Here is a copy of the cover letter I wrote at 2am last night and mailed this morning. I swear, if there's no room for a little humor in life, then what's it all worth? And as someone who reads dozens of these every week, I know I'd appreciate if someone made me laugh every once in a while.
We shall see. They say response time is three months. Here goes:
To the editors at [Literary Journal]:
Enclosed you will find two copies of a short, modern fable titled [“Name of Story.”] In the spirit of Aimee Bender and Ron Carlson, I have enjoyed exploring this form and hope that you find it meets the needs of your publication.
I’m an Oregonian living in the Southern Appalachian Mountains, where I sling coffee part time at [the craft school] and write full time from my home in the middle of nowhere. I recently graduated from Pacific University’s low-res MFA program and am joyfully in debt up to my hairline in graduate loans.
My essays on art are published regularly in national magazines such as Ceramics Monthly, Metalsmith, Surface Design, Ceramic Art & Perception, and more. My personal narratives, poetry, and human-interest essays have been published in Cadillac Cicatrix, Perigee, Our State, Southern Arts Journal, and more. In 2007, I placed 3rd in two non-fiction writing contests, one sponsored by Oregon Quarterly and the other by M Review. Someday, I will publish a book. I swear.
A SASE is included for your reply.
Sincerely,
Katey Schultz
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Summer Reading 2 & 3
A while ago, I mentioned that I have been reading stories to the core students at the craft school every other Sunday night. So far, it’s usually just me and T, but I still want to report on what I read and provide more info on the authors for those of you who are interested.
A few weeks back, I read from Claire Davis’ latest collection of short stories titled Labors of the Heart. The story I chose to read is called “Grounded” and it tells the quiet story of a teenage boy whose mother grounds him “forever.” He decides to run away during the middle of the day, in plain sight of his mother. They live in the Montana countryside. The boy sets out on foot and the mother follows him, and the story unfolds beautifully from there. Davis’ prose is un-paralleled, her panoramic view of the landscape (both physical and psychological) is wise and telling. Little wonder she’s one of my favorite writers. The book is out in paperback now, so it’s affordable and you can probably find it used online. Learn more here or Learn more in this interview.
A few nights ago, I read form Ursula Hegi’s collection, House of Saints. I read the story “Moonwalkers,” not my favorite, but one of the longer ones and still, very poetic. Hegi is a master with the nuances of child-parent relationships and love (even when the children have grown into adults and the parents are on their deathbeds). She writes especially well about mothers and daughters in her book titled Floating in My Mother’s Palms. Originally from Germany, Hegi settled in the Pacific Northwest many years ago and has longsince gained recognition in the literary world. I read her stories over and over again for inspiration. Learn more here.
A few weeks back, I read from Claire Davis’ latest collection of short stories titled Labors of the Heart. The story I chose to read is called “Grounded” and it tells the quiet story of a teenage boy whose mother grounds him “forever.” He decides to run away during the middle of the day, in plain sight of his mother. They live in the Montana countryside. The boy sets out on foot and the mother follows him, and the story unfolds beautifully from there. Davis’ prose is un-paralleled, her panoramic view of the landscape (both physical and psychological) is wise and telling. Little wonder she’s one of my favorite writers. The book is out in paperback now, so it’s affordable and you can probably find it used online. Learn more here or Learn more in this interview.
A few nights ago, I read form Ursula Hegi’s collection, House of Saints. I read the story “Moonwalkers,” not my favorite, but one of the longer ones and still, very poetic. Hegi is a master with the nuances of child-parent relationships and love (even when the children have grown into adults and the parents are on their deathbeds). She writes especially well about mothers and daughters in her book titled Floating in My Mother’s Palms. Originally from Germany, Hegi settled in the Pacific Northwest many years ago and has longsince gained recognition in the literary world. I read her stories over and over again for inspiration. Learn more here.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Better at the Dojo
It’s as though Hanshi can read my mind. Last Thursday (Jeff’s brown belt test) was both fantastic and trying. I felt at once inspired by and challenged by Jeff’s performance. But having to bow off the mat because of my knees defeated my spirit. Hanshi always says we train with mind, body, and spirit and that in his dojo, if he had to pick one that was more important it would be your spirit. I went home that night limping physically and metaphorically.
A day and a half later, on Saturday morning, I showed at up the dojo for kid’s class and adult class before working my 12-6pm at the coffeehouse. Sienna is in summer session at the community college and can’t come to Saturday classes and none of the other senior students were there. This made me sempai, or first student. And honorable and ironic title, if only for sixty minutes, because it fell in such sharp contrast to how I felt Thursday night. We bowed in at the kamiza and I was the one who called out, “Hanshi ni” (“To Hanshi!”) – then bow – and “Rai” (“Courtesy!”) – a chorus of “Osu!” and then Hanshi called, “Sempai ni!” and they all bowed to me, “Osu!”
The kids class has another blue belt, a few oranges, and a few yellows. This means we study basics but break them down both physically and conceptually. There is sparring and combos and kata, as well. We move at a challenging speed, but not fast, and this is how I need to be training right now. When I did the same kata on Saturday at a blue belt speed, my performance and pain levels were both in check. And when Hanshi gave a speech to the kid’s class, I could feel my spirit lift with each point he made.
“It’s easy to get discouraged when you see someone in your class move ahead of you,” he said. “I’ve seen this hundreds of times before and it’s opposite of what you’d expect. One student moves ahead, you think the others would ride that wave and fall in close behind. What we often see is that others feel discouraged and compare their lives to the lives of their fellow students.”
He pauses in his speech and paces back and forth, back and forth, before his row of tiny karateka. He doesn’t look at my directly during his speech, but my heart is breaking open and hanging on every word because the more he talks, the more he lifts my spirit and gives me a way back to my pride in the dojo.
“When I was a brown belt I had a best friend in the dojo and we trained together for years. Then one day he called me up and said, ‘Hey man, you won’t believe what I got last night.’ And I asked him, ‘What?’ And he said that our instructor called him in for his black belt test and he had passed. I was happy for him, but I couldn’t believe it. For weeks I wondered why I hadn’t been called. I compared my life to his and was jealous because he didn’t have work weekends like I did and he got to train in the weight room with our instructor, something I never had time for. It wasn’t until six months later when my call came and I passed, but more importantly I learned that I was called because I was ready and that for me, and my life, that’s what mattered.”
[Of course, if I could remember this all verbatim it would be much more eloquent.]
With my spirit lifted and my body feeling tired but strong after a solid sixty minute class, we bowed out and the kids left the dojo. And for whatever reasons, nobody else showed for adult class, giving me a private lesson with Hanshi.
“Let’s work kata. What do you have questions about?” he asked.
“Empi sho, Sir.”
“Ok, then, we’ll work that.”
And we did. Step by meticulous step. Slow and steady. Pain free.
And afterwards, he had me work Anaku kata, which he was very impressed with.
I left the dojo feeling recharged. And today I called my MD to schedule and MRI so I can be prepared when I see the orthopedic surgeon in BigCity in September. Today I also had an acupuncture appointment for my knees and went on a short hike with the dog. And I have pain now (typical after a treatment) but most importantly, I have hope.
A day and a half later, on Saturday morning, I showed at up the dojo for kid’s class and adult class before working my 12-6pm at the coffeehouse. Sienna is in summer session at the community college and can’t come to Saturday classes and none of the other senior students were there. This made me sempai, or first student. And honorable and ironic title, if only for sixty minutes, because it fell in such sharp contrast to how I felt Thursday night. We bowed in at the kamiza and I was the one who called out, “Hanshi ni” (“To Hanshi!”) – then bow – and “Rai” (“Courtesy!”) – a chorus of “Osu!” and then Hanshi called, “Sempai ni!” and they all bowed to me, “Osu!”
The kids class has another blue belt, a few oranges, and a few yellows. This means we study basics but break them down both physically and conceptually. There is sparring and combos and kata, as well. We move at a challenging speed, but not fast, and this is how I need to be training right now. When I did the same kata on Saturday at a blue belt speed, my performance and pain levels were both in check. And when Hanshi gave a speech to the kid’s class, I could feel my spirit lift with each point he made.
“It’s easy to get discouraged when you see someone in your class move ahead of you,” he said. “I’ve seen this hundreds of times before and it’s opposite of what you’d expect. One student moves ahead, you think the others would ride that wave and fall in close behind. What we often see is that others feel discouraged and compare their lives to the lives of their fellow students.”
He pauses in his speech and paces back and forth, back and forth, before his row of tiny karateka. He doesn’t look at my directly during his speech, but my heart is breaking open and hanging on every word because the more he talks, the more he lifts my spirit and gives me a way back to my pride in the dojo.
“When I was a brown belt I had a best friend in the dojo and we trained together for years. Then one day he called me up and said, ‘Hey man, you won’t believe what I got last night.’ And I asked him, ‘What?’ And he said that our instructor called him in for his black belt test and he had passed. I was happy for him, but I couldn’t believe it. For weeks I wondered why I hadn’t been called. I compared my life to his and was jealous because he didn’t have work weekends like I did and he got to train in the weight room with our instructor, something I never had time for. It wasn’t until six months later when my call came and I passed, but more importantly I learned that I was called because I was ready and that for me, and my life, that’s what mattered.”
[Of course, if I could remember this all verbatim it would be much more eloquent.]
With my spirit lifted and my body feeling tired but strong after a solid sixty minute class, we bowed out and the kids left the dojo. And for whatever reasons, nobody else showed for adult class, giving me a private lesson with Hanshi.
“Let’s work kata. What do you have questions about?” he asked.
“Empi sho, Sir.”
“Ok, then, we’ll work that.”
And we did. Step by meticulous step. Slow and steady. Pain free.
And afterwards, he had me work Anaku kata, which he was very impressed with.
I left the dojo feeling recharged. And today I called my MD to schedule and MRI so I can be prepared when I see the orthopedic surgeon in BigCity in September. Today I also had an acupuncture appointment for my knees and went on a short hike with the dog. And I have pain now (typical after a treatment) but most importantly, I have hope.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
THREE YEAR ANNIVERSARY
The three-year anniversary of this blog is officially on July 29th but I would like to celebrate tonight because the coolest thing on the planet (next to the discovery of chocolate) happened today…
Enter the lovely missavie and the inquisitive maeuschen.
How do I begin this story, when it’s beginning has no tangible origin?
I started The Writing Life blog July 29th, 2005 a few weeks after quitting my teaching job and accepting a part-time position at the craft school coffeehouse (six hours a week was all they could offer). I was living in a small cabin in the woods, peeing in a bucket, and had no running water. I knew I wanted to write, apply to grad school, and be healthy. Beyond that, I hadn’t a clue. Here is a link to my first post ever.
Within eight months I had installed running cold water, found a raised seat for the pee bucket, became assistant manager at the coffeehouse, and learned to split would double-time to heat the cabin. I also applied and was accepted to grad school, published my first few essays about art, published in a few small literary journals, and somehow earned the attention of a delightful married couple in BiggestCity, NC, missavie and maeushen.
They found The Writing Life through its original source, Live Journal, probably by searching “North Carolina” or “writing” for interests, and thus the connection was made—out there, somewhere in the wildness of the world wide web, but a connection all the same. At the time, I read their blogs occasionally, but quickly turned all my focus to school. Still, they read on. They left comments. Posed questions. Maeuschen encouraged discourse and kept me thinking. Missavie gave advice and kept her radar up for my stress level, ever so gently. Who were they? Where did they live? What made them so graciously care about me, a perfect stranger, typing away into the night?
First, let’s address the obvious. Sure, in our electronic age “meeting” people through the internet happens in all kinds of ways. But that was never my intention with the blog. I put my heart and soul into these pages, first draft to first draft, and I do it because in order to survive I must attempt to write the world as I know it into coherence. These two—total strangers—have paid witness to that for three years.
There were many nights (and still are), when I blogged specifically with them in mind as my audience even though I’d never met them. Based on their comments, I gained a small understanding of their sensibilities. Based on some of their posts, I learned a little about their values and their endeavors. Good people, I thought to myself. Good people. But who?
Today, they walked into the coffeehouse.
Maeuschen’s face was immediately familiar to me, but I couldn’t place it. Had he taken a class last summer? Did he live in the mountain counties seasonally, spending long weekends here? Where I did I know him from? There was an openness to his smile, a sort of go-with-the-flow to the way he ordered his drink. And Missavie, come to think of it, she looked familiar too. Had I met her a gallery opening? I couldn’t put my finger on it so I gave them the coffeehouse spiel, taking my time to point out the core student artwork since there was nobody in line behind them.
When I was done talking they stood there at the counter and I was struck but this profoundly penetrating energy. These people, somehow, knew me. I mean knew me. I could tell by the way they felt in the room, how they positioned themselves physically, how absolutely affectionate their gazes where. But why didn’t I know them?
They turned from the counter and the connection severed. I attended to my cleaning duties, helped a few other customers, and tried to flip through the memory cards of my mind for their faces. Of course, I had no physical, real-time memory of them, so my mind literally had no pathway to follow in order to call up their faces from the Live Journal userpics I recognize every night on my computer screen. There, on top of Conley Ridge, they were totally out of context.
They drank their double-shot mochas quickly. Very quickly, in fact. And within minutes, were back up at the counter.
“So, my husband and I are having this argument…” said the woman, “…about whether or not we should tell you who we are…”
I paused, smiled. “You do look really familiar, you especially,” I said to the man. I set down my cleaning towel and walked toward the counter. “I must have met you before but I can’t…” I stopped, looked at their faces again, this time with absolute clarity.
They were all smiles.
“I know who you are. I know exactly who you are,” I said, offering my hand. “Thank you so much for your support,” I told them. “I never expected it but it’s meant to much to have you as readers for so long.”
There was a lot to say, though I can’t remember much of it now. But after only about a minute I had to come around the other side of the counter and hug each of them. That’s when they really became real and my heart, see, there’s really no other way to explain it, but my heart broke a little in the most gracious way.
Why? Because there, right there in front of me, were two people who represent the possibility of connection through the written word. They didn’t even know who I was. They never had to care. They never had to read or write. And yet they did. They always did. Without the thought of gain or recognition. And here is what I’ve been telling myself, dear readers, about all of you for the past three years: If these people who I’ve never even met care enough to keep reading and commenting after so many posts and so many years, after so many rollercoasters of love and life, after so much doubt and faith, then there must be something to this writing life.
And that, my friends, leaves me absolutely grateful and speechless.
~ Thank you M & M ~
(And if you come to BigCity next weekend, email me!)
Enter the lovely missavie and the inquisitive maeuschen.
How do I begin this story, when it’s beginning has no tangible origin?
I started The Writing Life blog July 29th, 2005 a few weeks after quitting my teaching job and accepting a part-time position at the craft school coffeehouse (six hours a week was all they could offer). I was living in a small cabin in the woods, peeing in a bucket, and had no running water. I knew I wanted to write, apply to grad school, and be healthy. Beyond that, I hadn’t a clue. Here is a link to my first post ever.
Within eight months I had installed running cold water, found a raised seat for the pee bucket, became assistant manager at the coffeehouse, and learned to split would double-time to heat the cabin. I also applied and was accepted to grad school, published my first few essays about art, published in a few small literary journals, and somehow earned the attention of a delightful married couple in BiggestCity, NC, missavie and maeushen.
