Slapdash Lovely

Rainy Night

2006-06-27T23:48:00.000-07:00

The rain continues to pour, noisy in the streets. It lulls the neighborhood to sleep with only the faint anxiety of flooded basements and the morning commute.

The air has changed here. Along with summer's persistent humidity has come my realization that it's time to stop this push-pull with Erika. That it's not realistic or practical or even likely that we will be able to navigate our romance through this time and distance.

Yesterday I asked that she and I no longer be in contact. As full of hope as I was when I learned of her impending divorce from Seth, my hope has dissolved into a lingering discomfort, a realization that of the number of obstacles preventing she and I from being together, her being married was but one.

Now begin the painful reminders of the spaces where I am no longer allowed. She tragically, systematically deletes her presence from this blog and perhaps symbolically, from my life in Philadelphia, hopefully to live hers more fully in Portland. Now begins the wondering if this is the right path... the kind one? the honest one?

Philadelphia, for me, has become home. I am comforted by familiar landmarks, street corners, restaurants. For a long time I allowed each little place to have its sacredness as associated with a certain individual. Out of respect, I wouldn't overlap where I took these women who have been my lovers while I've lived here. Pine Street Pizza, Avenue B, The Kimmel Center, and The Academy of Music belonged to Greta. Giovanni's Room, the green line trolley, Pumpkin, and Bike Church were Zach's. And Erika had Lolita, Capogiro, Whole Foods, Colonial Pizza, Fu Wah, and Reading Terminal Market early on Friday mornings.

I'm reaching a point now where so many spaces are coded to be associated with a certain person and a specific memory- coffee one morning with Jess at Petit 4 Pastry Studio, mojito happy hour with Robin at Cafe Habana, that CVS on Walnut where we bought Christmas lights while I waited in the car so nobody would steal our tree, the house on Antique Row where Kate and I bought our vacuum on the day in August when we became friends- that the city now appears in layers and layers of my history. The cacophony of meaning and memory and love and joy and pain and forgiveness is all around all the time as I walk or bike these rainy streets.

On the days when it is too wet to walk or to bike I resign myself to taking the Broad Street Line where I sit and think about my early morning rides southbound from West Philly when Erika and I would part ways- she heading to the market to begin her day, and me heading home to bed for a few more hours. I think of my first ride on that subway, to meet Zach for a movie at Arts Bank at the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival. I recall the air conditioned theater exiting into the muggy night, to catch the train home together to 411. Then I think of Kelly and I think of the great, great films that this summer's festival will bring, and I think of Zach and Erika in far away Portland. So absent. And even though they have removed their physical presences from this gritty city, they remain in these moments of my own remembrance.

I would like to think that even though their landscape may now look different- more green space, cleaner public transit, and a different host of little bars, cafes, and theaters- that Philadelphia, for what it's worth- has made an impression as well. Or at least that I have, anyway.

scenes from my days

2006-06-12T07:58:00.000-07:00

After a beautiful meal at Lolita on a rainy evening with Anne.

Playing the 'Making the Bed Game'.

The Cat. The Laundry.

A spring salad of beets and apples and hyssop.

At Capogiro. Hazlenut and milk chocolate. Fior de latte and pistachio.

High Point

2006-06-01T16:11:00.000-07:00

Another long, long day at the market. I'm bracing myself for the two sixteen-hour days that are my Friday and Saturday. The idea of them make today's ten hour one seem like cake.

My low point of the day happened on my way home. I was tired, it's unseasonably hot and muggy and the asphalt of South Philly just seems to magnify it. I was about to cross washington ave on my bike, riding along 12th street, when something orange flew in front of my face. Before I had time to register what it was another presumably orange something smacked into the right side of my neck. Stinging, and surprised I regained my balance on my bike and I kept riding. It took me a moment to register what had happened. Hearing the yells of the kids on the street I realized that they had just thrown water balloons at me. As if I were some truck driver to annoy with a sudden splatter of water. I mean how stupid do you have to be? They could have knocked me off my bike, into traffic....The balloon could have exploded and soaked my bag containing my computer....
I could have stopped to yell at them and work out some of the frustration of an already too long day without enough time to feel human or enough of a staff to feel capable....
But I didn't. I just headed homeward feeling defeated.

The high point of my day happened a few moments ago when waking from a little nap I checked my e-mail to find a forward from my mom. Louise wrote:

A queer super heroine - yippee!
CNN.com - New Batwoman is a lesbian - Jun 1, 2006

I'm delighted, first of all, that batwoman is queer- I mean, was there really any doubt? And secondly, that my mom is excited enough about it to pass it on to me. Way to go mom. You're awesome.

Home

2006-05-29T05:10:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in my parent's house in the bedroom that was mine from the time I was ten until I was thirteen years old. It's a small room, now painted a warm peach. There is a little hardwood desk and a big dresser and a white radiator and white wooden blinds over the windows. The bed is covered in soft white sheets and blue blankets and a quilt. My sister's pottery surrounds me and my grandmother Barbara's bedroom chair sits in the corner. Last night when I got home from the Peace Corps reunion memorial day barbecue, I lay on this bed and stared out the windows into the summer evening light and so many green trees. I fell asleep at eight and slept soundly until four when I woke after having a dream about a vintage stand mixer and rowing a double inside and seeing alligators through clear, green water.

I have been working too hard. And I haven't been sleeping enough.

Yesterday, after a regular Saturday double between the Farmstand and the restaurant, I woke early and drove to DC where I met Ann, my farmstand boss and several of our workers, Nicky, Lori, Karl. We had a tour of the Dupont Circle Farmer's Market where Nicky and I shared a quart of chocolate milk and we tried apples and cheese curds. We bought preserves, pasta, bread, pastries, beef jerky, greens, meat, and yogurt. We had lovely goat cheese form the sweet Firefly Farm in Maryland and we tasted spicy mustard greens, dense purslane, and velvety butter lettuces. The market was full of people pushing strollers and buying plants and flowers. It was such a relief to be out in the sunshine, for once not behind one of the tables ringing up sales and offering samples and explanations.

