Sunday, April 29, 2012
Timeless
But timeless photographs like these I want in my home. It is unparalleled poise, beauty, and art. It quietly screams adventure, culture, wonder and timeless goddess.
I want to be her. Or maybe I just want to see her. I want to know what her face looks like when she looks at the Eiffel Tower. Or, perhaps she isn't even looked at it at all. Maybe she's looking at the people on the street. Tourists, locals, ghosts of those who can't seem to leave, even if they already left.
I wonder if she's holding a book. What book? Voltaire maybe? Alexander Dumas? Flaubert?
Photographs are supposed to capture a thousand words, but I think they provoke a thousand questions.
The Iron Gates of Writer's Block
8 Count [C. Bukowski]
from my bed
I watch 3 birds on a telephone wire. one flies off. then another. one is left, then it too is gone. my typewriter is tombstone still. and I am reduced to bird watching. just thought I’d let you know, fucker.
Charles Bukowski precisely articulates the anguish of writer's block. It's funny, isn't it? How the lack of words is so perfectly put into words by a poet great.
We've all be gutted of creativity at one point in our lives. Perhaps you, personally, don't write on a daily basis now (most of us don't), but surely you can think back to a moment wherein your mind shut its iron gates around the pool of your vocabulary, trifling it, severing you from the medium that is the sole provider of meaning in life. After all, without language there is no meaning (thanks dad!).
Well... I'm there. The iron gates cranked closed right after my father left the island.
The blog silenced.
And then, trolling through my Facebook notifications this morning, I read a post from my mother.
What? It's Sunday and I don't have a new blog to read?
The post was subsequently 'liked' by her colleague. Perhaps it was the jolt I needed to seek the keys to reverse the block.
My father introduced me to this poem in 2007.
I was a junior in college, staring at a Microsoft office document on my computer screen. Words littered the page, but they were trite, stale, obsolescent. The iron gates closed around the bridge between my language and my feverishly typing fingers. The assignment, a creative non-fiction piece, bobbed tirelessly with the current of time that dried up at the due date less than twelve hours from that moment. I was fucked.
My assignment was certainly far from passable. My peer feedback and revision suggestions from my professor were like the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, pointing in opposite directions. I hated my story. I hated the edits. The revision process loomed over me, daunting and ominous. Panicked, sobbing, exhausted, I called my father at eleven-thirty. He was teaching a night class that semester, so he was just arriving home. I gushed my pathetic story through the phone. There was a pause when I finished. Through syncopated air gulps, I waited for his response, hoping it was a magical solution, an easy fix.
"Mia," he said. "Send me the paper; I'll get back to you in an hour."
Twenty minutes later, my email notification dinged with his response:
Mia: There are no such thing as good writers. Only good rewriters.
Love, Dad
ATTACHMENT: CBUKOWSKI8COUNT
What? I remember feeling like the kid from A Christmas Story when he opens his writing theme to find his teacher gave him a C+ on the assignment with the heed of warning that he'll shoot his eye out.
A cryptic message from my father with an email attachment that most certainly was not my paper. Defeated, I opened the attachment wherein I first read "8 Count" by Charles Bukowski.
Needless to say, I finished the assignment. I don't remember how, nor do I remember the grade I earned, though I can assure you that it was a passing grade. Sometimes, we just need a moratorium. We need to not panic when we feel the iron gates shutting, but rather calmly remember where we left the key to lift them back up.
Bukowski's poem is my key. Why I forget this? I'm not quite sure. But here it is. The gates are open again. Just thought I'd like you know, fucker.
 |
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Dad Starmer's Vacation
My dad ventured to the islands for a visit these past eleven days! Typically, his college sends him to the Dominican Republic or Columbia as the liaison to recruit students for summer programs. For the last twelve years, he expects beaches, sunshine, humidity and pristine pools on his spring break (lucky bastard!). This year, he got all that and then some, visiting Hawaii and having a guest room instead of a hotel room and, while many will argue that the locals have their own language, my father didn't have to struggle with his Spanish.
