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4 years ago
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
We Have a Map of the Piano
How eerily this tune provokes the past.
This song raises many fond and odd memories from inside. It makes me question the choices I've made and the choices yet to make. I feel powerless listening to it but empowered by the choices I've made during it's presentation.
What it does most prosaically is allow-force- me to reapproach my history and realize it is just that- a memory, growing ever more distant. There is a long standing belief held by people of a ripe age that one day you will return to the age of your youth, your strongest strength. But with every passing day it seems more apparent that there is no return. Life continues in its continuum, unconcerned with your fears and anxieties. It's an unnerving realization- that life has phases. Phases that eventually end. They may leave you richer in areas- monetarily, experientially. Yet time robs you of excitement, of that sensation that can only be conjured in that moment that means so much because it is enjoyed in the heat of virginity.
I feel many feelings listening to this song, but one feeling aptly left out of this emtional medley is regret. For every moment I have experienced, I don't regret. It is for every missed moment, every wasted second of my finite youth that I yearn. But in the end, there is no clock to respool to learn what could have been if a different path were to be chosen. So I suppose this dread is for naught. All that I can do is relish in the moments in which I did live, in which I did feel alive.
And during this song, however somber and sinister, I felt real.
This song raises many fond and odd memories from inside. It makes me question the choices I've made and the choices yet to make. I feel powerless listening to it but empowered by the choices I've made during it's presentation.
What it does most prosaically is allow-force- me to reapproach my history and realize it is just that- a memory, growing ever more distant. There is a long standing belief held by people of a ripe age that one day you will return to the age of your youth, your strongest strength. But with every passing day it seems more apparent that there is no return. Life continues in its continuum, unconcerned with your fears and anxieties. It's an unnerving realization- that life has phases. Phases that eventually end. They may leave you richer in areas- monetarily, experientially. Yet time robs you of excitement, of that sensation that can only be conjured in that moment that means so much because it is enjoyed in the heat of virginity.
I feel many feelings listening to this song, but one feeling aptly left out of this emtional medley is regret. For every moment I have experienced, I don't regret. It is for every missed moment, every wasted second of my finite youth that I yearn. But in the end, there is no clock to respool to learn what could have been if a different path were to be chosen. So I suppose this dread is for naught. All that I can do is relish in the moments in which I did live, in which I did feel alive.
And during this song, however somber and sinister, I felt real.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Death By Cheese: A Story of Brothers
This is a story about my brother and me. And cheese. It's mostly true, from what I remember.
I was 7. My younger brother was 5 and we were enjoying an annual family trip to Florida. My grandfather had a boat that he’d leave docked for the whole year but would take us on a few joyrides around the geriatric harbor when we’d come down. The boat acted more as a floating hotel, housing the whole family as well as our nanny. (It’s not vastly important to the story, but it should be noted that our nanny was a girl with the 80’s-tastic name of Brenda who would sulk in her room most of the day, avoiding the sun, teasing her puffed hair while listening to the woeful tunes from the Beauty and the Beast Broadway show soundtrack). When not on the boat, we’d be spending time at and around the yacht club. Activities consisted of splashing my brother in the face with pool water, punching my brother in the stomach while walking on the beach, pushing my brother closer to the waiting jaws of lounging crocodiles....generally doing something to damage my brother.
But then there was the food. At the age of 7, neither my brother or I had any idea of the social stigmas of a yacht club. As far as we were concerned, we weren’t privileged white kids, we were quickly reddening adventurers, strangers in a strange land, rubbing elbows with the rich and wrinkled. What the yacht club meant for us was a never ending supply of mozzarella sticks and strawberry (albeit virgin) daiquiris. Our grandmother, a wily, foul mouthed coot masquerading in a disguise of Burberry and Chanel actively encouraged us to be as gluttoness as childly available. “Want a daiquiri?” She’d ask. Hells yes. “Want 9 daiquiris?” Who am I to say no? My brother and I would cozy up to the cabana bar starting around 7-7:30 in the morning and we’d be ordering doubles all day. Drunk off sugar and possibly rum (if they messed up the order), my brother and I enjoyed the good life, the yacht club life.
But it was our edible passion that almost undid us. Drinking 20 daiquiris a day rouses an appetite. And nothing quite puts the cabash on your hunger like mozzarella sticks in 105 degree heat. My brother and I hardly ate anything else during our Florida trips. And since there was no one telling us we couldn’t, we’d order that god damn gooey goodness all day long. Even when we weren’t hungry, we’d invariably be pushing another congealed cheese log into our gullets, if only to keep appearances. And like anything involving my brother, I had to be better than him. In this case, being better meant eating more of whatever was meant to be shared. This would usually be a simple victory for an older sibling except that from the second my brother started producing stool, he had an appetite. Rotund and covered in grease, he’d eat the mozzarella at breakneck speeds, making me question my 7 years of existence and wonder what god had designed this consumption machine of meat and bone.
