Ramble

I’ve been trudging through the snow for the past few weeks. The Charles River – near Harvard, where I cross it – has frozen over and is covered in snow. I’ve never seen anything like it. A few days ago the temperature was mid-30s, and I found myself outside in a sweatshirt telling Rachel it had warmed up a little bit. That struck me as a strange moment, one where I realized I was adjusting to life in a new place. New snow has been piling up over old snow in a series of snow flurries, parks are covered in white, benches are buried, and trees poke from ice like stiff wallflowers pushed onto the dance floor.

I’m reminded every once in awhile that I live in Boston, that I live in a whole new world. A month or so ago, Rachel and I went up to Concord and visited Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, where Ralph Waldo Emerson, Louisa May Alcott, Nathanial Hawthorne, and Herman Melville are buried. We also visited the Little Women house, which in true American fashion has been turned into a gift shop with a paid tour. Emerson’s house was closed that day, but like true literature nerds, Rachel and I peaked in all the windows, and Rachel ate a few of the wild grapes growing in his yard. The house that Hawthorne, Alcott, and a few other writers lived was closed as well, and of course Rachel and I played the peeping toms.

That small town is full of incredible history, including a trail marking the path of Paul Revere’s ride. There seem to be ghosts everywhere. I spend most of my time in Harvard Square, where the oldest church in Massachusetts stands. One day as I was taking the train into school I discovered part of the Redline was closed, so the MBTA had setup a series of shuttles to take passengers to the other side of the closure. When I got off the bus, angry from the inconvenience, I noticed a small cemetery that seemed to be a tourist attraction. Of course I went in and discovered Paul Revere’s headstone, along with Benjamin Franklin’s.

This could never happen in Seattle, of course, because Washington’s history goes nowhere near as far back as New England’s. Part of the reason I left Seattle was the lack of motivation, feeling, connection. I never felt like part of the city or that I had a place in it. Nothing felt right, and it never felt like home, though I guess that’s what it is. Oregon gave me a purpose and a focus and a strange sense of camaraderie Seattle lacked. Every time I take the train to school or walk around the city, I feel like there’s something larger going on, like I’m just a fragment of a great big world. It’s humbling and encouraging at the same time.

The Music Video Era!

It's officially dead. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. 

Over this wonderful Thanksgiving weekend, Rachel and I waxed nostalgic about music videos and wondered if bands still make them. Remember when Michael Jackson or Madonna videos were premiered on ABC or NBC news? Or M.J.'s fantastic "Remember the Time" video starring Eddie Murphy, Iman, and a hoard of people in some crazy version of egyptian clothes dancing around like they were trying to raise King Tut? M.J. had it right, his videos were events! I worry about the people who've never seen the full "Thriler" video and the making of it. Today in the car some local radio station announced that it played "The best songs of the Video Music Era," as if the  time of music videos is long gone.

I can't remember the last time I saw a legitimate music video on MTV or Vh1. Maybe that's because I don't watch those channels, but I think what made me stop watching in the first place was the replacement of music videos with awful reality shows. And who can blame them? Who needs an artistic, well-directed 3-minute visualization of your favorite song when you can watch a woman poop on the floor of a mansion? (So I caught that episode of Flavor of Love).

That reminds me, is TRL still on? Or Vh1's Top-20 countdown? Are those the last remnants of the music video, or are they gone as well? I'm afraid those wonderful wonderful videos have been replaced by Beyonce's shitty DirectTV jingle, complete with dancing choreographed by the cartoon cat from Paula Abdul's "Opposites Attract" video. Except that cat could dance.

I miss music videos. I don't really want to see Fergie "dancing" to her "music." But I guess that raises the question of the status of music now, which I won't talk about because I don't feel like my head should explode at the end of a nice holiday weekend. I miss Busta Rhymes' crazy costumes and yelling "Wooooohaaaaaa!" And A-Ha's journey into combining animation and video in "Take On Me." The Smashing Pumpkins once redid the classic "Rocket to the Moon" with their "Tonight" video. More recently, Incubus's lead singer followed A-Ha's lead by animating himself  in "Drive" or whatever that song was called.

Maybe there are still music videos around and I'm getting old. 

Darn

In The World According to Garp*, there is a scene where Garp writes a short story about a man who can do fantastic things like play piano so long as he has gloves on. Without them, he can't do even the simplest things, like touch his children. This of course leads to drastic action and drastic consequences. I love the idea behind this story because I love stories that present otherwise competent (and even heroic) people with human (and of course ironic) flaws. Dr.Jones' flaw, of course, was his fear of snakes.

Right now, I feel like I'm trying to be a writer who is unable to find words.

*I'm referring to the movie here, since I have not read the John Irving novel of the same title.

I’ve been in Boston for a few days now, and tomorrow my parents leave. I get to sleep in my bedroom, on my own bed, for the first time. The apartment is beginning to look like a home, at least my bedroom is. David will be here tomorrow, but I don’t think he’s staying the night yet.

As the time to move approached, people constantly asked, “Are you getting excited?” or something like it. Never failing, they were always surprised when I said “I guess.” The truth is, even though I’m here, it still hasn’t sunk in that I live in Boston. The closest I’ve come to realizing it was yesterday, looking up at the Boston Public Library. For a second I almost felt something rising up in my throat, something thick and heavy, something stopping in the center of my throat before sinking back down and taking the elusive feeling of home away with it.

Rachel will be here in a week, and I’m sure this place will feel like home one we’re in bed together.

Other than that, I’ve felt sort of numb. Ironically, maybe I’ve been too caught up in getting settled and making this city and apartment feel like home to really think about the fact that I now live in Boston.

* * *

Driving with my dad was interesting. I didn’t really learn as much about him as I hoped I would, although I did finally learn where he was born. We almost drove through the town, but it as out of the way and he didn’t want to drive to it since it was the middle of the night and we probably wouldn’t be able to see much anyways. I still don’t really know where he grew up, although I know there was a town in California that he said was swallowed by a larger town and doesn’t exist anymore. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the name of it, and I didn’t write it down because I didn’t want my dad to think I was interviewing him or that I had some sort of agenda while talking to him.

We talked about a lot of nonsense; we talked a little bit of sense, but mostly we stuck to nonsense. We joked about the unfortunate names of towns like Smelterville and Plainville. I have the same sense of humor as him, so he’s easy to get along with for me. That shouldn’t be surprising since he’s my dad and all, but after not really getting along with him for such a long time, I myself sometimes don’t believe it.

I listened to a lot of his Irish drinking songs and country folk music. While we talked about James Joyce, he explained Finnegan’s Wake and how the cyclical nature of the song shaped Joyce’s story, and I listened to his explanation for the 15^th time or so. Then without warning, he began reciting the words to the song. My dad mumbles, and it’s usually pretty difficult to hear him, but while reciting the lines, he locked into a rhythm in no way similar to the song – which we listened to later – but one all his own, articulating the syllables and the words he felt were important. I got the impression he was trying to teach me something he felt was important.

qwerty

Back at my parents' house for a few days before leaving for Boston, staying in my old bedroom that isn't really my old bedroom. I always feel fat and lazy here no matter what I'm doing. The days have been clear, just the way I like it. On days like these you can see for miles and miles, and in every direction, mountains guard the horizon.

I have muddled thoughts on Oregon. Too muddled for a QWERTY keypad to make sense of.