My farmstand was crazy this weekend....While I love my volunteers, having them as a staff can be difficult because of their inexperience and sometimes their lack of self motivation. When the market gets busy I find myself just scrambling to keep up...paired with the lack of sleep I can't imagine that I'm a very pleasant person to work with....I just don't know what needs to give...

As Sunday in DC wore on Mom and Dad headed home with their purchases and the Farmstand staff convened at Teaism for lunch. We were lucky to grab a table upstairs where could sit and talk about our market and our project to expand and ideas we would like to implement. It was so nice to just sit and swap ideas and share food with my coworkers. Everyone had tried something a little different so there was tuna tataki, tofu and sweet potatoes , greens with a sesame dressing, and gingery cucumber salad to share. We had strawberries and salted oat cookies and apricot pastries from the market.

It felt so productive for me to be out of my routine for a moment. I'm so grateful for this time at home. It inspires me to write an ode to the DC Metro and enjoy the birds and frogs outside my window that much more.

Pho

2006-05-22T07:49:00.000-07:00

Oh man. Today I am out of sorts. I just can't find my stride.

I woke up early only to fall back asleep- granted, the little cat crawling under the covers to nap between my feet was quite an incentive. And then I woke up at 11:30 and scrambled to get ready for yoga, but I got to the studio three minutes late. My body just feels tired, out of synch.

I decided that I needed real nourishment if I was to continue with my day so I headed to Chinatown where I settled into a table at Pho Cali for a gigantic bowl of pho- pronounced 'fuh' or 'fah'- Vietnamese noodle soup. Though there were options for the tripe, tendon and otherwise adventurous meat-eater, I settled on a bowl with flank steak.

It arrived moments later, enormous and steaming. There were rice noodles, slivers of steak, translucent half-moons of onion, bright rounds of scallion, and yellow pearls of fat skimming along the surface of the fragrant beef broth. The best part about pho is garnishing your soup with an array of condiments. I personalized mine with sriracha, slices of jalapeño, and bean sprouts for texture. I tore felty green leaves of purple basil into my bowl, breathing in the summery, soapy fragrance.
I ate with chopsticks in my right hand and a spoon in my left, alternating between mouthfuls of spicy broth and milky, yielding rice noodles with folded steak. I took sips of icy limeade to cool my mouth.

Afterwards, stepping out into the sunshine, I felt better.

Cornerstones

2006-05-19T13:05:00.000-07:00

I'm rereading my last entry and feeling....not that any of it is any less the truth...but more pragmatic overall. I don't really believe that Erika is coming back. Not to me anyway. I don't believe that she knows how to take a risk like that. But who does, I suppose? The only thing to which I can speak with any authority is my complete conviction that I'm totally great. And whoever lands me is a lucky son-of-a-bitch.

Kate and I had a really excellent conversation over wine and chocolate last night about partnering with people. Kate's romantic strategy is basically the opposite of mine, though she has a few good years on me to have grown out of the childish idealism about conducting relationships. Though I think that we're ultimately looking for similar kinds of partnerships, we have different patterns and habits when it comes to dating or building them.

We spoke about the annoying compromise that arises when people's habits collide, when we, the morning people, are ready to get up and our respective others would rather us stay in bed. Not that there's anything wrong with that...but sometimes getting up and wandering around the kitchen, picking things up and putting them down, looking outside, or reading something is really a physical need...I know that personally, I can return to bed after doing these very things...but I can't stay in bed past 9 if I haven't done them.
This led to a conversation about attentiveness....whether it be to one's need to get up in the morning, or a need to sleep, or eat, or have some time alone, or vent about work. I'm beginning to believe that a mutual attentiveness is a cornerstone of any relationship, be it romantic, friendly, or work related. It stems from a mutual care, and beyond that, interest.

What else? We talked about the requisite unconditional support when one is feeling vulnerable. Even if it's about something ridiculous or inconsequential.

And all of this leads me to realize that I don't really know how to have casual relationships with people, because if I'm interested in someone, if I care about someone, then I'm doing as best as I know how to be attentive and responsive and supportive. Which aren't really qualities of casual relationships, but rather, serious ones conducted over the long term.

So there I am.
Does anybody have any advice?

Memorial

2006-05-17T04:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was May 16th. It has been two months since Erika moved away from Philadelphia to seek...something in Portland. Missing her has become an automatic for me. I can't shake the image of her from my mind. In yoga, when I am trying to clear my head of the mundane, "God, I really need to do laundry...pay my phone bill...I wonder when those library books are due...?" I find that my alternative, the one to whom I continually return, is always this captivating blonde. I don't know whether it is her that I'm in love with or the idea of her, them memory of who she was in my life.

She has missed so much already...Spring is beginning its rush into summer...It's strange for me to look around the backyard and realize that she's never seen any of it...my baby vegetables and herbs, so full of potential for warm weather meals. The little rose that I gave her has new branches and leaves, it looks so different. My trusting Fitz lolling on the concrete, scratching his back. The the white irises blooming and the impatients and the afternoon light on the bricks...All things that I would have liked to share with her...

I have no idea what routine is hers now. I have no idea whether or not she misses me this way...of if her life with Seth has overgrown a periphery that I once occupied. I don't know what her days look like anymore, if she is doing yoga or baking goodnight cookies or making new friends in a poly community out West.

I had thought that this hurt would have lessened in the two months...but here it is, right here under the surface of everything, just as big and unwieldy as ever. I have been trying to put it down, to breathe it away, to fade it from my mind, to forgive and understand how anything could be worth the churning heartache. I would have thought that people would be able to see it on me. That it would be written in my face and on my clothing somewhere and that I could walk into a room and someone holding a cocktail would turn to someone else and say,'The poor girl...someone must have left her..."