They found The Writing Life through its original source, Live Journal, probably by searching “North Carolina” or “writing” for interests, and thus the connection was made—out there, somewhere in the wildness of the world wide web, but a connection all the same. At the time, I read their blogs occasionally, but quickly turned all my focus to school. Still, they read on. They left comments. Posed questions. Maeuschen encouraged discourse and kept me thinking. Missavie gave advice and kept her radar up for my stress level, ever so gently. Who were they? Where did they live? What made them so graciously care about me, a perfect stranger, typing away into the night?
First, let’s address the obvious. Sure, in our electronic age “meeting” people through the internet happens in all kinds of ways. But that was never my intention with the blog. I put my heart and soul into these pages, first draft to first draft, and I do it because in order to survive I must attempt to write the world as I know it into coherence. These two—total strangers—have paid witness to that for three years.
There were many nights (and still are), when I blogged specifically with them in mind as my audience even though I’d never met them. Based on their comments, I gained a small understanding of their sensibilities. Based on some of their posts, I learned a little about their values and their endeavors. Good people, I thought to myself. Good people. But who?
Today, they walked into the coffeehouse.
Maeuschen’s face was immediately familiar to me, but I couldn’t place it. Had he taken a class last summer? Did he live in the mountain counties seasonally, spending long weekends here? Where I did I know him from? There was an openness to his smile, a sort of go-with-the-flow to the way he ordered his drink. And Missavie, come to think of it, she looked familiar too. Had I met her a gallery opening? I couldn’t put my finger on it so I gave them the coffeehouse spiel, taking my time to point out the core student artwork since there was nobody in line behind them.
When I was done talking they stood there at the counter and I was struck but this profoundly penetrating energy. These people, somehow, knew me. I mean knew me. I could tell by the way they felt in the room, how they positioned themselves physically, how absolutely affectionate their gazes where. But why didn’t I know them?
They turned from the counter and the connection severed. I attended to my cleaning duties, helped a few other customers, and tried to flip through the memory cards of my mind for their faces. Of course, I had no physical, real-time memory of them, so my mind literally had no pathway to follow in order to call up their faces from the Live Journal userpics I recognize every night on my computer screen. There, on top of Conley Ridge, they were totally out of context.
They drank their double-shot mochas quickly. Very quickly, in fact. And within minutes, were back up at the counter.
“So, my husband and I are having this argument…” said the woman, “…about whether or not we should tell you who we are…”
I paused, smiled. “You do look really familiar, you especially,” I said to the man. I set down my cleaning towel and walked toward the counter. “I must have met you before but I can’t…” I stopped, looked at their faces again, this time with absolute clarity.
They were all smiles.
“I know who you are. I know exactly who you are,” I said, offering my hand. “Thank you so much for your support,” I told them. “I never expected it but it’s meant to much to have you as readers for so long.”
There was a lot to say, though I can’t remember much of it now. But after only about a minute I had to come around the other side of the counter and hug each of them. That’s when they really became real and my heart, see, there’s really no other way to explain it, but my heart broke a little in the most gracious way.
Why? Because there, right there in front of me, were two people who represent the possibility of connection through the written word. They didn’t even know who I was. They never had to care. They never had to read or write. And yet they did. They always did. Without the thought of gain or recognition. And here is what I’ve been telling myself, dear readers, about all of you for the past three years: If these people who I’ve never even met care enough to keep reading and commenting after so many posts and so many years, after so many rollercoasters of love and life, after so much doubt and faith, then there must be something to this writing life.
And that, my friends, leaves me absolutely grateful and speechless.
~ Thank you M & M ~
(And if you come to BigCity next weekend, email me!)
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Up and Down at the Dojo
Tai chi class has just let out and Nate, Jeff, and I are changing into our gi’s for adult karate class. Hanshi peeks his head around the corner and says, “Jeff, we’re going to rest you for brown belt tonight. It needs to happen. You’re ready, ok?”
Jeff’s eyebrows raise and he takes in a quick breath, as if to speak. Then, “Yes, Sir.”
The last I heard, Jeff was possibly going to test in September, so this is more than a surprise, it’s a compliment and a shock. That being said, I’m not alarmed—Jeff’skills are solid and his refinement over the past two months, even, has been remarkable. He moves with a power and firmness that I didn’t see in him when I first started training. (Not as if it’s my place to critique my senior.)
So, Jeff dashes to the bathroom for some water and perhaps a last look in the mirror before what he knows will be 80 minutes of physical and mental challenge. But after we bow in, Hanshi turns to all of us and says, “We’ll begin together. Consider it a test for all of you, in a way. Like you are retesting for whatever belt you have right now. Show me your best!”
We begin with basic movements, but everything is taken up a notch. Hanshi’s voice is resonant and twice as loud as usual. He shouts numbers in Japanese faster than usual and he paces, paces, checking all of us for accuracy of movement. My intention in tonight’s class had been to take it easy—my knees are still sore from Tuesday’s workout—and these are the thoughts running through my mind as he shouts commands. Too late to back out now…
We move for about half an hour, beat-red and dripping sweat. Then we move into kata, but Sienna is leading us and it’s a black belt speed. That’s all find for her, since she’s nidan, and it’s fine for Nate who is also nidan. Moving at that speed is also fine for Jeff, since he’s testing for brown belt and has much more experience than me. But moving at black belt speed for me is difficult, of not clumsy, and I hate it when I’m asked to do this. It just feels so wholly counterproductive, but I think it’s a side effect of being seriously outranked in my own class and nobody of equal or lesser (or even nearby) rank to train with and compare myself to.
We’re working the forms and Jeff is full-blown blasting this hard core chi energy (as he should be) and kicking some serious ass. The rest of us are doing fine, but he’s stands out and already, I can tell he will pass. We’re at the crucial juncture in Wunsu kata just after the throwdown. In sync and on cue, we each spin kick and finish with a kiai.
Except me—because someone between the spin and the kiai, a sharp, electric pain bolts across my knee and terrifies me. I’m barely on one foot when I turn to Hanshi (totally out of line in the kata formation) and bow, then limp off to the side of the tatami. Tears are streaming down my face and my hands are fists trying not to hit something out of anger. My lips are drawn tight as the string on a bow and pace back and forth, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible. I don’t want to talk, but when Hanshi pauses the kata and says, “You ok, Ms. Katey?” I have to respond, all teary-eyed and frog-throat, “No sir, just need a minute. Just need to walk it off.”
The other karateka continue and within a few minutes I’m back on the mat, this time to the side of their formation so that I can move at my own pace. I finish the remaining kata with them but I do it at my own pace and without any spins or wide stances or power in my movements. Tears won’t stop falling down my face and I’m so angry I could bow off the mat right now, just get the hell out of there.
Sure, my knees have problems. But seriously—why am I being asked to do these things at black belt speed? Why can’t I get a training and a lesson that’s at my level and challenging, which is what I’m paying for?
After the kata, Jeff and Nate spar, grapple, run through take downs, and a few chokes. Then we all line up to test Jeff with ukemi (the art of falling). The last few minutes are always grueling—pushups, sit ups, leg lifts, etc. But when it’s all over, Jeff’s a brown belt and the tatami is a shiny mess of sweat. We celebrate with beer and toasts all around and I’m genuinely proud and happy for him.
And I’m also genuinely at a loss for what the hell my place is going to be in this training now—me, a lowly blue belt who can’t practice at home anymore because of knee pain, plus two nidan and now one brown belt. Wont’ I just be holding everybody back or risking further injury if I keep going?
I don’t want to quit. And I don’t want to be a whimp and ask Hanshi for special treatment. But I also don’t want to subject myself to too much training, too fast, and too over my head. But I also know that I hate this feeling.
Jeff’s eyebrows raise and he takes in a quick breath, as if to speak. Then, “Yes, Sir.”
The last I heard, Jeff was possibly going to test in September, so this is more than a surprise, it’s a compliment and a shock. That being said, I’m not alarmed—Jeff’skills are solid and his refinement over the past two months, even, has been remarkable. He moves with a power and firmness that I didn’t see in him when I first started training. (Not as if it’s my place to critique my senior.)
So, Jeff dashes to the bathroom for some water and perhaps a last look in the mirror before what he knows will be 80 minutes of physical and mental challenge. But after we bow in, Hanshi turns to all of us and says, “We’ll begin together. Consider it a test for all of you, in a way. Like you are retesting for whatever belt you have right now. Show me your best!”
We begin with basic movements, but everything is taken up a notch. Hanshi’s voice is resonant and twice as loud as usual. He shouts numbers in Japanese faster than usual and he paces, paces, checking all of us for accuracy of movement. My intention in tonight’s class had been to take it easy—my knees are still sore from Tuesday’s workout—and these are the thoughts running through my mind as he shouts commands. Too late to back out now…
We move for about half an hour, beat-red and dripping sweat. Then we move into kata, but Sienna is leading us and it’s a black belt speed. That’s all find for her, since she’s nidan, and it’s fine for Nate who is also nidan. Moving at that speed is also fine for Jeff, since he’s testing for brown belt and has much more experience than me. But moving at black belt speed for me is difficult, of not clumsy, and I hate it when I’m asked to do this. It just feels so wholly counterproductive, but I think it’s a side effect of being seriously outranked in my own class and nobody of equal or lesser (or even nearby) rank to train with and compare myself to.
We’re working the forms and Jeff is full-blown blasting this hard core chi energy (as he should be) and kicking some serious ass. The rest of us are doing fine, but he’s stands out and already, I can tell he will pass. We’re at the crucial juncture in Wunsu kata just after the throwdown. In sync and on cue, we each spin kick and finish with a kiai.
Except me—because someone between the spin and the kiai, a sharp, electric pain bolts across my knee and terrifies me. I’m barely on one foot when I turn to Hanshi (totally out of line in the kata formation) and bow, then limp off to the side of the tatami. Tears are streaming down my face and my hands are fists trying not to hit something out of anger. My lips are drawn tight as the string on a bow and pace back and forth, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible. I don’t want to talk, but when Hanshi pauses the kata and says, “You ok, Ms. Katey?” I have to respond, all teary-eyed and frog-throat, “No sir, just need a minute. Just need to walk it off.”
The other karateka continue and within a few minutes I’m back on the mat, this time to the side of their formation so that I can move at my own pace. I finish the remaining kata with them but I do it at my own pace and without any spins or wide stances or power in my movements. Tears won’t stop falling down my face and I’m so angry I could bow off the mat right now, just get the hell out of there.
Sure, my knees have problems. But seriously—why am I being asked to do these things at black belt speed? Why can’t I get a training and a lesson that’s at my level and challenging, which is what I’m paying for?
After the kata, Jeff and Nate spar, grapple, run through take downs, and a few chokes. Then we all line up to test Jeff with ukemi (the art of falling). The last few minutes are always grueling—pushups, sit ups, leg lifts, etc. But when it’s all over, Jeff’s a brown belt and the tatami is a shiny mess of sweat. We celebrate with beer and toasts all around and I’m genuinely proud and happy for him.
And I’m also genuinely at a loss for what the hell my place is going to be in this training now—me, a lowly blue belt who can’t practice at home anymore because of knee pain, plus two nidan and now one brown belt. Wont’ I just be holding everybody back or risking further injury if I keep going?
I don’t want to quit. And I don’t want to be a whimp and ask Hanshi for special treatment. But I also don’t want to subject myself to too much training, too fast, and too over my head. But I also know that I hate this feeling.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Dreaming Big
Today I sent a big important submission to Narrative Magazine. I'll hear back in five weeks.
I also mailed the thesis excerpt to a New York agent - one I had a contact with. I'll hear back, supposedly, in four to six weeks.
Then I called the NC Arts Council to talk to them about the fellowship and whether or not their panelists are versed in current nonfiction trends. Hah! Rarrrr!
And then I called the top secret fellowship place but nobody was there. I guess that's what happens when you're top secret.
It feels good to dream big. Really, really good and really, really big.
All smiles.
I also mailed the thesis excerpt to a New York agent - one I had a contact with. I'll hear back, supposedly, in four to six weeks.
Then I called the NC Arts Council to talk to them about the fellowship and whether or not their panelists are versed in current nonfiction trends. Hah! Rarrrr!
And then I called the top secret fellowship place but nobody was there. I guess that's what happens when you're top secret.
It feels good to dream big. Really, really good and really, really big.
All smiles.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
A Productive Day Off
Today I photocopied and collated the RAPG grant seeking funding for AWP Chicago. I finished a pile of submissions for an anthology I’m editing. And now I will write a cover letter to a NY agency I’m courting for publishing my thesis. Rah, rah! And, for tonight’s post, I did website updates (see the sidebar for my latest essay in print).
Monday, July 21, 2008
Grant Mania
I am applying to two grants and two fellowships between now and November.
First: Regional Artist Project Grant (www.ashevillearts.org)
This application is done, less the two letters of reference, and just needs to be photocopied and dropped off. I’m asking for funding to cover a February 2009 trip to Chicago so that I may attend the annual AWP Conference there. This is for about $1,000.
Second: Arts Writers Grant Program (www.artswriters.org)
This application is lengthy and now that I’ve completed the above listed grant app, I can begin this one. It’s due in two months and it might just take me that long to put it together. As their site explains, “The Warhol Foundation Arts Writing Initiative is a three-year, three million dollar pilot program to support independent, progressive, nonprofit arts publications and individual arts writers…The initiative amplifies the foundation’s longstanding support of critical writing about the arts by focusing attention on arts writing as an essential component of a thriving visual culture.” Awards could be as small as, say, $2,000 or as much as $50,000.
Third: North Carolina Arts Council Writers Fellowship (www.ncarts.org)
Every three years, NC writers are invited to apply for this fellowship. This application is relatively simple, but the fellowship is so difficult to get that I must make every word seriously. The applicaiton is so simple I could complete it in one evening—but the decisions are complex and require more time. I must send 20 pages of my best work—what does that mean? Do I include fiction and nonfiction? Both? Either you’re in or you’re out. $10,000 to support the creative development of an NC writer and generate the creation of new work or not. No letters of reference (darn!).
Fourth: Top secret!
I’m also being considered for two grants that regional organizations have applied for already, including my name on the bill.
First – A spoken word event sponsored by the Mint Museum of Craft + Design in which I’d perform creative, written responses to contemporary art (funded by the NC Arts Council if it’s awarded).
Second – A book about NC’s quilt trails in our mountain counties (written by me, funded by other organizations).
Here’s to the future! Here’s to the unknown! Here’s to all the artists everywhere getting the support they need! Here’s to the writing life! (Wish me luck!)
First: Regional Artist Project Grant (www.ashevillearts.org)
This application is done, less the two letters of reference, and just needs to be photocopied and dropped off. I’m asking for funding to cover a February 2009 trip to Chicago so that I may attend the annual AWP Conference there. This is for about $1,000.
Second: Arts Writers Grant Program (www.artswriters.org)
This application is lengthy and now that I’ve completed the above listed grant app, I can begin this one. It’s due in two months and it might just take me that long to put it together. As their site explains, “The Warhol Foundation Arts Writing Initiative is a three-year, three million dollar pilot program to support independent, progressive, nonprofit arts publications and individual arts writers…The initiative amplifies the foundation’s longstanding support of critical writing about the arts by focusing attention on arts writing as an essential component of a thriving visual culture.” Awards could be as small as, say, $2,000 or as much as $50,000.
