So I think I officially have two homes. And while this means that I'm always going to be a little bit homesick no matter where I am, I am deeply grateful that I can call both Richmond and Charleston home. I went down to Charleston for a couple of days to pack up some odds and ends and clean (I am still currently renting out an apartment in Charleston, even though I technically live in Richmond now). And in between the vacuuming and the sorting and the boxing I was struck very forcefully by just how much a home Charleston still is for me, even though it may not be my current geographical residence. I guess what scared me most about leaving Charleston last month, what made me the most sad, was the thought that it wouldn't be home anymore, that one day I would come to this beautiful city and be a mere tourist.
Charleston is great for tourists, don't get me wrong. Y'all get to do cool stuff like wander the Market and go to Fort Sumter and the Aquarium and take horse drawn carriage rides around the battery. But those aren't the reasons I love Charleston. They're not what makes me feel safe and at ease there. Charleston is home for me because of stupid, simple, completely mundane stuff, like driving down 17 in Mt. Pleasant on a random weekday to run errands, or walking out of the East Bay Harris Teeter on a Sunday evening at dusk. Charleston is home because of East Bay Deli take out and driving over the bridge at rush hour and the way it always smells a little bit like salt when it rains. Charleston is home when I'm driving over the Connector at night and the whole peninsula just sits there, glittering underneath the stars. Charleston is home when I spot the faint outline of the bridge from all the way out at Isle of Palms or when I go to my dentist in Summerville. Home in Charleston is the Barnes and Noble at the Town Center or dinner at Five Loaves or a beer at Poe's or a crowded Earth Fare on a Saturday afternoon. Home in Charleston is the beach on a cold, cloudy day or sitting on a side porch with a glass of wine. It's the smell of marsh (even at low tide when it's kind of stinky) and the smell of fried seafood (cheap and good at the Wreck, not cheap and bad at the Noisy Oyster)
See I never worried about forgetting what Rainbow Row looked like. I never even worried about forgetting the Cistern or the shops on King Street. Those things, you can find them on post cards. And they'll always be there, not much different from a tourist perspective than from that of a resident. What terrified me was the thought of losing those little, inconsequential (to most) details that make a place home. I was terrified of coming back to Charleston and feeling like I was on a vacation. To comfort me some people pointed out that I could always come back and visit. But that was sort of cold comfort. Because visiting a place and living in a place are two vastly different things. To live in a place is to know and love its stupid, boring details, to love somewhere more for its rusty, creaky bits than for its big, shiny attractions. I've lived in Charleston. I've loved it. And it would break my heart to come to Charleston and feel like an outsider, a dork with a map and a coupon for Hyman's Seafood.
And even though I've only been gone a few short weeks and I've been away much longer before, I was afraid that something might have shifted already, simply because I'd never left Charleston before without a fixed return date. But to my immense relief, the second I saw the bridge looming over 26, I felt a surge of reassurance. And then when I drove through crosstown on my way to James Island I knew. I was home. Charleston is still home, in all of its mundane, flawed, dusty and creaky glory.
It is one of my firmest hopes and dearest dreams that it will always be this way.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
i hate money
Well I just had a thoroughly depressing afternoon. And it all goes back to money. I hate money. To be more specific, I hate the panicked, chest constricted feeling when you need money and have no discernible (and legal) way of getting it soon enough. It's really silly that paper and metal can make a person feel this way, but the issue of money has a way of making me feel incredibly bad. And I know that relatively I have it so good and so easy. My wants are not food and shelter and basic clothing. I don't have to worry about getting evicted or not being able to pay for basic medicine. I really have no reason to complain. Yet here I am doing so, fully aware that this pity party, when held up to harsher realities, is the definition of irrelevant.