But apparently it is only this obvious to me.

I'm running out of ideas for how to help myself peacefully resign this relationship to memory, I think it's because even as I go through all of it I am hanging onto some hope. I've started doing this really self-destructive thing....When I'm in the yoga studio and I hear footsteps coming up the stairs I imagine what I would do in that instant if I turned around and saw that it was her. I do it at the Farmstand when my back is to the market for a moment, I imagine her standing there, grinning goofily, when I turn around. What would I do if she suddenly arrived at my doorstep? If I came home one night to find her in my bed?

The answer is always the same: I would pause, taken aback by surprise and shock, and then I would run to her and kiss her enough to forgive everything, these months without her would seem trivial and we would be able, in that moment, to ignore all of the big questions that remain. Those big questions that tore us down to begin with.

Not that I ever expect for this to happen. I mean, how would she even get into the house to be in my bed at all...?

I suppose what I mean to say is that there's this vestige of my heart that is hers: the idea of her, the memory of her, what she was, and what she could ever be in my life. And I don't know how long it will be this way. I don't look forward to a day when I can say with conviction that I don't love her anymore...and I don't look forward to the day when it will seem silly to have fallen for someone who is married at all...What I look forward to, I suppose, is a day when the frantic heartache subsides...when I don't feel the need to run from it...and when, at that point I can stop looking for my girl in every tall blonde who passes me on the street.

Fragile

2006-05-16T18:07:00.000-07:00

I'm carrying around a big sadness with me today. I recently made an attempt at reconciling with Zach, someone with whom I've been out of touch for a long time. We had been lovers and were trying to give each other enough space to be able to be friends. I had hoped so anyway....Word came in the mail via a letter and some music- this person is not interested in being my friend. He has moved on into a newer version of his life. He has outgrown me.

Parts of this letter were remniscent, parts hurtful, and all of it honest. I didn't have a clear idea how he and I would have managed a relationship at all, but it was important enough to me to be willing to try. It is what I wanted anyway, but in the space of these months apart we have become strangers, albeit with a shared history. Our history is one of bike building, of fighting over the relative disgustingness or delectability of macaroni and cheese with tuna, of tight-spooning and opposite sleep schedules, of Philadelphia, and Ithaca, and squagles, and love notes tucked all over the room, a tweed patch on canvas pants, a surprise visit, and of keeping secrets.

Zach and I weren't very good with one another. Not then, not now...but if there is something that I'm learning every day now it's that you can't help but love people sometimes, even if they're far away from you. Even if it's inconvenient. And even if the object of your affection doesn't love you back, even if what you both deserve is somehow different...Nobody can stop you from loving them.

So here's to the memory of us, my sweet little paw hands, my good boy. Even if it's too little and too late, here it is. I love us. I love you for being patient and kind and generous and a great listener. I love you for showing up at the restaurant unannounced on your way to New York from South Carolina. I love you for letting me feed you. I love your wacky little cartoon drawings. And I'm sorry for all of the rotten stuff. I'm sorry that I didn't ask to be your girlfriend. I'm sorry that I hurt you enough that you still believe that I'm only in it for myself. And I'm sorry that I didn't take the time to finish us up right.

Here's what I've learned since leaving my closeknit community of Bryn Mawr: that yes, a friendship can be sustained on the occasional phone call or letter, that your friend family doesn't need to be immediate to care for you, that life is nicer with a web of those who love you spread out to make your maps that much more friendly.

For you, Zach, I wish only the best. And as you venture out into your post-collegiate life I hope that one day you may be able to think of me as another bright spot on that map, and not just as a dark place of your past. I wish you safety, and courage, and above all, love. You deserve it.

A Direct Quote From My Day

2006-05-16T06:12:00.000-07:00

*phone ringing*

lady: "Hello, Overbrook Herb Farm"

me: "Hi, may I speak to Paul please...?"

lady who answered phone: "Sure, he just went outside, hang on one second..."

*shuffle shuffle shuffle*

Paul: "Hey Emily?"

Me: "Good Morning Paul"

Paul: "Hey, can I call you back in a few minutes? I have to deal with my chickens..."

Me: "Sure Paul"

Paul: "Okay"

*click*

Feeling black

2006-05-15T10:12:00.000-07:00

I woke up in a bad mood this morning. My sleep is restless with worrying about work and wondering about Erika. The sky revealed itself to be a gray one today, and rainy. I normally love to wake up to rain and the green green tree outside my window, but today I'm overwhelmed instead by the rudeness of people on the street outside- horns blaring at 7 (it's a residential neighborhood, people!), shouting, obnoxiously loud hip hop on someone's radio, and my favorite, some particularly wet sounding coughing.

All of this is of course paired with a too-long evening at Pumpkin last night. Hillary had jammed the restaurant with people, as usual. So we were waiting on three parties of nine, eleven, and sixteen people respectively. Now, honestly, how is anyone supposed to enjoy their experience at that point? I was taking care of the sixteen- three Wharton grads and their incredibly rude collection of family and friends. It just wears me down, you know? I go out into my days with the best intentions for them; with a certain set of standards that I hold myself to when it comes to being a good person...It's a shock sometimes to realize that many, many people don't play by the same rules. Either that or they don't deem a restaurant waitress worthy of the same kind of respect that they would offer one another.

I'm also worrying about poor Greg, my sister's boyfriend. Early Saturday morning he was walking to her house and he was hit by a car while in a crosswalk. He and some guy in an SUV had a brief exchange that started with the words "you fucking faggot" and "what's you're problem, man?" and ended when they guy in the car revved his engine, floored it, and hit Greg from only a few feet away. Greg was thrown into the street where he managed to call Kirsten who rode over on her bike while a bystander called the police. Fortunately, there were a lot of people around for the police to question, and someone gave my sister a ride to Jefferson while Greg rode in an ambulance.

