The Happiest Transplant

Mike Rauscher Tells the Truth

2011-05-19T06:42:00.000-07:00

At 12:21am in Mudd Library, John Andreoni, scholar and gentleman, composes a syllabus addition for his Environmental Justice Literature class, recommending his teacher add “The Hunger Games” to the reading list. At some point, Benjamin George-Hinnant, man about town, joins him and discusses the difficulties of memory. Mike Rauscher, philosopher-king, joins them, and speaks about the nature of thought, bicycling, and nature.

Engaged in this conversation, I compiled some of Mr. Rauscher’s thoughts, the ones simple enough for my sleep-slowed fingers.

Please think of our conversation as: “MIKE RAUSCHER TELLS THE TRUTH.”

_

Nature:
You can take an environmental justice class to tell you that capitalism is wrong, but it doesn't tell you why nature is wrong for all the same reasons.

Think of the sun just shitting out all that power. Plants are the short-sightedness of Nature. So much of culture puts them on the pedestal of vitality, but they're a local energy minimum. They limit like the market.

Destroy the plants.

Permaculture is the rotten end of culture.

Centralization is beautiful.

[At 1:21am, Messrs Rauscher, Andreoni, and Hinnant discuss whether the earth must be round. That conversation involved engineering detail far beyond my stenographic skill. If memory serves, they were able to suggest other viable shapes.]

Thought:
That’s all there is to learning: computation built out of cell activity.

Trust in the false prophets. Introspection is lying to you,

All decision making is just the embellishment of what happens when you grab a potato chip.

Bicycles:

“It is all carrot, no string.”

“You cannot commune with it, you can only be it.”

Nature II:

My research into Pony Magic have revealed to me that we are the precipice of the apocalypse.

Nick Cave: artist, dancer, teacher

2011-02-20T10:00:00.000-08:00

Adult learning seems so different from “student” learning. The type of learning I excelled at -- memorization, test-taking, auditory recall -- is no longer as useful as it was. My nice adult communications job is great, and has involved learning lots of new systems very quickly, but it's not the stuff I'm so skilled at. I learn by listening. I learn by writing.

I miss lectures, guys.

So, I've gone out and found them.

The first was pure chance. I was restless, and chattering with Adam and Rachel. Adam is my splendid hero-friend-landlord, an accompanist at Cleveland Institute of Music. Rachel is a gorgeous viola player from Vancouver. They wanted to eat dinner; I wanted to shoot fireworks into power-lines. We compromised by walking to the Barking Spider, a beer bar with live music every night. I examined the bands listed on the side of the door, when out walks Emelio.

"Emelio?!"

If you did theater at Oberlin, or graduated from my year, you knew Emelio. Emelio is fabulous, kind, and hilariously funny— he attracts friends and followers easily. In my dofus way, I always balked at talking with him because, well, he’s just so cool.

"Aries?!"

He lives in Tremont, works in a community garden project, and was on his way to a lecture at CIA.

"It's for Nick Cave," he said.

"The musician?"

"Nah, the textiles artist. You should go! It'll be great!"

Nick Cave, the artist-not-musician, was absolutely fantastic. He pairs art with movement -- he studied modern dance with Alvin Ailey, and creates amazing wearable art pieces called Soundsuits. The first Soundsuits was made of twigs, completely overtaking the body of the wearer; others are constructed out of human hair, creating an enormous fur glories. He transforms people into muppets, blurring an individual’s gender, race, and class. He speaks softly and melodiously, and during his talk, I drifted between attentiveness and dreamy nap-land. He made all my fantasies seem so real.

The first Soundsuit!

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The Scientific Question

2011-02-01T13:43:00.000-08:00

A favor: can you think of a question for me?

… Not just any question.

What question could you ask a passerby on the street to gauge how much they grasped chemistry, physics, and biology? What signals basic scientific knowledge? What queries create a gradient between simple understanding, some analytical skill, and total cluelessness?

Right now, I like these ones:

How does the sun work?

What remains after you burn something?

Why is the sky blue?

What causes the dramatic colors of a sunset?

Or:

Can you define density? Mass? Heat?

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The Illegal Internship

2011-01-20T07:22:00.000-08:00

The first task to complete at my internship is to hire my replacement. Center for a New Culture wants another feisty young person, willing to work for food and housing, but no pay, at a socially active not-for-profit.

Of course, it's never that simple.

Most unpaid internships are flatly illegal. Or, they are conducted in a way that violates minimum wage laws, and a variety of labor rules. Volunteer work for a for-profit company is also very sticky, as is the provision of room and board. You don't even want to talk about stipends. In some ways, the more an employer wants to give an intern, the more legally suspect they become.

It's hard to follow the law, dammit. And I am trying.

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Radegast: Swing and Absinthe

2011-01-19T10:05:00.000-08:00

I’d heard good things about Radegast, a swing and blues venue in Brooklyn. My impressions were slightly dimmed right before I stepped in.

At the corner, a dude yelled to me, “Hey, Miss!”

“Hey, yeah?” I yelled back.

“You’re a fucking whore!” he screamed.

“Goddamn Brooklyn,” I thought and walked into the place.

Radegast was a beer garden, the German theme thicker than Bavarian crème. The space was huge, the ceilings high, with a huge bar at the center and tables off to the side. Everything was dark wood, flagons, and lager —above the mantle was a painting of a Hessian military man with impressive muttonchops. The busy bartenders resembled underwear models, with more tattoos. Das Calvin Kleinen.