Third: North Carolina Arts Council Writers Fellowship (www.ncarts.org)
Every three years, NC writers are invited to apply for this fellowship. This application is relatively simple, but the fellowship is so difficult to get that I must make every word seriously. The applicaiton is so simple I could complete it in one evening—but the decisions are complex and require more time. I must send 20 pages of my best work—what does that mean? Do I include fiction and nonfiction? Both? Either you’re in or you’re out. $10,000 to support the creative development of an NC writer and generate the creation of new work or not. No letters of reference (darn!).
Fourth: Top secret!
I’m also being considered for two grants that regional organizations have applied for already, including my name on the bill.
First – A spoken word event sponsored by the Mint Museum of Craft + Design in which I’d perform creative, written responses to contemporary art (funded by the NC Arts Council if it’s awarded).
Second – A book about NC’s quilt trails in our mountain counties (written by me, funded by other organizations).
Here’s to the future! Here’s to the unknown! Here’s to all the artists everywhere getting the support they need! Here’s to the writing life! (Wish me luck!)
Writing is Better Than Dating
A letter arrives, post restante, from Jerusalem. Funny, how spring-infested love comes back during this week of full-moon summer. Do I remember him? How could I forget!
“Written letters entail a deepness, a thoroughness, as if they should encompass all that I have to say to you up until now,” he writes. “Will these really be the same words once they have made the distance from my house to yours?” There’s no telling, but after one read-through of the letter I can say they are words enough to keep the dialogue going, no doubt.
Each page is heavily scented from the coffee he sent along. But not just any coffee—Israeli coffee, which has a spectacular reputation. The secret? Ground cardamom. He included brewing instructions, which is good because I cannot read Arabic. As an addendum to the instructions, he explains: “After you’ve made the coffee the traditional way a couple of times, you can just do what all the Israelis do. Put a big teaspoon of coffee in a small glass cup, poor boiling water on top, wait for the grounds to settle, and enjoy. (This goes well with a weekend newspaper and a cigarette, not that I endorse smoking, or newspapers…)”
All of which explains, quite precisely, the scent (poem) I so cherished while he was still in Appalachia, taking class up at the craft school, busy making pots.
In addition to the letter, he has sent along this observation followed by a poem:
“Summer, being hot and harsh in this part of the world, fills me with a longing for those cool, hidden corners of the world, for cold marble stones, for a breeze and an afternoon nap with sheets which are cool to the touch, and when the days’ heat has died, for a warm embrace which holds in it the memory of the harsh sun and a promise of a gentle heart. And here is a poem which for me is inextricably tied to summer—
This Is Just To Say by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
And which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold”
Do people who write letters like this really exist? I hold the proof in my hands. Thousands upon thousands of miles away but yes, they do exist.
* * *
A friend elbowed me in the kitchen at work the other day and said, “Yeah, [Dan] made that main course. He’s a really good guy, by the way, if you’re ever looking for a date.”
It caught me off guard. A date? Me? With like, another human being? And before I knew it, I was already responding: “Oh no, I’m not looking. I’d rather be writing. That’s much more productive and manageable.”
We both laughed, but I was serious.
And then I thought about it later—about what a paradigm shift that is from where I was just five months ago and especially a year ago. Am I stealing myself for protection? Because nobody strikes me that way right now? For the simplicity of it? Because it’s easier? For the writing? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.
All of which is to say there’s no harm in a letter, even from so many miles across the ocean. It’s a safe distance, that’s for sure, and a cost-free exploration. And it has nothing to do with promises or expectations or commitment. Just a connection—through words, I’ll note—and a genuine one at that.
“Written letters entail a deepness, a thoroughness, as if they should encompass all that I have to say to you up until now,” he writes. “Will these really be the same words once they have made the distance from my house to yours?” There’s no telling, but after one read-through of the letter I can say they are words enough to keep the dialogue going, no doubt.
Each page is heavily scented from the coffee he sent along. But not just any coffee—Israeli coffee, which has a spectacular reputation. The secret? Ground cardamom. He included brewing instructions, which is good because I cannot read Arabic. As an addendum to the instructions, he explains: “After you’ve made the coffee the traditional way a couple of times, you can just do what all the Israelis do. Put a big teaspoon of coffee in a small glass cup, poor boiling water on top, wait for the grounds to settle, and enjoy. (This goes well with a weekend newspaper and a cigarette, not that I endorse smoking, or newspapers…)”
All of which explains, quite precisely, the scent (poem) I so cherished while he was still in Appalachia, taking class up at the craft school, busy making pots.
In addition to the letter, he has sent along this observation followed by a poem:
“Summer, being hot and harsh in this part of the world, fills me with a longing for those cool, hidden corners of the world, for cold marble stones, for a breeze and an afternoon nap with sheets which are cool to the touch, and when the days’ heat has died, for a warm embrace which holds in it the memory of the harsh sun and a promise of a gentle heart. And here is a poem which for me is inextricably tied to summer—
This Is Just To Say by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
And which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold”
Do people who write letters like this really exist? I hold the proof in my hands. Thousands upon thousands of miles away but yes, they do exist.
* * *
A friend elbowed me in the kitchen at work the other day and said, “Yeah, [Dan] made that main course. He’s a really good guy, by the way, if you’re ever looking for a date.”
It caught me off guard. A date? Me? With like, another human being? And before I knew it, I was already responding: “Oh no, I’m not looking. I’d rather be writing. That’s much more productive and manageable.”
We both laughed, but I was serious.
And then I thought about it later—about what a paradigm shift that is from where I was just five months ago and especially a year ago. Am I stealing myself for protection? Because nobody strikes me that way right now? For the simplicity of it? Because it’s easier? For the writing? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.
All of which is to say there’s no harm in a letter, even from so many miles across the ocean. It’s a safe distance, that’s for sure, and a cost-free exploration. And it has nothing to do with promises or expectations or commitment. Just a connection—through words, I’ll note—and a genuine one at that.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Preparing for Sparring
We’ve been doing a lot more karate in class since I talkd to Hanshi, and by the looks of the drills he’s asking us to do, he will ask me to try sparring sometime soon. I can’t say I’m afraid of this, but I will say that I’m hesitant—hesitant because I don’t trust my knees right now. In sparring, I’ll need to be flexible and light, moving and bouncing easily, shifting stances and weight distribution with confidence. Healthy knees are pretty crucial to all of those things.
That being said, he worked us hard for an hour today and I held up without knee pain. We did several sparring combos, first in a line facing the mirror and next with partners. One drill was a combination front grab, reverse punch, front round kick. Another was a combination reverse punch, front round kick, front side kick. We also practiced cross foot round kicks where, at the last second, you cross your front foot on a line with the back foot (switching places) with deeply bent knees to prepare for a round kick. Hanshi says it’s our job to take these drills and work with them. He says that even though we may never do them in class again, they’re another tool for our tool box
In all of these combinations I learned that I still move with stop-action between blows. Once I administer a blow, I need to pull back with just as much power and speed: “Three times the speed equals three times the reverse action.” Hanshi demonstrates the fluidity of these movements for me with my sparring partner, Jeff, then turns to me and says, “Now it’s your turn. Just do it a little tai qi style, think flow, think movement not stop action.”
We worked kata during class today as well, and I learned that my shuto blocks in wunsu kata need to come off more quickly, like a snap, and my nose needs to be lined up with my pinky, the blade of my hand turned slightly outward. In a proper horse stance, the back is completely flat and stable.
By the end of class, everybody was dripping with sweat. We must have thrown five hundred kicks between the basics in the mirror and the sparring drills. It felt good to get a solid workout in and even better to start honing my skills again. And after we bowed to the kamiza, to Hanshi, and to yudansha, breaking up the line for the next class, Hanshi gave me a little pat on the back. It wasn’t punctuated by any words, but it was a definite, intentional pat on the back—a moment of connection, and the first once, really, since I spoke to him about my difficulties. It set me sailing for the rest of the day.
That being said, he worked us hard for an hour today and I held up without knee pain. We did several sparring combos, first in a line facing the mirror and next with partners. One drill was a combination front grab, reverse punch, front round kick. Another was a combination reverse punch, front round kick, front side kick. We also practiced cross foot round kicks where, at the last second, you cross your front foot on a line with the back foot (switching places) with deeply bent knees to prepare for a round kick. Hanshi says it’s our job to take these drills and work with them. He says that even though we may never do them in class again, they’re another tool for our tool box
In all of these combinations I learned that I still move with stop-action between blows. Once I administer a blow, I need to pull back with just as much power and speed: “Three times the speed equals three times the reverse action.” Hanshi demonstrates the fluidity of these movements for me with my sparring partner, Jeff, then turns to me and says, “Now it’s your turn. Just do it a little tai qi style, think flow, think movement not stop action.”
We worked kata during class today as well, and I learned that my shuto blocks in wunsu kata need to come off more quickly, like a snap, and my nose needs to be lined up with my pinky, the blade of my hand turned slightly outward. In a proper horse stance, the back is completely flat and stable.
By the end of class, everybody was dripping with sweat. We must have thrown five hundred kicks between the basics in the mirror and the sparring drills. It felt good to get a solid workout in and even better to start honing my skills again. And after we bowed to the kamiza, to Hanshi, and to yudansha, breaking up the line for the next class, Hanshi gave me a little pat on the back. It wasn’t punctuated by any words, but it was a definite, intentional pat on the back—a moment of connection, and the first once, really, since I spoke to him about my difficulties. It set me sailing for the rest of the day.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Dinner Club, Part 2
As the tables clear out and things wind down in the back, I catch Veva’s eye, her sun gold smile that of a true friend.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Katey.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say.
Veva laughs through her smile, this full and deep laugh that is totally her own, and it could be winter two years ago, Eichelberger at her side and a bottle of Maker’s Mark whiskey to spike the tea. But we’re both two years older, a few heartbreaks a piece under our belts since then and successes in clay and writing as well. It would be a mistake to put us back there, into the past, but that is what my mind wants to do because what I want more than anything in this moment that I’m listening to her laugh is to believe that she doesn’t have breast cancer.
“Veva—“ I pause. “Veva—the world dances at your feet!”
“I’m dancing over here!” Lindsay shouts from the station of toaster ovens. “This meal is en fuego,” She points at Veva and winks. “En fuego.”
When only one table remains, community members who’ve finished their meal and are just sipping their wine, enjoying the atmosphere, Veva decides that it is time for us to eat. “Katey, go back in the dishroom and get everybody. Tell them we’re going to eat family style out in the dining area.”
I nod and spread the word and sometime around 10 p.m. we sit down to dinner. There’s about ten of us but we all squeeze around one table and fill our plates. “A toast!” somebody says, and Pablo raises his glass. “A toast, to our meandering paths and the times they get to cross and bring us all together”
“Chin, chin!”
“Salud!”
“Cheers!”
And then it is quiet all but the sound of cutlery on plates and a few oohs and aahs. “I was wondering what all our customers were experiencing all night,” says Cristina. “This tastes amazing!”
“Another toast,” I say. “To the woman of the hour!”
“To the woman of the hour!” a chorus replies.
“We love you Veva,” Linsday says.
“To Veva,” I say. “And her beautiful smile.”
“To Veva!”
“Chin, chin! Salud! Cheers! Chin, chin!”
It’s not until we start in on the sorbet that Cristina remembers the raffle.
“Ok everybody,” she says, rising from her seat. “You’re each going to draw a name out of the bucket and we’re going to have a throwing contest.”
“A what?” says Matt.
“Whoever can throw their raffle ticket the farthest, well, that’s the ticket that wins. You can fold them, crumple them, I don’t know—whatever. But you have two minutes, so, GO!”
Ery and I start folding our tickets into paper airplanes immediately. On my right, Matt’s folding his into a triangle-shaped football for flicking. There’s not time to see what others are planning and before I know it we’ve all got our backs against the wall and Cristina is counting down, “Three! Two! One! THROW!”
Ross leaps from the line to be the judge and we think we have a winner, Matt’s flicking method far outserving the rest of us.
“Over there, wait!” Ery says. “Behind the door, Ross. Mine went behind the door.”
Indeed, the last raffle and the farthest raffle had slid along the floor, under the seam of the door and into the back corner of the room, outdistancing Matt’s by a good foot. Ross unfolds the paper airplane ticket and as if the evening weren’t perfect enough: “Veva wins!” he shouts. “It’s Veva’s raffle ticket!”
We clean until midnight and I think my favorite moment is finding Ross, relieved of dish duty, dancing with Casper the dog in the dining area. He’s got the music cranked impossibly loud and I come around the corner with a broom and nearly run right into him. In a flat second we’re face to face, Casper nipping at our toes as we dance to Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab:” They tried to make go to rehab, I said No, no, no. Ross closes his eyes and raises his arms, singing at the top of his lungs, and we could be gospel on the mountaintop.
When the last light is turned off, everybody piles down the porch steps and into the parking lot. Some stay on campus for a dance party further up the ridge, others head back home to families. Veva ‘s in the passenger seat of Cristina’s car and she opens the door, reaching for a hug. Her flight leaves tomorrow from and this is the last time I’ll see her for a while.
“I love you, Katey,” she says. “I love you. Thank you for everything. I’m so glad we got to spend time together.”
She’s holding my hand and I bring my other hand to her breast, raising it up to where the lump is. And there, right there, I cup my hand and imagine all the heat and heart and health I have in me. I imagine it, like clear, white light, pouring through my palm and into her body. It’s completely dark out and the intimacy of this gesture cannot be seen by anyone else in the car. I lean down to kiss her and I am not sad, only determined. “Look at all of this that’s come together because of you. Look at all this liveliness, this energy. Even the colors of the food, the generous cause, the way everything just flowed. You made that happen. That’s what you’re good at. It’s what you give back to the world. Do you see it? Do you see all this life?”
She’s sniffling now, but I can just make out the edges of her smile. “Yes,” she says. “Yes.”
I bring my other hand to her breast. “That’s you. Life.”
“Life,” she says, and when I close the door to wave goodbye, I watch the headlights all the way down the road, like two eyes glowing, determined to cut through the darkness, and I know that she will make it home. Safe and sound. I know that she will find her way.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Katey.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say.
Veva laughs through her smile, this full and deep laugh that is totally her own, and it could be winter two years ago, Eichelberger at her side and a bottle of Maker’s Mark whiskey to spike the tea. But we’re both two years older, a few heartbreaks a piece under our belts since then and successes in clay and writing as well. It would be a mistake to put us back there, into the past, but that is what my mind wants to do because what I want more than anything in this moment that I’m listening to her laugh is to believe that she doesn’t have breast cancer.
“Veva—“ I pause. “Veva—the world dances at your feet!”
“I’m dancing over here!” Lindsay shouts from the station of toaster ovens. “This meal is en fuego,” She points at Veva and winks. “En fuego.”
When only one table remains, community members who’ve finished their meal and are just sipping their wine, enjoying the atmosphere, Veva decides that it is time for us to eat. “Katey, go back in the dishroom and get everybody. Tell them we’re going to eat family style out in the dining area.”
I nod and spread the word and sometime around 10 p.m. we sit down to dinner. There’s about ten of us but we all squeeze around one table and fill our plates. “A toast!” somebody says, and Pablo raises his glass. “A toast, to our meandering paths and the times they get to cross and bring us all together”
“Chin, chin!”