[Starmer Tangent]
In 2002, my father took me to the DR on one of his business trips. We strolled along cobble-stone roads and through the historic district of Santo Domingo, the Capital. In one of the shops, my father found a trinket he wanted to purchase for my mother. He pinched the trinket between his forefinger and thumb, approached a clerk, squinted his eyes, holding the tricket and, mustering his best Caribbean-Spanish accent, asked: "A que hora?"-- which means: "What time is this object?"
He meant to ask how much it was.
But never mind Spanish, Dad was in Hawaii and, for the most part, didn't need to struggle for coherency when interacting with anyone.
Dad's flight was delayed for so long on March 16th that he actually missed his connecting flight to Honolulu. He rebooked his trip for the following day, and arrived at HNL at 2p.m. on Sunday, March 17 (Hobbes' birthday!). Nick and I picked him up at the airport and the four of us (Hobbes included!) catapulted into the eye of a tornado that spun us at disorienting speeds until it spit us out at the airport curb on Monday where we were all hugging and saying goodbye.
Luckily, I have pictures to help us remember the week.
Within hours of Dad's arrival, Nick and I took him to the infamous Koko Head mountain and kicked his ass all the way to the top. It was a hazy day, but the view was still breathtaking. We occasionally paused on the vertical train track trail, and Dad would attempt to articulate his experience. The ever-inspiration-seeking writer sought to describe the hike so he may depict his experience in a short story, a poem, or just to Mom, Luke, Jake, Mindy and Cooper when he returned home.
A reward twice over for me and Nicholas, Kona Brewing Company beckoned at us. Sandwiches, pizza and especially the sampler of island Kona brew greeted us at the bottom of the trail.
The rest of the week was but a blur. Dad soaked up sunbeams on a daily basis. We surprised Nick with some new furniture and some rearranging. Like ignorant assholes, Dad and I bought a bookshelf and proceeded to use our Starmer genes to put it together. For the loyal readers, you know my history with projects that require building. You may also recount that I graciously received my crooked-chromosome for building from my father. The very father who came to visit. Never mind the process. The bookshelf is built, and that's all you need to know.
Dad channeled his inner kelp and embraced the relaxations of beach-napping by the lagoons.
We even spent the week watching the NCAA tournament! Dad refused, on two occasions, to accompany me to work so that he could watch Syracuse advance. Unfortunately, Ohio State trampled Syracuse in the elite 8....
Dad's flight took off on Monday. He racked up the Hawaiian experience with monk seals, sea turtles, hiking, Kona brew, bad pizza, a tour of Schofield and Leeward, Pearl Harbor, Duke's, Honolulu, Waikiki and the east shore. But we couldn't let him leave before he swam with sharks.
I scheduled our shark tour for Monday morning at 7a.m. (his flight left 12 hours later). We fought off H1 morning traffic and peaked the North Shore hill just as the sun was rising behind us. As we pulled up to the Haleiwa Harbor, Dad freaked out a little. There was a definite chill to the air that didn't inspire jumping into the Pacific waters.
The boat ride three miles out was the most horrendous part of the adventure. Eighteen-foot swells rocked our craft as we slid down the backs of waves so steep, I was certain we would capsize. Dad's no help. He's famous for his melo-dramatic comments. The side of our boat would dip and smack against the waters surface and dad would grab onto me yell out: "Woooaaahh!" backed by a nervous laugh.
By the time our boat reached the 3-mile buoy, Dad and I were far from enthusiastic about volunteering for the first round of cage bait. Comments from the boat crew, like "Don't all move to one side of the boat!" jolted shocks of electricity right through the tips of our nerves. So much so that I sure as hell was counting the people who were standing on the right side of the boat watching the first victims.
By round two, I couldn't stand the slow up-and-down of the swells tipping the boat off balance. I volunteered our party of two. Snorkel masks sucking our faces, Dad and I stood at the back of the boat in our bathing suits, our hair prickled in the chilled morning air and our muscles spring-loaded in anticipation of .... damn well anything.