Here's my problem. I have no money, as in 33 cents in my savings account, twelve dollars in my checking account and 850 dollars of debt on my credit card. I want to be honest about it because I'm hoping it will make me feel better, like getting this in the open will make it seem less big and scary. So go ahead, laugh or scoff or commiserate. I'm 23 years old and should be able to handle my finances, yet somehow I've become that person who never saves, who always spends, and who has yet to really understand how investments and portfolios and financial sounding things even work. My current lack of capital wouldn't be so bad since 1) I'm living at home and 2) I have parents who will not let me starve. Yet I still feel that rising since of panic because well, I need money. Specifically I need money if I get accepted to teach English in Thailand, like a lot of money, or at least a lot of money for me. The program fee is 1600. A plane ticket would be 1800 minimum. But I can't even start saving up for this stuff until I pay off my credit card. Plus there's the threat hanging over me that I might have to pay 600 for my February Charleston rent if my landlord doesn't find someone to move by the 1st. And well here I am again, panicking. Which brings me back to this afternoon.
I've noticed a trait in myself that is slightly alarming. When in need of money, I have a knack for coming up with it, mainly through the sale of personal belongings. It started innocently enough, selling a few of my things on Ebay, but then I started seeing sales potential in everything, including items not belonging to me. I sold my sister and her husband's (old and not used anymore) playstation 2. I sold my dad's coat (again old and one that he no longer used-i'm not a thief, yet). And the more I sold, the more I wanted to sell. Everything around me suddenly had dollar amounts hovering over it. And as nice as it is to make some easy cash, I don't want to be this kind of person. I don't want to be that lady who pawns old pieces of jewelry or stereo equipment of family heirlooms. There's something very scavenger like about it and it creeps me out. I creep myself out. Yet it's hard to resist. There's something so irresistable about the thought of making money out of old stuff you don't care about, almost as if out of thin air.
I watched Antiques Roadshow the other night with my parents, aunt and grandma, and I couldn't believe it. I groaned when my dad switched the channel to it, called it the most boring show on television. But little did I know. It's like a dozen fairy tales rolled into one hour, a dozen rags to riches stories that are not scripted but entirely real. These people bring in junk that has been collecting dust in their basements for years, stuff that Aunt Sally left in her will but which they never really paid much mind to, and lo and behold, it's a rare and incredibly valuable antique. Ugly paintings of cats, ugly statues, ugly pendants, all of this ugly stuff that these people got for 5 dollars at a yard sale, ends up being worth thousands of dollars. It's the ultimate fantasy. As much as we want to pretend otherwise, money dictates so much of our lives. It sucks and it's stupid and unfair, but if you're really honest with yourself you'll know it's true. So the idea of easy money is perhaps one of our most cherished dreams-it's winning a game show or the lottery, stumbling upon a treasure chest. It's Publisher's Clearining House, how even though you know it's kind of fake and rigged, you catch yourself fantasizing that it's you opening the door and getting that big ass check.
So this afternoon, I went out in search of my own easy money, or at least I thought it would be easy. I took clothes to a consignment shop but was told that they were too springy. I drove for an hour looking for a coin shop I had found on the internet to sell some old silver dollars, but never found it. I had a whole stack of DVDs to sell, but couldn't bring myself to do this. The way things were going, I was bound to be told that my DVDs were not desirable, i.e. worthless. Basically I accomplished nothing. I'm still in debt. I'm still fighting that claustrophobic, panicked feeling. But I'm trying to breathe, trying to remind myself that my worries are peanuts in the big scheme of things. People with families to support are losing jobs. People are starving. My biggest fear is not being able to afford to go on an amazing adventure to a distant country. Other people have to fear for their very livelihoods. Which puts things into perspective, but still makes me think the same thing. Money freaking sucks. I wish we could all just barter with each other, trade goods and services like in the olden days. It could work right? Global nations could lend each other bananas and coffee instead of billions of dollars. Executives could get paid with wine and cheese. Blue collar workers would be paid with meat and potatoes (sorry couldn't resist). I know this is all horribly naive and silly, but right now I need something, anything to alleviate my generally sour mood.