Kirsten had to make that 1am phone call to Greg's parents to tell them what had happened, but she wasn't allowed to see him until they arrived from South Jersey. Gotta love that fucking antiquated 'family members only' rule.

Miraculously, Greg is going to be okay. He's pretty scraped up from hitting the street and he has tire marks on his right side, but he didn't suffer any internal bleeding or trauma to his brain. His pelvis is fractured in three places, and a piece of one of his vertebrae broke off, but his arms and legs and ribs are all fine. The poor kid won't be able to walk for several weeks, but all things considered, it could have been a lot worse.

I'm weary today with all of this. I'm worn down by the undercurrent of homophobia, the lack of respect, and the absence of care. It sickens and saddens me....

Today, I'll go to yoga at noon and try to breathe some of it away. I'll see Sharon tomorrow for acupuncture. And for now I'll venture downstairs to look after Fitz and the baby fennel and squash and chard. I'll ply myself with some tea and toast and try to feel a little bit better and let some of it go.

Sweet

2006-05-12T07:13:00.000-07:00

regina

2006-05-11T23:56:00.000-07:00

I should be in bed in preparation for work tomorrow morning and a busy day with Anne: Trip to the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts to see my friend Mac's senior show, a walk to Old City & Northern Liberties. Lunch at Honey's. Visit to Almanac. Wine at Tria, Dinner at Lolita. And then later in the evening I'm dragging Chris to The Velvet Mafia- Philly Love Project's latest offering

I'm tired from an already busy day of meetings and yoga and laundry and bike riding all over the city, but I can't go to bed yet. Instead I'm sitting up, working and listening to Regina Spektor's new song 'Summer in the City:

Summer in the city
I'm so lonely, lonely, lonely

I've been hallucinating you, babe
at the backs of other women
And I tap 'em on the shoulder
and they turn around smiling but
there's no recognition in their eyes

Don't get me wrong, dear
In general I'm doing quite fine

It's just when it's summer in the city
and you are so long gone from the city I start to miss you, baby, sometimes...

Sing it, girl.

Road Rash

2006-05-11T22:08:00.000-07:00

I bit it on Sansom on Monday. I fell off of my bike; which is actually to say that my bike and I fell in unison. I landed on my knees. According to Caleb I have some serious 'road rash.'

I wish that I could blame it on some thoughtless motorist or an inattentive pedestrian, but really I was just clumsy. I misjudged the height of a curb and the lift I would need to hop it and I ended up biting the dust instead. Awesome.

Poor little knees, you'll be better soon.

garden

2006-05-10T16:54:00.000-07:00

I've never had a green thumb, but this year I'm doing my best. And Fitz is helping.

the good stuff

2006-05-10T16:17:00.000-07:00

I've been lazy about posting...or too busy to find the time...So here's some of the food anyway....

The cupcakes were for the Passyunk Square Civic Association Bake Sale, they were vanilla cake with local raspberry buttercream. The poached eggs with asparagus on walnut toast were a treat on a rough day. The zucchini was lunch.

Choice

2006-05-08T05:33:00.000-07:00

During these busy days I've been making time for as much yoga as I can afford. My vinyasa practice is beginning to feel deeper, more controlled, more conscious. All of my big muscles are talking to me about it, and the little stabilizing muscles are chiming in as well. They always say that in yoga you will have postures that are easy and postures that are forever a challenge and I personally, find it difficult to keep a focus and stay open minded when in the middle of, say, boat pose. But in the weeks and months that I have rededicated myself to my practice I'm having more and more illuminated ones. I'm doing my best to take care of my body, to heal my injuries and strengthen my weak places. I'm treating myself to practice as a meditation.

Last Thursday, in my last free moments before my weekend of 16 hour days, I was struggling through Mia's class at Dhyana. Mia is now so pregnant that she is not making adjustments, and to tell the truth I find her insistent "inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale" to be a little bit restrictive, but on that day I found her class illuminating. We were lying in shivasana near the end of class and she read to us a passage about making the choice to be kind to people. She said that during a positive expression of kindness seratonin (a chemical that stimulates feelings of happiness or bliss) is released in the brain of not only the beneficiary of generosity, but also in the mind of the granter of said kindness. And! It also happens, to a lesser extent, in the brains of any who happen to witness the interaction.

At this point in class my blissed out yogic mind and my everyday selfish, stubborn, bossy mind had a dialogue about how this idea is or is not a practical one for my life of waiting on people who are frequently rude to me, working for two separate bosses who I don't believe really value me enough. In my customer service based industry, at what point does choosing kindness or generosity reflect a kind of masochism?

I thought of the day when I was working at Metropolitan Bakery, back in October, when I served up a loaf of bread to a woman who was so unfailingly polite to me. She gave me her full attention- no loud, annoying cell phone conversations "what? I can't hear you, I'm at Reading Terminal. I'm buying bread."- she made eye contact, she smiled, she said please and thank you. Any of these qualities independently is somewhat unremarkable, but the effect of them as a whole was enough to make me step back and be, in that moment, so grateful. As I handed her her bread I debated whether or not to say something for fear of shattering such as a nice interaction. Do I say something and ruin it by making us both feel awkward? Do I shut up and miss the opportunity to encourage these good manners? At the last moment I decided it was worth the risk, "May I just say that you have been the most pleasant person that I have had the pleasure of dealing with all morning..." or something like that....

To my surprise, she smiled wider, "I was just going to say the same about you."

Whoever she is, that woman made my day. So much so that I remember her, even now, more than half a year following....