We climbed into the tank and held on for dear life for twenty minutes. Sharks ranging from big humans to small cars circled the cage. Waves as big as Beaudry Park sledding hill flushed over our snorkels, slapping our bodies against the cage, banging the cage against the boat. Dad's eyes bulged, magnified by his goggle mask. "Wow" was all he managed to say, repeatedly, for those entire twenty minutes.
Dad is not a fan of the water though and a few times, I thought I saw a hint of panic sweep over him after a wave as he stared ominously upward, perhaps in anticipation that the next wave may lodge our cage under the boat---trapping us underwater to drown, or for the brave, slip through the metal bars of the cage and risk a true shark encounter in an effort not to drown. I watched Dad consider both options, as if he needed to have this backup plan ready for implementation by the next swell. Before the crew member could finish announcing that it was time to get out, Dad was already halfway up the ladder.
"Well, what did you think?" I asked between my teeth, bent over the end of the boat, wrapped tightly in a towel, waiting for the violet abdominal contraction that would eventually make me purge my sea sickness.
"I love the boat ride and I love the sharks. But I hate the water." He stuttered, wrapped in a towel and sweatshirt, teeth chattering.
Mom said it best later that afternoon. Dad is the only lifeguard we will probably ever know who absolutely hates the water.
Dad's trip was unforgettable. Nick and I are so fortunate that we have family who are traveling 6,000 miles to visit us on our little island. Before Dad's plane hit cruising altitude, our next visitor book his plane tickets. Michael Karpinski is coming in May-- and I think Kage is coming right before him!
We're still waiting for my brothers and Nick's parents to arrange their Pacific jaunts. Hop on it, guys!
[Starmer Tangent]
In 2002, my father took me to the DR on one of his business trips. We strolled along cobble-stone roads and through the historic district of Santo Domingo, the Capital. In one of the shops, my father found a trinket he wanted to purchase for my mother. He pinched the trinket between his forefinger and thumb, approached a clerk, squinted his eyes, holding the tricket and, mustering his best Caribbean-Spanish accent, asked: "A que hora?"-- which means: "What time is this object?"
He meant to ask how much it was.
But never mind Spanish, Dad was in Hawaii and, for the most part, didn't need to struggle for coherency when interacting with anyone.
Dad's flight was delayed for so long on March 16th that he actually missed his connecting flight to Honolulu. He rebooked his trip for the following day, and arrived at HNL at 2p.m. on Sunday, March 17 (Hobbes' birthday!). Nick and I picked him up at the airport and the four of us (Hobbes included!) catapulted into the eye of a tornado that spun us at disorienting speeds until it spit us out at the airport curb on Monday where we were all hugging and saying goodbye.
Luckily, I have pictures to help us remember the week.
Within hours of Dad's arrival, Nick and I took him to the infamous Koko Head mountain and kicked his ass all the way to the top. It was a hazy day, but the view was still breathtaking. We occasionally paused on the vertical train track trail, and Dad would attempt to articulate his experience. The ever-inspiration-seeking writer sought to describe the hike so he may depict his experience in a short story, a poem, or just to Mom, Luke, Jake, Mindy and Cooper when he returned home.
A reward twice over for me and Nicholas, Kona Brewing Company beckoned at us. Sandwiches, pizza and especially the sampler of island Kona brew greeted us at the bottom of the trail.
The rest of the week was but a blur. Dad soaked up sunbeams on a daily basis. We surprised Nick with some new furniture and some rearranging. Like ignorant assholes, Dad and I bought a bookshelf and proceeded to use our Starmer genes to put it together. For the loyal readers, you know my history with projects that require building. You may also recount that I graciously received my crooked-chromosome for building from my father. The very father who came to visit. Never mind the process. The bookshelf is built, and that's all you need to know.
Dad channeled his inner kelp and embraced the relaxations of beach-napping by the lagoons.
We even spent the week watching the NCAA tournament! Dad refused, on two occasions, to accompany me to work so that he could watch Syracuse advance. Unfortunately, Ohio State trampled Syracuse in the elite 8....