I tried to cheer myself up with Target (only buying things that my parents would pay for mind you, i.e. groceries-I'm not that bad that I'll spend money when I'm depressed about not having money) and even that didn't work. And then I got even more sad when I realized what I really needed. If I was in Charleston and feeling this way, there's only one thing I would do-take a ridiculously long walk on the beach. Today was one of those days where I really needed the ocean, where my head was so full and my thoughts so jumbled that only cool, salt air could sort it all out. It sounds silly, like a classified ad cliche, but walking on the beach really kept me sane these last few years. I'm not an organized religion kind of person. I don't go to church. But for all extents and purposes the beach has been my church, my quiet place that I turn to for guidance and calm and help. It's where I can breathe, where I feel safest. No matter how upset I've been, I've never gone to the beach and not come away feeling significantly better. It's my therapy. And it's not like I'm crazy and think the waves talk to me or mermaids give me life advice. It's just that the ocean clears my head. It quiets all of the static and noise so that I can remember what I've always known, that I'm going to be okay. And I really could have used that today, that perspective that only a shoreline can give me, that despite stupid money and the lingering, irrational desire to rob a bank, I really am okay. Life is beautiful. It's just harder to remember that sometimes when you're inland.
Here's my problem. I have no money, as in 33 cents in my savings account, twelve dollars in my checking account and 850 dollars of debt on my credit card. I want to be honest about it because I'm hoping it will make me feel better, like getting this in the open will make it seem less big and scary. So go ahead, laugh or scoff or commiserate. I'm 23 years old and should be able to handle my finances, yet somehow I've become that person who never saves, who always spends, and who has yet to really understand how investments and portfolios and financial sounding things even work. My current lack of capital wouldn't be so bad since 1) I'm living at home and 2) I have parents who will not let me starve. Yet I still feel that rising since of panic because well, I need money. Specifically I need money if I get accepted to teach English in Thailand, like a lot of money, or at least a lot of money for me. The program fee is 1600. A plane ticket would be 1800 minimum. But I can't even start saving up for this stuff until I pay off my credit card. Plus there's the threat hanging over me that I might have to pay 600 for my February Charleston rent if my landlord doesn't find someone to move by the 1st. And well here I am again, panicking. Which brings me back to this afternoon.
I've noticed a trait in myself that is slightly alarming. When in need of money, I have a knack for coming up with it, mainly through the sale of personal belongings. It started innocently enough, selling a few of my things on Ebay, but then I started seeing sales potential in everything, including items not belonging to me. I sold my sister and her husband's (old and not used anymore) playstation 2. I sold my dad's coat (again old and one that he no longer used-i'm not a thief, yet). And the more I sold, the more I wanted to sell. Everything around me suddenly had dollar amounts hovering over it. And as nice as it is to make some easy cash, I don't want to be this kind of person. I don't want to be that lady who pawns old pieces of jewelry or stereo equipment of family heirlooms. There's something very scavenger like about it and it creeps me out. I creep myself out. Yet it's hard to resist. There's something so irresistable about the thought of making money out of old stuff you don't care about, almost as if out of thin air.
I watched Antiques Roadshow the other night with my parents, aunt and grandma, and I couldn't believe it. I groaned when my dad switched the channel to it, called it the most boring show on television. But little did I know. It's like a dozen fairy tales rolled into one hour, a dozen rags to riches stories that are not scripted but entirely real. These people bring in junk that has been collecting dust in their basements for years, stuff that Aunt Sally left in her will but which they never really paid much mind to, and lo and behold, it's a rare and incredibly valuable antique. Ugly paintings of cats, ugly statues, ugly pendants, all of this ugly stuff that these people got for 5 dollars at a yard sale, ends up being worth thousands of dollars. It's the ultimate fantasy. As much as we want to pretend otherwise, money dictates so much of our lives. It sucks and it's stupid and unfair, but if you're really honest with yourself you'll know it's true. So the idea of easy money is perhaps one of our most cherished dreams-it's winning a game show or the lottery, stumbling upon a treasure chest. It's Publisher's Clearining House, how even though you know it's kind of fake and rigged, you catch yourself fantasizing that it's you opening the door and getting that big ass check.