I try to be generous with people in this way. Some make it easier than others. Sometimes people refuse eye-contact and ignore my oft offered 'good morning!' They walk away without saying 'thank you.' When I'm a customer elsewhere I do my best to remember that a smile goes a long way, but a bill in the tip jar still means more. I try to keep in mind that the people waiting on me are frequently educated artists, students and otherwise passionate, creative people, who for the moment are pouring my coffee or selling me some zucchini.

Not one of us exists as a single identity. Our selves are built of layers of meaning and experience some of which we choose and some of which we are assigned by others based on signs and circumstances. In a given moment, that I happen to be wearing an apron and packing up a 15 pound ham to sell to a professor at my alma mater doesn't deny the fact that if she and I were to sit down we would both probably have a lot in common, it just obscures it.

Where was I? Thursday. Yoga class. Lying on my red mat and making the choice to be kind to people. I'm working through my difficult days and my challenging postures. I'm breathing into the sore places and the unpleasant moments. I'm trying.

Asthma

2006-04-24T05:34:00.000-07:00

This week I've had a cold. I'm almost through it now, but for the past few days it has felt as though I've had a three year old sitting on my chest. These asthmatic days are a little bit frightening. I drag through my working hours taking quick little sips of air. A walk up a flight of stairs has me panting and coughing. Being still for a moment, I try to slow my shallow breaths. I learned recently that asthma is an inflammation of bronchial passageways that make it difficult to move air either in or out of our lungs efficently. As we work harder to breathe our bodies produce mucus to assist us and we cough. Sometimes an inhaler helps- a quick shot of albuterol to calm one's breathing- but it also leaves a lingering, chemichally false feeling. Taking a breath might be easier, but breathing isn't easier overall. Plus, there's that shaky, jitteriness....

When my sister, Kirsten and I were both little asthmatic kids we had this great plan to invent a line of fruit flavorings that could be added to inhalation drugs like the ventolin and proventil that we were each on. That inhaler is tricky, you know. You invariably manage to spray the stuff directly onto your tounge at some point and it's cold and tastes like surgery smells. Even now, I think that a cherry or pineapple option would be really nice...

The last time my asthma became a real problem was at the end of the summer, late August, early September. My last visit with Becca, now Zachary, before things got so ugly and complicated. We both had colds of some kind- we always did like to pass our germy germs back and forth- and she was visiting from Ithaca on her way to see her mother. My South Philly room was hot and muggy. Sleeping close, she coughed to rid herbody of illness, while I wheezed away next to her. We were at Veracruzana having tacos and a very meidocre burrito for dinner when it happened. I was having such difficulty breathing that I actually felt nauseated. Gingerly, we rode the bikes back home where she packed me into the blue volvo and took me to Jefferson Hospital.

I maintain that emergency wating rooms are particularly depressing, hopeless places, and this one was packed with people. One man cradled his arm in a sling, another held an ice pack againmst his forehead. Two girls giggled and ate pizza, playing on a cell phone. Why are they here? I leaned against Bec and let her take care of me for a moment. We asked inconsequential questions and waited. I remember looking at Becca's angular, creative hands, playing with her grandmother's ring- putting it on my finger, and being unexpedly called in to see the nurse practitioner.

Following the usual questions, I was escorted back into a crowded room- people on stretchers- nurses and docors milling about. I was sitting in an alcove breathing a cold, frothy mix of albuterol and a steroid when my sweet Bec found me. I returned her ring and she took the seat across from me. There we sat, into the wee hours of the morning, me breathing slowly and her signing little phrases to me in ASL. We joked with the old South Philly woman seated next to us who was having much the same difficulty as I. We watched quietly as the destruction of hurricane katrina played itself out on our alcove's TV. Beccca taught me the sign for 'sweetheart'- she interlaced her knuckles over her chest and wiggled her thumbs, like a strong little heart factory....

Bec...Zach and I aren't speaking now. He is wrapped up in the process of transitioning and a new relationship, getting ready to graduate and relocate (ironically, for me) to Portland, Oregon. We were eventually able to put all of our unfinished care and messy resentlent onto the table and each walk away from it, into seperate lives where we wouldn't need the complications of a relationship conducted over the phone and the internet. As with anyone who has made an impression though, I think of Bec often. I wonder how I could have been better to her, how I nurture the love that remains with her name on it, and how I continue to be grateful for evenings like these- when we didn't force the questions, and we just allowed ourselves to be there, together.

late night

2006-04-23T09:19:00.000-07:00

After cutting my own lines and hoping for some buoyancy I am scrambling to keep my head above this persistent desperation.

An ultimatum. Was this what we needed all along? Is it easier that I was the one to deliver it- my sweet-toothed girl, wanting to have her cake...does this give you the license (the opportunity perhaps?) to let me go?

I'm trying to be sensible...moving through the space of my days- working well, loving well, being well...But regretful all the same of harsh words and unfinished goodbyes.

In these quiet times I cannot help but indulge myself. In your absence I listen to this music you once gave me, reenvisioning our autumn days and moments and pretending that you still love me like this and like this...

Ma petite renard...would you be there waiting for me if I came to visit? Observing les rites?

Dark nights arriving home from too many hours at work and desperate for comfort to my exhaustion...I look for you.

I find your photos, your poems and note my absence- my removal?- from these spaces where I was once so prominently present.

I do my best to comfort myself. Poems are not people, after all.

nyc

2006-04-19T12:01:00.000-07:00

New York always makes Philly feel very small town.

My Handsome Devil

2006-04-17T16:54:00.000-07:00

Kirsten

2006-04-17T14:32:00.000-07:00

Today is my little sister Kirsten's 21st birthday. My family celebrated with lunch at the Italian Bistro on Broad Street where conversation ranged from Kirsten's schoolwork in ceramics to family gossip to really bad DUI stories, and not coincidentally my Mom and Dad bought Kirst her first legal drink. Afterwards she took us to see her studio at school and show us the dessert service she just fired- teacups, saucers, teapot, coffee pot, sugar bowl, creamer, and plates for four. Her work is fantastical and imaginative. This particular set features drawings of her strange proto-humanimal forms- human bodies with cow heads, etc. The plates are jackelope themed and the sugar bowl is painted with a flea. SO yeah. It's freakin' strange, but also very recognizable as a style and highly collectible in it's weirdness. I'm so, so proud of how accomplished she has become as an artist. She understands so much about the chemistry of ceramics, that strange alchemy that enables her to transform clay and water into these striking forms.

