in other words

"Michel Butor says that to travel is to write, because to travel is to read. This can be developed further: To write is to travel, to write is to read, to read is to write and to read is to travel. But George Steiner says that to translate is also to read, and to translate is to write, as to write is to translate and to read is to translate. So that we may say: To translate is to travel and to travel is to translate. To translate a travel writing, to read a writing, to write a writing, and to travel. But if because you are translating you read, and because writing translate, because traveling write, because traveling read, and because translating travel; that is if to read is to translate, and to translate is to write, to write to travel, to read to travel, to write to read, to read to write, and to travel to translate; then to write is also to write, and to read is also to read, and even more, because when you read you read, but also travel, and because traveling read, therefore read and read; and when reading also write, therefore read; and reading also translate, therefore read; therefore read, read, read, and read. The same argument may be made for translating, traveling, and writing."

  – Lydia Davis, "To Reiterate," Almost No Memory

oh scone, oh scone

Let me tell you about this scone. 

Actually, to begin my life with the beginning of my life, let me tell you about my relationship with scones. I definitely ate scones growing up. Those dry, crumbly triangular things you can find at most cafes. They didn't tend to taste like much and they usually had cranberries in them. The first time I had a life-changing scone experience (understatement is for other people) was in Kraków, Poland. I was at a little potluck party, and a Scottish fellow brought scones he'd made and, significantly, clotted cream. Spare a moment, if you can, to pity the poor me who, until the wise age of twenty-three, had never known the joys of clotted cream. What is this? I remember asking. And then eating. A lot. From that day forward, I had a different idea about scones. The scones, as I recall, were less dry, less tired-seeming than the scones to which I'd been accustomed. But it was the addition of clotted cream that did me in.

Picture me now, cozy in San Francisco, coming home from a late Saturday morning run to find two trays of scones being pulled from the oven. My housemate Tim has recently taken up baking (as if he needed to be more charming), much to everyone's delight. So there they were, these scones. Tim made them from the Cheeseboard cookbook. They have lots of things in them, including blueberries, buttermilk, and heavy cream. And pure joy. These are the best scones I have ever had. In my life. I don't know how to tell you this. They were so good, I not only didn't want clotted cream, I didn't add butter. I can think of no higher praise.

representing it visually

At a recent party at my house, I overheard two people, who hadn't known one another previously, begin an animated conversation over their shared enthusiasm for carpentry and table-making. There were so many people who didn't know each other. I am always wanting to introduce people and particularly those with overlapping areas of interest. I began a kind of Venn diagram on the chalk board in my kitchen of people and the things they liked, experiences they'd had, qualities they possessed. Then I let everyone else take it over. (pictured here) 

I would not describe this as a functional image, necessarily. No doubt there are far more elegant and scannable ways of displaying the same content visually. But it was a lot of fun to make and to puzzle out later. I've dubbed it a disinformation graphic, which is amusing but not quite apt. Perhaps a hermeneutic circle of a party? I'll accept suggestions.

I've got news for you, honey

tUnE-yArDs! I will easily forgive you the nonsensical capitalization for this.

why not, indeed

My housemate Annabel asked me over dinner, "Why don't we dance everyday?" and I said "I don't know"  to which she replied "We do!"

we five

If you can show me something cuter than this, I'll probably make out with you.

overturning prop 8

I remember when they legalized gay marriage in San Francisco. I remember the joy. I remember having a job interview near City Hall, and arriving early, on I think the 16th of February. Not even the first day of the weddings. And I remember the line still stretched around the block. I remember standing in the rain, and watching the couples emerge, some carrying signs, "Together for 30 years, and finally married." I remember wishing I was a reverend so that I could help. I remember how much I liked the phrase "spouses for life." I remember the brides in matching dresses, the couples in sneakers and jeans, in every color and style of clothing, I remember the laughing, I remember applauding for every single pair of newlyweds walking down the stairs of City Hall, under my umbrella, crying and smiling and standing and watching them and feeling it so much.

And this is not the final victory, but it's a start.

saturday

No one deserves to be this lucky. Certainly not me. But isn't it nice (sometimes) that we don't just get what we deserve in life? Things would be pretty harsh otherwise, I think.

