September 11 et alia

September 11 is Emily McQuarrie's birthday, so my sense of the day will always be tied to her, and to her birthday in 2001: She lives in Newmarket, NH, and the Friday after her birthday, calls for a candlelight vigil for that evening at 7 pm EST were circulated on the internet. So there I was, driving up from CT to NH, with Anthony still marooned in Denver after the grounding of the airplanes. I was lost in some beautiful little New Hampshire town, and people were standing on porches and sidewalks with candles in the fading light. It was absolutely vital that I get to my friends, despite the long drive. Physical presences became more important for awhile after that--due to the many physical presences lost. That's why I like the Towers of Light so much: they are ghostly, like a phantom limb, a presence that isn't quite a presence. Many people thought they should have been incorporated into the final memorial plan.

On a much brighter note, Karen, your apartment looks amazing! I hope I'll be able to come visit soon.

Celebrate New York

Stephen and I are spending the day watching all 14 hours of Rick Burns' "New York" documentary in honor of the city. It's an inspiring documentary that gives you a sense of just how many times New York has been laid low and struggled to its feet again--from the Revolutionary War, to the Draft Riots, to the 1970's.

One thing I (re)learned from September 11, 2001, is the pain caused by attachment--in this case, to a building, a place. I loved the towers. Stephen and I would sit on the Brooklyn Promenade at night and look at the always-different pattern of lights in the windows; I oriented myself by them when I wandered around Manhattan. Last night, the Towers of Light installation was re-lit, and it shocked me to see something--anything--in their space again. We might walk to the Jersey City Promenade tonight to see the Towers of Light, but I'm not sure; maybe we'll light incense for the people who died instead.

It Has Arrived!!

Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (by Susanna Clarke) has arrived on my desk at work!! And of course, all I want to do is read it instead of actually working...if only I could swing a job where reading actually *was my job...

When I figure out how I can insert links in my postings, I'll post reviews of Jonathan Strange...

More later...

M.

Live from New York...

I keep telling myself that there's only one day left of the Republican National Convention and then the helicopters and sirens will return to their usual levels (which is still more than many people are used to, given the comments I get while I'm on the phone at work on any given day).

So far this week, I've witnessed a police officer and teenaged boy screaming at each other in the dripping humid 23rd Street F Train station, scattered groups of protesters who have wandered away from their groups and gotten lost, police officers trying desperately to control traffic via traffic cones and hand gestures (unsuccessfully, I might add). I've come to the conclusion that New York is simply a force of nature and cannot be controlled. (And I don't believe this is a bad thing).

Oh, and despite sightings by my friends and colleagues, I have not actually witnessed any visible Republicans. ;)

One more day. Just one more day.

M's assessment of Vegas was my own--only I was 17 and not nearly so mature and eloquent. I couldn't shake the feeling of excess, vice, and squalor, metaphorically typified by the $4.99 megabuffet which included something which at dinner were called egg rolls and the next day at breakfast were called breakfast roll ups or something similar. It's a slick, image-oriented place, slighty seedy even at its most fabulous--and, let's face it: still slightly fabulous in all its seediness. I think everyone should visit once, just to see it. But for me, once was/is enough.

I'm in!

Thanks to some email weirdness, it took me a while, but I am most definitely on board! Of course, I am nowhere near as eloquent as Michaela, who manages to make Las Vegas sound amazing, even while telling how much she hated it. I am still waiting to see the ceiling picture-- you DID take it for me, didn't you Kla?

On Leaving Las Vegas

I don't think anything could have prepared me for Las Vegas, where I just spent 3 days for a company conference. It was both grander in scale and brightness and more devestatingly awful than I'd expected. I'd been told that Las Vegas is "Something I Should See"-- a part of the American Experience, but nothing prepared more for the improbability of its existence. Cavernous rooms full of slot machines screaming "Wheel of Fortune," people playing blackjack at 4:45am, casinos plastered with garish, tread-worn carpet saturated with alcohol, the lights of the strip flashing at all hours of day and night. And surrounding this barely controlled mahem is a ring of mountains that look like an alien landscape--striated red and purple peaks, their colors filtered through dust and sunlight.

The landscape itself is stunning. I suspect that in the mountains life is very different than life on the Strip, and wonder whether the people who actually live in Las Vegas ever go to the hotels and casinos. But that begs the question: how is it possible that the city exists in such a a landscape and climate at all? How in the middle of a desert can the Bellagio create a choreographed water fountain show that runs every 15 minutes, and though stunning, uses an obscene amount of water (much of which seemed to evaporate into the dry air)? (Not to mention the hotels and their daily laundry alone). Why does the Strip exist at all?

I felt very much an outsider in Las Vegas. Most of my colleagues enjoyed themselves at the casinos and went out for drinks, but I couldn't bring myself to do it (yep, I couldn't even bring myself to put two quarters in a slot machine). I thought I had inured myself from shock living in New York, where you never know what you'll see next, but Vegas shocked me with the sheer number of people wandering the streets drunk at all hours, people sitting with glazed looks on their faces, eyes lit up by slot machines; the girlie cards inserted into the chain link fences on the pedestrian bridges; the men slapping their hands with flyers advertising exotic "pleasures." Who benefits? Who really is having fun? And should I even bother to care? Part of me wants to think that my trip there was a bad dream--I can just pretend that it was all just a jet-lag induced hallucination. But I know it exists now. I've had my "American Exprience" and am left thinking about life out of balance.

Nice . . . I've thought for a long time that we needed a blog . . assuming that Ms. Graves is also aboard. I have two already, and they really do work for postings that you want all involved parties to see and respond to.

So: why are you going to Vegas? Remember--VEGAS IS BABYLON!!!

Michaela with a Polar Bear at the Berlin Zoo (July, 2004)
Photo: Stephen Howe

Welcome to "The Salt Water Chronicles"!

Why "The Salt Water Chronicles"? Because my mantra is this quote from Isak Dinesen: "The cure for everything is salt water -- sweat, tears, or the sea." When hard work doesn't do the trick, sometimes a good cry will, and failing that, a trip to the ocean. :)