As I took off my coat, the Blue Vipers of Brooklyn, an amazing swing band, started their first song. But something was missing: the dancers.

Das Calvin Kleinen Bartenders.

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Celebrate!

2010-12-25T07:56:00.001-08:00

Dearest Friends,

I hope y’all are doing well, and if you’re amongst family, they’re being kind to you. I'm really thankful to know you, and hope you know I'm thinking of you.

My mother is a pretty hardcore Lutheran, while my father was raised atheist, leaving me a mish-mosh version of Christianity. My old scripture book covered Christmas like this:

“Christmas isn’t only celebrating Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, but the birth of every child. Children of all sizes and races and ages, from a few minutes old, to a whole 90 years present. Children of one, two or many parents; children across the world. Let us take this moment to celebrate the God’s birth within us all.”

While I’m not sure how you think about God, or Jesus, or other messiahs, I think it’s a good day to celebrate children, of all ages.

Love, kisses, and best wishes for a new year,
Aries

PS: The dolls in the photo are Norwegian elves. They are not my parents.

Steam Heat

2010-12-17T06:56:00.000-08:00

Warning: Very honest, all names changed to protect privacy.

As a child, I was afraid of heat. Hot showers, steam rooms, saunas -- any confined space with steam and near-scalding water made me nauseous. The instant I started to sweat, boiling bile rose from my belly.

It’s different now. Now, I believe in heat. I love running in the summer, I love laying the sun. I enjoy the suffocating humidity of August in New York, I adore the burning of too-hot miso soup. I delight in sweat. I love dancing so furiously that I am coated with sweat; I love embracing a dance partner and sharing that heat. I love feeling my heart race, and the drip of water sliding down my forehead. I love the taste of salt.

What changed, I wondered. I poked at that childhood fear, teased it, tickled it. Why did I feel vertigo on tile floors?

And then, I saw her face. She was a beautiful woman, with oil-black hair, her features handsome, voice proud. She is an artist, and I see her licking her lips, clutching at water, grasping at cold, desperate hope.

Beautiful Norma, the main character in The Midnight Sun, a classic episode of the Twilight Zone.

I had watched Norma die.

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Changeling

2010-12-14T07:46:00.000-08:00

“I’d like a pizza for three. With, um, pepperoni. And sausage. Italian sausage. Not chicken sausage.” the man says slowly. “Yeah, in a box.”

He looks as if he’s going to cry any second.

I nod, but before putting it in the machine, or stop myself, I blurt out, “Are you alright, sir?”

He bites his lip. “Yeah,” he says.

“Can I get you something to drink, sir? Just for while, you know, while you wait?”

“Um. Not yet?” As he signs the bill, his hands are shaking. He speaks in curt phrases, separated by just-a-half-beat-too-long pauses. He’s sweating profusely.

“No hurry, sir. It’ll be ready in about 15 minutes, sir. Would you like to wait here?”

“No, no. I’ll go and come back. Actually-” His face draws in even more, his eyebrows curling in. “Could you hold it? My wife is at the doctor’s office. I don’t know how long it will take.”

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station identification

2010-12-10T07:46:00.001-08:00

Name:
Aries Skarveland Indenbaum

Present location:
Adam's apartment, near Case Western Reserve, Cleveland.

Present occupation:
Intern for Network for a New Culture, based out of Arlington, VA. I'm setting up an internship program there, and working a number of communications projects. They're aiming to set up a happier, emotionally healthier world.(*)

Affiliations:
Individuals at Oberlin College; Catholic Worker Community of Cleveland, OH.

Current fascinations:
Cleveland's history and public transit system, dance, music.

Today's plans:
See Adam's concert at 2:00, go to Catholic Worker House to help prepare dinner from West Side Market, go to the Storefront, go back to Oberlin for blues dancing and friends-malingering.

Why?
To explore.

* NFNC seeks to build a sustainable, violence-free culture through exploring intimacy, personal growth, transparency, radical honesty, equality, compassion, sexual freedom, and the power of community.

Twin Oaks Exit Letter

2010-12-09T07:37:00.001-08:00

After your stay at Twin Oaks, visitors post an Exit Letter to the O+I board (a message board in the dining hall, a place of snark and critical thought). For many, it's a tool to describe how they would act as a member. Here's mine.

Dearest Twin Oaks,

I’ve had a glorious time. It’s been an incredible privilege to visit here, and I feel blessed by the connections I’ve made.

MEMBERSHIP (Not quite yet.)
As I’m not applying for membership, I feel compelled to explain why. Primarily, I’m not ready. I have many commitments and relationships in the mainstream world that I must maintain. I have partners and friends whom I love… who live far from here. Membership at Twin Oaks would mute those bonds.

Living within a Community is deeply exciting to me – I’m one of the Oberlin people who think all meals should be cooked for a hundred people. However, the insularity at Twin Oaks is not one I resonate with. It seems very difficult to build outside friendships while living on the farm. While I respect that choice, I think it would dampen my ability to have a sense of scope or context.

WORK (I like it.)
As a visitor, my work made a deep impression… into my clothes.

Items that have stained my pants: mud, dirt, gravel, sawdust, ironweed, confusion, soap, broccoli, caterpillars that used to be in the broccoli, okara, mildew, sweat, ashes, canola oil, gratitude, fine Virginia red clay, and leaves.

