Tell Me A Story

Two hours to write a prompt-based short story about an article of clothing that helped someone assume a persona...this is what came out of my television-deadened brain.

Just looking at me would have made you burst into tears. I was short. I walked pigeon-toed and hunched forward like a diver, neck extended as thought it were my head rather than my legs which propelled my body forward. Eyes lackluster and starless, mouth small and curled in upon itself like a suicide bomber, as if by self-annihilation it could promise me a life without speaking.

At the time, I was working as a secretary in a crooked corporate-law firm and earning enough to pay my rent, launder my sensible blouses and skirts, and re-sole the uncomfortable shoes with which I walked with the three miles to and from work each day. What I did in those long office hours--what notes I typed or messages I saved or dictations I took--I'm not really sure, but I do remember that on cool February afternoons and warm spring days I would take my lunch outside and sit, back erect as an un-romantic ballerina's, on a bench in the park. Balancing my tray tersely on my nervous, knobby knees, I stared at the gelatinous soups and cakes glowing with shinny that the office provided me, and then--with a nearly imperceptible sigh--at the squirrels.

When the New England winter began stealing away--when all that was left of it were pitiful lumps of snow clinging to the grass like sloppy, sobbing ghosts--the squirrels would emerge from the dripping rees and begin digging in the softening ground. It was a process that never ceased to fascinate me; how after months of cowering from the blizzards that blew a hoary powder upon the ground thick as cream--after months of snow that muted memory into forgetfulness--the squirrels could remember where they had hidden the loot they'd buried when the trees tossed their proud heads of flame.

Of course, at the time I would have described myself as sitting up straight and proper in my gray skirt and white blouse, being careful not to spill the lunch I knew I wouldn't eat on my scuffed black pumps, and watching the squirrels search for the food they'd buried beneath the now-melting ice. Like I said, I was unromantic.

But maybe it was the fact that the cherry trees were blossoming early that year, at the start of April rather than closer to May. It was as if the criminal that was winter had stolen away and left only his shameful, fucshia-suffused face in his place for once, rather than his usual slobbering-ice apologies. Or perhaps it was the intoxication of finally seeing sunlight, whose power I'd forgotten in the short, gray days that gripped time from December to March. Whatever the reason, I chose to empty my untouched tray early, and buy a steaming cup of tea.

I don't remember what kind of tea it was, but it was probably peppermint. Peppermint tea always had the strangest effect on me, rousing the parts of my person that chose full-time hibernation and inhibition, like the falling-in-love part, or the dancing part, or the part that liked the salty, salubrious smell of the sea.

Clutching the hot paper cup in my cold fingers, I shuffled--still hunched--down the avenue until I spied something beautiful. Peeking from a dust-coated window was a scarf, and what a scarf it was! It looked as if it were spun from rainbows and interlaced with the antithesis of apathy. The mere act of it seemed to wipe off the dust of banal years that had accumulated in a cataract-like film over my eyes, to remind my feet and my smile of their youth, to incite an irrational desire to want it.

It wasn't so much the scarf I wanted, but the life it seemed to promise me. Not being able to create an identity for myself, I wanted one pre-made and fashionable--dazzling, brilliant, shameless. I wanted it so much that I straightened my back, marched into the dim shop, snatched the scarf up in my long fingers and veritably demanded from the woman inside, "How much?"

My eyes widened at her whispered sum.

"For a scarf?" I cried, incredulous.

The sallow woman shook her head and brandished the beautiful piece of cloth at me. "For this scarf."