So this afternoon, I went out in search of my own easy money, or at least I thought it would be easy. I took clothes to a consignment shop but was told that they were too springy. I drove for an hour looking for a coin shop I had found on the internet to sell some old silver dollars, but never found it. I had a whole stack of DVDs to sell, but couldn't bring myself to do this. The way things were going, I was bound to be told that my DVDs were not desirable, i.e. worthless. Basically I accomplished nothing. I'm still in debt. I'm still fighting that claustrophobic, panicked feeling. But I'm trying to breathe, trying to remind myself that my worries are peanuts in the big scheme of things. People with families to support are losing jobs. People are starving. My biggest fear is not being able to afford to go on an amazing adventure to a distant country. Other people have to fear for their very livelihoods. Which puts things into perspective, but still makes me think the same thing. Money freaking sucks. I wish we could all just barter with each other, trade goods and services like in the olden days. It could work right? Global nations could lend each other bananas and coffee instead of billions of dollars. Executives could get paid with wine and cheese. Blue collar workers would be paid with meat and potatoes (sorry couldn't resist). I know this is all horribly naive and silly, but right now I need something, anything to alleviate my generally sour mood.
I tried to cheer myself up with Target (only buying things that my parents would pay for mind you, i.e. groceries-I'm not that bad that I'll spend money when I'm depressed about not having money) and even that didn't work. And then I got even more sad when I realized what I really needed. If I was in Charleston and feeling this way, there's only one thing I would do-take a ridiculously long walk on the beach. Today was one of those days where I really needed the ocean, where my head was so full and my thoughts so jumbled that only cool, salt air could sort it all out. It sounds silly, like a classified ad cliche, but walking on the beach really kept me sane these last few years. I'm not an organized religion kind of person. I don't go to church. But for all extents and purposes the beach has been my church, my quiet place that I turn to for guidance and calm and help. It's where I can breathe, where I feel safest. No matter how upset I've been, I've never gone to the beach and not come away feeling significantly better. It's my therapy. And it's not like I'm crazy and think the waves talk to me or mermaids give me life advice. It's just that the ocean clears my head. It quiets all of the static and noise so that I can remember what I've always known, that I'm going to be okay. And I really could have used that today, that perspective that only a shoreline can give me, that despite stupid money and the lingering, irrational desire to rob a bank, I really am okay. Life is beautiful. It's just harder to remember that sometimes when you're inland.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
multitudes: my 2009 resolutions
For the last few years I've avoided New Years resolutions. I tend to blanch at any kind of set in stone, blanket statement directed at something as big and confusing as a life. Because in life, contradictions are inherent. You're going to be one person one day and a completely different person the next. And you shouldn't feel bad about that. I know from personal experience that one day I'm going to be a carb-free, yogacizing, accomplished, punctual, productive young woman and the next day I'm going to sit on my butt, scarf down McDonalds and not even bother to change out of pajamas. Because that's life. Which all leads to my original avoidance of resolutions, or at least the kind of strict, impossible resolutions that we tend to make for ourselves. But I do believe in self improvement. I believe in the challenge and necessity of it. So this year, I'm not going to resolve to do such and such a thing every day or be such and such a person all the time. I am however going to resolve, in my most transcendental fashion, to be as many of the following things as I want, in as many ways as I want. And that's going to mean contradicting myself, but well, that's just me.
""Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes." ~Walt Whitman
-take care of my body whether it means abstaining or indulging, dieting or splurging, eating a lot of green things or eating a lot of chocolate things, exercising or resting, whatever my body needs most in any given situtation-just listening a little more to me and tuning out a little more all of the noise
-read anything and everything, anytime and all the time
-go see movies in the theater and spend ridiculous amounts of money on ridiculously overpriced concessions
-go out for nice dinners and for cheap ones
-really breathe at least once a day-sounds like a given but trust me it's not
-write as much as humanly possible
-write fiction
-write in some kind of professional capacity
-find a way to go to the ocean as often as possible
-find a way to go to Charleston as often as possible
-eat things I've never tried
-do things I've never tried
-dance while not innebriated (this one might be tricky)
-dance while innebriated
-watch at much live tennis as I can
-play tennis
-eat chocolate without all the crushing guilt
-discover new music
-go to concerts
-go on day trips
-go on road trips
-use my passport at least once
-do things that scare me
-do things that terrify me
-set bugs free instead of squashing them
-bring my canvas bags to the grocery store instead of leaving them at home yet again
-cook new things
-cook Indian food
-try to make sushi
-eat less tuna (you know all that Mercury)
-eat more tuna (it's so yummy)
-take more pictures
-develop more pictures
-read books that are educational
-read books that are purely entertainment
-spend more time with family
-spend more time with friends
-sing when I'm alone
-sing around other people (sorry in advance!)