Dad's flight took off on Monday. He racked up the Hawaiian experience with monk seals, sea turtles, hiking, Kona brew, bad pizza, a tour of Schofield and Leeward, Pearl Harbor, Duke's, Honolulu, Waikiki and the east shore. But we couldn't let him leave before he swam with sharks.
I scheduled our shark tour for Monday morning at 7a.m. (his flight left 12 hours later). We fought off H1 morning traffic and peaked the North Shore hill just as the sun was rising behind us. As we pulled up to the Haleiwa Harbor, Dad freaked out a little. There was a definite chill to the air that didn't inspire jumping into the Pacific waters.
The boat ride three miles out was the most horrendous part of the adventure. Eighteen-foot swells rocked our craft as we slid down the backs of waves so steep, I was certain we would capsize. Dad's no help. He's famous for his melo-dramatic comments. The side of our boat would dip and smack against the waters surface and dad would grab onto me yell out: "Woooaaahh!" backed by a nervous laugh.
By the time our boat reached the 3-mile buoy, Dad and I were far from enthusiastic about volunteering for the first round of cage bait. Comments from the boat crew, like "Don't all move to one side of the boat!" jolted shocks of electricity right through the tips of our nerves. So much so that I sure as hell was counting the people who were standing on the right side of the boat watching the first victims.
By round two, I couldn't stand the slow up-and-down of the swells tipping the boat off balance. I volunteered our party of two. Snorkel masks sucking our faces, Dad and I stood at the back of the boat in our bathing suits, our hair prickled in the chilled morning air and our muscles spring-loaded in anticipation of .... damn well anything.
We climbed into the tank and held on for dear life for twenty minutes. Sharks ranging from big humans to small cars circled the cage. Waves as big as Beaudry Park sledding hill flushed over our snorkels, slapping our bodies against the cage, banging the cage against the boat. Dad's eyes bulged, magnified by his goggle mask. "Wow" was all he managed to say, repeatedly, for those entire twenty minutes.
Dad is not a fan of the water though and a few times, I thought I saw a hint of panic sweep over him after a wave as he stared ominously upward, perhaps in anticipation that the next wave may lodge our cage under the boat---trapping us underwater to drown, or for the brave, slip through the metal bars of the cage and risk a true shark encounter in an effort not to drown. I watched Dad consider both options, as if he needed to have this backup plan ready for implementation by the next swell. Before the crew member could finish announcing that it was time to get out, Dad was already halfway up the ladder.
"Well, what did you think?" I asked between my teeth, bent over the end of the boat, wrapped tightly in a towel, waiting for the violet abdominal contraction that would eventually make me purge my sea sickness.
"I love the boat ride and I love the sharks. But I hate the water." He stuttered, wrapped in a towel and sweatshirt, teeth chattering.
Mom said it best later that afternoon. Dad is the only lifeguard we will probably ever know who absolutely hates the water.
Dad's trip was unforgettable. Nick and I are so fortunate that we have family who are traveling 6,000 miles to visit us on our little island. Before Dad's plane hit cruising altitude, our next visitor book his plane tickets. Michael Karpinski is coming in May-- and I think Kage is coming right before him!
We're still waiting for my brothers and Nick's parents to arrange their Pacific jaunts. Hop on it, guys!
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
The Road is Life
“Our battered suitcases were piled high on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter, the road is life.”
J. Kerouac from On the Road
J. Kerouac from On the Road
Thanks Ashley!
Monday, March 12, 2012
Nostalgic Throwback
How far in the past must I dive in order to claim "nostalgic throwback"? Appropriately enough, social media spews images and youtube clips from my childhood. Gullah Gullah Island, The Busy World of Richard Scarry, The Berenstain Bears, Where the Wild Things Are and, of course, Little Bear.
Perhaps my tween years, full of pasty skin and bangs, bushy eye brows and diffidence produced something worthy of nostalgia. Summer nights hiding behind sheds and bushes, hide-and-seek to a teenager is called man hunt. Camp outs and sleep overs. Junior high dances and those first flutters of your heart. Discovering tight bell bottom jeans and boobs.