“Salud!”
“Cheers!”
And then it is quiet all but the sound of cutlery on plates and a few oohs and aahs. “I was wondering what all our customers were experiencing all night,” says Cristina. “This tastes amazing!”
“Another toast,” I say. “To the woman of the hour!”
“To the woman of the hour!” a chorus replies.
“We love you Veva,” Linsday says.
“To Veva,” I say. “And her beautiful smile.”
“To Veva!”
“Chin, chin! Salud! Cheers! Chin, chin!”
It’s not until we start in on the sorbet that Cristina remembers the raffle.
“Ok everybody,” she says, rising from her seat. “You’re each going to draw a name out of the bucket and we’re going to have a throwing contest.”
“A what?” says Matt.
“Whoever can throw their raffle ticket the farthest, well, that’s the ticket that wins. You can fold them, crumple them, I don’t know—whatever. But you have two minutes, so, GO!”
Ery and I start folding our tickets into paper airplanes immediately. On my right, Matt’s folding his into a triangle-shaped football for flicking. There’s not time to see what others are planning and before I know it we’ve all got our backs against the wall and Cristina is counting down, “Three! Two! One! THROW!”
Ross leaps from the line to be the judge and we think we have a winner, Matt’s flicking method far outserving the rest of us.
“Over there, wait!” Ery says. “Behind the door, Ross. Mine went behind the door.”
Indeed, the last raffle and the farthest raffle had slid along the floor, under the seam of the door and into the back corner of the room, outdistancing Matt’s by a good foot. Ross unfolds the paper airplane ticket and as if the evening weren’t perfect enough: “Veva wins!” he shouts. “It’s Veva’s raffle ticket!”
We clean until midnight and I think my favorite moment is finding Ross, relieved of dish duty, dancing with Casper the dog in the dining area. He’s got the music cranked impossibly loud and I come around the corner with a broom and nearly run right into him. In a flat second we’re face to face, Casper nipping at our toes as we dance to Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab:” They tried to make go to rehab, I said No, no, no. Ross closes his eyes and raises his arms, singing at the top of his lungs, and we could be gospel on the mountaintop.
When the last light is turned off, everybody piles down the porch steps and into the parking lot. Some stay on campus for a dance party further up the ridge, others head back home to families. Veva ‘s in the passenger seat of Cristina’s car and she opens the door, reaching for a hug. Her flight leaves tomorrow from and this is the last time I’ll see her for a while.
“I love you, Katey,” she says. “I love you. Thank you for everything. I’m so glad we got to spend time together.”
She’s holding my hand and I bring my other hand to her breast, raising it up to where the lump is. And there, right there, I cup my hand and imagine all the heat and heart and health I have in me. I imagine it, like clear, white light, pouring through my palm and into her body. It’s completely dark out and the intimacy of this gesture cannot be seen by anyone else in the car. I lean down to kiss her and I am not sad, only determined. “Look at all of this that’s come together because of you. Look at all this liveliness, this energy. Even the colors of the food, the generous cause, the way everything just flowed. You made that happen. That’s what you’re good at. It’s what you give back to the world. Do you see it? Do you see all this life?”
She’s sniffling now, but I can just make out the edges of her smile. “Yes,” she says. “Yes.”
I bring my other hand to her breast. “That’s you. Life.”
“Life,” she says, and when I close the door to wave goodbye, I watch the headlights all the way down the road, like two eyes glowing, determined to cut through the darkness, and I know that she will make it home. Safe and sound. I know that she will find her way.
2 of Thirteen Thousand Million Things: Bill Enters the Dojo
HERE'S ANOTHER:
When my neighbor Bill invited me in last week to talk about our driveway, I got up the nerve to ask him if he trained. Whether he’s a nervous talker or just a talker I couldn’t decipher, but he was experienced in martial arts, I determined that much.
“Yes, I train,” he’d said to me that afternoon. Then recounted a host of teachers he worked under, others he had taught, different schools he’d worked in, the place in OtherCity, TN where he went to occasionally since moving here.
That’s when I told him about Hanshi, and the dojo. I gave him our class schedule and encouraged him to come. And although I’d felt slightly threatened by the sheer amount (and size) of weapons on display in his house, the fact that he did train actually eased my mind. A good karateka doesn’t start fights. Rather, he/she uses martial arts only as a defense art and as a last means necessary.
So when Bill walked into the dojo tonight, al 6’2” and (how many muscular pounds?) of him, Everlast shirt busting at the seams, I wasn’t surprised. I’d even told Hanshi ahead of time that he might come by, sometime, maybe.
As it turns out, Hanshi and Bill are both Vietnam vets and were there at the same time. They knew some of each other’s teachers in martial arts and knew of even more of each other’s teachers over the years. They spent most of the class time talking while Nate and I worked in the corner on taezu naru waza.
At a certain point I heard Hanshi telling Bill about his karateka, pointing to each of us on the tatam as we worked our moves. “And Nate, over there, he’s Nidan,” Hanshi said. “He’s Shuri-Te, not Shuri-Ryu but—“
“Right, right” Bill interrupted, “They’re similar except for the….” And they went on like this for a while, discussing the nuances of the style back and forth.
“And then there’s Jeff,” Hashi said a few minutes later. I tried to focus on taeze number two, with the hammer fist and the tatekentsuki opening to the eye jab with the back fist on top and the solar plexus jab with the top fist on bottom. Fat chance. Hanshi was talking about us, right there, sharing his opinion. That’s something I’ve never heard him do before, but I didn’t want to miss this opportunity to hear how my teacher would introduce me. I waited. “So, Jeff is a green belt and he’s good. I mean, really sharp. He trained in tai kwon do but we’ve started him out as a white belt here so at lot has been corrected. He’s testing for brown belt this fall. He’s on his way, he’s solid,” Hanshi says.
I’m onto taezu number three now, with the leopard fist uppercut and double punch with the muashi coming from the reverse punch. “And that’s Katey, over there.” He’s pointing at me. “She’s……”
I miss it. Completely. It’s impossible for me to work the forms and listen at the same time and I’m not about to defy his instructions and turn around and gape while they talk about me.
All the same. While I’m often tortured wondering what he does think of me, it’d kind of ruin it to know. I’m here, aren’t I? Giving it my all in class despite two knees that want to fall off of my body.
When we bow out of class, Hanshi has us bow to “Sensei Bill,” something we’ve never done for any other visitor before and a sign that my neighbor, no matter how reclusive, is in fact a senior dan in his system. Then we bow to the kamiza, to Hanshi, and to each other.
When we’re finished, Hanshi points at me. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you very much for bringing this man to our dojo.” There’s a light in his eyes, that one I saw a lot of when I first began. And it makes me smile.
When my neighbor Bill invited me in last week to talk about our driveway, I got up the nerve to ask him if he trained. Whether he’s a nervous talker or just a talker I couldn’t decipher, but he was experienced in martial arts, I determined that much.
“Yes, I train,” he’d said to me that afternoon. Then recounted a host of teachers he worked under, others he had taught, different schools he’d worked in, the place in OtherCity, TN where he went to occasionally since moving here.
That’s when I told him about Hanshi, and the dojo. I gave him our class schedule and encouraged him to come. And although I’d felt slightly threatened by the sheer amount (and size) of weapons on display in his house, the fact that he did train actually eased my mind. A good karateka doesn’t start fights. Rather, he/she uses martial arts only as a defense art and as a last means necessary.
So when Bill walked into the dojo tonight, al 6’2” and (how many muscular pounds?) of him, Everlast shirt busting at the seams, I wasn’t surprised. I’d even told Hanshi ahead of time that he might come by, sometime, maybe.
As it turns out, Hanshi and Bill are both Vietnam vets and were there at the same time. They knew some of each other’s teachers in martial arts and knew of even more of each other’s teachers over the years. They spent most of the class time talking while Nate and I worked in the corner on taezu naru waza.
At a certain point I heard Hanshi telling Bill about his karateka, pointing to each of us on the tatam as we worked our moves. “And Nate, over there, he’s Nidan,” Hanshi said. “He’s Shuri-Te, not Shuri-Ryu but—“
“Right, right” Bill interrupted, “They’re similar except for the….” And they went on like this for a while, discussing the nuances of the style back and forth.
“And then there’s Jeff,” Hashi said a few minutes later. I tried to focus on taeze number two, with the hammer fist and the tatekentsuki opening to the eye jab with the back fist on top and the solar plexus jab with the top fist on bottom. Fat chance. Hanshi was talking about us, right there, sharing his opinion. That’s something I’ve never heard him do before, but I didn’t want to miss this opportunity to hear how my teacher would introduce me. I waited. “So, Jeff is a green belt and he’s good. I mean, really sharp. He trained in tai kwon do but we’ve started him out as a white belt here so at lot has been corrected. He’s testing for brown belt this fall. He’s on his way, he’s solid,” Hanshi says.
I’m onto taezu number three now, with the leopard fist uppercut and double punch with the muashi coming from the reverse punch. “And that’s Katey, over there.” He’s pointing at me. “She’s……”
I miss it. Completely. It’s impossible for me to work the forms and listen at the same time and I’m not about to defy his instructions and turn around and gape while they talk about me.
All the same. While I’m often tortured wondering what he does think of me, it’d kind of ruin it to know. I’m here, aren’t I? Giving it my all in class despite two knees that want to fall off of my body.
When we bow out of class, Hanshi has us bow to “Sensei Bill,” something we’ve never done for any other visitor before and a sign that my neighbor, no matter how reclusive, is in fact a senior dan in his system. Then we bow to the kamiza, to Hanshi, and to each other.
When we’re finished, Hanshi points at me. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you very much for bringing this man to our dojo.” There’s a light in his eyes, that one I saw a lot of when I first began. And it makes me smile.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
1 of Thirteen Thousand Million Things: Bumper to Bumper
Thirteen thousand million things happened today. I’m going to see if I can write about some of them:
It’s my day off and it’s hot in BigCity, NC where I’ve driven for an appointment with my podiatrist. Since it now costs me $20 in gas to get to the city and back, you can bet my list of errands is a mile long. But they’re all done—including snagging two pairs of sale shorts at Target for $6 (score!) and a double-iced-soy-latte from my favorite barista in town. I’m in traffic, trying to head for the interstate and get back home when I cut left onto a side street near The Orange Peel.
And that’s I realize that the car in front of me bears three bumper stickers I know. A quick look in his rearview mirror reveals the trimmed beard, red hair, and face that I know, too. Oh, April. What a month for affection that was. I haven’t seen this guy since, well, our weekend hideaway up on Fork Mountain. I glance at the clock: ten minutes before I’ve got to hit the freeway and get to Tinyville in time for karate.
I honk twice, then wave out of my sunroof to the car in front of me. We’re in the middle of the block, driving about ten miles per hour, and he glances in his rearview, unsure. I do him the favor of taking off my sunglasses and smiling, and he hits the brakes, all smiles and bright eyes and damn if he doesn’t stop the car in the middle of the two-way street and get out.
“Hey,” he shouts, walking towards my open window.
“Wow! I’m worthy of a stop in the middle of the street? Damn!” I’m smiling, trying to unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Worthy? What do you mean, oh Master of the Fine Arts? Of course you are!” and he leans down, right there in the middle of the street, and plants one on me. The Smooch Buddy. How I’ve missed him.“How are you?” he says.
“I…I’m stuck. I mean, hold on.” I look away, undo my seatbelt, and hop out of the car. Two cars honk at once, one behind me and another coming the other direction on the street and I want to say, Hey, this is the smooch buddy! Don’t you get it? I live alone in the mountains. Give a woman a break!. Don’t make me tell you how many weeks it’s been since I’ve been kissed. But instead, we oblige, getting into our respective cars and pulling to the side of the road.
We walk across the street to stand in the shade and I notice he’s wearing a collared shirt, dress khakis, and leather shoes. “All dressed up?” I say, biting my lip. The only thing that undoes me faster than a man in a collared shirt (who doesn’t normally wear collared shirts), is the combination of a red beard, Old Spice, and Carhartts. Call it weird, call it what you will—but at least I know what I like.
“Yeah, just back from a job interview,” he says. “And blah, blah blah blah….” He sounds as though he’s talking underwater. I can’t focus on anything other than how close the smooch buddy is standing to me. His eyes are the color of mullein and they match his collared shirt. There is a tiny red hair from his beard that’s fallen and landed on the little triangle of his undershirt that shows where the collar opens up. I want to brush it away, to touch that spot. He’s wearing anti-perspirant, I can smell it, but it’s a hot day and he’s been sweating in the car. I can smell that part more and it smells right. “Don’t you think?” he asks.
“What?” I say.
“Huh?”
“What…What are you doing next? Right now? I mean, what are your plans?” Oh words, don’t fail me now!
He breaks into smile, little wintergreen sparks coming from his eyes. Then he laughs to himself. “I thought you said you have karate in an hour?”
“You’re right, I do. Damn.” I’m smiling now too, and leading him back across the street to our cars because, a tempting as this is, I really do have to go. “But I could miss it. I could skip.” Did I just say that? Ohhhh, Hanshi would be shocked!
“I can’t. I’ve got a meeting in 45 minutes…blah blah….blah…”
“I gotta run, I’m gonna be late,” I say, and I’ve pulled him to me, my hand creeping down his back, and that fast I’m in the car, starting the engine. He’s happily frazzled and hops into his car, which has to move before I can get out. But there is the smooch buddy’s car moving backwards, backwards, closer, closer to mine. He stops. Angles the steering wheel and moves forward a few inches. Then cranks the wheel the opposite direction and starts to back up again, this time driving straight into my bumper. My car lurches and our eyes lock in his rearview mirror.
“Are you ok?” he shouts, totally flustered, then laughing at himself.
I’m cracked up and waving him on. “It’s a Volvo,” I shout. “It’ll be fine!” And for a moment, I like to think it was all my fault. That I had it in me, on this sunny summer day, to distract a red-bearded collared-shirt man enough to make him run his own car into mine. Yes, I like to think that.
It’s my day off and it’s hot in BigCity, NC where I’ve driven for an appointment with my podiatrist. Since it now costs me $20 in gas to get to the city and back, you can bet my list of errands is a mile long. But they’re all done—including snagging two pairs of sale shorts at Target for $6 (score!) and a double-iced-soy-latte from my favorite barista in town. I’m in traffic, trying to head for the interstate and get back home when I cut left onto a side street near The Orange Peel.
And that’s I realize that the car in front of me bears three bumper stickers I know. A quick look in his rearview mirror reveals the trimmed beard, red hair, and face that I know, too. Oh, April. What a month for affection that was. I haven’t seen this guy since, well, our weekend hideaway up on Fork Mountain. I glance at the clock: ten minutes before I’ve got to hit the freeway and get to Tinyville in time for karate.
I honk twice, then wave out of my sunroof to the car in front of me. We’re in the middle of the block, driving about ten miles per hour, and he glances in his rearview, unsure. I do him the favor of taking off my sunglasses and smiling, and he hits the brakes, all smiles and bright eyes and damn if he doesn’t stop the car in the middle of the two-way street and get out.
“Hey,” he shouts, walking towards my open window.
