I just wanna give a quick shout-out to my reader(s) in Cambodia. I only know one person in Laos/Vietnam/Cambodia right now, and that’s you, Marcus. May all your anthropological filming and ethnographic research and pad thai eating go well. Don’t get yourself shot at.
Everyone I know is so cool and international and interesting. I mean seriously.
Screw this dental improvement scheme, I want my teeth back. I want the damn spacers out. I can’t chew anything and it hurts to talk. It hurts to not talk. It just hurts. Also, the idea of living solely on yogurt, smoothies, and the occasional mushy enchilada is, at best, disheartening. Ahhhhhhhhh!
Fortunately, a 30-yr-old coworker of mine also needs her teeth fixed, so I referred her to my ortho. We might suffer together now, us two old ladies in the same office, looking like teenage fools with wires in our mouth all year. I just keep reminding myself that, despite the intense discomfort, I am lucky to have this done. There is a bigger picture to everything, and I know the majority of people in this world can’t afford the cosmetic luxury of financing perfect teeth. I need to shutup and start being grateful for things again. That’s the only way to get through life.
Meanwhile, J. and I went last night to see the final 48 screenings. They were rather good, much better than the films that screened with our group. I was quite impressed, although it means we’re up against some tough competition. There are some skilled filmmakers in this city, I’m proud to say. I’m proud Tapioca’s a part of them. (And no cracks about the name, ok? Tapioca started as a made-up band name in 1999. In 2000, I made promotional spoof t-shirts that said “Tapioca World Tour 2000″. Then Tapioca became our brand name; any article or creative writing was dubbed “Copyright Tapioca”, and barbecues or parties became Brought To You By Tapioca Productions. Then I bought the URL. And now, three years later, here we are: tapioca’s about the only thing I can eat. I wish I liked it.)
In other news, feisty 9-year-old Maisha will be visiting me this weekend, rumor has it. Jealous that her brother Josh gets to see me and she doesn’t, it’s now her turn and I have to prepare. Maisha is quite possibly the most energetic, dryly sarcastic and charmingly impertinent child I’ve ever met. She only has one request: “Is there an Applebees in Boston? Will you take me there?”
We’re going to Applebees.
Adventures in orthodontics continue.
So I went today to get my “records” done, where they take molds of my mouth in plaster and about 20 x-rays of my face. Incredibly Hot Orthodontic Assistant man was there, whom for our purposes we’ll henceforth refer to as Gael. Flashing a winning smile as I walked in, he proceeded to smear plaster all over my face and massage my jaw, a move I would otherwise object to from a less attractive clinical person — wrong, I know, but if someone’s going to cause you dental pain, they might as well be someone you don’t mind looking at. The last half hour was spent with Gael trying to cram rubber seperators between all my molars, a difficult and painful process since my teeth are jammed so close together. Jokes were thrown around:
“So,” he said, “You’re a boxer. Does that mean you can take a lot of pain?”
“My capacity to inflict pain has no reflection on my tolerance to endure pain,” I said.
“There’s three of us here,” my doc called over. “I’m sure you can’t take on all of us at once.”
“Says you,” I snipped, then turned to Gael with all his fingers in my mouth. “Hurt me and those rubber bands are getting shoved down your throat, buddy.”
If I’m going to be subjected to the supreme care of attractive orthos for the next two years, we might as well develop a decent, if not sarcastic, relationship now.
I have only a week or two left with all these messy teeth in my head, unassaulted. Am terrified of losing weight. Already I can’t chew, and barely eating during 48 dropped me like seven pounds in three days. Nevertheless, although I hate to admit it, despite the already uncomfortable pain and the near inability to eat, I’m almost looking forward to this weird adventure. From here on in, it’s going to get interesting.
Hanging out with G. is like sipping a pineapple smoothie on a 500-ft yacht breezing down the Riviera while my arteries slowly implode: we have the best times, leaving me simultaneously slaked (favorite GRE word of ’03) and yet also with a numbing ache.
This was an incredibly long weekend, the bulk of which I spent editing ample behind-the-scenes footage under G’s supervision. We also repotted the Kalanchoe plant that I gave him for his birthday in an effort to save it from a sad, looming death. Only two roots and a few green leaves are left, but we replanted them carefully in a larger pot and watered it with special cactus ointment. “This is totally a metaphor for our relationship,” I said. G agreed. We both laughed about it, quite a funny scene. “Call me if the plant grows,” I told him when I left.
(Enter numb aching.)
All things considered, I’m so glad I still have him in my life in any capacity, along with other awesome people like SDR, who despite my terrible lack of communication sends me clippings from the San Francisco Chronicle for my refrigerator, and BB, who chirps happy inspiring sentiments even while she’s in a lot of pain, and Ryry, who calls me from home and from tour to say nothing but hello. He’s gone for weeks again and I already miss him. There’s lots of other awesome people too, and I won’t even mention lovely N. and lovely M. and the horses we will ride soon in upstate New York. Even Brent, with whom things were left messy and mean, is reading this, so it’s almost like we’re talking again. See? Everything’s fine. Everyone’s cool. Relax.
