Thursday, January 17, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
a broken heart in a vacant lot
Lately I've been slightly more hesitant to venture out of my house to walk around my neighborhood. The recent capitol hill slaying and the university district attack have me on absolute edge. Unfortunately for me, and for a lot of women in my neighborhood, there is an unfortunate aura of fear blanketing the neighborhood and with it an assumed pressure to approach our environment with increased trepidation. Yes, violence often flourishes in cities, but something about these incidents seems uncommon for a city like Seattle and I refuse to accept the circumstances of urban life as an explanation for these events. These incidents seem different—senseless and unusual. It is rare to read stories about women like myself—college educated women, social workers—being stabbed to death or beaten with a hammer until unrecognizable. And what disturbs me is that there has yet to be an arrest in either case and there is an uncomfortable absence of updates in the local media. I'm sick of waiting around for an explanation and I'm sick of waiting around to feel safe.
As a person of the city, I it is my very strong opinion that I should not be afraid to walk to my local grocer after six o'clock at night, I should not have to feel obligated to assess my surroundings when simply walking around the corner for a cup of coffee, up the hill to my friend's apartment, or even when taking the bus to another neighborhood; simply being aware should be enough. And, as a woman, it is the age old challenge of my entitlement to that security that rushes to the forefront of my mind. My life is my own and I should not feel as though it is some commodity that can be bought or sold, it is not something anyone other than me is entitled to. I have a right to my security and safety and I have a right to expect that to be respected. And, furthermore, as a woman, I should not have to fear the person walking down the street behind me; I should not have to feel like a target in my own environment.
Safety will come with empowerment and until the ownership and dominion people have over their bodies is respected fear will permeate and there will be no resolution to the problem that is violence. The only thing I can do for myself is continue to navigate my environment with awareness. I mean, this city is my home, too, god damn it and I refuse to be afraid of it.
As a person of the city, I it is my very strong opinion that I should not be afraid to walk to my local grocer after six o'clock at night, I should not have to feel obligated to assess my surroundings when simply walking around the corner for a cup of coffee, up the hill to my friend's apartment, or even when taking the bus to another neighborhood; simply being aware should be enough. And, as a woman, it is the age old challenge of my entitlement to that security that rushes to the forefront of my mind. My life is my own and I should not feel as though it is some commodity that can be bought or sold, it is not something anyone other than me is entitled to. I have a right to my security and safety and I have a right to expect that to be respected. And, furthermore, as a woman, I should not have to fear the person walking down the street behind me; I should not have to feel like a target in my own environment.
Safety will come with empowerment and until the ownership and dominion people have over their bodies is respected fear will permeate and there will be no resolution to the problem that is violence. The only thing I can do for myself is continue to navigate my environment with awareness. I mean, this city is my home, too, god damn it and I refuse to be afraid of it.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
a tuesday favorite
I hope that someday the happiness in my life can be summed up with a photo like this. Enjoy this collection, it is fantastic.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
dancing on smoke stacks
Twenty-six miles from my hometown is a little town called Anaconda, and in between the two is another little town called Opportunity. My grandfather likes to make this joke that goes, “what lies between Butte and Anaconda?” I reply, “What?” He delivers, “Opportunity.”
Way back in the day, we’re talking in the days before American Industry had to outsource portions of industrial procedure to China, Anaconda was home of the largest smelter works in the world. The stack itself is about 500 ft. tall and is one of the more remarkable structures in southwest Montana, and is the tallest masonry structure in the world. What is important about this stack is not its design or how remarkable the engineering of the structure is, but rather what once happened on top of it.
In 1919 a celebration was held to dedicate the smoke stack before the smelter operations began thus turning the stack into a glorified chimney. In the days before the scaffolding was removed a group of men and women climbed to the top of the stack and had a party. My great-grandmother was one of them. At the age of 19 she climbed a unbelievable 500 ft. and danced on top of the smoke stack, a story she relished telling until late in her life. This is what women of Butte did; this is what Julia Rafferty had done. She was a gilded-age flapper, a dancer, a college graduate, a teacher who drank Manhattans with dinner, a woman who never once wore pants, and perhaps most importantly a woman who so greatly feared growing old out of fear for missing an experience that she lived her life for the feelings of youth. I gather that she was one of my mother’s strongest influences--a feminist before the feminist age, yet a woman of tradition, insight and progress.