“Wow! I’m worthy of a stop in the middle of the street? Damn!” I’m smiling, trying to unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Worthy? What do you mean, oh Master of the Fine Arts? Of course you are!” and he leans down, right there in the middle of the street, and plants one on me. The Smooch Buddy. How I’ve missed him.“How are you?” he says.
“I…I’m stuck. I mean, hold on.” I look away, undo my seatbelt, and hop out of the car. Two cars honk at once, one behind me and another coming the other direction on the street and I want to say, Hey, this is the smooch buddy! Don’t you get it? I live alone in the mountains. Give a woman a break!. Don’t make me tell you how many weeks it’s been since I’ve been kissed. But instead, we oblige, getting into our respective cars and pulling to the side of the road.
We walk across the street to stand in the shade and I notice he’s wearing a collared shirt, dress khakis, and leather shoes. “All dressed up?” I say, biting my lip. The only thing that undoes me faster than a man in a collared shirt (who doesn’t normally wear collared shirts), is the combination of a red beard, Old Spice, and Carhartts. Call it weird, call it what you will—but at least I know what I like.
“Yeah, just back from a job interview,” he says. “And blah, blah blah blah….” He sounds as though he’s talking underwater. I can’t focus on anything other than how close the smooch buddy is standing to me. His eyes are the color of mullein and they match his collared shirt. There is a tiny red hair from his beard that’s fallen and landed on the little triangle of his undershirt that shows where the collar opens up. I want to brush it away, to touch that spot. He’s wearing anti-perspirant, I can smell it, but it’s a hot day and he’s been sweating in the car. I can smell that part more and it smells right. “Don’t you think?” he asks.
“What?” I say.
“Huh?”
“What…What are you doing next? Right now? I mean, what are your plans?” Oh words, don’t fail me now!
He breaks into smile, little wintergreen sparks coming from his eyes. Then he laughs to himself. “I thought you said you have karate in an hour?”
“You’re right, I do. Damn.” I’m smiling now too, and leading him back across the street to our cars because, a tempting as this is, I really do have to go. “But I could miss it. I could skip.” Did I just say that? Ohhhh, Hanshi would be shocked!
“I can’t. I’ve got a meeting in 45 minutes…blah blah….blah…”
“I gotta run, I’m gonna be late,” I say, and I’ve pulled him to me, my hand creeping down his back, and that fast I’m in the car, starting the engine. He’s happily frazzled and hops into his car, which has to move before I can get out. But there is the smooch buddy’s car moving backwards, backwards, closer, closer to mine. He stops. Angles the steering wheel and moves forward a few inches. Then cranks the wheel the opposite direction and starts to back up again, this time driving straight into my bumper. My car lurches and our eyes lock in his rearview mirror.
“Are you ok?” he shouts, totally flustered, then laughing at himself.
I’m cracked up and waving him on. “It’s a Volvo,” I shout. “It’ll be fine!” And for a moment, I like to think it was all my fault. That I had it in me, on this sunny summer day, to distract a red-bearded collared-shirt man enough to make him run his own car into mine. Yes, I like to think that.
Monday, July 14, 2008
The Dinner Club, Part 1
This year, instead of staying underground with Shady’s Café, we go above ground with The Dinner Club, a higher-class reservations-only benefit dinner for the local Montessori school. Emphasis on the word club; a small word but descriptive enough to safeguard us in this dry county. If it’s a club, we can serve alcohol. If we’re charging a flat fee for everything, the drinks are just part of the deal—no corking fee, no per glass, no I.D.’s, no nada.
Veva’s visiting from San Francisco and in exchange for part of her ticket and some studio time, she’s taken the reins of The Dinner Club with candor and skill. She spent the better part of a week seeking donated produce, wine, local cheeses, and meats. A few days before the big event, all the donations are in and she sets the menu. The theme? A Dalmatian meal, featuring traditional flavors from the island of Dalmatia off the coast of Croatia:
Firsts
Sun gold, cherry tomato, and basil bruschetta
Seconds
Pistachio crusted goat cheese with arugala strawberry salad
Thirds
Sweet and sour beef and pork stuffed cabbage with a warm roasted red and gold potato and broccoli salad
Fourths
Blackberry mint cabernet sorbet with anise shortbread
I arrive just after 6 p.m. and receive instruction from Pablo, who heads the wait staff for the evening. Betsy, Michael, Matt, Ery and I have all dressed the part: variations on a theme of clean, meaning we’ve washed the clay, coffee, ink, iron, and glass shards off from our day jobs and are remarkably presentable. It’s worth noting that Ery has outdone us all with a slick black collared shirt, pressed dark denim jeans, suave leather belt, and bright red bowtie. As per normal, he has sculpted his black hair into a two-inch spiked wave framing his symmetrical face and when he smiles, his brown eyes lift like two dark moons.
“You’re the hottest wine server on the floor,” I tell Ery, which is fun to say because it’s completely harmless. He is, of course, the only wine server on the floor and full-heart committed to his lovely Puerto Rican girlfriend, Janine.
“Why, thank you,” he says dramatically, drawing a hand to his chin, nodding his head, then breaking into smile.
By 6:30 we’ve rehearsed the menu and been assigned our tables. The lights are dimmed, ceiling fans mute the shuffle of volunteers in the back kitchen, and candles are lit. Each table is adorned with Michael’s handmade pottery and a generous bouquet of flowers donated from a local CSA. Pablo’s wife Cristina is the hostess and, as always, breathtaking. Trained as a dancer and now a self-supporting figurative clay artist, she is the kind of woman who can turn heads in the most tasteful way. Her beauty is undeniable, but what’s more striking is her absolute composure and the fact that while the rest of the world comes to halt around her, she carries on with ineffable grace and confidence.
“Now, we’re having a raffle for this set of 5 hand blown glass tumblers,” she tells me. “So when your table is completely finished, they need to get the spiel. Thank them. Remind them that everything was donated to make this evening possible and then remind them that all the proceeds go to the Montessori school. Got it?” She smiles, two rows of teeth like perfection itself. “You’ll be taking their checks and cash, and I’ll handle the raffle tickets, k?”
I nod.
“Good, now go tell the other servers,” and she is off, across the dining area, out the door, and down the ramp to the porch where our first customers wait by candlelight near a table displaying the 5 tumblers and sign for the raffle.
In the back kitchen, Lindsay and Veva are in charge of plating the food. Hours and hours have gone into the preparation, most of which happened the night before and into the early morning of the big day. Stacey has volunteered to plate desserts as needed and wash dishes in the meantime. The kid-faced, exuberant, young Ross and his new black lab, Casper, man the back dish room to a rolling soundtrack of Pink Floyd.
By 7 p.m. it’s a full house and the servers work the floor. Cristina seats and we offer menus and greetings. Ery pours drinks, describes the evening’s wine choices. As customers settle in and read the menu (hand sewn into special booklets made just for The Dinner Club), the wait staff gathers at a center table where the bruschetta awaits preparation. Michael’s handmade ceramic plates are designed with a ruffled edge—the perfect elegant touch for an evening like this—and with six plates of bruschetta prepared, I snatch up three at a time and begin to serve.
A modestly designed “wall” separates the opening between the dining area and the back kitchen. Angled just so, we can stand behind it and peer out without being entirely noticed by our customers. The outside of the divider is adorned with handmade, hand decorated paper form Arturo, Cristina’s brother who left last week for a month in Barcelona. The inside of the divider, the side that faces the kitchen, has the seating chart, reservations, and volunteer list.
“I need four hockey pucks,” Michael says in the back room.
“Four hockey pucks,” Lindsay echoes, and cues the toaster oven . Moving quickly, she places four pucks of pistachio crusted goat cheese on a tray and sets them to sizzle. It will take six minutes to get them up to temperature, just the right amount of time for a table to finish bruschetta and the server to clear plates.
“I need three more hockey pucks,” I say.
“Three more,” says Veva, hand-tossing the arugala strawberry salad with just the right amount of basalmic vinegrette. She pauses to get three more pucks, firing up the second toaster oven, which rests against a table that butts into an upright piano. If there’s any indication we’re serving form an old craft school building, this is it. The fact that we can pull this off with one half kitchen, an art classroom for a dish room, and all volunteers is grand enough. The toaster ovens are the icing on the cake.
We move like this for several hours: clearing plates, serving food, calling out orders, Ery always in step to refill water glasses and top off a glass of red wine. Through firsts and seconds, on to the main course, and, finally, it’s time for dessert. Just as we’re running low on plates, Stacey emerges from the back dish room with that telltale smile of hers, a stack of twenty clean plates balanced in her hands. I run a pile of entrée plates back to Ross in the dish room and he hardly notices me, his head bobbing to the beat and all the company of a super group to back him up.
“You doin’ ok?” I shout over the Pink Floyd.
He turns to me, shaggy black curls waving in his face, and opens his mouth wide in mock rock star fashion, lipsyncing in perfect cadence: We don’t need no education.
I take that as a yes and scurry back out front, snatching up a few dessert plates on my way. Stacey delicately scoops the sorbet into wine glasses, adds a garnish of fresh mint leaves and wild blackberry to Michael’s plates, and sets them conveniently along the path to the dining area. They look lovely but with all the wine we’ve been sipping between orders, I don’t dare try to carry more than two at a time this late in the game.
By all accounts it’s a family affair, friends and relatives running the show in back and friends and colleagues enjoying the food out front. And while I’ve been steeling nibbles from the sample plate of food throughout the night (two forks, almost a dozen volunteers, one serving), the game I always play with myself at these gigs is to guess when the volunteers will actually sit down and eat. Many restaurants have their staff share a meal beforehand—not possible tonight with many of our volunteers who have small children or others, like me, who worked our other jobs right up until the hour of The Dinner Club.
Between reservations, Michael and I steal a moment on the porch to talk about writing and nibble on two extra salads that were lying around. For the most part, however, we’re all running on wine or mixed drinks, nibbles here and there, and the liveliness of the atmosphere.
“Do you think we’ll all sit down together and eat?” he asks. We’re both shoveling salads at this point, hungry and hurried, but happy.
I laugh a little. It’s as though he read my mind. “Yeah, it’s always a question. I mean, we will eat. No doubt. There’s plenty of food. But it’s easier to relax once everyone else is served, so I think we’re waiting for that moment.”
Where we sit on the porch, a neighborhood dog has sniffed his way to The Dinner Club and we try to shoo him off. It’s that in-between time, between the gloaming and true dusk. I don’t’ see them, but I can hear twigs snapping in the nearby woods. The deer are hungry too.
“The mosquitoes are a bold force tonight,” I say.
“I know,” says Michael, scratching.
The dog settles into a lump on the porch. Michael and I have finished our salads, trusting Ery to watch our tables while we catch our breath. I’ve been on my feet for eleven hours, from karate to coffeehouse to here. It takes a good beating these days to crack my perspective and get me out of the subjectivity of my own view and that is the greatest gift an evening like this offers. I toss back the rest of my wine and look at down at my feet. Time to get moving, I think. The night is young and you’re lucky enough to be a part of something like this. Don’t miss a beat.
[More tomorrow…Did you miss the history links? See yesterday’s post.]
Veva’s visiting from San Francisco and in exchange for part of her ticket and some studio time, she’s taken the reins of The Dinner Club with candor and skill. She spent the better part of a week seeking donated produce, wine, local cheeses, and meats. A few days before the big event, all the donations are in and she sets the menu. The theme? A Dalmatian meal, featuring traditional flavors from the island of Dalmatia off the coast of Croatia:
Firsts
Sun gold, cherry tomato, and basil bruschetta
Seconds
Pistachio crusted goat cheese with arugala strawberry salad
Thirds
Sweet and sour beef and pork stuffed cabbage with a warm roasted red and gold potato and broccoli salad
Fourths
Blackberry mint cabernet sorbet with anise shortbread
I arrive just after 6 p.m. and receive instruction from Pablo, who heads the wait staff for the evening. Betsy, Michael, Matt, Ery and I have all dressed the part: variations on a theme of clean, meaning we’ve washed the clay, coffee, ink, iron, and glass shards off from our day jobs and are remarkably presentable. It’s worth noting that Ery has outdone us all with a slick black collared shirt, pressed dark denim jeans, suave leather belt, and bright red bowtie. As per normal, he has sculpted his black hair into a two-inch spiked wave framing his symmetrical face and when he smiles, his brown eyes lift like two dark moons.
“You’re the hottest wine server on the floor,” I tell Ery, which is fun to say because it’s completely harmless. He is, of course, the only wine server on the floor and full-heart committed to his lovely Puerto Rican girlfriend, Janine.
“Why, thank you,” he says dramatically, drawing a hand to his chin, nodding his head, then breaking into smile.
By 6:30 we’ve rehearsed the menu and been assigned our tables. The lights are dimmed, ceiling fans mute the shuffle of volunteers in the back kitchen, and candles are lit. Each table is adorned with Michael’s handmade pottery and a generous bouquet of flowers donated from a local CSA. Pablo’s wife Cristina is the hostess and, as always, breathtaking. Trained as a dancer and now a self-supporting figurative clay artist, she is the kind of woman who can turn heads in the most tasteful way. Her beauty is undeniable, but what’s more striking is her absolute composure and the fact that while the rest of the world comes to halt around her, she carries on with ineffable grace and confidence.
“Now, we’re having a raffle for this set of 5 hand blown glass tumblers,” she tells me. “So when your table is completely finished, they need to get the spiel. Thank them. Remind them that everything was donated to make this evening possible and then remind them that all the proceeds go to the Montessori school. Got it?” She smiles, two rows of teeth like perfection itself. “You’ll be taking their checks and cash, and I’ll handle the raffle tickets, k?”
I nod.
“Good, now go tell the other servers,” and she is off, across the dining area, out the door, and down the ramp to the porch where our first customers wait by candlelight near a table displaying the 5 tumblers and sign for the raffle.
In the back kitchen, Lindsay and Veva are in charge of plating the food. Hours and hours have gone into the preparation, most of which happened the night before and into the early morning of the big day. Stacey has volunteered to plate desserts as needed and wash dishes in the meantime. The kid-faced, exuberant, young Ross and his new black lab, Casper, man the back dish room to a rolling soundtrack of Pink Floyd.
By 7 p.m. it’s a full house and the servers work the floor. Cristina seats and we offer menus and greetings. Ery pours drinks, describes the evening’s wine choices. As customers settle in and read the menu (hand sewn into special booklets made just for The Dinner Club), the wait staff gathers at a center table where the bruschetta awaits preparation. Michael’s handmade ceramic plates are designed with a ruffled edge—the perfect elegant touch for an evening like this—and with six plates of bruschetta prepared, I snatch up three at a time and begin to serve.
A modestly designed “wall” separates the opening between the dining area and the back kitchen. Angled just so, we can stand behind it and peer out without being entirely noticed by our customers. The outside of the divider is adorned with handmade, hand decorated paper form Arturo, Cristina’s brother who left last week for a month in Barcelona. The inside of the divider, the side that faces the kitchen, has the seating chart, reservations, and volunteer list.
“I need four hockey pucks,” Michael says in the back room.
“Four hockey pucks,” Lindsay echoes, and cues the toaster oven . Moving quickly, she places four pucks of pistachio crusted goat cheese on a tray and sets them to sizzle. It will take six minutes to get them up to temperature, just the right amount of time for a table to finish bruschetta and the server to clear plates.
