Thursday, September 11, 2003
2 bdrm apt for rent - Belmont/Patterson Park
I had left a message with the boys to call me back -- I was going to tell them I wasn't going to renew their lease when it came due in November. I also canceled the utility service to the other side, and I suppose I should call that woman and see what's what. But then I decided I don't feel like stressing about it.
Today at work, it was more ultra important meetings regarding the updates to the banners document and the appropriate impact to audit for over or under-inclusion of XML content tags. My horoscope says that now is the time for me to act if I want to make a move with my career -- so right after this, I will log onto the company jobs site and find the Job Of My Dreams.
Today at work, it was more ultra important meetings regarding the updates to the banners document and the appropriate impact to audit for over or under-inclusion of XML content tags. My horoscope says that now is the time for me to act if I want to make a move with my career -- so right after this, I will log onto the company jobs site and find the Job Of My Dreams.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
In the Naked City
On TV tonight there are protests over proposed new construction on the site of the WTC. I don't know if I object to new construction on the "sacred ground" -- I had thought new construction was the plan all along, viewing proposals for both monuments and buildings. But the protestors had been told there would *never* be new construction on the site -- by Guiliani and others? Well, someone.
Yeah, it was a shocking day two years ago, but what I remember is contrasting that day with the day and evening before.
On September 10, 2001, I was doing some on-line research (oops, and using work resources), trying to locate an old boyfriend, LF. I lived with LF in Philadelphia -- it had been sudden and an intense six months or so. I left him just as suddenly because of jealousy, mood swings, shouting accusations. After some tearful telephone calls, some that threatened suicide, and others that included his dad on the line as mediator, we had agreed to write letters (only). And, we had stayed in touch for a few years -- even after I had moved to Indiana and he had moved to Florida. I lost touch with him, kind of on purpose, when I moved on to Colorado.
While I had had little luck in finding mention of him on google, for whatever reason, I turned to Florida death records. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised, but it was weird to see his name and then-age in the 1996 Tampa obits -- already five years previous. To make sure, I paid for an archival news service, and shore nuff, it was him. I still remember the eery "Mr. F was Jewish and died at home." It included his estranged mom as next of kin, and through additional research I was able to locate an address -- a condo in a swanky Philadelphia suburb.
After work, I met KL for drinks in one of those loud and trendy chains a dime-a-dozen on North Academy: What did he die from? Should I contact his mom? What would I say? Would it even be appropriate?
Those actions and thoughts now seem worthless. What a difference from then! Both KL and I took transfers to here; and I never contacted LF's mom. Should I yet?
And I think of LF -- a troubled guy, searching for himself, brilliant in many ways. I picture him riding his motorcycle over the bridge to St. Petersburg. (He once sent me a letter telling me he did that.)
There's been a lot of speculations on the WTC terrorists. I can only guess on the circumstances around LF's death. We'll probably never find out the answers.
Yeah, it was a shocking day two years ago, but what I remember is contrasting that day with the day and evening before.
On September 10, 2001, I was doing some on-line research (oops, and using work resources), trying to locate an old boyfriend, LF. I lived with LF in Philadelphia -- it had been sudden and an intense six months or so. I left him just as suddenly because of jealousy, mood swings, shouting accusations. After some tearful telephone calls, some that threatened suicide, and others that included his dad on the line as mediator, we had agreed to write letters (only). And, we had stayed in touch for a few years -- even after I had moved to Indiana and he had moved to Florida. I lost touch with him, kind of on purpose, when I moved on to Colorado.
While I had had little luck in finding mention of him on google, for whatever reason, I turned to Florida death records. Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised, but it was weird to see his name and then-age in the 1996 Tampa obits -- already five years previous. To make sure, I paid for an archival news service, and shore nuff, it was him. I still remember the eery "Mr. F was Jewish and died at home." It included his estranged mom as next of kin, and through additional research I was able to locate an address -- a condo in a swanky Philadelphia suburb.
After work, I met KL for drinks in one of those loud and trendy chains a dime-a-dozen on North Academy: What did he die from? Should I contact his mom? What would I say? Would it even be appropriate?
Those actions and thoughts now seem worthless. What a difference from then! Both KL and I took transfers to here; and I never contacted LF's mom. Should I yet?
And I think of LF -- a troubled guy, searching for himself, brilliant in many ways. I picture him riding his motorcycle over the bridge to St. Petersburg. (He once sent me a letter telling me he did that.)
There's been a lot of speculations on the WTC terrorists. I can only guess on the circumstances around LF's death. We'll probably never find out the answers.
Monday, September 08, 2003
Shadows
In talking with Mom, she said she hoped I was happy. We were standing on the dock of the lake, a warm breeze across the water, and warm light on the felty beach with its fuschia and white wall of wild roses.
What is happiness? I looked across the water, it seemed like an elusive bright shower of specks of the sun's reflection on the lily pads.
Dad helped me move the canoe down to the bay, and I paddled across it to a pebbly beach on the other side and back. In the middle of the bay, and viewing its head into the ocean, I could see all manner of sailing ships -- some race or something was going on. Sloops, two- and three-masted boats with wings, scallops and arrowheads. On the way back, a tourist boat flattened with folks chugged slowly over to Cabbage Island for a clambake-- waving limbs, hats, scarves gave the appearance of a barge filled with moss. The smoke from the bake sprayed, yellowish, into the air.