I enjoyed the culture of work here, and the labor system is one I took a lot of enjoyment from. I love social jobs in which I learn, and was able to do many of them here. I deeply enjoyed all of the orientations, and felt grateful for the time put into them. I will try to pass on this information as best I can.

SOCIAL NORMS (Wildly ambivalent.)
To be frank, I don’t jive well with many of the social norms. I’m loud, extroverted, and demonstrative, and lived in small town Ohio for 5 years. I’m used to very different levels of friendliness. I’ve been socialized to greet everyone I meet, regardless of how many times I’ve seen them that day, or what particular social issues might exist between us. It’s always a pleasure to see them and know them. I’ve lived in communities with as much emotional intimacy and relationship shenanigans as Twin Oaks… in which there’s much more visible warmth.

That said, I feel genuine adoration for nearly everyone here.

GENERALLY (I love it.)
In my brief time here, Twin Oaks fostered a sense of gratitude in me. Twin Oaks inspires me to be more honest, both with others and myself. I learned a tremendous amount from any member who felt comfortable speaking with me, and truly value the connections I’ve made here.

I don’t think this is my last time here, as this is a lifestyle I find honorable. I felt truly grateful to spend Thanksgiving here, and would be excited to return.

CONTACT
If you’re so inclined, I’ll be in DC in January, then Cleveland in February and onwards. If you find yourself floating towards northeast Ohio, please don’t hesitate to drop me a line. I love hosting others and would love to pass the generosity I’ve encountered here onwards.

Thank you for your kindness.

Love,
Aries

Thanksgiving with Four Part Harmony and Feeling

2010-11-28T07:20:00.000-08:00

“Before we get covered in mildew, I suggest we go get pancakes. All in favor?”

Kayte and I raised our hands quickly.

“Settled!” Rayne announced, and we bounded away from the tofu factory for fresh pancakes.

Thanksgiving started out golden, with vegan pancakes stuffed with chocolate and banana. After breakfast, we returned to the tofu hut, suited up, and attacked the strange molds that feast on soy.

While I’m happy that Twin Oaks has a tofu factory, working there is not my favorite task. When tofu is being processed, the factory is loud and muggy, with a hint of okara in the air. On my first tofu shift, I had a low level panic attack for 2 hours. Being around large garbage buckets of very, very hot water makes me very uncomfortable. Having to reach into the buckets is similarly troubling, even though the green elbow-length gloves we wear are incredibly sturdy.

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Visiting Twin Oaks

2010-11-12T06:14:00.000-08:00

"Are you new in town?”

“I’m visiting Twin Oaks, out by Louisa.”

“Twin Oaks? What’s that?”

[I don’t say: “Ah, it’s an egalitarian income-sharing intentional community based in principles of non-violence, sustainability, cooperation, and equality.”]

I generally say: “It’s a community where people live and work together.”

“Huh. Are you moving here?”

“Nope,” I say. “I’m just here to learn.”

And I’m learning a huge amount, every day.

Describing Twin Oaks is difficult, much like trying to describe an entire country.

Try to do it. Say, with Belgium.

Personally, I would be flummoxed, and start screaming, “Waffles! European Union! Diamonds! Problematic imperialistic past! Dutch, Flemish, French, Walloons! Lovely buildings! Ardennes! The Congo! Tintin, Magritte, and Rubens! Brave little Belgium! Chocolate!”

It's hard to sum up a whole county.

The rules at Twin Oaks (called “norms”) are different from real-world conventions. There is a consciousness here, a mindfulness, that subtly spices every conversation: like a thin hint of cilantro, or a splash of lime. Twin Oaks has more flavor than the bread of the real world.

In many ways, Twin Oaks reminds me of communities in science fiction novels – the Fremen in Dune, their eye-whites turned blue under the influence of the spice, or the polyglot families in Ursula K. Le Guin novels. The effect is unsurprising: Twin Oaks was inspired from Walden 2.0, a novel by BF Skinner that mimics a recipe for the ideal Utopian community.

“Is it Utopia yet?”

“Nah, but you can see it from here.”

There are 92 people at Twin Oaks right now, with 12 children and 2 on the way. They are all different, but very kind. Very, very kind. Many are passionate about a specific cause – peak oil, gay rights, egalitarian consciousness, literature, print-making. Some are more devoted to just living simply without the annoyances of the “normal” world, free from taxes to traffic. Some are delighted to raise their children in a safe community, to make friends with all around them. Some enjoy living in community, without loneliness or isolation. Some want to practice what they preach – to be as truly sustainable as they can, to live an austere life, and to raise the food that they eat.

It smells so good here, with just that splash of lime.

For the past few days, I’ve been working very hard. As a visitor, I don’t really have the time here to learn the more complex skills -- cheese making, automotive repair, or animal husbandry -- but I’ve got the strong back to get any shoveling job done. I can rake and dig and clean. I can raise flowerbeds, plant garlic and daffodils, and saw wood apart. The members give us orientations on everything from Membership to Child-care. I can learn how the community works.

But the biggest type of learning is meeting all these people, hearing their passions, and learning how they all live together.

In DC, the city of networking, I felt as if my random conversations were always closed, as if I was trying to tease open the drawers of a very tightly-clenched bureau. Inside were fascinating clothes, but all shut up. Here, each conversation is a huge hallway of doors, all leading to different communities, different lifestyles, different countries. To Utah, to Germany, to England. Each day, there are more welcome mats in front of the doors.