“I need three more hockey pucks,” I say.
“Three more,” says Veva, hand-tossing the arugala strawberry salad with just the right amount of basalmic vinegrette. She pauses to get three more pucks, firing up the second toaster oven, which rests against a table that butts into an upright piano. If there’s any indication we’re serving form an old craft school building, this is it. The fact that we can pull this off with one half kitchen, an art classroom for a dish room, and all volunteers is grand enough. The toaster ovens are the icing on the cake.
We move like this for several hours: clearing plates, serving food, calling out orders, Ery always in step to refill water glasses and top off a glass of red wine. Through firsts and seconds, on to the main course, and, finally, it’s time for dessert. Just as we’re running low on plates, Stacey emerges from the back dish room with that telltale smile of hers, a stack of twenty clean plates balanced in her hands. I run a pile of entrée plates back to Ross in the dish room and he hardly notices me, his head bobbing to the beat and all the company of a super group to back him up.
“You doin’ ok?” I shout over the Pink Floyd.
He turns to me, shaggy black curls waving in his face, and opens his mouth wide in mock rock star fashion, lipsyncing in perfect cadence: We don’t need no education.
I take that as a yes and scurry back out front, snatching up a few dessert plates on my way. Stacey delicately scoops the sorbet into wine glasses, adds a garnish of fresh mint leaves and wild blackberry to Michael’s plates, and sets them conveniently along the path to the dining area. They look lovely but with all the wine we’ve been sipping between orders, I don’t dare try to carry more than two at a time this late in the game.
By all accounts it’s a family affair, friends and relatives running the show in back and friends and colleagues enjoying the food out front. And while I’ve been steeling nibbles from the sample plate of food throughout the night (two forks, almost a dozen volunteers, one serving), the game I always play with myself at these gigs is to guess when the volunteers will actually sit down and eat. Many restaurants have their staff share a meal beforehand—not possible tonight with many of our volunteers who have small children or others, like me, who worked our other jobs right up until the hour of The Dinner Club.
Between reservations, Michael and I steal a moment on the porch to talk about writing and nibble on two extra salads that were lying around. For the most part, however, we’re all running on wine or mixed drinks, nibbles here and there, and the liveliness of the atmosphere.
“Do you think we’ll all sit down together and eat?” he asks. We’re both shoveling salads at this point, hungry and hurried, but happy.
I laugh a little. It’s as though he read my mind. “Yeah, it’s always a question. I mean, we will eat. No doubt. There’s plenty of food. But it’s easier to relax once everyone else is served, so I think we’re waiting for that moment.”
Where we sit on the porch, a neighborhood dog has sniffed his way to The Dinner Club and we try to shoo him off. It’s that in-between time, between the gloaming and true dusk. I don’t’ see them, but I can hear twigs snapping in the nearby woods. The deer are hungry too.
“The mosquitoes are a bold force tonight,” I say.
“I know,” says Michael, scratching.
The dog settles into a lump on the porch. Michael and I have finished our salads, trusting Ery to watch our tables while we catch our breath. I’ve been on my feet for eleven hours, from karate to coffeehouse to here. It takes a good beating these days to crack my perspective and get me out of the subjectivity of my own view and that is the greatest gift an evening like this offers. I toss back the rest of my wine and look at down at my feet. Time to get moving, I think. The night is young and you’re lucky enough to be a part of something like this. Don’t miss a beat.
[More tomorrow…Did you miss the history links? See yesterday’s post.]
Sunday, July 13, 2008
The Necessary History
I'm gearing up to write an essay about another underground restaurant experience and in an attempt to re-read the history, I found these old blog posts. These links will be posted again when the essay is ready, but for now, here they are:
An introduction to the woman of the hour, Viva, can be found in this old blog post. (I've slightly modified the spelling of her name, but really - she's just too vibrant and full a person to even attempt a made up name.) More tales are told here: "The Artist's Statement", "Perspective" and "Goodbye".
For fun, personal narrative blog posts and to get a sense of the history of this event, read about Shady's Cafe Part 1, Shady's Cafe Part 2, and Shady's Cafe Part 3 as well.
An introduction to the woman of the hour, Viva, can be found in this old blog post. (I've slightly modified the spelling of her name, but really - she's just too vibrant and full a person to even attempt a made up name.) More tales are told here: "The Artist's Statement", "Perspective" and "Goodbye".
For fun, personal narrative blog posts and to get a sense of the history of this event, read about Shady's Cafe Part 1, Shady's Cafe Part 2, and Shady's Cafe Part 3 as well.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Other People's Weapons
“I’ll tell you what, I don’t know how you do it. This road is a wreck. How do you manage in winter?” says Dave, a native of Fork Mountain whom I’ve invited up the road to get an estimate on mowing the lower field and regarding the gravel. He turns his head to look up the steepest part of the driveway and laughs in disbelief.
“I hike up in the winter,” I say. “It’s not bad, just half a mile from end to end.”
“I’ll tell you what else. There’s coyotes up here.” He waves his hand in the direction of the mountain, swooping it from left to right, tracing the distant ridgeline. “I was born and raised in these woods. There’s not a piece of this property I haven’t seen at one time or another. You oughtta get yourself a pistol” he said. “Or a shotgun.”
“They’re not much good if you don’t know how to use them,” I say.
“Well you should learn, I tell you. I’ve got mine right here and there’s not a time I can think of when I wished I didn’t have it.” He reaches around his waist and in one quick second has unsnapped a leather case attached to his belt and rested a small pistol in the palm of his hand.
“Oh,” I say.
“You’re up here all alone, then?” he says.
Oh, why that question? Always that question. And such poor timing—I mean, really! “Yes, sir,” I say. “Not a problem at all.” I envision a right snap kick, a left lead punch. Then I could hightail it down the mountain—he’s the one in cowboy boots, after all.
“And you don’t know how to use a gun?” He’s still holding the pistol out and I think there are three things he can do: Use it, put it back on, or toss it in his truck. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Grip my toes toward the earth, find my center.
“No, Sir,” I say. “I’m not too worried about coyotes, to be honest.” I want to tell him that it’s human beings that are most unpredictable, but I stay quiet.
He tosses the gun into his truck, freeing his hand so he can shake mine and nod his head. “Well then, I’ll be back on Friday to work the road. Forty bucks an hour. I can’t believe you’ve been doing it by hand. Now that’s something else, I’ll tell you. Gotta be fool crazy to put those kind of hours in.”
“I won’t argue with that,” I say, stepping out of his way so he can pull out, head back down the mountain.
That was part one of my two-part mission to keep myself and my car from barreling down the side of Fork Mountain this summer, as the heavy afternoon thunderstorms carve new gullies into the road each day. Part two involves talking to the neighbors, whose portion of the road is the worst because it is at the bottom, where water that’s been streaming downhill for half a mile finally breaks up, cuts away, and dissipates down to the creek or further down onto the edge of the pavement.
The neighbors. I haven’t spoken to them since their foster child trespassed, came into the house, and stole my digital camera. I knock on their door and step back a few feet. The handle and blinds shake and rattle from clawing dogs on the other side of the door. These are the dogs that bark like they want to kill me every time I drive by. Their names are—ready for this?—Lady and Princess.
After about a minute, Bill comes to the door without his shirt on. This is the man whom I have never seen in the 15 months that I have lived here. I ask him if he has a moment to talk about the road.
“Sure, just let me get a shirt on and I’ll invite you in.”
Another minute later he returns, the dogs safely locked away somewhere, and opens the door. I am shocked that he wants me to come inside but pleased at his honest smile and his hospitality. Plus, it’s pouring outside so I accept the offer and follow him into the living room.
We talk the business of gravel—white stone, grayrock, local versus city, waterbars versus catch troughs—all of which is fine and dandy but what I can’t help but notice is the number of weapons in this house. From where I sit, I can see three samuri swords, fully encased and mounted above the fireplace. A mahogany table serves as a pedestal for two more swords, each with blades wider then my forearm and brass (gold?) cases polished to perfection. My instinct is to turn my head, check out what else I’m in for (How many ways shall I be killed, today?), but I realize I’m gaping and instead turn my attention back to Bill.
He’s going on and on, almost nervously, telling me about hauling rock from OtherCity, TN and BigCity, NC and that’s when I notice how unfathomably wide his shoulders are. In all, he’s probably about 6’2” and three feet across up top. I notice, also, that he’s wearing an Everlast tank top. One of his palms could probably fit around my neck and it occurs to me that most people who are comfortable with weapons don’t actually display their most efficient, effective, and useful weapons. No, those weapons are hidden under pillows or near bedsides. In closest or under driver’s seats. In other words, if there are five weapons that I can see from where I am sitting now, without even turning my head, how many others are there in this house and of what variety?
Bill, it turns out, likes to talk. Eventually, I have to cut him off in order to make it to work on time. Besides, it’s taking all the energy I can muster not to turn my head and stare around his house, scoping it out for other weapons. We shake on a deal to share the costs of fixing the road, and I take my leave, part two of the mission accomplished.
Later on, I go to karate class. I make it 45 minutes and my knees are killing me. I bow off the mat and stifle tears, so utterly heartbroken about my body’s unexpected limitations. Forty-five minutes. I can kick and punch at the air for 45 minutes and my joints are shot. When I sit down that night to write, alone on Fork Mountain and all the darkness of the forest just one pane of glass away, I think about safety. About wildness. About self-preservation and the cultivation of fear.
I sit and I think and I am not scared. A four-inch cecropia moth flirts with its reflection in in the window, confused by my desk light. Except for the overflow from the spring splashing down the rocks, all is quiet. Then a loud, visceral shriek resounds across the mountain, followed by two rapid, high-pitched calls. A pause. Return to silence, the spring water. Then four calls in sets of two—the barred owl of Fork Mountain makes his killing.
“I hike up in the winter,” I say. “It’s not bad, just half a mile from end to end.”
“I’ll tell you what else. There’s coyotes up here.” He waves his hand in the direction of the mountain, swooping it from left to right, tracing the distant ridgeline. “I was born and raised in these woods. There’s not a piece of this property I haven’t seen at one time or another. You oughtta get yourself a pistol” he said. “Or a shotgun.”
“They’re not much good if you don’t know how to use them,” I say.
“Well you should learn, I tell you. I’ve got mine right here and there’s not a time I can think of when I wished I didn’t have it.” He reaches around his waist and in one quick second has unsnapped a leather case attached to his belt and rested a small pistol in the palm of his hand.
“Oh,” I say.
“You’re up here all alone, then?” he says.
Oh, why that question? Always that question. And such poor timing—I mean, really! “Yes, sir,” I say. “Not a problem at all.” I envision a right snap kick, a left lead punch. Then I could hightail it down the mountain—he’s the one in cowboy boots, after all.
“And you don’t know how to use a gun?” He’s still holding the pistol out and I think there are three things he can do: Use it, put it back on, or toss it in his truck. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Grip my toes toward the earth, find my center.
“No, Sir,” I say. “I’m not too worried about coyotes, to be honest.” I want to tell him that it’s human beings that are most unpredictable, but I stay quiet.
He tosses the gun into his truck, freeing his hand so he can shake mine and nod his head. “Well then, I’ll be back on Friday to work the road. Forty bucks an hour. I can’t believe you’ve been doing it by hand. Now that’s something else, I’ll tell you. Gotta be fool crazy to put those kind of hours in.”
“I won’t argue with that,” I say, stepping out of his way so he can pull out, head back down the mountain.
That was part one of my two-part mission to keep myself and my car from barreling down the side of Fork Mountain this summer, as the heavy afternoon thunderstorms carve new gullies into the road each day. Part two involves talking to the neighbors, whose portion of the road is the worst because it is at the bottom, where water that’s been streaming downhill for half a mile finally breaks up, cuts away, and dissipates down to the creek or further down onto the edge of the pavement.
The neighbors. I haven’t spoken to them since their foster child trespassed, came into the house, and stole my digital camera. I knock on their door and step back a few feet. The handle and blinds shake and rattle from clawing dogs on the other side of the door. These are the dogs that bark like they want to kill me every time I drive by. Their names are—ready for this?—Lady and Princess.
After about a minute, Bill comes to the door without his shirt on. This is the man whom I have never seen in the 15 months that I have lived here. I ask him if he has a moment to talk about the road.
“Sure, just let me get a shirt on and I’ll invite you in.”
Another minute later he returns, the dogs safely locked away somewhere, and opens the door. I am shocked that he wants me to come inside but pleased at his honest smile and his hospitality. Plus, it’s pouring outside so I accept the offer and follow him into the living room.
We talk the business of gravel—white stone, grayrock, local versus city, waterbars versus catch troughs—all of which is fine and dandy but what I can’t help but notice is the number of weapons in this house. From where I sit, I can see three samuri swords, fully encased and mounted above the fireplace. A mahogany table serves as a pedestal for two more swords, each with blades wider then my forearm and brass (gold?) cases polished to perfection. My instinct is to turn my head, check out what else I’m in for (How many ways shall I be killed, today?), but I realize I’m gaping and instead turn my attention back to Bill.
He’s going on and on, almost nervously, telling me about hauling rock from OtherCity, TN and BigCity, NC and that’s when I notice how unfathomably wide his shoulders are. In all, he’s probably about 6’2” and three feet across up top. I notice, also, that he’s wearing an Everlast tank top. One of his palms could probably fit around my neck and it occurs to me that most people who are comfortable with weapons don’t actually display their most efficient, effective, and useful weapons. No, those weapons are hidden under pillows or near bedsides. In closest or under driver’s seats. In other words, if there are five weapons that I can see from where I am sitting now, without even turning my head, how many others are there in this house and of what variety?
Bill, it turns out, likes to talk. Eventually, I have to cut him off in order to make it to work on time. Besides, it’s taking all the energy I can muster not to turn my head and stare around his house, scoping it out for other weapons. We shake on a deal to share the costs of fixing the road, and I take my leave, part two of the mission accomplished.
Later on, I go to karate class. I make it 45 minutes and my knees are killing me. I bow off the mat and stifle tears, so utterly heartbroken about my body’s unexpected limitations. Forty-five minutes. I can kick and punch at the air for 45 minutes and my joints are shot. When I sit down that night to write, alone on Fork Mountain and all the darkness of the forest just one pane of glass away, I think about safety. About wildness. About self-preservation and the cultivation of fear.
I sit and I think and I am not scared. A four-inch cecropia moth flirts with its reflection in in the window, confused by my desk light. Except for the overflow from the spring splashing down the rocks, all is quiet. Then a loud, visceral shriek resounds across the mountain, followed by two rapid, high-pitched calls. A pause. Return to silence, the spring water. Then four calls in sets of two—the barred owl of Fork Mountain makes his killing.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Talk at the Dojo
I call the dojo upon waking, finally ready to express what’s been on my mind about the training for the past two months. Hanshi’s wife Dori answers and we chat, then she hands Hanshi the phone.
“Sure, I can talk,” he says. “How soon can you get here?”
“I can be there in ten minutes,” I say. “But I’ll have to leave for work by 11:40.” It’s his blue eyes that I’m thinking of, how it’s always best to do things like this in person but how utterly penetrating his vision is. As though he can read my thoughts.
“That’ll be fine, Katey. I have a patient at 11 so I’ll set the needles in and we can talk while the patient is resting. See you in a few…”
Fair enough.