It’s summer, by the way. Boston has only two seasons: summer and winter, with coughs of interim weather for about a week in between. Spring has been coughed out already, giving way to 70 degree days. I finally took my bike out of storage (many thanks, Gardners) and got back in the saddle tonight, biking to feed the cats and then to J. & R.’s barbecue. I planned on being rather cautious, riding slowly, taking the back roads, but after about 3 minutes found myself hurdling down the middle of Mass Ave in traffic — no hands. My body’s gotta get used to this. Nice weather only lasts so long in this city, but I am constantly and consciously grateful for the marathon stint of cloudless days we’ve had (no pun intended). I had a great hamburger in J.’s backyard, beat (most) everyone at darts, talked to my ex’s ex for a while, both of us pleasant, and topped it all off with Espresso Chip ice cream while everyone at the party raved about our film. If things continue like this, and man, if the plant lives, I can’t even tell you how good this year will be. It’s already going pretty well.
By the way, who’s available the weekend of June 4? Aside from the fact that it’s my birthday, that weekend is also J. and N.’s birthday. J. and I are planning at least a double birthday party. I’m not usually a huge fan of parties, but I’m a huge fan of hamburgers, so hey. Anyway Al will be there and he doesn’t consume alcohol or caffeine either. There will therefore be an excess of Ginger Ale and Fanta. Wild times, kids. Wild times.
Seriously, though. There is absolutely nothing in the world to complain about.
MM, our new top boss at work, is a Buddhist, so I invited him to the Buddhist Cultural Center where I go every week for lunch. We took S. along and talked over marinated tofu about religion and being quiet, then he bought us a present — “Being Peace”, a book by famous monk Thich Nhat Hanh. Even in early afternoon, I feel like I’ve completed such an interesting, surreal night and day. Because I don’t have the words to summarize everything, I will borrow a poem from A.R. Ammons, a personal favorite:
ROGUE ELEPHANT
The reason to be autonomous is to stand there,
a cleared instrument, ready to act, to search
the moral realm and actual conditions for what
needs to be done and to do it: fine, the
best, if it works out, but if, like a gun, it
comes in handy to the wrong choice, why then
you see the danger in the effective: better
then an autonomy that stands and looks about,
negotiating nothing, the supreme indifferences:
is anything to be gained where as much is lost:
and if for every action there is an equal and
opposite reaction has the loss been researched
equally with the gain: you can see how the
milling actions of millions could come to a
buzzard-like glide as from a coincidental,
warm bottom of water stuck between chilled
peaks: it is not so easy to say, OK, go on
out and act: who, doing what, to what or
whom: just a minute: should the bunker be
bombed (if it stores gas): should all the
rattlers die just because they rattle: if I
hear the young gentleman vomiter roaring down
the hall in the men’s room, should I go and
inquire of him, reducing him to my care: no
wonder the great sayers (who say nothing) sit
about in inaccessible states of mind: no
wonder still wisdom and catatonia appear to
exchange places occasionally: but if anything
were easy, our easy choices soon would carry
away our ignorance with the world — better
let the mixed-up mix and let the surface shine
with all the possibilities, each in itself.
I discovered Zak Smith last year at the Whitney in Manhattan. He had on exhibit 760 postcard-sized illustrations signifying each page of Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow. It was amazing. Multi-format watercolor, comic style pen & ink, portrait style oil, photo collage. Hip. Interesting. I noted Zak’s name and promptly Google’d him until I found out he’s a punked out artist with a degree from Yale. I got his email address, then wrote and announced I wanted to find a way to promote him…not that having an exhibit at the Whitney and other reknowned NYC venues wasn’t promotion enough…but I want to put his art in a film. Like, a good film, something amazing. If you’ve any ideas, let me know.
Thanks to J. and C., there are more photos of our production up here.
Meanwhile, the exhaustion has definitely hit. Three days later, I can barely move. Nearly fell asleep during the all-staff meeting this morning. Kept forgetting to click “next slide” during the powerpoint presentation. Picked up keys for my 2-week Central Sq. housesitting gig. Made some calls. Logistical stuff is so necessary but so boring. I want to work on our behind-the-scenes documentary so Chronicle can have additional footage to show besides my interview (good idea, Chris).
After last night’s Kendall screening, we all realized our film is better than most other teams, which is crazy and exciting, and we’re all getting giddy. WORD!
****ON EDIT****
Blossoms have popped out on the trees. I noticed them tonight, after my nap in El Creepy House where I did my laundry and overslept and fed the cats. The windowshades have all mysteriously disappeared from the house, so now I refuse to stay there at night. Had a horror dream about it already.
I just read what N. has written: I love A., I really do, because she’s not scared of anything, when it comes to getting what she wants. Hmm. It’s always interesting to hear how other people perceive of you. She’s right, I’m not scared of anything when it comes to getting what I want, but to me it’s often more of a problem than a positive trait — because most of the time, I shouldn’t have what I want, but I want it anyway so I do whatever it takes to get it. I’ve gotten in some rather crappy relationships that way, as well as one good one that would never work long-term. Sigh. I’m trying these days to focus on what’s best instead of what I think is best. That’s a tough distinction to make, though. Try it sometime.