It cost me two weeks' pay. You might call me mad. I quit my job after buying it. Now you'll say I'm senile, although I was only 24 years old, an age hardly meant for sanity. That piece of cloth. It reminded me of things I'd forgotten, that my eyes had glossed over. I stopped gawking at squirrels in search of guidance about remembering things forgotten. I began to frequent cafes I'd always avoided. Where poets spoke rhythms in gentle, husky voices. Fingering the scarf, I imagined myself pulling words as stunning from my pursed lips, and, surprising myself more than any magician's feat ever could, I spoke--stuttering at first--until my imagination woke and stretched and slid from my mouth taking a shape more solid and moving than the cloth draped about my neck. I was soon speaking and then laughing, mouth gaping wide, chortling raucously as a fish against the moon. I turned from city squirrels to sinews of sunlight and a three-speed bicycle, following sunrise and saying to hell with winter's shadows.

I was crouching again, but this was a confident crouch, a crouch of purpose. I sped reawoken from Paterson to Frisco, from Williams to Ginsberg, scarf flowing behind me in the wind like the sweeping tail of a shooting star. Somehow, it reminded me that my fate was not controlled by the calculated contours of the universe, by the diamond-sharp glints of faraway stars scratching out their harlequin horoscope projections. It was a piece of something unimagined, something upon which no one had previously imprinted their persona. It made me taller than Lincoln's top hat and freer than a hippie's headband; it was more potent than a superhero's spandex and more poetic than the patched tweed suit of a poet.

I gathered the scarf up in my fingers like courage and bicycled to Wisconsin. It was quiet in the patch of woods I'd chosen, peaceful before I raised a hatchet and felled one tree after another, splitting them down the middle, fitting them together till I had a cabin with the strength to withstand winter. There was a tree down for taxes and a tree down for corruption, a tree down for silence and a tree down for ignorance. It was spring again, and the cicadas hummed when I was done. I strung my scarf up laughing, until it was only gossamer in the treetops. I knew I'd remembered everything there was to remember. You would have smiled if you'd been there, too.

--Fin--

Now it's time to read some Ray Bradbury and write something better.

Quotables...

My mom and I were at Fry's Electronics a couple days ago to get some earbuds (which, I must add, broke the day after they were purchased. I shake my fist at them. But then, they were four bucks, so, I guess I can't complain that much. (oh wow, that was a lot of parenthetical complaining. I feel like I'm whispering behind someone's back)). Anyway, as we were leaving the store, my mom looked at the pretty girl who was checking our receipts and, being the ubiquitous person she is, asked "Are those your eyelashes?" (they were very luscious). What did the girl say?

After hesitating for a moment...

"They're mine 'cause I bought 'em!"

Needless to say, once we got to the parking lot, my mom and I were laughing our faces off. The thing is, if you're going to get fake eyelashes, you may as well get cool ones that are ... blue and sparkly or something. Everyone can tell they're fake anyway, so why not have fun with it?

Ray Bradbury Musical

Yes, yes, yes, I am writing about Ray Bradbury. Consider this post one of admiration for Who Noor Might Marry (for shizzle--thanks Snoop Dogg) Installment Two. Too bad he's in love with Bo Derrek.

Bo Derrek, before she became a Playboy model.

Thanks, New Haven mommies, for giving me a love for old men!

But honestly, I really want to see this musical. Here's the story: It's the year 2116 and a married couple of forty years is getting tired of waking up to each others' crinkly faces each morning. Enter the androids. They are traveling as door-to-door salesmen. What are they peddling? Marionettes, of course: custom androids, of course. The poor couple decides to give each other androids of their younger, sexier selves for Christmas and learn an important lesson: that by growing old with someone you love, you can keep your youth. Androids represent more than machines and catalysts for a great realization of undying love in this musical; they represent life becoming mechanical, and the lack of attention given to love. A robot may be good for lots of things, but you don't need a robot to see that you need someone.

"Wisdom 2116" is playing at the Fremont Center Theater in South Pasadena until February 27th. You can be linked to an informational page by clicking on the title of my post.



At his home in Los Angeles, Ray Bradbury explains his sappy love story: "the message in life is, love is everything...I'm a mamma's boy, I'm a sissy," he explained.

Ray on computers: "I hate them."

Yes, I realize I'm using a computer to say, I love you Ray Bradbury. I cried when I found out I missed your visit to the library two years ago.