Way back in the day, we’re talking in the days before American Industry had to outsource portions of industrial procedure to China, Anaconda was home of the largest smelter works in the world. The stack itself is about 500 ft. tall and is one of the more remarkable structures in southwest Montana, and is the tallest masonry structure in the world. What is important about this stack is not its design or how remarkable the engineering of the structure is, but rather what once happened on top of it.
In 1919 a celebration was held to dedicate the smoke stack before the smelter operations began thus turning the stack into a glorified chimney. In the days before the scaffolding was removed a group of men and women climbed to the top of the stack and had a party. My great-grandmother was one of them. At the age of 19 she climbed a unbelievable 500 ft. and danced on top of the smoke stack, a story she relished telling until late in her life. This is what women of Butte did; this is what Julia Rafferty had done. She was a gilded-age flapper, a dancer, a college graduate, a teacher who drank Manhattans with dinner, a woman who never once wore pants, and perhaps most importantly a woman who so greatly feared growing old out of fear for missing an experience that she lived her life for the feelings of youth. I gather that she was one of my mother’s strongest influences--a feminist before the feminist age, yet a woman of tradition, insight and progress.
I think about my grammie today because my newest thing is to savor my time and live a life less rushed. I am realizing that I am incredibly young and still have so much to learn. Do you remember being young, I’m thinking of those post-adolescent college years here, and thinking that you know everything there ever was to know about life? Then one day you are surprised to find yourself in a car accident or keying your neighbor’s car or ruining your friendships over small disagreements and then all of a sudden realized you know nothing at all. Well, I have been there and I should not have been so naive to think they would stop once I graduate from college or got a real job because these moments just keep on presenting themselves. Yesterday I was discussing a few things with my mother and she got all “are you even thinking?” She started in telling me how much time there is in life, how many goals I have yet to attain, how many things I have yet to experience and I kind of had to stop and agree.
I mean, I want to think I know everything, but I don’t. I have so much yet to learn. And for the first time ever it felt good to make that realization. It felt good to realize exactly how young I am and how much I have ahead of myself. And it makes me sad to think about how little I’ve been expressing myself and how limited my experiences have been and how rushed I let myself feel. And how important it is to slow down and savor my youth.
I’m so wildly, deliciously young!! And I’ve got all sorts of things ahead of me. Good things. Things I think will be the most defining, wonderful moments of my life.
I think all I really needed was a friendly reminder and some calm encouragement from the mom department telling me that it’s okay to climb high walls and dance on buildings and try to see the things others will not ever see—to take advantage of the opportunities that come my way. And that it is okay to take risks and have experiences because I’m young and I have to learn it sometime. And in the long run it is those youthful adventures that will keep us young beyond our years.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
as far as epiphanies go
Today I am 24 and I am fresh off the plane from Butte. I am happy to report that I am comfortably accepting my mid-twenties. I think they’ll be good for me.
In other news, I think I had an epiphany on the plane yesterday. I had a wonderful coffee with Elisa yesterday and she filled me in on the ins and outs of graduate studies. I got to thinking about my own grad-school endeavor and how I was going to go about stating the (very intimidating) purpose for study. Anyway, I realized that in order to make it happen I have to be more aware my surroundings and must be diligent and descriptive when conveying my perception of those places. If I intend to succeed in conveying who I am through my experience of place then this must happen. Therefore, I’m making a bold statement: I will attempt to write one descriptive sentence about my environment daily. It will be those directly experienced as well as those places of memory. I think, inevitably, I will end up with exactly what I need, that being some clear direction and a few achievable goals.
Happy New Year!!
In other news, I think I had an epiphany on the plane yesterday. I had a wonderful coffee with Elisa yesterday and she filled me in on the ins and outs of graduate studies. I got to thinking about my own grad-school endeavor and how I was going to go about stating the (very intimidating) purpose for study. Anyway, I realized that in order to make it happen I have to be more aware my surroundings and must be diligent and descriptive when conveying my perception of those places. If I intend to succeed in conveying who I am through my experience of place then this must happen. Therefore, I’m making a bold statement: I will attempt to write one descriptive sentence about my environment daily. It will be those directly experienced as well as those places of memory. I think, inevitably, I will end up with exactly what I need, that being some clear direction and a few achievable goals.
Happy New Year!!