No, in fact, I'd rather not tumble into that abyss right now. Rather, I am inspired to compose this entry based on my dinner choices for the week.
Nick's transition into platoon leader is complete. He is officially the LT in charge. I know. I saw his office and watched him compile paperwork into binders (an organized man after my own heart <3). Now, he establishes himself. He learns about his soldiers. He preps for a mission to the Big Island in a couple of weeks wherein he and his platoon will build a couple of buildings. For those of you who know and love my Nick, you are already aware of his dedication, perseverance, hard work and perfectionism. It translates into everything he does, and (I could shout it to the world!) I love him for it!
As such, late nights are starting to become the norm around the starmweber household. His arrival home by 7:00 p.m. might beg the question, "Do you feel ok?" or something similar, as seven would be early. I am already adjusting to this schedule change, and as a result, I have told Nick that I will no longer be making dinners for us. It's no fun cooking for one and neither of us truly love clammy left-overs. Besides, who wants to stuff their face with chicken and veggies and starches at 8 p.m.? Far too heavy for bedtime.But this new transition opens the door on nostalgia. Not for Richard Scarry or bushy eye brows. Rather, college.
Ah yes, in college, I shopped for one, and I 'cooked' for one. I ate when I was hungry and didn't worry when I wasn't. With Nick working through the meals of the day, I've reshaped our grocery list. Enough substance for Nick to sustain energy throughout the day, and my old college eating habits. I made a list of my favorites. Enjoy this nostalgia flashback!
1. Cereal and toast: I remember sitting on the steps of a Vassar academic building with my friend Ashley talking about how much we love cereal. We talked about how we could perpetually refill our bowls until the milk was completely gone. Ash - I'm rediscovering cereal and toast! Though I feel extraordinarily guilty refilling my bowl repeatedly, the comforts of cereal for dinner are so fantastic. It reminds me of college and perhaps, indirectly, with my childhood as well.
2. Lean Cuisine Paninis: God I love these! They are one of my favorite meals! I used to make Lean Cuisine Paninis for lunch all through grad school! They remind me of my first plunge into student teaching. I would heat up a chicken ranch panini or a steak and cheese panini and some water and an orange and eat my lunch.... at 10 a.m.!
3. Canned Tuna or Chicken on Triscuits: My dear friend Lauren, who was my sanity and savior in grad school, turned me onto tuna on triscuits. Take a small can of tuna or chicken and a tsp of mayo. Mix it up with some salt and pepper in a tiny container. Then, spoon it onto your triscuit and enjoy!
4. Hummus and Veggies: I could eat buckets of hummus and sliced veggies! I could eat it until it makes me sick!! I've discovered that in my (old) age that I've retracted from my love for hummus and pita. I prefer cucumbers, carrots and broccoli. Either way, the chick peas are full of protein and the veggies balance the meal. This also reminds me of Trident, one of my favorite Boston restaurants (miss you Min and Jake!)
5. Tomato Soup & Butter Sandwiches: I cannot deny that tomato soup and butter sandwiches are a direct line from my childhood. Mom - this is a serious question - where did you come up with butter sandwiches? Were we too poor for lunch meat? Regardless, I used to make this for dinner all the time in undergrad. Butter and bread are cheap and, when I used to shop at the commissary with Nick, hand held soups were wicked cheap.
6. Grilled Cheese & Ketchup Sandwiches: Stop judging. It's delicious. If my Kage is reading, she knows exactly from where this awkward pallet derived. Freshmen year at Marist, IF I ventured to the cafeteria, I only ordered grilled cheese sandwiches -- to the point where the gentleman behind the counter knew my order and once, in passing in the hallway, called me grilled cheese girl. But I love it. I crave it. And, when I just googled "grilled cheese and ketchup sandwich" for my photo, one came up. So I'm obviously also not alone. :)
7. PB&J&P: Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with goldfish and pepperoncinis. I don't even need to elaborate.
8. Cucumber, Sweet Red Pepper & Ranch Sandwich: On whole wheat bread with a little cracked pepper. So. yummy!
Cheers!