Ray Bradbury when he was old, but not that old. And he likes kitties! My heart's melting...

Bradbury wrote the musical 55 years ago, for Charles Laughton and his wife who were about the same age as his fictional couple. Now 89 years old, he understands old age and old love. But he also understands his stories. He speaks of being invited into a circus tent as a kid. "I was twelve years old...I wanted to grow up and be a magician, and that's what happened, isn't it? I'm a magician, and you'll believe anything I tell you. And I'll live forever, so help me God."

OK, it's This American Life time. Bye!

Internship?

So, I wrote a post on my new internship a while ago but couldn't post it because, having ignored my system updates for so long, my internet had transformed from a sleek cheetah into a slimy slug. Ew, slime. Some slugs are good--in fact, some even eat mold, protecting us and our plastered shelters from the insalubrious fungi--what am I rationalizing? Slugs gross me out. They remind me of miniature, less dry, faceless Jabba the Huts. What does a slug's face even look like? But, digress. I recently began interning at a Pacifica Radio station, and I’m loving it so far.

Many people don’t know this (I know I didn’t), but Pacifica was the first public radio station in the United States. It was founded way back in 1946 by Lewis Hill, a conscientious objector who covered World War II in Washington, D.C. until he was fired for refusing to adulterate facts. The idea of a listener-sponsored radio station, rather than a government or corporate-sponsored media, appealed to him greatly and he began to gather a following. Although it was new-fangled, the idea grew, and he and his cohorts began broadcasting from Berkeley, California in 1949. KPFK in Los Angeles went on the air 10 years later and soon became the most powerful public radio station in the Western United States.

KPFK operates from a distinguished-looking red brick building in North Hollywood that seems to slouch slightly amidst its bustling surroundings. With a Panda Express across the street and an Indian restaurant called the “Bollywood Two” next door, along with cute local places like

(a slightly-seedy jazz club that serves all manner of interesting starchy-Solanaceae concotions including a Maple Ham, Corn, and Pineapple Potato; a Hot Dog and Sauerkraut Potato, a Marinated Steak Potato…the list of oddities goes on), and Universal Studios just a short tram ride away, the radio station seems a bit out of place at first. But its eclectic, electric spirit is represented in its diverse surroundings.

The radio archive at KPFK is the nation’s oldest, and the archives room has a great atmosphere. It’s dimly lit—the ceiling lamps have colored-cloth lanterns hanging over them, casting the entire room in an eerie, softly tinted light, and the rows of cases cradling books and CDs are perfect for crawling between for a post-lunch nap (no, silly, I haven't taken one). The walls are painted a pollen-like orange, with red, white, and yellow stripes running like equators across their bellies. The latitudinal lines are broken by towering chests of drawers filled with old chunks of history—50 years of grassroots political, cultural and performing arts history. There are recordings and interviews with greats like John Coltraine and John Cage, Langston Hughes, James Baldwin, Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and even Ernesto “Che” Guevara. I worked in the archives my first day at KPFK, and enjoyed organizing recordings while chatting with other volunteers (like Sylvia, an old woman at whom I nervously had to shout because she was "going deaf, dear"), archivists (like Edgar, who literally had a feather in his cap, well, fedora really), and producers.

I can’t really explain the first few days working on a show. I walked into the office and stood staring at all the posters for a while—Immigration Reform Now! Iraqi Workers Unite! Bush—the Only Dope Worth Shooting.

Researching was easy and enjoyable—preparing talking points was difficult. When writing segment introductions, I was suddenly struck by my power. A strategically placed qualifier, an extra sentence (or a sentence less), a few choice words, the emphasis placed on a fact, all led to radically different slants on the same facts. And the idea of framing a deeply complex issue in only 15 minutes was staggering.