Sunday, December 2, 2007
on uninspiring aethetics and undercooked eggs
This past weekend was really fun. movies, friends, food, it was nothing short of fantastic. friday night aaron and i saw noah baumbach’s margot at the wedding at the harvard exit. the film is beautiful. the colors are soft and marred, imperfect--the scenes remind me of yellowed photos from the 1970s. And the acting, the acting is so spot on that at times I found myself so uncomfortable I had to look away and remind myself I wasn’t part of it. it is in this unexpected beauty of perfectly acted scenes that one of the meanest movies either of us had ever seen unfolded. I loved it, but god was it awful watching nicole kidman's character selfishly tear apart everyone around her in a vain effort to hide her own insecurities. on saturday I waded through seattle’s first snow absorbing the essence of winter. i went to the u-district to bake cookies with anne and megan. It was so wonderfully warm and cozy making fudge and baking cookies while listening to christmas carols play in the background. in the evening i went with aaron to a housewarming for one of his good friends. the home being warmed is a perfect 1914 Craftsman Bungalow--it is absolutely amazing and I sincerely hope to have one like it some day. the house has so many fantastic characteristics that it is hard not to be envious--warm and inviting colors grace its walls, awesome craftsman features are ever present including the large, open living space perfect for entertaining. afterward, aaron and i joined a group of my friends for our annual christmas sweater party. i had so much fun with my friends, but i drank too much red wine leaving me in dire need of a restorative breakfast.
which leads me to my next item of business...you know those few places that are so unsettling you find it challenging to even be in them for more than a few minutes without feeling despair, dirty or filmy (as in dirty film from something like syrup all over your hands and face and pants), sad, scared, cold, isolated, filmy or just generally unwell? well, there is such a place and i hauled myself there for breakfast today. it is called smith, a capitol hill bar in seattle. what is so bad about it? well, for starters, it is vacant and cold. secondly, it has bad food. the fake lived-in aesthetic makes it wholly uninviting, but, what is more disturbing is that this poorly executed lived-in aesthetic is supposed to be enhanced by the various varieties of taxidermied fowl (that's right folks, think pheasants, ducks and cranes) hanging on the walls. i think, though, the saddest part of the atmosphere was the job it did on my appetite. even if i were feeling well and the food were better than it was, i wouldn't have been able to enjoy it anyway. the barely dead food (my steak was so scarily raw and my eggs disastrously undercooked) was made all the more inedible by the uncomplimentary ambivalent isolated stares of the dead birds mounted above me. gross.
thusly, here is my advice to you: don't eat at smith, and if you do grace it with your presence, don't expect to be comfortable. instead, i suggest you join your friends in old homes and talk about hardwood floors and then drink too much red wine and laugh to your heart's content. i think it is better that way.
which leads me to my next item of business...you know those few places that are so unsettling you find it challenging to even be in them for more than a few minutes without feeling despair, dirty or filmy (as in dirty film from something like syrup all over your hands and face and pants), sad, scared, cold, isolated, filmy or just generally unwell? well, there is such a place and i hauled myself there for breakfast today. it is called smith, a capitol hill bar in seattle. what is so bad about it? well, for starters, it is vacant and cold. secondly, it has bad food. the fake lived-in aesthetic makes it wholly uninviting, but, what is more disturbing is that this poorly executed lived-in aesthetic is supposed to be enhanced by the various varieties of taxidermied fowl (that's right folks, think pheasants, ducks and cranes) hanging on the walls. i think, though, the saddest part of the atmosphere was the job it did on my appetite. even if i were feeling well and the food were better than it was, i wouldn't have been able to enjoy it anyway. the barely dead food (my steak was so scarily raw and my eggs disastrously undercooked) was made all the more inedible by the uncomplimentary ambivalent isolated stares of the dead birds mounted above me. gross.
thusly, here is my advice to you: don't eat at smith, and if you do grace it with your presence, don't expect to be comfortable. instead, i suggest you join your friends in old homes and talk about hardwood floors and then drink too much red wine and laugh to your heart's content. i think it is better that way.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
on my own two feet
I haven’t been getting around too much lately. I spend a good majority of my time in a select few neighborhoods and sadly my stomping grounds seem unusually un-stomped. There is barely a venture—not even on Saturday mornings—beyond the few blocks surrounding me in those areas. I can’t figure out if this is because I’m tired or if it is just natural winter hibernation. Recognizing a need to get out, last weekend I took the initiative and boarded a fully-packed Greyhound bus for a trip north to Bellingham, the “city of subdued excitement.” Normally I would feel bad about such a sad city moniker, but in this case it seems apt. Bellingham has a pace that is slower and, well, frankly, more subdued than Seattle. For some reason, it is just easier for me to relax there. I spent last weekend lounging with Anne and her parents. Their home is one of the most peaceful places on earth. It is quiet and serene; through the west-facing windows is the most striking panoramic view of tree-tops and the San Juan Islands and it just begs you to wrap yourself in a blanket and lay on the couch, which I did with several cups of peppermint tea and a new book.