All the way there I try to remember how I worded things in my mind, but my brain is a mess of interrupted sentences. When I enter the training hall, Hanshi comes around the corner to the lobby in full scrubs (he is an acupuncturist by day). I bow, a gesture he takes note of but wags off, meaning there’s no need to be so formal.
We’re not two sentences into the conversation and I’m already crying. I talk about May, how hard it was, how we barely seem to be doing karate basics anymore and that when we do, it’s at black belt speed and I can’t keep up. I say it’s making me sloppy and it’s hard to keep my commitment and qi up when I’m constantly the lowest ranked in the class and asked to do more than I know how to do.
I talk about how much respect I have for him, his abilities to teach, the diverse demands of our small classes, and how grateful I am that he is in our community. I tell him I’ve spent hundreds on PT and hours and hours on exercises and appointments to try and heal my knees, all for the opportunity to keep training with him.
Then I confess about my ego. I say I think I should be in the kid’s class because they actually practice karate basics and 100% karate all the time. I say I think I’d be better off in that class (where there’s another blue belt, for example) but—and I laugh a little here—those kids could kick my butt because they’re actually training in karate when they come to the dojo and, based on adult classes the past two months, I am not.
He listens wholeheartedly, nodding and offering feedback here and there. He tells me how hard it has been to start a school in a community where, for whatever reasons, people don’t seem interested in what he’s doing. There is no conception of precisely how skilled he is and how much he has to offer our community. He’s called all the area schools and they don’t want demonstrations, for example. People join and then leave, because they just want punch and hit monkey-see monkey-do basics, rather than the mind-body-spirit training.
And then he says he’s sorry that it’s been so frustrating for me. He says the other students in my class (all above me) are chomping at the bit for more techniques and more jui jitsu, and he has to balance that out with karate basics and newcomers as they arrive. I’m getting lost in the middle. “You’re right,” he says. “We do need to get back to some of those basics.” And he also says, “But there will be nights when you walk in here and it’s going to be all jui jitsu, all the way.”
I nod—of course this is fine. I’d be find if he told me we’d only practice takedowns for the next twelve months. Whatever he decides to offer, I will respect…the point of today was to let him know what positions his decisions are putting me in, namely—the sacrifice of my karate basics, missing out in the opportunity to train in those basics with fellow karateka, and the continued experience of being given new techniques that are over my head.
We come up with a solution. We’ll start doing more actual karate in karate class, but additionally, I’ll come to kids class on Tuesdays (my day off) as an assistant. I will help him but also get to practice the basic moves with the kids when we do drills. I will do the same thing on Saturdays (before my shift at work).
We end with a bow and he pats me on the back, a gentle smile across his face. “Remember: You’re doing better than you think you are. And also, don’t worry so much. Just try not to worry, ok?”
“Sure, I can talk,” he says. “How soon can you get here?”
“I can be there in ten minutes,” I say. “But I’ll have to leave for work by 11:40.” It’s his blue eyes that I’m thinking of, how it’s always best to do things like this in person but how utterly penetrating his vision is. As though he can read my thoughts.
“That’ll be fine, Katey. I have a patient at 11 so I’ll set the needles in and we can talk while the patient is resting. See you in a few…”
Fair enough.
All the way there I try to remember how I worded things in my mind, but my brain is a mess of interrupted sentences. When I enter the training hall, Hanshi comes around the corner to the lobby in full scrubs (he is an acupuncturist by day). I bow, a gesture he takes note of but wags off, meaning there’s no need to be so formal.
We’re not two sentences into the conversation and I’m already crying. I talk about May, how hard it was, how we barely seem to be doing karate basics anymore and that when we do, it’s at black belt speed and I can’t keep up. I say it’s making me sloppy and it’s hard to keep my commitment and qi up when I’m constantly the lowest ranked in the class and asked to do more than I know how to do.
I talk about how much respect I have for him, his abilities to teach, the diverse demands of our small classes, and how grateful I am that he is in our community. I tell him I’ve spent hundreds on PT and hours and hours on exercises and appointments to try and heal my knees, all for the opportunity to keep training with him.
Then I confess about my ego. I say I think I should be in the kid’s class because they actually practice karate basics and 100% karate all the time. I say I think I’d be better off in that class (where there’s another blue belt, for example) but—and I laugh a little here—those kids could kick my butt because they’re actually training in karate when they come to the dojo and, based on adult classes the past two months, I am not.
He listens wholeheartedly, nodding and offering feedback here and there. He tells me how hard it has been to start a school in a community where, for whatever reasons, people don’t seem interested in what he’s doing. There is no conception of precisely how skilled he is and how much he has to offer our community. He’s called all the area schools and they don’t want demonstrations, for example. People join and then leave, because they just want punch and hit monkey-see monkey-do basics, rather than the mind-body-spirit training.
And then he says he’s sorry that it’s been so frustrating for me. He says the other students in my class (all above me) are chomping at the bit for more techniques and more jui jitsu, and he has to balance that out with karate basics and newcomers as they arrive. I’m getting lost in the middle. “You’re right,” he says. “We do need to get back to some of those basics.” And he also says, “But there will be nights when you walk in here and it’s going to be all jui jitsu, all the way.”
I nod—of course this is fine. I’d be find if he told me we’d only practice takedowns for the next twelve months. Whatever he decides to offer, I will respect…the point of today was to let him know what positions his decisions are putting me in, namely—the sacrifice of my karate basics, missing out in the opportunity to train in those basics with fellow karateka, and the continued experience of being given new techniques that are over my head.
We come up with a solution. We’ll start doing more actual karate in karate class, but additionally, I’ll come to kids class on Tuesdays (my day off) as an assistant. I will help him but also get to practice the basic moves with the kids when we do drills. I will do the same thing on Saturdays (before my shift at work).
We end with a bow and he pats me on the back, a gentle smile across his face. “Remember: You’re doing better than you think you are. And also, don’t worry so much. Just try not to worry, ok?”
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Ba-dump *CHING*
Slowly, reality slips in.
No one is helping students consolidate loans anymore. Not Sallie Mae, not Next Student, not Bank of America, not Student Loan Xpress. After many calls, I ask an agent who is helping me over the phone, “Why is it that all the loan agencies have stopped accepting applications for consolidation of federal student loans?”
A pause. “Because it’s uneconomical,” the agent says. “The only place left doing it that I’ve heard of is the Department of Education.”
I say thank you, hang up, and dial the number for the DoE. Even though it seems strange to borrow money from the federal government and then turn to that same government for a better deal through consolidation, it’s my only option. If I stay with my current loan agency, I’ll be stuck paying $447 per month for the next ten years—an unfathomable number for by my accounting. That’s more than half my monthly income…and that doesn’t even include my undergrad loans, which, as of this month, are now in repayment.
The application process through the DoE is easy. I try the sample loan calculator and discover that even if I took 30 years to payback my $38,000 in grad loans (How did it get so high? I only missed two interest payments!), the payment would be $250 per month. Much more palatable than $447. But it’s likely my payments will be significantly less because I’ve applied for the type of consolidation that takes into account my annual income.
Have I mentioned that since George W. Bush has been in office:
a) Students can no longer consolidate their loans annually, meaning that they must earn their degree before consolidation, allowing interest to accrue at higher rates for as many years as they are enrolled in school.
b) Students are paying, in some cases (mine included), up to three times what they paid in interested as undgrads. Compare my Whitman loans at 2.3% to my current loans at a blasphemous 6.8%.
c) The funds available for SUBSIDIZED federal Stafford loans have diminished substantially—hence my last interest payment bill, which arrived in the mail shortly before my graduation. Interest alone? $1,300. Also, hence earning a degree that cost under $30,000 but graduation with loans nearing $38,000 because of interest, total lack of subsidies, and additional cost of living loans taken out to cover – you guessed it - $600 plane tickets twice a year.
Ok. I’m done. Except I also want to say I have $27 in my checking account.
And also, I want to say that the house I live in is being shown on Thursday. A potential buyer.
A year ago, this is what I put out there to the universe: I just want o graduate without having to move again. I got my wish. And I have to say, in full honesty, that I would leave this house in an instant without a trace of betrayal or bitterness if it sold. My time here has been a gift of immeasurable influence. I’ll stay as long as I can, and when I must go, so be it.
And the last thing I want to say is: I still feel lucky and grateful and I’m still writing. Those are intangible things and I refuse to let them be disrupted by issues of money (borrowed and earned), moving, or otherwise.
Write on!
No one is helping students consolidate loans anymore. Not Sallie Mae, not Next Student, not Bank of America, not Student Loan Xpress. After many calls, I ask an agent who is helping me over the phone, “Why is it that all the loan agencies have stopped accepting applications for consolidation of federal student loans?”
A pause. “Because it’s uneconomical,” the agent says. “The only place left doing it that I’ve heard of is the Department of Education.”
I say thank you, hang up, and dial the number for the DoE. Even though it seems strange to borrow money from the federal government and then turn to that same government for a better deal through consolidation, it’s my only option. If I stay with my current loan agency, I’ll be stuck paying $447 per month for the next ten years—an unfathomable number for by my accounting. That’s more than half my monthly income…and that doesn’t even include my undergrad loans, which, as of this month, are now in repayment.
The application process through the DoE is easy. I try the sample loan calculator and discover that even if I took 30 years to payback my $38,000 in grad loans (How did it get so high? I only missed two interest payments!), the payment would be $250 per month. Much more palatable than $447. But it’s likely my payments will be significantly less because I’ve applied for the type of consolidation that takes into account my annual income.
Have I mentioned that since George W. Bush has been in office:
a) Students can no longer consolidate their loans annually, meaning that they must earn their degree before consolidation, allowing interest to accrue at higher rates for as many years as they are enrolled in school.
b) Students are paying, in some cases (mine included), up to three times what they paid in interested as undgrads. Compare my Whitman loans at 2.3% to my current loans at a blasphemous 6.8%.
c) The funds available for SUBSIDIZED federal Stafford loans have diminished substantially—hence my last interest payment bill, which arrived in the mail shortly before my graduation. Interest alone? $1,300. Also, hence earning a degree that cost under $30,000 but graduation with loans nearing $38,000 because of interest, total lack of subsidies, and additional cost of living loans taken out to cover – you guessed it - $600 plane tickets twice a year.
Ok. I’m done. Except I also want to say I have $27 in my checking account.
And also, I want to say that the house I live in is being shown on Thursday. A potential buyer.
A year ago, this is what I put out there to the universe: I just want o graduate without having to move again. I got my wish. And I have to say, in full honesty, that I would leave this house in an instant without a trace of betrayal or bitterness if it sold. My time here has been a gift of immeasurable influence. I’ll stay as long as I can, and when I must go, so be it.
And the last thing I want to say is: I still feel lucky and grateful and I’m still writing. Those are intangible things and I refuse to let them be disrupted by issues of money (borrowed and earned), moving, or otherwise.
Write on!
Today, when my friend told me she has breast cancer, I chuckled and said, “What do you mean?” I might have even been smiling.
“I mean, there’s a lump in my breast and the lump has cancer,” she repeated.
Then I got it.
I searched her face for distress and all I saw were her rosy cheeks, those same cheeks always flush with life.
“It’s weird. It’s up high, here, in a strange spot.”
I asked with my eyes, and then in a slow act of friendship, reached my hand toward her breast.
“There,” she said. “Right there.”
I felt around. Small, but yes. There, right there. Hard as stone.
I withdrew my hand.
After we finished our wine, we walked to a friend’s house near campus for a cookout. Mother, father, and two kids filled the kitchen. Together we rinsed the bell peppers, mushrooms, zucchini, and yellow squash. My friend made coleslaw and instructed me on how much pepper, garlic salt, onion salt, and cayenne to put on the beef. Then we started stabbing everything onto kabobs, refilling our wine glasses and moving out onto the porch. I watched her move, as I always do, and everything was crystal. Saline. Perfect.
This is my friend whose name means life. My friend whose very presence each year, as she comes back to the craft school for another visit, fills my heart with fresh energy and new ideas. She is also my friend who will make a choice to live and will do it.
When I got home, I did the only thing a woman does whose friend has breast cancer. I took a shower, raised an arm, and felt for lumps.
“I mean, there’s a lump in my breast and the lump has cancer,” she repeated.
Then I got it.
I searched her face for distress and all I saw were her rosy cheeks, those same cheeks always flush with life.
“It’s weird. It’s up high, here, in a strange spot.”
I asked with my eyes, and then in a slow act of friendship, reached my hand toward her breast.
“There,” she said. “Right there.”
I felt around. Small, but yes. There, right there. Hard as stone.
I withdrew my hand.
After we finished our wine, we walked to a friend’s house near campus for a cookout. Mother, father, and two kids filled the kitchen. Together we rinsed the bell peppers, mushrooms, zucchini, and yellow squash. My friend made coleslaw and instructed me on how much pepper, garlic salt, onion salt, and cayenne to put on the beef. Then we started stabbing everything onto kabobs, refilling our wine glasses and moving out onto the porch. I watched her move, as I always do, and everything was crystal. Saline. Perfect.
This is my friend whose name means life. My friend whose very presence each year, as she comes back to the craft school for another visit, fills my heart with fresh energy and new ideas. She is also my friend who will make a choice to live and will do it.
When I got home, I did the only thing a woman does whose friend has breast cancer. I took a shower, raised an arm, and felt for lumps.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
The Ultimate Customer
It’s 12:20pm and time for the lunch rush at the coffeehouse, usually a two or three person job (bare minimum) but it’s change-over weekend (between sessions) on campus and raining out, so my boss bugged out early and I’m all alone. I’ve been on the clock all of twenty minutes and that’s when the rush starts. Ninety minutes, $250 in sales, and fifteen sandwiches later, I seem to be in the clear for the lunch orders but the line’s building up again for drinks.
I’m still having fun but I’m crudely aware of the fact that I need to eat my own lunch, or put some sugar in my body quick, or else I’ll be bitch-barista in T-minus fifteen minutes and counting. And that’s when I hear it, a crackly edged voice like no other—some customer shouting at me from the middle of the line. My back is turned when the woman first starts talking, my hands busy pumping syrups for a blackberry-lime Italian soda.
“Excuse me. EXCUSE ME!” I hear her shout. The hair on the back of my neck stands up on end.
“Excuse me! Can I get an iced DECAF coffee?” Her voice again. This time, like nails on a chalkboard.
I sense a collective wave of chi-shock spread throughout the room and even before I turn to face the perpetrator, I’m counting to ten under my breath. No one, I mean no one, speaks in that tone in this coffeehouse. Not at the craft school. Not on this mountain. Not to our staff. Ever.
But when I turn around, all I see are the quick moves of a woman darting from the line, around the display case, and behind the counter. She leaps into my arms all laughter and green eyes, and that’s when I realize her joke.
It’s Amy Jacobs! A former core student at the craft school who I haven’t seen in two years. Our last occasion for a beer together after hours? When we both received our acceptance letters to graduate school, mine in Oregon and hers a full ride to a top Chicago art school plus an assistantship and stipend. She’s back on campus for two weeks and there is so much to catch up on!