Kirsten was always that kid who seemed to be good at whatever she tried without being really into any of it, whereas I was the kid who would work at something passionately only to be mediocre at it. Kirsten could have trained for a national level team spot in gymnastics when she was eight, she was an incredibly talented dancer in high school and she can sing, too, though I'm not sure how many people know it anymore. My sister is even a good bowler. She always seems to excel in these specific spheres...and now that she's really coming into a time where she's technically advanced enough in her medium she can stretch her boundless creativity even more. Maybe it's that she's an Aries...she's not afraid to take chances in her work or her self expression....I always feel like my creativity is stifled by the vision in my head of what something should be, or how it should originate or something....Kirst doesn't seem to bear those hang-ups. Some of her recent works include porcelain bowls that feature frighteningly realistic sets of human teeth along the interior rim...

Kirsten and I fought bitterly for much of our respective childhoods....I remember being so, so hurt on the day that she was going through the things on my dresser and she shattered a porcelain horse figurine that I treasured. It had broken off of it's base and I had wrapped it into a handkerchief- or something equally romantic- which she carelessly cast to the floor- thus destroying my little keepsake. I was so angry with her that I moved into the smaller bedroom the next day, just to have my own space. Then there was the time that I threw the cat at her during hide and seek ending both the game and any sense of trust that she had in me for the foreseeable future. Why did I do that? That was so fucked up...
Our battling method of choice was to rip red half-moons from one another’s forearms with short fingernails or pinch each other's triceps...I remember her yelling at me for breathing too loudly while I was concentrating on something in the doll closet, "GOD why are you breathing like THAT?!?" or her pleading cries of "Play with ME!!!" when I grew too absorbed in my Breyer horses. I remember my haughty disgust at her tendency to sing all the time, and then wishing that I could have that version of her back during our dark years of painful adolescent reclusiveness....

There were also big adventures- elaborate Barbie wedding showdowns and camping trips following which my mother would always lament the lack of washcloths in the house. One of the famous ones was our version of Barbie Forrest Gump where we lacked a feather for the opening scene so we used a pink and white Barbie electric guitar to float mysteriously through the air....How did we even know what Forrest Gump was at the time? Then there was the time that I tied her up and put her in the bathtub. We were both having fun until I accidentally banged her head and in an effort to distract her I turned on the water. You can only imagine my parent's horror at coming into the bathroom to find me standing over my little sister who was hogtied with scotch tape and lying in the bathtub with the water running.

I remember the anxiety ridden experience of coming out to my parents, as open minded as they are, when I was a sophomore in college. My sister's reaction? "So....you're gay now?" and then a year and a half later following my first traumatic break-up and subsequent re-coupling. "I like your new girlfriend better than your old girlfriend." "Okay. Why?" "Um....she's better looking."

So here's to you, sister of mine, on your birthday. Here's to our crazy histories and to your promising, inspired future. I hope that you never feel the need to stifle your creativity or sugar-coat your sentiments. Cheers, I love you.

mile a minute

2006-04-14T11:42:00.000-07:00

Sitting at my desk, taking a brief rest before getting ready for my excursion to New York this evening- a walk around the city and dinner with Kelly, followed by the late bus back and an early morning at the market.
I'm tired already, but trying to rationalize this little trip by thinking that if I don't go it will be one of those evenings I wish that I had taken the time to have.

Yesterday afternoon Fitz helped me plant seeds in egg cartons- he was mainly interested in the digging in the dirt and watering portions of the program. The potential seedlings look pretty science-experimenty sitting there in the kitchen covered in plastic. Truth be told- I have no idea what I'm doing. Any baby plant advice is entirely welcome.

We planted parsley, sage, rosemary, thyme, lemon balm, wheatgrass, catnip, lavender, and tomatoes and peas and squash. I was kneeling out on the concrete patio in the sunshine, heaping soil into my little pots, a strong breeze sometimes ripping the seed packets from my hands...The air was filled with the low-grade vibrations of the neighborhood chruch bells tolling as the sun swept in and out from behind the clouds. Oh beautiful spring, thanks for coming.

Delightful

2006-04-10T13:21:00.000-07:00

I'm just brimming with excitement today...so many great things are happening... I'm working on Farmstand ordering now. This week we'll have sweet little baby head lettuces, baby beets of all different colors, baby fennel, chard, spinach, rosemary, spearmint. Mmm!

Tonight I'm having dinner with Kelly and we're watching submissions for this summer's film festival. Tomorrow is more painting with Brian and Elin and a fabulous Mexcian fiesta in the evening. Kate and Z and I are itching to use the patio and have friends over. I think that we'll make chorizo and chicken tacos- with Kate's homemade tortillas- maybe soup, watermelon margaritas and a side of sweet, sweet lovin'...

I talked to my boss about my job the other day- for all of you repeat readers- and it went well. I feel so relieved just to have spoken with her. I'm waiting and seeing about the results.

Following this recent wave of courage, I'm also giving serious consideration to opening a business in about a year...A produce store and grocery- Emily's Green Grocer?- focusing on both local and organic produce, cheese, preserves and some prepared foods, with the hopes of someday expanding it into a cafe/coffee shop. I have no doubt that I could find a sweet little lot on Passyunk, build myself some distressed wood shelves, paint, get some baskets, write up a press release and voila!