I’m going to start opening doors soon. And soon, I’ll start making my own.

PS: (I love it here.)

In Contact

2010-11-04T12:36:00.000-07:00

THE PLAN

In the process of becoming a Real Adult, I need to determine my priorities, needs, and goals. The basics of housing, employment, and community are key, but I’ll be searching out the answers to questions like:

- What field should I dedicate my attentions to?
- How does one live a sustainable life?
- Is writing a viable path?
- How can one live an adventurous life that involves community-building and intellectual growth?
- Should I go to graduate school?

As these questions require research, I won’t be very stationary for the next while. I’ll be on the move, trying to learn as much as possible.

To get in touch with me:

1. Text
2. Call
3. Email (aries.indenbaum@gmail.com)
4. Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/iAries)
5. Carrier pigeon / abnormally attentive rat (subway, window, alleyway)

To hear about my adventures:

1. Twitter (http://twitter.com/iAries)
2. Blogging
a. livejournal, mostly locked entries (http://soullessthinker.livejournal.com/)
b. facebook, friend-locked entries (http://www.facebook.com/iAries)
c. public blog (http://go-aries-go.blogspot.com/)

Here is my life-plan:

Until Wednesday Night: Oberlin, Ohio.
(John’s birthday is November 1st. And I am a romantic.)

Until Friday morning: Washington, DC
(I am back for a day! It will be déjà vu a l’høver agaîn.)

Until December: Twin Oaks, Virginia
(An intentional community that will teach me about sustainable communal living!)

December 3-5: Washington, DC
(Bambloozled, a blues dance conference! I will have spare time, though I may be in a constant state of dance-gasm.)

Until February: UNKNOWN
(Possibilities: New Orleans, Washington DC, Seattle, or parts unknown. I could visit you, if you like!)

February: Cleveland, Ohio
(Probably. I’d like to work for a socially just organization.)

The Jam Cellar: Kings of Swing

2010-10-31T11:55:00.000-07:00

The dance scene in Washington, DC is intense- you can dance every night of the week. If you like salsa, swing, or blues, the district is your musicbox.

In DC, I was always told about new venues from Virginia to Maryland: Charm City Swing in Baltimore, the enthusiastic college crowd at GMU or UVA, Habana Village, Cherry Hill, bars in Ballston and Clarendon… everywhere. However, I mostly danced at Glen Echo Amusement Park, the Jam Cellar, and Chevy Chase Ballroom.

If I could dance every night, I would. To me, dancing feels like nothing else, combining my love of music, connection, movement, and touch. It satisfies my extroversion and my desire for one-to-one intimacy. When I dance, I grin like an imbecile, or I close my eyes and let my face relax. Dance is so instinctive now, and so pleasing.

Please, allow me to share?

THE JAM CELLAR

The tagline for the experience is: The Jam Cellar. YOU WILL LIKE IT.

They’re right.

When John described the Jam Cellar to me as a “swing club,” I pictured a basement of dive bar near Adams Morgan: low lights, strong drinks, hardwood floors, and mega-hot follows. Not so much. (Except for the follows. They are still hot.)

In reality, the Jam Cellar is more of a phenomena than a place. The event engulfs an entire house, a beautiful 19th-century mansion with ornate iron doors and hardwood floors. Originally, the building – the Josephine Butler House -- was proposed to be the home for the vice president. It’s easy to imagine one suite as the “Master’s Study,” or “Lady’s Library,” or “Butler’s Discretionary Area.” The house borders Meridian Park, a short (and convenient) walk from U Street, Columbia Heights, and Adams Morgan.

That said, the key part of the Jam Cellar is the crowd, rather than the locale.

CROWD
The Jam Cellar hosts dances with the crème de la crème, the rock stars of swing dance. Remember listening to Zoot Suit Riot, by Cherry Poppin Daddies, back in the 90’s? Some of these folk have been dancing since then, becoming the leading teachers and most exceptional dancers around. They built this city.

Their skills attract a big crowd. The Jam Cellar offers beginner and intermediate classes at fairly affordable rates in targeted areas: subtle movements, aerials, collegiate shag, balboa, vernacular jazz steps, and ridiculous shit. I took an entire class on “Texas Tommy” variations, a position-turn move that may have started as its own vernacular dance. As a follow, classes expose me to new moves, and often make me more aware of my limitations*.

When I do dance with one of the fantastic leads, it’s pretty surreal. When you’re a beginner/intermediate kiddo, dancing with Bobby, Paul, or David is like hooking-up with Beyoncé while riding a dolphin.

There’s a certain way that super-experienced leads move that is incredibly foreign to me, a delicacy and skill that I can register, but not respond in kind.

It’s like challenging a grandmaster to a spot of chess, when you are an excellent checkers player. Mercifully, most of the grandmasters apparently enjoy an occasional game of, erm, checkers. Very enthusiastic checkers. Yes.

Even without the Beyoncé-dolphin experience, I still have a fantastic time. I'm lucky enough to dance with leads who have far more experience than I, who push me to improve. And, most importantly, they're all fantastic humans. Like, super-freakin' nice and kind.

I was always excited for Tuesday nights.

MUSIC
One thing that defines the Jam Cellar is the music selection: exclusively classic lindy tracks. No modern remakes of older songs, no Motown, no new swing music. You hear old-skool big band jazz: Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman, and Duke Ellington (who grew up a few blocks away).

