Feeling very much inside the Matrix

I tend to have a few books going at once, sometimes two in my bag — as primary- and back-up commute reading (unless I’m so taken with one that the others get left behind). For example, yesterday I was reading from the first anthology from the 33 1/3 series in the morning, then turned my attention to the introduction of another book on the way home. I was thinking about one of Newitz’s framing sentences this morning, circling back around to thoughts I’ve had on other, recent morning commutes. She writes that “[w]hat’s at stake [in her analysis of capitalist monsters in popular horror films] are three basic ways that economic forces ‘mark’ us. The economy structures not just the way we think, but also (as many people have noted) the shape and health of our bodies. It also affects how we tell stories about transformations in both our psychological and physical states under capitalism” (10-11). It’s not very hard to feel the truth of that statement right now.

Yesterday & today were hard days to walk across campus in the morning — yesterday because it was the last day before the wave of (crisis-produced) retirees departed, today, the day after. When I walked across the Harvard campus last week, on the evening the University announced that it would be laying off 275 of its staff, I found myself wondering if the place would feel haunted for those left behind, following the sudden disappearance of so many workers (and hundreds of staff retirements). I’ve thought about the way the crisis affects my long-distance love relationships — a diminished staff at work means more desk shifts for the rest of us, and taking time off for travel becomes much more difficult (if not impossible) to negotiate. I work a schedule that’s aligned with the commuter rail’s schedule, and I ride the commuter rail because my institution started charging for the (formerly-free) city-to-campus bus. Though riding the rail’s cheaper than the bus by a good $30/month, I will now spend at least $1000/yr in transportation costs I didn’t have before.

All that said, I need to be clear that I’m aware of my very, very good situation. Good enough that I can afford to give a few people on the street money when they ask; to have little vacations — a weekend in the Berkshires visiting chosen family and another in Montreal; to start spending less and giving/sharing more; to not worry about medicine or medical supplies or food or shelter.

Reading Joe Pernice on “Meat is Murder”

I know The Pernice Brothers‘ repertoire better than I know The Smiths’, but I’m fond of both, so the combination — an excerpt from Joe Pernice’s 33 1/3 book on “Meat is Murder” — was the main factor in my decision to spend $5 at the used book store last week. Well worth it! Pernice writes about what it was like to be a teenage straight guy for whom the album was a life-soundtrack, wholly a part of the experience of being completely infatuated with a girl & her smoking habit, surviving a classmate’s suicide, and living in Dorchester, MA in 1985. This morning, my reading pace/excerpt length/train speed were perfectly-aligned, and so the trip was all-reading with nothing left over for the ride home (except, I guess, for the rest of the collection).

P.S. Joe Pernice wrote a song about my town, Somerville, that makes me proud to live there (and was an element in my effort to feel more optimistic than afraid when I was making my move from the midwest). Hearing him sing “I’m gonna take a lover. Gonna take her back to Somerville. Show her around the neighborhood, re-case the place and settle down” how could I not look forward to living there?

And, while we’re down here, ignoring the topical boundaries around this blog, those that would suggest it’s about commuting, not living in Columbus, Ohio, I’ll note that one of my favorite memories of living in that city is biking home with T. on a warm late-spring or early-summer night, after the Pernice Brothers show at Little Brothers (RIP). The streets of our neighborhood were empty, we could swerve and loop around on our cruisers, enjoying the flatness of the land & the road, and we saw an animated, illuminated deer (yard ornament) perched in a tree, something we’d never noticed during the day, which made our little part of the city feel even more magical, capable of such secrets.

This is getting old.

My midwestern people complain about the heat, I complain about the chill & rain. I spend too much of my day feeling damp. Today I wore bright pink kneesocks to improve the view while I walked, paying attention to sidewalk + puddle-avoidance. Did I tell you how, the other week, on my way home, I accidentally stepped (deep) in some wet cement by the side of the road? When I went by the same strip on Friday, I saw that four or five other people had made the same mistake, all of our foot-holes filled with rain and leaves and trash. Maybe never to be filled with cement? Or maybe once these weeks of rain stop?

On the train, I started reading an article in The Believer, then fell half-asleep, but only half, so I could hear the conductor announce the stop before mine. Really had to fight to not sleep through the 3 minutes between that stop and my own.

Defying the odds

I tend not to think of myself as an optimist (mostly because I don’t pursue this line of thought), but this morning, I reconsidered. Walking through my neighborhood, on yet another cold rainy morning, at an early hour, my first thought when I pondered the work day ahead — with two long bouts of collaborative-executive-summary-draft-writing on the agenda — was how lucky am I to have this job where I get paid to write? I thought about how enjoyable it is to be reading a book set in a place I’ve visited, and what that adds to the imaginary landscape. I appreciated the polka dots on my umbrella, the warmth of my hoodie, the heart-shaped paperclip I found on the street last week (currently clipped to my pocket), and shoes that were mostly dry when I got on the T. And I admired the man who brought his breakfast with him: a bowl, filled with Fruit Loops and wrapped in plastic wrap, to which he added milk (that he also brought from home), and ate with a non-disposable spoon. That’s some real dedication to breakfast and/or Fruit Loops and/or sustainability; whatever the case, I was impressed.