Of course I don't expect that it would be that easy...but I'm primed right now. I have a few south Philly connections and at this point I know so many people in the Philly food scene that I might just be able to pull it off. I mean why not? Hillary has offered the certified kitchen at Pumpkin for me to make prepared foods, etc. I could use my Fair Food connections to begin ordering...I might even be able to get grant money...

So the idea is brewing....I'll keep you posted...

job woes

2006-04-06T18:32:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is my meeting with my boss to discuss my "terms of employment" and I just kind of want to say, "You know what? I'm done being your bitch, Ann! You can find somebody else!" But I'm trying to remember not to be confrontational and trying not to feel self righteous about all of the days like today where I have given so much time and energy without hoping for compensation. Will I have the courage to walk away from this job if it can't be what I need for it to be? I wouldn't stay in a relationship with a person who took advantage of me, so why am I staying with Fair Food? Because I love the project of the organization, the market and, with few exceptions, my coworkers. I take pride in my work there. I'm good at it. But if my boss(es) don't realize that all of the work that I put in and the care with which I approach it is actually worth a respectable salary and health insurance and some freakin’ sick time....then...well....what is worth all of that? What else could they ask of me? What would I have to do to prove myself to be the smart, educated, capable, polite, industrious person that I am? Or at least convince them that I am worth making the investment in....? I just don’t know.

throwing in the towel

2006-04-06T17:47:00.003-07:00

Today I feel beaten by my life. My sometimes lovely, sometimes cruel, urban life. I worked at the market from 7 this morning until 2 this afternoon- scouring away yesterday's sadness by making my work space as shining and orderly as possible. I cleaned up other people's messes. I supervised the wake of disorderliness that my boss always seems to create. I ate my meals standing up and at two, after working for those seven hours straight I hopped into my car to go pick up a delivery for the stand. Spinach, pea shoots and Jerusalem artichokes. I ordered them myself a week ago today with no idea of how big a pain in my ass they would become. I braced myself for the hour and change drive with tea and dayquil and a roast pork bun from KC's pastries in Chinatown. Two and a half hours later, after awlful early rush hour traffic, rude drivers, and getting lost no less than four seperate times-fuck mapquest- I pulled up at Mother Earth Mushrooms, only to find it closed for the day. Great.

So I wandered around, thankful that it was at least warmer than this morning, knocking on the door of the store, peering into garages and having a scary run in with a big yellow dog behind a shipping dock- don't worry, I picked up a two by four with which to defend myself. Not knowing what else to do, I called my boss. Who offered little advice besides "well...I guess we'll just have to get somebody else to do it tomorrow." But she agreed to call the company to see if she could track anybody down for me. At which point I called my Dad, who totally commisserated with me. And then I cried. I just sat in the car, doors open and cried my pitiful little heart out for having to drive home empty handed, for my job not valuing me enough, and for my boss dangling carrots that she never seems to follow through on. I cried for wanting Erika and for missing my faraway friends, Jess and Promise. I cried for being scared of that dog, for failing to find an edifying job, for needing to pee really bad and for feeling so, so lonely- And then the phone rang and it was wonderful Christene, calling to say that Tim would be over in a moment to let me into the building to pick up my vegetables. Bless you, Christene! And you Tim, for helping me and telling me a more traffic-free way home.
I drop off the produce, very much aware that in less than twelve hours I will be back to open up those boxes and get the stand ready for the day...I get hit up for money at the gas station where I meticulously fold my recipt, hoping that my boss will actually reimburse me for the gas money, let alone pay me for my mileage or my time. And by nine I'm at home and the little cat wants to go outside and there is a note from my mom.... And I'm breathing and trying to be calm.

weepy

2006-04-05T16:15:00.000-07:00

It has been a low day. I've been missing Erika, listening to Deb Talan and Regina Spektor and letting myself get really close to it. I'm feeling like I'm coming down with a cold, too, which of course compounds the self-pity factor. My Mom, the ever wise, said that breaking up with somebody is like quitting smoking- some days you don't smoke, and some you do. I'm trying to relax out of the push me-pull you that I've been doing with Erika. I want to go and find her and carry her home with me, to some different home where we would be able to ignore our bi-coastal lives and our committments elsewhere. In the same breath I want to so completely remove the memory of her from my life that I don't have to run up against it everytime I catch a glimpse of her handwriting in the market, or buy coffee, or bike past the place where we had gelato dates. I thought that changing the sheets would help...it hasn't yet. I feel so undone...and all of these points of vulnerability are just raw now that she's gone. These jars of love notes...this green scarf...the ever ready memory of her purple eyelids as she slept...It's as though I'm standing here holding these things as if they might be evidence for a togetherness that shouldn't have ended...or shouldn't be ending.

On Monday I was in Lancaster County meeting with a group of Amish farmers - a largely unattractive bunch- who want to begin an organic co-op. She could have been there with me as I drove past Reading, the wide landscape stretching out ahead of me and grey skies overhead...standing in line to buy draft rootbeer and quinoa I had the sensation that if I could just turn around she would be there wearing some wooly sweater and suggesting that we get some licorice or olbas oil to help with my allergies...

I feel foolish for needing to embrace this grief. She just moved after all....But Oregon is far from Philly...and the distance is compounded by the complicated framework of our relationship to begin with. The truth is that I doubt if Erika would ever to be able to give me what it is that I actually want. I suppose it's what anyone wants, for our friends and ourselves...

I'm looking for a fierce kind of love. A love who will think about what I need immediately. Someone with whom I can have big, big conversations, who will let me mouth off about work. I don't have a list of qualifications...I just don't ever want to be the second priority again. Which isn't to say that Erika ever made me feel like second best, on the contrary, I felt my most beautiful and capable when I was with her....but that first, second thing was sort of unavoidable from my perspective. I want somebody to have food adventures with, to cook with and work with and talk with and sing with. I want to be able to fall into bed with my person at the end of every day and not feel like it's something I have to negotiate.