I woke up this morning with no plans, and stumbled my way into an invitation to brunch with my downstairs neighbors. I offered to provide something, but ultimately only made coffee. And I got to eat the most gorgeous frittata,

 

and a beautiful tortilla español, fabulous apple wood smoked salmon from the Alemany farmer's market, sweet potatoes, fresh bread with blackberry/lemon jam from Blue Chair, and to sit and talk (and listen! I was doing some listening!) with a bunch of enthnomusicologists and mathematicians about music and USAmerican foreign policy and the Arabic love of puns.

And then I went back upstairs to find everyone making kimchi. Let it be known: Kristin is an amazing pickler of vegetables. I did very little, besides chop some ginger (and of course, all the photo-documentation). In case I had been feasted enough, we feasted! (Yes, that's right, John made biscuits again!) And then we watched The Philadelphia Story. Does no one agree with me that Katharine Hepburn & Jimmy Stewart should end up together? They have so much chemistry! And she and Carry Grant just don't do it for me. Sigh.

I never dreamed

for no particular reason, except that I like it so much:

if all is going well

then I am currently learning how to sing like this (more or less):

It's pretty exciting. I had my first class at Zambaleta this evening. Only 5 more, so I don't expect proficiency at the end, but something. So interesting/challenging/fun. I like it I like it I like it.

?!

is so passé.  A revolution is clearly necessary: 

Why have I never heard of this before?  ¡Viva la interrobang!

(all credit to CS)

spoiled for choice

I finally got my hands on a copy of the San Francisco Panorama but I'm not reading it.

I finally got Splendor in the Grass from my Netflix but I'm not watching it.

I finally got the last two Doris Lessing books in the Children of Violence quintet and I'm making a wild mushroom risotto.  And drinking white wine.  And practically purring with contentment.

why can't every day be like

Friday morning my boss took us all ice skating at Union Square.  I like this rather too immensely. 

Kcymaerxthaere

At the recent Believer release party, Eames Demetrios gave a power point presentation and lecture on (the? I don't know if it takes the definite article) Kcymaerxthere, an "alternative universe largely consistent with our linear world but with different points of contact: different stories, peoples, creatures, laws of physics—just for starters."  In addition to his day job/s, he travels around the world installing plaques and making markers about various events from this other and somehow overlapping world.   I was enjoying myself too much to take proper notes (who else takes notes at art gallery openings and magazine release parties?  Send yourself my way), but I did manage to jot down an aside about "the god of directionality – some people say he's behind wikipedia, the euro, and Starbucks."  I especially love the sites he's commemorated in Germany and Poland.  At the end of his presentation, we all sang a song together.  He liked my singing and I told him to keep me in mind if he ever started a choir.  Then I bought a travel guide.

This is the kind of nonsense – delivered in utmost earnestness and beautiful seriousness – that I could really get behind.

recent acquisition

I bought it used for $25!

I think the game just changed.

how to do

"...it's not the notes.  It's the spaces between the notes that make the music."

                  - Masimo Vignelli, Helvetica

Amtrak in four conversations

One 
8:15am Sunday morning, San Francisco 
grumpy

Because they rearranged the bus stop, I almost missed my shuttle to Emeryville, which would have caused me to miss my train to Sacramento.  "Didn't you see the signs?" the Amtrak employee asked me as he gave me directions to the new, temporary bus stop, "They're everywhere."  I had not.  I looked around.  I did not see the signs which were everywhere.  I expressed my fear that I would miss the train to Sacramento.  "Don't worry," he told me "there's another train right after it going to Sacramento, back to back."  But I've read well and I said "You mean the one that gets in over half an hour later?" (this is a quintessential Amtrak paradox: two trains leave the same stop at almost exactly the same time, they arrive at the same destination but one arrives a half an hour later and both cost $26) 
"Yeah," he responded, "you don't want that one?"
"No," I affirmed, "I do not."
I walked to the temporary bus stop.  I continued to not see the signs.

Entre'act
At the coffee shop in the Emeryville Station, a sign:

Now Available

Smoothies

Different Flavors

Two

8:50am Sunday, Emeryville

sleepy

A small boy, I'd guess about five years old, sat down across from me, stared, smiled, and launched.  "Hello," he said.  "Hello," I answered. 

"Some of the kids in my class, they're bad."

"Really?"

"Yeah.  They don't listen to the teacher."

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

"Do you listen to the teacher?"

"Yeah."

"Good for you."