The customers in line laugh with relief as they realize the rude woman is actually my friend and not rude at all, her face lit with nostalgia and her great, great smile just like I remember. Quickly, she hops back into the line so I can serve the waiting crowd, but when she gets to the counter again, she doesn’t even have to order. I remember her drink with pride: iced coffee with an inch and a quarter of room for cream, to go, please.
I’m still having fun but I’m crudely aware of the fact that I need to eat my own lunch, or put some sugar in my body quick, or else I’ll be bitch-barista in T-minus fifteen minutes and counting. And that’s when I hear it, a crackly edged voice like no other—some customer shouting at me from the middle of the line. My back is turned when the woman first starts talking, my hands busy pumping syrups for a blackberry-lime Italian soda.
“Excuse me. EXCUSE ME!” I hear her shout. The hair on the back of my neck stands up on end.
“Excuse me! Can I get an iced DECAF coffee?” Her voice again. This time, like nails on a chalkboard.
I sense a collective wave of chi-shock spread throughout the room and even before I turn to face the perpetrator, I’m counting to ten under my breath. No one, I mean no one, speaks in that tone in this coffeehouse. Not at the craft school. Not on this mountain. Not to our staff. Ever.
But when I turn around, all I see are the quick moves of a woman darting from the line, around the display case, and behind the counter. She leaps into my arms all laughter and green eyes, and that’s when I realize her joke.
It’s Amy Jacobs! A former core student at the craft school who I haven’t seen in two years. Our last occasion for a beer together after hours? When we both received our acceptance letters to graduate school, mine in Oregon and hers a full ride to a top Chicago art school plus an assistantship and stipend. She’s back on campus for two weeks and there is so much to catch up on!
The customers in line laugh with relief as they realize the rude woman is actually my friend and not rude at all, her face lit with nostalgia and her great, great smile just like I remember. Quickly, she hops back into the line so I can serve the waiting crowd, but when she gets to the counter again, she doesn’t even have to order. I remember her drink with pride: iced coffee with an inch and a quarter of room for cream, to go, please.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Post MFA Report
In my mind, I talk to my teachers. Claire, I say, I’m studying those literary magazines you told me to submit to and last night I heard a voice, started a new story. Jack, I’m putting together a packet for that journal you connected me with. Pete, it’s 2am and I’m drinking tea, relaxing and writing. Judy, I say, I’m using some kickass verbs and looking at the old horse story I sent you, mining it for details. Ellen, I say, I’m naming things (like the cecropia moth that’s set up camp on my porch door). John, I’m naming the fears and looking at them when I can. Sandra, I’m starting to open myself to writing as political, writing as momentum, writing as social change. Dorianne, I’m trying to stay in that moment and dig deeper, see what meditation can unearth and how time can expand on the page.
It’s only been two days, but so far so good. I’m reading 50 pages of day of a novel I’m critiquing (just the initial reading stage) and 4 submissions a day for a literary journal I’m guest editor at. I’m blogging about once a day and I’m writing a poem every other day to Cam. I’m staying up until 2 or 3am and getting at least an hour in of writing and an hour in of reading after all the other work is done. I’m getting 7 hours of sleep a night. I’m trying to smile even more at work. I’m leaving campus earlier after dinner and not answering the phone. I’m checking email only twice a day and never in the morning.
Like I said, there are fears. I could expound. But I’m don’t feel the need to make them any more real than they are. Before I left, Claire sat down at the post-graduation party with me and said, “Katey, I don’t want to ever hear that you’re not writing. It’s good life, the writing life, it really is. And you’re doing it. You can keep doing it. And don’t give up on that fiction. You got it kiddo, just keep going.”
And so it goes. One day at a time. Doing everything I can to keep writing. Trying to be patient, to remember that I still have to do things like work and cook and talk to friends—and I don’t have to resent these things because they take me away from the desk, rather, I need to live in these moments more thoroughly so that when I return to the desk, I can imagine as deeply as possible.
It’s only been two days, but so far so good. I’m reading 50 pages of day of a novel I’m critiquing (just the initial reading stage) and 4 submissions a day for a literary journal I’m guest editor at. I’m blogging about once a day and I’m writing a poem every other day to Cam. I’m staying up until 2 or 3am and getting at least an hour in of writing and an hour in of reading after all the other work is done. I’m getting 7 hours of sleep a night. I’m trying to smile even more at work. I’m leaving campus earlier after dinner and not answering the phone. I’m checking email only twice a day and never in the morning.
Like I said, there are fears. I could expound. But I’m don’t feel the need to make them any more real than they are. Before I left, Claire sat down at the post-graduation party with me and said, “Katey, I don’t want to ever hear that you’re not writing. It’s good life, the writing life, it really is. And you’re doing it. You can keep doing it. And don’t give up on that fiction. You got it kiddo, just keep going.”
And so it goes. One day at a time. Doing everything I can to keep writing. Trying to be patient, to remember that I still have to do things like work and cook and talk to friends—and I don’t have to resent these things because they take me away from the desk, rather, I need to live in these moments more thoroughly so that when I return to the desk, I can imagine as deeply as possible.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
A Better Pic & Back in the Dojo
Ok, so I know I said I did the website updates yesterday, but THIS is important. I finally figured out how to change the file size of a Class of 2008 digital picture that a family friend took. Now, it’s small enough to upload on dial up and it still looks gorgeous. So check us out, front page of the website, all caps and gowns. Oh, happy day!
Now, back to business:
After we bow, Hanshi gives me a big-bear-hug-welcome onto the tatami, slaps me on the back, and says, “Congratulations! We’re really proud of you!” I smile, bow to the other karateka, and then we begin class.
When I left, two new white belts had just joined. Only one remains but he’s loyal, I can tell, and I’m glad for it. Lis is missing, though, and Sienna skipped out early, so once again it’s just me and the guys.
We begin with ippon kumite kata 1-5, where the principle is speed and power. These sets of movements are basically a fast and lethal response to an attack, administering five moves to the attacker’s one. They are also the first five directions of shino kata and moves that Robbie and I practiced at the Pacific residency last week. It feels good to warm up with something familiar and, while we only work the first five, there are 26 total ippons to learn.
Next, we learn taezu naru waza 1-4, where the principle is speed and fluidity. These are also a series of moves but they are done so quickly that five or six moves are complete in 2 seconds or less. The key to moving this way is flowing between the completion of one move and the start of another so that the action is seamless. Taezu naru waza are practiced in one continuous breath and there are 10 total that we can learn.
And since karate always provides me with a metaphor for life, here is tonight’s: The taezu naru waza are supposed to happen in an instant, like life passing you by. At first, this is overwhelming and it seems impossible to decipher how so many moves can be administered in two seconds flat. But, also like life, each taezu is comprised of tiny parts that can be isolated and broken down, examined for the sake of understanding. A movement here, another move there, the breath exhaling here, the conclusion there. In the end, you’ve accomplished something and even though there may be bumps along the way (the impact of each blow), it all runs in a seamless line in the end.
Now, back to business:
After we bow, Hanshi gives me a big-bear-hug-welcome onto the tatami, slaps me on the back, and says, “Congratulations! We’re really proud of you!” I smile, bow to the other karateka, and then we begin class.
When I left, two new white belts had just joined. Only one remains but he’s loyal, I can tell, and I’m glad for it. Lis is missing, though, and Sienna skipped out early, so once again it’s just me and the guys.
We begin with ippon kumite kata 1-5, where the principle is speed and power. These sets of movements are basically a fast and lethal response to an attack, administering five moves to the attacker’s one. They are also the first five directions of shino kata and moves that Robbie and I practiced at the Pacific residency last week. It feels good to warm up with something familiar and, while we only work the first five, there are 26 total ippons to learn.
Next, we learn taezu naru waza 1-4, where the principle is speed and fluidity. These are also a series of moves but they are done so quickly that five or six moves are complete in 2 seconds or less. The key to moving this way is flowing between the completion of one move and the start of another so that the action is seamless. Taezu naru waza are practiced in one continuous breath and there are 10 total that we can learn.
And since karate always provides me with a metaphor for life, here is tonight’s: The taezu naru waza are supposed to happen in an instant, like life passing you by. At first, this is overwhelming and it seems impossible to decipher how so many moves can be administered in two seconds flat. But, also like life, each taezu is comprised of tiny parts that can be isolated and broken down, examined for the sake of understanding. A movement here, another move there, the breath exhaling here, the conclusion there. In the end, you’ve accomplished something and even though there may be bumps along the way (the impact of each blow), it all runs in a seamless line in the end.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Day Whatever
Goodbye oh wi-fi world!
I'm sitting at PDX drinking my last Coffee People Coffee Velvet Hammer (to go, with soy, medium, less 1 shot).
Here are my website updates, including new sidebar links. CLICK HERE!
I'm sitting at PDX drinking my last Coffee People Coffee Velvet Hammer (to go, with soy, medium, less 1 shot).
Here are my website updates, including new sidebar links. CLICK HERE!
Day 15 & 16
Trying to post photos but am stuck on dial up tonight, with faulty wi-fi in the burbs of Portland. Flying all day tomorrow. More news as soon as I get my feet on the ground and/or high speed internet.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Day 15
As soon as my head hit the pillow last night, my mind's eye burst alive with their faces: My teachers. Those glorious mentors who have guided, taught, encouraged, and hugged me through the past two years of the MFA.
Most of us sniffled and cried our way through the 43 minute graduation ceremony. Sitting in a straight row on the vast stage, our chairs directly faced the audience. Customary to Pacific, the faculty sat in the very front row, guarded by greygowns on either side. Sitting in front of them in this final gesture was perhaps one of the most intimate experiences a student and teacher who have connected can have, and yet the event was so public. That, more than anything, was the most heartbreaking part.
I am ready to move on. This past residency was the most comfortable of the five I particpated in. I was relaxed, had little to no anxiety (imagine that!) and slept relatively well. There was no social drama. There were no sleepless nights. There was no heartbreak no heartache and nothing seemed to be impending. Which of course means it is in fact time to move on. Leave when it gets good, they say, or - as soon as you're comfortable in a place, the place can no longer serve you.
I've been thinking a lot about how I want to step into this new phase of my writing life and I'd like to say that I have it all worked out. The truth is, I think I'm going to have to go through a bit of trial and error before I can nail down a new schedule. The other fact is, I've been gone from work for two and a half weeks and I'll be returning to an overworked staff and probably a few extra shifts on top of my regular load to make up for my absence.
But I can say this much:
First, I want to unplug the phone when I write. And I will not check email, even as a break, during my designated writing time. Designated writing time is DIFFERENT than freelance writing and freelance editing time, where email is a necessary tool for the paid job. I'm not sure how I will separate thes two facets of my writing life jsut yet, but I know it needs to happen.
Second, I want to shift my primary writing hours to AFTER work, AFTER karate, and INTO the wee hours of the night and early morning. This suits me for the cooler temperatures of summer nights and for the insular quality of writing at night. With darkness all around me, the world can suddenly become me, my fingers, the keyboard, and the desk. I like the feeling because it invites a sort of intensity that feeds a deeper view into the page (for me, anyway).
Third, I do not want to write all morning before work, go to work, and work into the night. In other words, there are three things: writing, play, and work. The play is important because it involves engaging with the world--which is as much the duty of the writer as is sitting at the desk. Playing is something I've made little time for the past two years and it's something I forget to allow for in my life. I'm slowly getting better at playing more, though. I think what this means is that everyday will have work and writing and sleeping. And weekends can have play. (I don't know yet where the freelance work will fit into this, since I'll need to sleep later in the mornings from staying up so late.)
Fourth, I know I need to be sending out my work to literary journals and researching publication markets. This has nothing to do with my magazine work and everything to do with my thesis. When I started the residency, I thought I'd return home all charged up to keep rolling with the thesis by touching it up more, filling in holes and cutting the weaker points. Now I know that I need to send work out while I'm motivated. A vast majority of nonfiction books get a contract before they are finished. They are sold on a few sample chapters and solid pitch, perhaps a publishing record or a recommendation.
Fifth, I know I need to start meditating again. This is the thing I have the most resistance to (right down to the way sitting cross-legged hurts my knees). But I must. I'll change my posture so it doesn't hurt. And I'll start with just twenty minutes a day. I no longer have homework as an excuse. It's time to get back on the cushion, as meditation deeply has everything to do with living deeply, which has everything to do with writing deeply.
So...here goes!
Most of us sniffled and cried our way through the 43 minute graduation ceremony. Sitting in a straight row on the vast stage, our chairs directly faced the audience. Customary to Pacific, the faculty sat in the very front row, guarded by greygowns on either side. Sitting in front of them in this final gesture was perhaps one of the most intimate experiences a student and teacher who have connected can have, and yet the event was so public. That, more than anything, was the most heartbreaking part.
I am ready to move on. This past residency was the most comfortable of the five I particpated in. I was relaxed, had little to no anxiety (imagine that!) and slept relatively well. There was no social drama. There were no sleepless nights. There was no heartbreak no heartache and nothing seemed to be impending. Which of course means it is in fact time to move on. Leave when it gets good, they say, or - as soon as you're comfortable in a place, the place can no longer serve you.
I've been thinking a lot about how I want to step into this new phase of my writing life and I'd like to say that I have it all worked out. The truth is, I think I'm going to have to go through a bit of trial and error before I can nail down a new schedule. The other fact is, I've been gone from work for two and a half weeks and I'll be returning to an overworked staff and probably a few extra shifts on top of my regular load to make up for my absence.
But I can say this much:
First, I want to unplug the phone when I write. And I will not check email, even as a break, during my designated writing time. Designated writing time is DIFFERENT than freelance writing and freelance editing time, where email is a necessary tool for the paid job. I'm not sure how I will separate thes two facets of my writing life jsut yet, but I know it needs to happen.
Second, I want to shift my primary writing hours to AFTER work, AFTER karate, and INTO the wee hours of the night and early morning. This suits me for the cooler temperatures of summer nights and for the insular quality of writing at night. With darkness all around me, the world can suddenly become me, my fingers, the keyboard, and the desk. I like the feeling because it invites a sort of intensity that feeds a deeper view into the page (for me, anyway).
Third, I do not want to write all morning before work, go to work, and work into the night. In other words, there are three things: writing, play, and work. The play is important because it involves engaging with the world--which is as much the duty of the writer as is sitting at the desk. Playing is something I've made little time for the past two years and it's something I forget to allow for in my life. I'm slowly getting better at playing more, though. I think what this means is that everyday will have work and writing and sleeping. And weekends can have play. (I don't know yet where the freelance work will fit into this, since I'll need to sleep later in the mornings from staying up so late.)
Fourth, I know I need to be sending out my work to literary journals and researching publication markets. This has nothing to do with my magazine work and everything to do with my thesis. When I started the residency, I thought I'd return home all charged up to keep rolling with the thesis by touching it up more, filling in holes and cutting the weaker points. Now I know that I need to send work out while I'm motivated. A vast majority of nonfiction books get a contract before they are finished. They are sold on a few sample chapters and solid pitch, perhaps a publishing record or a recommendation.
Fifth, I know I need to start meditating again. This is the thing I have the most resistance to (right down to the way sitting cross-legged hurts my knees). But I must. I'll change my posture so it doesn't hurt. And I'll start with just twenty minutes a day. I no longer have homework as an excuse. It's time to get back on the cushion, as meditation deeply has everything to do with living deeply, which has everything to do with writing deeply.
So...here goes!
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