On one night, we had retired to the boat, tired from a long day of doing diddly shit. Of course, we had ordered a few rounds of cheese sticks as a night cap of sorts. For reasons unknown, I had stopped eating for a minute and joined my family in watching Jeopardy. I remember on that night actually answering (read: guessing) a question. The answer was Camel. To this my family congratulated me, saying, “Boy, you’re smart! Who knew?!” For a brief instant I imagined that this was a sign of my superior intellect, that one day I’d graduate from whatever Yale was and build a rocket. Or do whatever intelligent people do- own camels maybe. But then the moment was gone and I was hungry. I turned around, realizing that without my vigilant watch, my porgy brother would have surely devoured all the cheese. But usually, his munchings were audible. You'd hear his porous teeth gumming through the crunchy log surface then gently nibbling through the melted cheese. However, he wasn’t making those noises. He wasn’t making any noises. He just was kind of standing there with a dumb looking face, like someone contemplating what shit might taste like if spread across toast. Then the dumb looking face turned blue. At this, my family turned around to look at this child, one hand grasping a half stick of cheese, one hand motioning to his mouth. It quickly became apparent that he wasn’t breathing. Rather, he had absent-mindedly bitten off a piece of mozzarella, let it harden in his throat, then tried to breathe it into his lungs, as though to take his eating to a higher level. My mother ran over, extremely concerned. She opened up his mouth and stuck her entire hand into the piehole. A second later, her arm emerged, holding a half foots worth of mozzarella. My brother immediately started crying (perhaps from being alarmed but possibly from not being able to finish ingesting the cheese). All in all, it was pretty scary. The thought of losing my brother over his over-eating was terrible- our gluttoness ways suddenly seemed infantile. We both took a hard stance and swore off mozzarella forever. We were too young to lose one another.
The next day we were back at the bar, ordering rounds of daiquiris and cheese for ourselves- for everyone, open tab. Life was too short to not take risks and Florida only happened once a year. Yacht club life can be crazy sometimes. Frightening? Occasionally. Thrilling? Always.
I was 7. My younger brother was 5 and we were enjoying an annual family trip to Florida. My grandfather had a boat that he’d leave docked for the whole year but would take us on a few joyrides around the geriatric harbor when we’d come down. The boat acted more as a floating hotel, housing the whole family as well as our nanny. (It’s not vastly important to the story, but it should be noted that our nanny was a girl with the 80’s-tastic name of Brenda who would sulk in her room most of the day, avoiding the sun, teasing her puffed hair while listening to the woeful tunes from the Beauty and the Beast Broadway show soundtrack). When not on the boat, we’d be spending time at and around the yacht club. Activities consisted of splashing my brother in the face with pool water, punching my brother in the stomach while walking on the beach, pushing my brother closer to the waiting jaws of lounging crocodiles....generally doing something to damage my brother.
But then there was the food. At the age of 7, neither my brother or I had any idea of the social stigmas of a yacht club. As far as we were concerned, we weren’t privileged white kids, we were quickly reddening adventurers, strangers in a strange land, rubbing elbows with the rich and wrinkled. What the yacht club meant for us was a never ending supply of mozzarella sticks and strawberry (albeit virgin) daiquiris. Our grandmother, a wily, foul mouthed coot masquerading in a disguise of Burberry and Chanel actively encouraged us to be as gluttoness as childly available. “Want a daiquiri?” She’d ask. Hells yes. “Want 9 daiquiris?” Who am I to say no? My brother and I would cozy up to the cabana bar starting around 7-7:30 in the morning and we’d be ordering doubles all day. Drunk off sugar and possibly rum (if they messed up the order), my brother and I enjoyed the good life, the yacht club life.
But it was our edible passion that almost undid us. Drinking 20 daiquiris a day rouses an appetite. And nothing quite puts the cabash on your hunger like mozzarella sticks in 105 degree heat. My brother and I hardly ate anything else during our Florida trips. And since there was no one telling us we couldn’t, we’d order that god damn gooey goodness all day long. Even when we weren’t hungry, we’d invariably be pushing another congealed cheese log into our gullets, if only to keep appearances. And like anything involving my brother, I had to be better than him. In this case, being better meant eating more of whatever was meant to be shared. This would usually be a simple victory for an older sibling except that from the second my brother started producing stool, he had an appetite. Rotund and covered in grease, he’d eat the mozzarella at breakneck speeds, making me question my 7 years of existence and wonder what god had designed this consumption machine of meat and bone.
On one night, we had retired to the boat, tired from a long day of doing diddly shit. Of course, we had ordered a few rounds of cheese sticks as a night cap of sorts. For reasons unknown, I had stopped eating for a minute and joined my family in watching Jeopardy. I remember on that night actually answering (read: guessing) a question. The answer was Camel. To this my family congratulated me, saying, “Boy, you’re smart! Who knew?!” For a brief instant I imagined that this was a sign of my superior intellect, that one day I’d graduate from whatever Yale was and build a rocket. Or do whatever intelligent people do- own camels maybe. But then the moment was gone and I was hungry. I turned around, realizing that without my vigilant watch, my porgy brother would have surely devoured all the cheese. But usually, his munchings were audible. You'd hear his porous teeth gumming through the crunchy log surface then gently nibbling through the melted cheese. However, he wasn’t making those noises. He wasn’t making any noises. He just was kind of standing there with a dumb looking face, like someone contemplating what shit might taste like if spread across toast. Then the dumb looking face turned blue. At this, my family turned around to look at this child, one hand grasping a half stick of cheese, one hand motioning to his mouth. It quickly became apparent that he wasn’t breathing. Rather, he had absent-mindedly bitten off a piece of mozzarella, let it harden in his throat, then tried to breathe it into his lungs, as though to take his eating to a higher level. My mother ran over, extremely concerned. She opened up his mouth and stuck her entire hand into the piehole. A second later, her arm emerged, holding a half foots worth of mozzarella. My brother immediately started crying (perhaps from being alarmed but possibly from not being able to finish ingesting the cheese). All in all, it was pretty scary. The thought of losing my brother over his over-eating was terrible- our gluttoness ways suddenly seemed infantile. We both took a hard stance and swore off mozzarella forever. We were too young to lose one another.
The next day we were back at the bar, ordering rounds of daiquiris and cheese for ourselves- for everyone, open tab. Life was too short to not take risks and Florida only happened once a year. Yacht club life can be crazy sometimes. Frightening? Occasionally. Thrilling? Always.
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