For now, I will carry this bubble of love and grief in my chest. I will do my best to pour it into my work and honor it gracefully. I am thankful for this great love even as I am trying to put it down. I am thankful for the care of my friends who remind me that I have no shortage of loves in my life. I am hopeful that all of this will become easier as these weeks and months go by...

fortitude

2006-04-02T08:02:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning in my bed. Looking out at a blue, blue sky through the tree branches. I'm lingering here because I can hear the birds and a cool breeze is sweeping in and I am so joyful that it is spring. An east-coaster, to me the changing seasons always seem to arrive at just the right time. Aren't we blessed to have spring?
These days have been busy- in the market working, and at the restaurant where I'm biding my time. I stay because I know that I have to, for the moment anyway but it is no source of joy to me. I need a job that values me for the amount of work that I do, and the candor with which I do it....
My sources of joy this morning are my beautiful little white cat lolling on his back in the sunshine. The film festival opening where I spent the evening on the arm of one of the city's hottest butches. Knowing that today I'm going for a bike ride with Andrew. The walnut bread that is waiting for me downstairs to make toast with bacon and poached eggs. Wondering who this secret admirer is- still no leads. The fistfuls of seed packets I brought home yesterday- this summer we will have fresh herbs and sun golds, tomatoes, peas, squash...

This morning I received letters- e-mails really- from two dear friends, Promise and Zachary. These are people who inform my life, even though we are miles and miles away from one another. They are my wonderful friends who know my compulsions and love me anyway. I always feel reassured to realize that you can live on the other side of the planet from someone and that the distance can have no bearing on the care with which you think of one another. Thank you my friends, for being in my life.

Admirer

2006-03-30T19:51:00.000-08:00

I just arrived home after a busy day at the stand- it's official! Spring has arrived in the form of rainbow chard, Jerusalem artichokes, spinach, pea shoots, blue eggs...And a balmy evening to ride my bike home at dusk. I was self-righteously walking up to my front door after doing just that when I saw the note. That wonderful little brown and white post-it: someone has sent one of us a package. I was perplexed however, to find that the note read simply '1313' which is not my address (but sort of has good horror story potential). I stalked across the street to 1313 and rung the doorbell. From inside the yellow brick rowhome came a 'come in, hon.' So I did. I found myself in the living room of my neighbor whose name I have already forgotten, probably because I was at once so overwhelmed with the array of kitsch before me. Now, South Philly is no stranger to kitsch...some houses are so kitchy they're actually almost kind of cool...but this was the genuine article. Wooden sofa with mustard colored, tufted cushions covered in superthick vinyl...giant lampshade with fringe, chartreuse shag carpeting...and my sweet, thoughtful neighbor who- from the secrecy of her vertical blinds, no doubt- witnessed the UPS guys about to leave my precious package on the stoop where it would have undoubtedly gotten roughed up. She took it upon herself to accept it for me, much to my gratitude.

At home I unwrapped a box of sunny colored tulips and a note 'to perplex and cheer you' from- no lie- a secret admirer. (duh duh duh!) SO. To my secret admirer: I have no idea who you are. But thank you, for perplexing and cheering me. I hope that you'll follow up with a phone call so that I may reply with a proper thank you note.

Anyone?

2006-03-30T16:53:00.000-08:00

Also, can anyone actually do the running man without looking like an ass? In a formal survey of Metropolitan Bakery and the Fair Food Farmstand only one out of six employees could sort of manage it. And it wasn't pretty (But to his credit- he was wearing cowboy boots).

Next to be surveyed are the Cook Book Stall and Andro's- the prospects aren't good- although Fosters Gourmet Cookware has a decent chance....

such a relief!

2006-03-29T17:03:00.000-08:00

I'm so thankful for this spring day. Even though I spent much of it inside working- making phone calls, writing e-mails, etc. Fitz and I managed to spend some patio time. He chased flies. I read BITCH and ate a sandwich.

This is going to be the last calm moment of my week. Tonight I am going to see Thank You For Not Smoking with my friend John. I haven't seen John in almost a year. He moved from Philly to Portland, Maine to escape a crap job. Now he's back in town doing some freelancing. It will be nice to hear his perspective on the sensation of returning to our gritty city...

Organic salad greens are on sale at the stand- which is where I'll be for the next three days- do come and say hello. We miss the sunshine in the Market.

evening

2006-03-28T19:12:00.000-08:00

It was a quiet evening here on Tasker Street. As usual, the cat clamored to go outside. I had bacon, eggs and a long conversation with Jess for supper. We took the trash out. That was about it. It would have been difficult to top last nights stellar meal of curried hake, coconut rice, pea shoots and red pepper:

I was so proud of this meal that I was moved to take photos. Serious stuff here, folks.

Since Erika left I have been trying harder to make real meals for myself. I sort of hate eating alone. When I was growing up, and even now, in my parent's household dinner is the time of day to sit, share, dine, and revel in the company of your immediate family. I used to put off my homework and the inevitable pull towards bedtime by lingering at the candlelit table listening as the clock ticked noisily over the mantle and talking with Mom, Dad and Kirst about the day's occurrences. My Dad would lean back in his chair, gently holding the stem of his wine glass between finger and thumb, sporting the same sleepy-looking half smile that I feel on my face so often....

Now that I'm sort of a grown-up dinnertime is a little different. On the evenings when I'm at home without the company of my roommates or friends, I find myself watching TV just to distract myself from my mealtime loneliness...So I suppose you could say that last night's meal of hake with rice, which I made in portions just enough for one, and ate in the dining room at a candlelit table set for myself- is an attempt at making food as much about feeding and nurturing myself as it has been about the care nourishment of family. There will be evenings when I am alone now, and I will feed myself as best I know how.

calamondons

2006-03-28T19:10:00.000-08:00