The first segment I had to work on was the most daunting. It was about toxic chemicals used as flame retardants. These chemicals coat objects from pillows and pajamas to television sets and car seats. I read a lot about the issue, the history of legislation surrounding it, the chemical reasons it was bad, the medical problems it caused. But I still didn’t know what the public needed to be informed about. Did they need to know about the chemicals that had been recently banned? The effects of the chemicals? The science behind their toxicity? The corporate lobbyists that prevented them from being taken off the market? The civil rights debates surrounding the issue? The fact that I was in a position to decide what millions of people needed to know was difficult to wrap my head around, and everything seemed important. Sometimes curiosity is unrewarding. I eventually got the talking points in order, but they were too unspecific in some cases and too general in others. But I comforted myself—I’d get it eventually, and I have become better (but not perfect yet, oh no). Every story I research and help write astounds me. My parents are probably getting tired of me talking nonstop about French burka bans and torture in Afghan detainment camps and Scott Brown’s stupidity, but I can’t help it. Everything is too wonderful a prospect, everything seems so important.

Perhaps the biggest lesson I’ve been learning from Pacifica radio is the one that should be the most obvious—that journalism has a profound affect on the way that people act and think. That journalism is what brings people to the front lines. For someone like me, who has always believed she should (and would) become the driving force in every story—who wants to be each hero, the larger-than-life every(wo)man—this is a big realization. I’m learning that telling the stories is just as important, and I’m learning that my old views—my scorning the catalyst in favor of the protagonist—were naïve and, frankly, egotistic. How many people know of Edward R. Murrow and how many people know of Gandhi? It must have been some sort of complex, a

wanting to be great, to be known the world over. I don’t think I’ve quite gotten over it (who ever does?), but, as corny as this sounds (and I know it will sound corny), if it ultimately makes the world a better place, I don’t mind a bit of that yearning on my part or anyone else’s. But Sonali Kolhatkkar, the amazing broadcaster and journalist with whom I’m working (or, to be more correct, for whom I’m working), balances these roles of catalyst and proactive actor very nicely, working on her show, Uprising, and working as an activist in an Afghan woman’s collective. I can only hope that I’ll be able to find such an admirable balance later in life.

Let's Dance

So, I must say that hearing this on the radio made me feel pretty fly, so check it out and help inflate my ego!

Also, I apologize for all the pledge-fund pushing in this episode, but don't fast forward! And, you know, if the mood strikes, you can give us money :-)

KPFK Fund Drive Day 4

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I had to pick out clips from among much archival footage from and about the Depression era. They were all really fascinating. There was a piano-playing debutante who, after losing a million dollars in the stock market crash, pleaded for good souls to buy the only thing she had left--her 25,000 dollar mink coat. There were news clips from Chicago, where hundreds of couples participated in "Dance Marathons" where they would literally dance for months on end. The dancers were allowed to take 5, and sometimes 10, minute long naps. The attendants would take off their shoes and massage their tired feet as they collapsed into their cots. After the buzzer rang signaling the end of their time the dancers would be dragged from their beds and shaken awake. They circled the dance floor like zombies as hundreds of onlookers looked on. Here's a clip I love:

Dance marathons represent what the Great Depression was ultimately about: something very good going very wrong--the rebellious, youthful dance crazes of the Jazz Age morphed into something much more sinister. As Betty asks, "Well, do you think we can stick it out, Frankie?" she's not asking questioning whether she and her partner can keep their toes from dislocating or keep from collapsing of fatigue longer than their fellows. She's asking when it will be over--all of it.

One thread that ran through much of the footage was especially surprising. Many of them--archival television footage, documentaries, films, commentaries from ordinary people--supported a combination of rugged independence from government while promoting and sometimes practicing a public socialism. This seemed like a dichotomy to me at first, but now it doesn't seem too different from what many tea-partiers are pleading for today; the desire to govern themselves as communities. Of course, the world is different today--I doubt that many hardline republicans would like to live on communal farms, and their predecessors did not place as much faith in the free market or its currency as do their contemporaries.