To be honest, that took some getting used to. Vintage tracks rarely have the emotional resonance for me that more modern tracks do. I know all the lyrics to Katy Perry songs, but the lyrics to most swing songs escape me. Also, I like the invention of the subwoofer. The subwoofer was made for a reason. The subwoofer makes the beat really damn obvious. And while it’s a great challenge to have to noodle out the bass from the treble, it’s nice to not have to worry about losing it.

On the other hand, it’s taught me a lot, about finding and recognizing rhythms, and learning more about the roots of swing. At Jam Cellar, I realized that I knew nothing about swing, from the origins to the revival. It made me want to learn more.

The Jam Cellar.

So go to the Jam Cellar. You will like it. Observe this video for more clarification. Hint: it is silly.

A Letter Home

2010-10-16T11:47:00.000-07:00

The visits to Oberlin are hard to write about – they’re too intense, too wonderful, too concentrated. This one especially so.

First: the long distance relationship dream come true -- holding the one you love and realizing that they’re real. You didn’t dream them up. They aren’t an abstraction, a perfection, an invisible friend. They’re them, and all the silly little bits of them: homework, stuffed noses, messy rooms and math tests. No bread or skim milk in the house. Terrible vodka in the cupboard.

But those unpretty parts are the best. Hell, they’re more beautiful than you remembered. You kiss the salt on their skin, you touch their shoulders and recall sculptures of Adonis or Aphrodite. You watch them move, watch them dance, and the world just feels more right.

you kiss.

you hold.

you make love.

and everything is better. everything will be alright.

everything is just perfect. you love them.

(and i do love you.)

... But it was more this time – there were other salient details. You know when the sun hits a leaf, and the glow warms the edges and you can see the veins of the leaf? And it’s no longer simply beautiful, but very, very IMPORTANT. It’s staring at the sky in early fall, and knowing that this is THE horizon. This is the earth you live in. You want to tell the world about the way that a snake hurries away from you, then looks back, invitingly, inquiringly, before darting into the brush.

It is the details.

I’ve never felt much attachment to the architecture of Oberlin – though I do like architecture, and Oberlin’s strange unplanned landscape. The trees in Tappan Square evoke a stronger awe than elegant Talcott, the sandstone Disney magnificence of Peters, or the neoclassical Memorial arch. I don’t feel flushed by Cass Gilbert, or Silsbee, or the religiosity of the Science Center. But the stillness of the Reservoir gets me, every time.

It is in my friends, who make me feel real. They give me form, structure, and a valid self. I’ve grown worse at engaging large groups, but more amazed by the comfort in sharing time with one. When I visit, I always want more time to hold hands and walk with my friend-family, from cousins to siblings. They are so beautiful and they give me so much. (My name feels safe in their mouths.)

It is Ma’ayan’s face softening, thinking about the poster, thinking about the future and the past.

Harris reading Annie Dillard aloud to me, and poems like “Aubade” written onto scrap paper on his wall.

It is Amanda straddling a log, becoming a “sex panther” with me. It is Amanda, her hand on the small of my back, moving with me to Nina Simone, her eyes insatiable.

It is Greg, self-possessed, grounded: living, teaching, and playing.

It is a Gimlet. It is a sip of Guinness. It is a glass of milk after a day of dancing.

It is muddling through the basic of West Coast Swing, trying to move on the third beat of a triplet (that probably isn’t a triplet.) It is the classically-trained instructors, and their care for each other, arm in arm at the airport.

It is Kate’s face, covered in freckles, exuding comfort and calm.

It is Mari’s knee causing her pain, but the smoothness of the workshop easing her mind. Monica’s grace. Fiona’s charm. My inability to lead them, but simply stare at their loveliness and be overwhelmed.

It is Lily’s infectious grin and incredible warmth. It is Scout’s vibrant honesty.

It is Mineh's understanding that I am an immature pervert, and the way he leads me around.

It is Ali’s goofiness, her maddeningly gorgeous eyes, and how she and Patrick joke with each other.

It is Brandi's focus behind the wheel, her integrity so clear.

Jeff Hagan’s messy desk, even with Brandi’s tidying, and his enthusiasm for my future.

A crowd dancing. The circus on a Friday afternoon. A large coffee from Slow Train. The golden tree in Tappan, and the tree that belongs to Kris.

My friends.

I love them.

Black Coffee

2010-10-14T03:20:00.000-07:00

We ran out of regular espresso today. After much discussion with my manager, we decided to pretend that the decaf was not-so-decaf. Let the placebo effect work for us. But it still made me nervous, so after making some fancy cappuccinos, macchiatos or espressos, I’d linger and ask how they were.

An older couple responded extremely positively. “Delicious,” he said, with a hint of an English accent. “A very full taste,” she agreed, with another, harder-to-read accent, sipping her cappuccino delicately.

I jabbered about the new Lavazza machine, and may have clowned a little, my gestures big and silly. (I wanted to demonstrate my feud with the old machine, which had a tendency to spray milk wildly.) The couple laughed, the woman’s smile vast. She was very elegant, with a clear bright smile, and big brown eyes. He was older than her.

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Originally California, but more recently Ohio.”

“Ah,” she said. “I am from Brazil. And he is from Pakistan.”

“Wow! That’s a ways away,” I said.

“Miss,” the man asked, “how long do you think I’ve been coming here?”