-spend more time in sweatpants
-spend more time in nice clothes
-be more honest
-be kinder to people I don't like
-be kinder to people I do like
-be kinder to myself
""Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes." ~Walt Whitman
-take care of my body whether it means abstaining or indulging, dieting or splurging, eating a lot of green things or eating a lot of chocolate things, exercising or resting, whatever my body needs most in any given situtation-just listening a little more to me and tuning out a little more all of the noise
-read anything and everything, anytime and all the time
-go see movies in the theater and spend ridiculous amounts of money on ridiculously overpriced concessions
-go out for nice dinners and for cheap ones
-really breathe at least once a day-sounds like a given but trust me it's not
-write as much as humanly possible
-write fiction
-write in some kind of professional capacity
-find a way to go to the ocean as often as possible
-find a way to go to Charleston as often as possible
-eat things I've never tried
-do things I've never tried
-dance while not innebriated (this one might be tricky)
-dance while innebriated
-watch at much live tennis as I can
-play tennis
-eat chocolate without all the crushing guilt
-discover new music
-go to concerts
-go on day trips
-go on road trips
-use my passport at least once
-do things that scare me
-do things that terrify me
-set bugs free instead of squashing them
-bring my canvas bags to the grocery store instead of leaving them at home yet again
-cook new things
-cook Indian food
-try to make sushi
-eat less tuna (you know all that Mercury)
-eat more tuna (it's so yummy)
-take more pictures
-develop more pictures
-read books that are educational
-read books that are purely entertainment
-spend more time with family
-spend more time with friends
-sing when I'm alone
-sing around other people (sorry in advance!)
-spend more time in sweatpants
-spend more time in nice clothes
-be more honest
-be kinder to people I don't like
-be kinder to people I do like
-be kinder to myself
Friday, January 2, 2009
Where the Wild Things Are
I would never have thought that a movie could capture the strange, unearthly, almost frightening beauty of Maurice Sendak's classic children's book, Where the Wild Things Are. But then I found out that Dave Eggers was a co-writer (he's my hero, and despite all the haters out there, he's a masterful writer; I'm sorry but a lesser mortal would not be capable of writing both A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genuis and What is the What, these books could not be farther apart in subject or style and they're both brilliant)
So I heard that Eggers was a writer and I got excited, but I still had serious doubts over a movie ever being as wonderfully weird and gorgeous as the book, but then I saw this still from the film.
And this one,
And this one too,
And against all odds, I believe.
So I heard that Eggers was a writer and I got excited, but I still had serious doubts over a movie ever being as wonderfully weird and gorgeous as the book, but then I saw this still from the film.
And this one,
And this one too,
And against all odds, I believe.
how I rang in 2009
To ring in 2009, I went up to Wintergreen for a couple of days to ski, roast marshmallows, drink hot chocolate, all of that ski lodgy stuff. I've gone skiing maybe five times, but it had been five years since my last trip. And you know what they say about riding a bike. Well it does not apply to skiing. The above image is not technically me, but I think it paints a pretty accurate picture. Never have I felt more like an awkward toddler since well, I was an awkward toddler.
I reached the conclusion that skiing is one of those sports that gets harder as you get older. Five years ago, I was seventeen and clearly less afraid of injuring myself or my dignity. Little kids just zoom on down the hill, no poles, no hesitation, no fear. Which of course is slightly humiliating. Here I am, a fully grown adult, going at a snail's pace down the bunny slope, a look of terror on my face, both arms flailing for balance and five year olds are leaving me in their dust.
But despite my general ineptitude, by the end of the night, I remembered that I do like skiing, that despite the clumsy and heavy equipment and below freezing temperature, despite the snow blowers pelting me with hundreds of drops of ice, despite losing all sensation in my face and toes, despite nearly falling over every time I got off a lift, skiing really is fun.
Now the total body soreness that comes the next day on the other hand....
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