us off, down the hallway toward the stairwell.
“Here. Your bag. I can take it for you.” He pulled the handle of my wheeled suitcase out of my reluctant hand and headed down a the corridor. I wondered at first if I’d have to tip him when we got to the hostel, and then if we’d get to the hostel at all, and if I’d ever see my bag again.
He turned through a doorway into a narrow hall. The thought flashed through my head that this was precisely what my father had been thinking of when I’d insisted that he needn’t worry, that Hong Kong was one of the safest cities in the world.
We were at the end of a trash-strewn hallway. The man opened a door, revealing a tiny room: two platform beds, made up with well-worn cartoon printed sheets bolted to a tiled wall, a small window letting in the sounds of the street below.
“No.” I said. “This is not our room.”
“You don’t like the room? I have another. What do you want?”
“No, thank you.” Liza and I simultaneously had had enough. I grabbed my suitcase from the man’s protesting hands and we hustled back down the narrow corridor and up the stairs, making our way back to the elevator.
“Okay. It has to be somewhere to the right,” Liza said decisively. We followed the open hallway along the courtyard, past laundry and darkened doorways decorated with small shrines. We turned a dimly lit corner, and there, at the end of the hallway, brightly lit and painted yellow, stood the Kowloon Garden Traveller’s Friend.
Relieved, we rushed toward the card table and mismatched chairs that stood beneath the large, brightly lit reception sign.
After a bit of confusion, we confirmed that we had a room reserved for the night and th
e night clerk led us down a polished narrow hallway to our room. Inside, the room was small, with twin beds bolted to the wall, and well-worn (but clean) cartoon-print bedsheets. But was clean and safe, and for now, it is home. |
Update So, Christmas was great. Off to Hong Kong tonight. Meeting my friend Liza there, leaving Brian behind for ten whole days. Strange. It’ll the longest we’ve been apart in at least two years. But I get to eat tofu and noodles & visit museums with Liza, so bliss & fun for me. I’ll write more when I get back, I promise. Love to all. PS: I hate flying. |
Mute No voice today. I had a cold most of last week, feeling *mostly* better, but can’t talk, save for a high-pitched wheeze. It was kind of fun at first, playing mute, but it’s gotten old. So – tickets bought for home (for Xmas) & hong kong (for ten days post-Xmas). Two weeks notice given (hurrah!). Work schedule for next semester worked out with advisor. Apparently I deserve this (folks keep telling me). Still, I feel perpetually guilty & undeserving, as if I’ll be exposed as a fraud any moment and sent packing. I do want an office. Brian and I have been looking at (artists’) studio spaces online, and it seems like we could find some sort of shared workspace in SF for not too much ($145 – $200/mo — albeit in semi-crime ridden areas). It all seems to good to be true. Could everything really be coming up Milhouse? |
While I’m here, more bad poetry… Here’s the latest villanelle revision (and how come not one of you pointed out that it was Leda with the swan, and not Europa?) Leda walked along the wayside, Inside her, Helen, Clytemnestra: She lies awake upon her mattress. Tramping slowly, gently – careful Helen grows up white and downy, Cursing Zeus, and Aphrodite |
It’s been a while I’m sick — sore throat & no energy. Slept all day. Too tired to write anything grammatical or interesting. Guilt blogging, really. I think I’m going to quit my jorb and throw myself at the mercy of the world. Feeling guilty that generous parents & patient boyfriend make this all possible. But really. For someone who advocates living as part of a community, I am stubbornly stuck on the idea of independence sometimes. oof. Gonna go take a bath & eat some toast. Welcome to the 21st century. This is blogging. What hath the internets wrought? |
I'm a librarian. Special skills include dog charming, brochure writing, slapdash cooking and long-winded nattering. I also enjoy watching the sunset's reflection in the tall buildings downtown.
For a while there, I taught classes on Classical literature, philosophy, and the history of religion at New College of California. I have an MA and an MFA in Writing, and live on a boat in Sausalito, CA.