Appreciating the weather

It was gray & rainy most of last week, a weather situation that has continued into this week & (I hear) will persist for yet another week. But this morning we had a break. Betting on the rain holding off for the next hour, I wrapped E.’s package in a plastic bag, stuck it in my bag, and got it to the post office in good shape. Along the way, Grizzly Bear stole my heart for 4:10 (or, probably more like 8:20, since I listened twice) and I got an earful of information from a crow who had a lot to communicate.

Last night/this morning

Some cognitive dissonance last night: Didn’t go directly home after work. Instead, I took the commuter rail from work to Back Bay, and arrived with about 20 minutes to spare before Vikki Law’s talk on womens’ resistance in prison. The talk was hosted by the Community Church & the , both housed in the same space in Copley Square. I wandered up Boylston St., then down Newbury St., hoping for a slice of pizza. No luck. I haven’t spent much time on Newbury, and will admit that I got excited when I spotted the Agent Provocateur store across the way. I’ll also admit to eyeing a pair of $160 shoes & having a deep want reaction, and doing some mental calculation about what owning then would involve, in terms of my budget. Weird space to occupy, physically and mentally, while also being aware that in a matter of minutes, I’d be turning my attention to the strategies incarcerated women are using to survive. Earlier in the day, commentary among friends on Facebook reminded me it was D.’s birthday, and I decided that taking a moment to observe and engage the complicated, contradictory bundle of desires at work in that space (& in my brain) — for a slice of pizza, for pretty things, for information, for community, for liberation, for sexy undergarments and eco-chic shoes, for prison abolition — would be a good way to mark the occasion.

* * * * *

This morning my brain was working in a favorite mode: reading Pattern Recognition (this post on nogoodforme.com was the catalyst) > then listening to Kid A (again) > then wondering if Gibson is a Radiohead fan > then remembering the post-9/11 drag act by Pat Riarch & Rey Cruiter that is inseparable from “Idioteque” in my memory, one of my top 5 favorite acts, ever > then thinking about how the same song would be a pretty kickass soundtrack for a performance about how queer (and other) communities might enact alternatives to calling the police/involving law enforcement in specific situations > then imagining that performance & what it would look like.

Can’t choose a favorite

There are so many Will Oldham/Bonnie “Prince” Billy/Palace Music/Palace Brothers songs to love, it’s impossible for me to choose just one. The BPB pushes me to break the only-one-song-per-artist-on-a-mix rule (a rule also broken by master mix-tape-maker R. many a time, in order to get more of the same from his stereo to my ears). The beauty of the “Joy and Jubilee”/”Lay and Love”/”Nomadic Revery” trifecta was this morning’s discovery, followed by two fortunate bird-sightings: a goldfinch and a bluebird, two campus residents who are probably even more excited than I am that the meadow is back.

More of the same, plus Kinks

More rain, more Ariel Schrag (no compliant!), more thinking about the pleasures & challenges of unconventional romantic & familial relationships, more morning-texting, more daydreaming about things to do in Montreal, this time with the Kinks’ Village Green Preservation Society as soundtrack.

Milking it

The later pages of Potential + Radiohead’s Kid A + gray skies allowed me to wallow in the melancholy, frustrated mood I woke up with, but decided not to shake off right away (count this as a pleasure of being more-or-less alone in the morning). Thinking about the treasures waiting for me at the public library, imagining how I will draw a sprout for a silkscreening project, and listening to something more upbeat were all good antidotes when it was time to shift gears.

Reading, thinking

Reading Ariel Schrag’s Awkward and Definition, remembering my high school experience of not having any dates, then falling into dumb relationships with boys who weren’t anywhere as smart as me, staying in those situations too long, not believing I could do better (not realizing that being alone could be a form of doing better), being intensely in love with my best friends. I’m wowed by the way the comics represent adolescent (girl) fandom, in terms of really specific practices, like making shrines to your Object of Desire, trying to find & wear items of clothing you’ve seen on your Object (in pictures in magazines you’ve collected & put on your wall), quoting the Object (or the character(s) s/he plays) in letters to friends & in conversation, watching movies/listening to songs over & over, trying to physically transform yourself into some version of the Object (with makeup, attire, hairstyle), dreaming about (or, if you’re Schrag and living in a place where you have access) going to shows, book- or record-signings to see/meet the Object.

Schrag’s comics made me remember buying rose-patterned fabric to tack over my windows because Robert Smith was wearing a shirt with a rose pattern in one of my Cure posters; wanting to look like the woman on Jane’s Addiction’s “Classic Girl” single (and wanting to live inside the Ritual de lo Habitual cover art), practicing drawing & painting like Lynda Barry, looking for glasses like John Lennon’s or Keith Haring’s.

On the walk from train to work, I had a moment where I was hit with one of the waves of loss I’m having these days. They’re not big, don’t persist; the last one happened when I was leaving the PJ Harvey/John Parish show & saw the smartly-dressed man-woman couple walking ahead of me & thought I’m no longer part of that, part of a good-looking couple going out to a show, part of a hip straight duo in their 30s, married. But then (the then of this morning, not the then of Saturday night when I was going solo) I remembered how T. had called last night to tell me about the bizarro dream he’d just had & the thought of the dream made me smile, and that was enough.