This is a question I hear a lot from regulars, their favorite game with young servers. They generally lean back and reply some variant on, “Before you were even dreamed of.”

I grin nervously, and try to beat him at the game, “Before I was even dreamed of?”

He nodded. “Nearly 50 years. It was my first day in DC. I’d gotten a job with the World Bank, but I hadn’t found a place to live yet, so they put me up in the Dupont Circle Hotel. I was walking to work, and as I passed by this place, the aroma from the kitchen just… captured me. I was in a rush, so I promised myself I’d come back for dinner. I came back for dinner. And of course, the food was superb. And bless you, it hasn’t changed.

“So I came back the night after, and the night after that. At least once a week, every week of the year. I took all my friends, my family, and every girlfriend.”

His companion giggled, “So many girlfriends!”

“All of the women I wanted to be girlfriends. Sometimes, it worked out, sometimes it didn’t.”

The woman said something under her breath in Portuguese, and they both laughed.

“I even took my father, and he had a fabulous time. He was the first president of Pakistan, and in those days, he was treated like a king. He didn’t have to do anything for himself, all of the details were handled by others. And in America, of course, it was not so. And still, he loved it. He wasn’t used to food cooked in this way, and he was delighted for the whole meal. A meal for a near-king.”

The man took another sip of the cappuccino, the foam lingering a bit on his upper lip.

“But at the end of the meal, he ordered some coffee, and paused a minute after tasting it. On the table, there were five little shakers: sugar, red pepper, black pepper, salt, and cheese. My father reached out and grabbed the cheese shaker, and started tapping parmesan into his meal. At first a little, then more and more. I just stared at him as he sipped his coffee.”

He said to me, “Son, this place may have the best pizza in the world, but their coffee is wretched.”

The man tipped his cup to me, and took a long sip.

Phantom Family Syndrome

2010-09-08T12:03:00.000-07:00

The Problems
i. I’m terrible at living alone.
ii. I don’t think the status quo is healthy.
iii. I don’t fit into the status quo.

i.

I’ve never lived alone before.

(Well, okay: literally, I’m not alone.

In fact, I’m very lucky – I have a room and a lovely housemate in a safe area (Crystal City, Arlington, VA). I have a job – bartending at an Italian restaurant. I have some excellent friends in my region, and many more outside of the state. My family is caring, and understands me. I have a lot of interests, and there’s tons to do. I’m improving as a dancer. I’m not broke.)

But there’s still something painful in my otherwise acceptable life: I don’t have a community.

I don’t live with a partner, or with my family. I don’t have a neighborhood. I don’t wake up next to a warm, sweet person, who tells me about their dreams. I don’t walk down the street and see friends, or acquaintances. When I want to see someone, I need to seek them out. There are random meetings, but they are brief. I don’t know enough people to create a critical mass of random-friend-encounters.

I got used to being happy.

I’m used to buying two tickets for every show. I’m used to cooking eggs for two, used to brushing my teeth while someone else takes out their contacts, used to walking to a shared rhythm. I’m used to having a reason to read aloud. I’m used to hugging more than 20 people a day. I’m used to grinning and tackle-embraces, and the ease of total trust.

I've lived in Oberlin for 5 years. I've been in relationships, with only a few months of single-ness, since I was 14. Nearly a decade.

I miss my karass, and my many little duprasses. I miss the way every member of my friend-family laughs. I am missing many limbs: I have phantom-family syndrome.

Phantom Family Syndrome is draining, even for little ol' extroverted, optimistic me. Vacant little me. I need to push myself to do things. I need to build up my own momentum– I can’t count on my friends to push me onwards and upwards. A life without positive feedback loops is hard. There’s just me.

A lone girl in a new city.

Between Johnny and my friends, this summer was nearly perfect. I started to love friends I’d never had the time to properly appreciate, both in Oberlin and DC. I was never unhappy. Every day was a wash of joy. Each day, I woke up smiling, and fell asleep contented. I had the spikes of happiness, and the long calm of joy. If you sampled my blood, it would be as happy-sweet as maple syrup.

Then, the fall winds started up, and the flock dispersed for different climates. After so much ecstasy, I'm left with no serotonin.

Losing John hit hard, especially coupled with losing my immediate friends. It was a nuclear winter after the terrible first blast. The heart is vaporized, and the body grows lifeless.

I got used to feeling so warm all the time. The cold creeps in so easily now.

Definition: The Ones You Really Love

2010-08-30T16:23:00.000-07:00

What do you call the people you love?

How do you define a relationship? Does that definition change when they’re not around?

What do you write on your love letters, or casual notes? Does it change based on their gender, or on yours? What happens if you’re not monogamous? How do you indicate that a person is a very close friend? How do you make distinctions between friends and lovers?

In short: what are your terms of endearment?

i. How do you define your relationship?

On my last run, I thought about all the names I call my special friends, both lovers and platonic. Words to indicate commitment and care, loyalty and intimacy, support and adoration. Words that I say to prove to someone that they are special, to let them know that I love them, and cherish them, no matter what.

THE ISSUE
I hate a lot of the standard terminology. I don’t like terms that are very possessive or gendered. I like words that imply intimacy and commitment.

Attempts:

- “Significant other” is too sterile.

- “Beloved” is cheesy and archaic.