Perhaps my tween years, full of pasty skin and bangs, bushy eye brows and diffidence produced something worthy of nostalgia. Summer nights hiding behind sheds and bushes, hide-and-seek to a teenager is called man hunt. Camp outs and sleep overs. Junior high dances and those first flutters of your heart. Discovering tight bell bottom jeans and boobs.
No, in fact, I'd rather not tumble into that abyss right now. Rather, I am inspired to compose this entry based on my dinner choices for the week.
Nick's transition into platoon leader is complete. He is officially the LT in charge. I know. I saw his office and watched him compile paperwork into binders (an organized man after my own heart <3). Now, he establishes himself. He learns about his soldiers. He preps for a mission to the Big Island in a couple of weeks wherein he and his platoon will build a couple of buildings. For those of you who know and love my Nick, you are already aware of his dedication, perseverance, hard work and perfectionism. It translates into everything he does, and (I could shout it to the world!) I love him for it!
As such, late nights are starting to become the norm around the starmweber household. His arrival home by 7:00 p.m. might beg the question, "Do you feel ok?" or something similar, as seven would be early. I am already adjusting to this schedule change, and as a result, I have told Nick that I will no longer be making dinners for us. It's no fun cooking for one and neither of us truly love clammy left-overs. Besides, who wants to stuff their face with chicken and veggies and starches at 8 p.m.? Far too heavy for bedtime.But this new transition opens the door on nostalgia. Not for Richard Scarry or bushy eye brows. Rather, college.
Ah yes, in college, I shopped for one, and I 'cooked' for one. I ate when I was hungry and didn't worry when I wasn't. With Nick working through the meals of the day, I've reshaped our grocery list. Enough substance for Nick to sustain energy throughout the day, and my old college eating habits. I made a list of my favorites. Enjoy this nostalgia flashback!
1. Cereal and toast: I remember sitting on the steps of a Vassar academic building with my friend Ashley talking about how much we love cereal. We talked about how we could perpetually refill our bowls until the milk was completely gone. Ash - I'm rediscovering cereal and toast! Though I feel extraordinarily guilty refilling my bowl repeatedly, the comforts of cereal for dinner are so fantastic. It reminds me of college and perhaps, indirectly, with my childhood as well.
2. Lean Cuisine Paninis: God I love these! They are one of my favorite meals! I used to make Lean Cuisine Paninis for lunch all through grad school! They remind me of my first plunge into student teaching. I would heat up a chicken ranch panini or a steak and cheese panini and some water and an orange and eat my lunch.... at 10 a.m.!
4. Hummus and Veggies: I could eat buckets of hummus and sliced veggies! I could eat it until it makes me sick!! I've discovered that in my (old) age that I've retracted from my love for hummus and pita. I prefer cucumbers, carrots and broccoli. Either way, the chick peas are full of protein and the veggies balance the meal. This also reminds me of Trident, one of my favorite Boston restaurants (miss you Min and Jake!)
5. Tomato Soup & Butter Sandwiches: I cannot deny that tomato soup and butter sandwiches are a direct line from my childhood. Mom - this is a serious question - where did you come up with butter sandwiches? Were we too poor for lunch meat? Regardless, I used to make this for dinner all the time in undergrad. Butter and bread are cheap and, when I used to shop at the commissary with Nick, hand held soups were wicked cheap.
6. Grilled Cheese & Ketchup Sandwiches: Stop judging. It's delicious. If my Kage is reading, she knows exactly from where this awkward pallet derived. Freshmen year at Marist, IF I ventured to the cafeteria, I only ordered grilled cheese sandwiches -- to the point where the gentleman behind the counter knew my order and once, in passing in the hallway, called me grilled cheese girl. But I love it. I crave it. And, when I just googled "grilled cheese and ketchup sandwich" for my photo, one came up. So I'm obviously also not alone. :)
7. PB&J&P: Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with goldfish and pepperoncinis. I don't even need to elaborate.
8. Cucumber, Sweet Red Pepper & Ranch Sandwich: On whole wheat bread with a little cracked pepper. So. yummy!
Cheers!
Sunday, March 11, 2012
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