Last night I talked to Aunt M and Uncle J in Washington DC. We had a good laugh about presidents and politics and opera. They agreed that GWB was the worst president in *their* memory. Aunt M told me a story about Nana and her grandmother loving the opera and listening to it on Sunday afternoons. She told me that one such Sunday, she was working on a History of Art project in her room at the Wickliffe Club with her friend Polly Parker, when her grandma called up that Pearl Harbor had been bombed. "Ask your mother whether she remembers Polly Parker." Aunt M said.
After I hung up, I asked mom about Polly Parker and the Pearl Harbor Sunday. Mom made a face: "Nana hated the opera and used to make fun of grandma for listening to it," and then she mimicked Nana warbling like an opera-singer.
Watched "The Quiet American" with Michael Caine and Brendan Fraser. A Graham Greene novel set in Viet Nam 1954. Afterwards, dad told me a story how he was an officer on the deck of the USS Essex deployed to the Tonkin Gulf during the final battle by the French at Phon Phien, when a black book of instructions brought up. The Essex was carrying The A-bomb, and something was happening because of the Chinese Migs flying overhead. Dad said he felt very uneasy. But nothing happened and the carrier received orders to leave the gulf and return to the Phillipines. Eisenhower went against the wishes of all his generals and vetoed nuking N Vietnam. Dad found out about what a close call this had been when grandma, his mom, mailed a news article from some journalist once the boat returned to Manila. When N Vietnam fell, ultra-conservatives gave Eisenhower some trouble saying we did nothing to prevent the spread of communism, but Eisenhower gave a speech as he was leaving the presidency in 1958 warning against the combination of military and power.
Dad grew short with me because I instead asked more questions about grandpa witnessing 100s of people dying from the flu epidemic in a Southern military camp at the end of WW I.
Dad has been talking about his friends, coworkers, colleagues, and their children, all of whom are noteworthy and or successful as artists, writers, producers, judges, businessmen. The talk turned to people I knew in law school and I told dad I blocked out bad memories like swiss cheese, and that law school was one of those holes. I have some happy memories about my friends, like Nance, and about Denver, which I liked.
Late last night, as I turned out the light back in the cabin, I stood for a moment looking at the kitchen table in the picture window, lit by the streetlight like a bright moon. Shadows of the thick stands of pine trees crossed the pale, painted table and across old hanging plates on the knotty pine walls. Apparently GWB spoke tonight, but we didn't listen. All I could feel was sadness and an overwhelming sense of loss.
My life, my family, our country.
What is happiness? I looked across the water, it seemed like an elusive bright shower of specks of the sun's reflection on the lily pads.
Dad helped me move the canoe down to the bay, and I paddled across it to a pebbly beach on the other side and back. In the middle of the bay, and viewing its head into the ocean, I could see all manner of sailing ships -- some race or something was going on. Sloops, two- and three-masted boats with wings, scallops and arrowheads. On the way back, a tourist boat flattened with folks chugged slowly over to Cabbage Island for a clambake-- waving limbs, hats, scarves gave the appearance of a barge filled with moss. The smoke from the bake sprayed, yellowish, into the air.
Last night I talked to Aunt M and Uncle J in Washington DC. We had a good laugh about presidents and politics and opera. They agreed that GWB was the worst president in *their* memory. Aunt M told me a story about Nana and her grandmother loving the opera and listening to it on Sunday afternoons. She told me that one such Sunday, she was working on a History of Art project in her room at the Wickliffe Club with her friend Polly Parker, when her grandma called up that Pearl Harbor had been bombed. "Ask your mother whether she remembers Polly Parker." Aunt M said.
After I hung up, I asked mom about Polly Parker and the Pearl Harbor Sunday. Mom made a face: "Nana hated the opera and used to make fun of grandma for listening to it," and then she mimicked Nana warbling like an opera-singer.
Watched "The Quiet American" with Michael Caine and Brendan Fraser. A Graham Greene novel set in Viet Nam 1954. Afterwards, dad told me a story how he was an officer on the deck of the USS Essex deployed to the Tonkin Gulf during the final battle by the French at Phon Phien, when a black book of instructions brought up. The Essex was carrying The A-bomb, and something was happening because of the Chinese Migs flying overhead. Dad said he felt very uneasy. But nothing happened and the carrier received orders to leave the gulf and return to the Phillipines. Eisenhower went against the wishes of all his generals and vetoed nuking N Vietnam. Dad found out about what a close call this had been when grandma, his mom, mailed a news article from some journalist once the boat returned to Manila. When N Vietnam fell, ultra-conservatives gave Eisenhower some trouble saying we did nothing to prevent the spread of communism, but Eisenhower gave a speech as he was leaving the presidency in 1958 warning against the combination of military and power.
Dad grew short with me because I instead asked more questions about grandpa witnessing 100s of people dying from the flu epidemic in a Southern military camp at the end of WW I.
Dad has been talking about his friends, coworkers, colleagues, and their children, all of whom are noteworthy and or successful as artists, writers, producers, judges, businessmen. The talk turned to people I knew in law school and I told dad I blocked out bad memories like swiss cheese, and that law school was one of those holes. I have some happy memories about my friends, like Nance, and about Denver, which I liked.
Late last night, as I turned out the light back in the cabin, I stood for a moment looking at the kitchen table in the picture window, lit by the streetlight like a bright moon. Shadows of the thick stands of pine trees crossed the pale, painted table and across old hanging plates on the knotty pine walls. Apparently GWB spoke tonight, but we didn't listen. All I could feel was sadness and an overwhelming sense of loss.
My life, my family, our country.