- “Boyfriend” and “Girlfriend.” Gut reaction: I don’t like being called a “girlfriend,” or calling anyone my “boyfriend” or “girlfriend.” Bad associations. Veto'd.

- “Friend” isn’t strong linguistically enough. Too broad. “Good / Close / Dear friend” and other modifiers get it better. “Best friend” is very close to what I need for about five people.

- “Lover.” I should like the term lover, but it doesn’t imply (to me) that a person is special, or that there’s any aspect of commitment or prioritizing. To me, a lover offers a only sexual relationship, and I’m sappy enough to want more.

- “Limerent object” is too obscure and hopeless. Mutuality is not implied.

- “Apple of my eye” is too unreal, too idealizing.

- "Hook-up" or "fuck buddy" isn't classy.

THE BEST:
“Partner” is non-gendered, non-exclusive, personal, egalitarian, and loving. I like the ambiguity and the implied companionship. I like being a dance partner or a partner in crime or a business partner.

-

ii. What do you call your lover to their face (or their inbox)?

Well, besides their name. I like to give people nicknames, pet names, things that fit them better than their given titles. I want someone to know -- from just their name, and how I say it -- that they are impossibly special.

THE LIST OF ADORABLE NICKNAMES

Honeybee
Mon petit / ma petite chou
Dearest
Nightcrawler
Cuddlefish
Sweetpea
Little un’
Honey-bunny
Thailand
Clyde / Bonnie
Babe
Foxhole buddy
Adonis
Love
Kupo
Buttons
Japan
Buckles
MOSAD (Most Special and Adored)
Flower (a la Bambi)
Penny
Panda
Duckie
Faun
Cuddles / Snuggles
Anchor
Sweet one
Bestie
Wonderland
Lotus
Beautiful
Germany
Mittens
Dance partner
Invisible friend

So what do you like? What do you like to be called, and what do you like to call others? I want to know.

Love,
Aries

Love, love, love

2010-08-11T13:48:00.000-07:00

Facts:
1. I am very happy.
2. I am a good waitress.
3. I am in love.
4. I have amazing friends!
5. I am aligning my priorities.
6. Everything is changing all the time, especially my luck.

*

Elaboration:

I am in love. I am very happy. I have a priority, a person. Johnny.

We spend a lot of time together, and have become companions. I am being a really shitty friend to my DC accomplices, and am sad about that, but my besotted state will only persist for the next two weeks.

When I was a kid, I marked off my height against the kitchen door in pen, with the date next to the escalating number. To encourage me, my parents showed me their numbers of getting taller and taller (which they fabricated). And I got confused. I correlated height with age – I thought I would just get taller, and taller, until I died.

One day, I would grow so large that I would no longer be able to fit through the doorframe. I would lay helpless and enormous in the living room, slowly starving to death. My giant form would dwindle to enormous bones. Alice doesn’t make it to wonderland.

I see the shelf life on this relationship, the expiration date when my affections swell, spilling out of my organs and in my marrow. It will seep into my blood, like some gorgeous sepsis. My heartbeat will skip and falter. The writing is on the door.

In two weeks, the relationship will be (mostly) over.

And dammit, I love this boy. I’ve passed from a mega-gross squee-fest to a more sedate, stable, but constant pulse of affection and care. I say we reflexively. The idea of being separate for the last two weeks of summer was unimaginable. Every time I see him, other things fade to monotone and sepia. His skin is satin, his ideals are vivid. I want him, constantly and intensely. It’s hard to get out of bed, to leave the warmth of our bodies. It’s hard to stop holding him in the morning. It’s amazing to wake up and realize I can hold onto this crazy dreamboy, and not have him slip away into dream-dust-in-the-eyes and bleary disappointment. Wonderland.

I will be different in two weeks. I will drink too much, sleep too little. More career-focused, more individualistic, a better friend. I will cry. My enormous form will dwindle.

The background will grow fruitful again, and I’ll be able to pick out the beauty of the fall as the incredible warmth of summer recedes. And I’ll visit Ohio to find that warmth again. I'll get the warm-and-fuzzies for Oberlin all over again.

But for now? I’m in love, dammit. I’m going to enjoy it. It’s a priority.

The Newest Transplant to Washington, DC

2010-07-04T11:07:00.000-07:00

I just moved to Washington, DC.

Though each item has a bit more detail, the basic TO DO list is this:

1. Get a job.
2. Get a place to live / sublet / rent.
3. Take chances.

If you would like to assist me in any way with these tasks, that'd be very much appreciated.

I fit the contents of my life in a suitcase, 2 shoulder bags, and a backpack. There are 4 small boxes in UPS storage, and 3 small items in Brandi Ferrebee's storage area. That's all I own. That feels good. There will be less and less of it, as time goes on.

The things that matter most are my laptop, cell phone, mp3 player, and a children's book called "Love is A Special Way of Feeling."

After hours of packing, with the great patience of Brandi, we left Oberlin at 10:30pm to arrive in Brandi's home just-outside-of-Winchester, VA at 4:30am. It's fascinating, to see a home, as opposed to a house. Brandi's family built the whole thing, and when they get old, they'll convert the downstairs office to a bedroom. There's something beautiful in that commitment.

Right now, I'm not so clear on life commitment. I'm excited to be free, to be living and working, and taking chances and having adventures.