In the meantime, Anne and I did a lot of talking while trying to restore our tired-out selves. Her dad mentioned something about the Thanksgiving where we spent five straight days doing homework and washing “piles” of clothes. And we both got to thinking about how exhausted we were during senior year and how for some reason that student-leaden-with-homework-exhaustion was somehow more worthwhile than the sit-at-a-desk-50-hours-a-week kind. We decided the answer must be because we are growing up. What is the deal with adulthood? I now completely grasp my mother’s need for a nightly bath behind a locked door. Seriously, things come in the mail with your name on them and you have to pay attention to them. You have to choose healthcare plans and retirement plans and set up accounts to manage money. You have to choose whether or not your relationships are healthy. You have to be responsible enough to manage the day to day as well as navigate the uncertain waters of realizing that despite what I think in the end no one else will take care of me but myself. Ugh. Is this why my new favorite place is home? Am I longing for the sanctity of my parent’s house, a place that represents the comforts of my childhood and all of the good, free-for-all memories I associate with that time in life? I think growing up is realizing that the answer to this is yes.
The phases of life are interesting. I am maneuvering myself through a number of tricky things—learning how to assert myself professionally, while maintaining a balance with outside life, learning more about relationships and the time and compromise they require and that they too are susceptible to growth. Earlier today I read an article commenting on the new sex and the city movie being filmed in new york and there was a comment made about the role the city will play in the film and I found appropriate for today, “for me the whole movie is the streets…because that’s where all the promise and potential is. That’s the romance. That’s the hope. That’s where single women walk out the door every day, and they just don’t know what is two steps away.”
No matter what, I have to embrace the inevitable and grow up. I must realize that home will always feel like home, but it will not ever be home again. I can’t put time on hold to wander in hours of childhood whimsy; I can only briefly put it on pause. For now, I must accept that my future is in my own hands. Well, perhaps not my hands, but under my feet.
In the meantime, Anne and I did a lot of talking while trying to restore our tired-out selves. Her dad mentioned something about the Thanksgiving where we spent five straight days doing homework and washing “piles” of clothes. And we both got to thinking about how exhausted we were during senior year and how for some reason that student-leaden-with-homework-exhaustion was somehow more worthwhile than the sit-at-a-desk-50-hours-a-week kind. We decided the answer must be because we are growing up. What is the deal with adulthood? I now completely grasp my mother’s need for a nightly bath behind a locked door. Seriously, things come in the mail with your name on them and you have to pay attention to them. You have to choose healthcare plans and retirement plans and set up accounts to manage money. You have to choose whether or not your relationships are healthy. You have to be responsible enough to manage the day to day as well as navigate the uncertain waters of realizing that despite what I think in the end no one else will take care of me but myself. Ugh. Is this why my new favorite place is home? Am I longing for the sanctity of my parent’s house, a place that represents the comforts of my childhood and all of the good, free-for-all memories I associate with that time in life? I think growing up is realizing that the answer to this is yes.
The phases of life are interesting. I am maneuvering myself through a number of tricky things—learning how to assert myself professionally, while maintaining a balance with outside life, learning more about relationships and the time and compromise they require and that they too are susceptible to growth. Earlier today I read an article commenting on the new sex and the city movie being filmed in new york and there was a comment made about the role the city will play in the film and I found appropriate for today, “for me the whole movie is the streets…because that’s where all the promise and potential is. That’s the romance. That’s the hope. That’s where single women walk out the door every day, and they just don’t know what is two steps away.”
No matter what, I have to embrace the inevitable and grow up. I must realize that home will always feel like home, but it will not ever be home again. I can’t put time on hold to wander in hours of childhood whimsy; I can only briefly put it on pause. For now, I must accept that my future is in my own hands. Well, perhaps not my hands, but under my feet.
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