"I get a sticker everyday."

"You must have a lot of stickers."

This child spoke quickly and with energy but he was focused.  He was watching me.  He asked permission, then took my picture with his cell phone.  My train arrived first.  "I've got to go," I said.

"Goodbye!  My name's Javier."

"Goodbye Javier.  My name's Margaret."

"Goodbye Margaret!"

Three

7:40am, Monday

caffeinated

The conductor makes the usual announcements about seating, the location of the snack car, etc., then: "Ladies and gentlemen," she said "if you look out your window in the direction we're moving, there's a huge, beautiful rainbow."  There was.  It lasted all the way to Richmond, which is almost an hour and a half of rainbow.  Forward in hope.

Four

9:30am, Monday

I was the first person to get on the shuttle from Emeryville to San Francisco and so I moved partway back.  No one else got on.  "Looks like you're my only passenger," said the driver.  "You're a princess today!"

"In that case, I'm going to move up and keep you company."

We nattered all the way to San Francico.  He told me about when he met Michelle Obama at a fundraiser, and we both admired her for awhile and agreed that the White House mattresses must be getting a better workout since god only knows when.  We talked about education and communication and tourists and being a stranger in a strange land.  The driver's name, I found out eventually, was Rufus.  He used to operate a cable car.  "You must have met all kinds of people doing that," I said.  "Yes," he remarked, "but of all the people I've met, you're the most interesting."

I bet he says that to everybody.  Still.  I'll take what I can get.

Amerikanisch Oktoberfest

is in October, because that is comprehensible to USAmericans. A festival called "Oktoberfest" which takes place from mid- to late-September only prompts head scratching and skepticism. And so it is that Shroeder's, an otherwise rather legitimate-seeming German restaurant and bar in the Financial District, hosted one of its several Weis'n celebrations this past Friday. Allow me to be entirely clear:

this party : Munich's Oktoberfest

my 8th birthday party : Tiberius on Capri

(okay, it's not me, but you get the idea)

uh-huh

For the record, I had a lot of fun when I turned 8. I had a piñata and ate a lot of cake and got nice presents. Even so.

I really enjoyed this Oktoberfest, though. I got to drink some good German beer and my very cool housemate John was seconds away from winning a drinking contest. I took my dirndl out for the first time, and it worked exactly like a dirndl should: quick service at the bar and plenty of attention all round. I even got whirled around the floor by a member of the Golden Gate Bavarian Club who knew what he was doing. I didn't, but this is one of those rare instances where it's so blessedly easy to be female: smile, stay on your toes, and just keep moving.

last Wednesday: a variety show

6:15am - Alarm goes off. Climb down from my bed, hit snooze, climb back up.

6:30am - Alarm goes off. Get up.

6:30-7:45 - stretching, yawning, shower, humming, coffee, opening eyes, granola

7:45-7:55 - bike to Mission High School

8:00-9:50 - tutor freshmen on oral history narratives for their ethnic studies class

10:00-1:20 - work work work, put add on craigslist for extra theatre ticket, filter candidates, choose one contact, give ticket

1:20-1:35 - bike to Golden Gate Theatre

1:35-1:45 - eat ham & cheese croissant, aka lunch

2:00-5:00 - watch South Pacific with my a free ticket. As I'm leaving a man tells me "You know, I saw the original." "On Broadway?" I ask. "Yup, that was back in 1949." I was one of the few non-grey- or white-haired people in the audience. But then, who else goes to a Wednesday matinée of anything, especially Rodgers and Hammerstein?

5:00-6:00 - grocery shopping

6:00-6:20 - dinner

6:20-8:00 - baking cupcakes for cool-housemate-Kristin's birthday, singing, dancing, candles

While we're on the subject, the playbill for South Pacific, which has rather heavy echoes of Gaughin, doesn't include any facial details for the native women. Really? They aren't minimized enough in the musical by the pigeon English of one and the attractive, smiling silence of the other? Do designers not study these things? Or do they just not pay attention?

way to grow!

Check out my plants, yo:
(er, full dusclosure: I inherited the vast majority of this, and so can't really take credit. On the other hand, I've been watering faithfully for a month now!)

from the top

apparently peppers grow on trees

the basil is my favorite. I play favorites.

look! a cucumber! currently about the size of my thumb!

mmm...

to put it all in perspective