I don't know where I'll be after the summer. If I get a year-long job, that will dictate this year, but if I don't, I'll be wild and mobile. There's a whole world, and I want to learn about it. I'll visit Oberlin -- it's where my friends are. I'll try to visit the rest of you, wherever you are, if you'll have me. If you'd like to reach me, the best bet is my email: aries.indenbaum@gmail.com.

And when I have a place, I love guests. I want to be a good host.

I was happy to see Lilly, Matt, Sandhya and Anna, and also what they represent: being able to be connected with my friends. The act of running into people at a subway stop. In the car with Ma'ayan and Brandi, I realized how much I trusted them. How I filtered nothing, and didn't think about our relationship as a game, or something where I had an objective, but natural. Comfortable.

This year at Oberlin has been good for me in many ways. Though it's not as learning-centric as student life was, it taught me good lesson. I learned values, not vocabulary. Mostly from my friends. I don't have a strong sense of external value-passing: I'm not affiliated with any church, I have a small family, and no strong roots to a given place. I've learned a lot from my parents' values, but I love learning from my friends: their generosity, their bravery, their loyalty, their honesty, their ambition.

I'll have done it right if my tombstone says, "She was a good friend."

Shaved

2010-06-13T06:29:00.000-07:00

Almost a year ago, I shaved my head.

Over spring break, I lived in an abandoned elementary school, working for an anarchist group that was gutting homes in New Orleans. On the top level of the school, Katrina refugees had written messages to God on the chalkboard as the waters rose. They were airlifted out, but the chalkboard still read, “We trust in You, let us live, Jesus.” and in a child’s scrawl in pink chalk, “I love you, Lord.”

We slept in the downstairs classrooms, on green cots, lined with plastic to prevent us from catching lice. Around the school, we all wore bandanas and caps, hiding our natural hair, just in case. We looked like converts to a new religion, with our similar headscarves, our muddy, reeking clothes, and our tired bodies. We only took off our bandanas at night, when we went to the French Quarter and pretended to be a normal spring break.

But bandanas notwithstanding, I got lice on my last full day. Before dinner, the nurse filed through my hair, her gloved fingers tugging and pulling. She looked apologetic when she handed me a bottle of chemical shampoo, pointing me towards a private shower in the gym. I stood in the gym shower for over an hour, washing, combing, and picking through my hair, pulling tufts of hair onto the wet tile floor. I felt infirm. My scalp was cold. There was so much hair on the ground.

On the 17 hour ride home, wearing two hats and feeling like a leper, I debated shaving it all off. At home, that would be unthinkable. No woman shaved her head. Girls in my high school straightened, toasted, toasted and drowned their hair into a lovely chemical shine. Hair took time. Extreme, artificial care was the definition of beauty.

I want people to like and trust me, and I was afraid that shaving off my hair would make people mistrust and think less of me. Strangers would think that I was a skinhead. My boyfriend would dump me. No one would dance with me until I looked like a woman again.

Then, when I came back to college, I realized how much college wasn’t home. No one would make fun of me here. My boyfriend had long hair, and given our close contact, it would be hard not to contaminate him or something he owned. Shorthaired women weren’t rejected: here, they played rugby.

Despite my use of the nit-killing shampoo, I still felt the lice burrowing into my scalp when I showered. Worse, my hair felt dead. Battered and abused, it hung limply past my ears, thinned on top. It was a strange mop of fiber, not another limb of my body, the way it used to feel. For most of my life, I had long hair, falling down past my butt, a dark brown color. It was one of my very few sources of pride, as I’ve never been a very pretty girl. My hair stood out, it was old-fashioned and ungainly, but somehow lovable. I could be a damsel.

The night before spring break officially ended, I decided to shave it all. After setting down a plastic bag tarp, I started chopping with construction scissors as my boyfriend took photos. After I only had odd tufts of hair poking up, my boyfriend shaved the rest. It felt amazing. I felt as though each inch of scalp was laden with millions of nerves that the razor was delicately tickling. And it stayed like that.

When the hair grew back, it was silky soft, impossible not to stroke. The hair grew fast, thick, and darker than before. Each morning, I looked like a different person. I felt more open, I felt more alive. The windows were opened and the ceiling was peeled away. I was myself, in ways I can never describe.

(March, 2007)

My first Bohemian

2010-02-03T06:56:00.000-08:00

On Saturday, I went to the Bohemian in Cleveland, to get mah swing dance on with Ms. Brandi, Mr. Burrows and Mr. Spenser. Had a fantastic time -- I'd no idea what to expect. I pictured a nightclub in the sleazy part of Cleveland with large cocktails in frosted cups. In reality: Bohemian National Hall was a ballroom of Sokol's Czech Cultural Center in "Little Bohemia." Apparently, "the not-so-great side of Cleveland" has a lot of Czech culture.

It was a sweet venue. The downstairs was filled with Czech goods and the ballroom itself was enormous. The Demetrius Steinmetz Band was good, their featured vocalist, Eileen Burns, was great. They played the classics, and though their slow songs lacked the sauce, they did a solid "T'ain't What'cha Do" and a great cover of Nature Boy. Apparently, Nature Boy is a pop-jazz standard, not just a David Bowie song on the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. Regardless, the song made me feel 14 again, belting out my feelings in my living room. Singing along is something new. I like it.

Pro:
- The posse! Brandi, Stephen and Danny are all brilliant humans. We had 4 singalongs on the way back. It was fantastic. I don’t know Danny as well, and getting to dance with him a lot was swell. Having Brandi more prevalent in my life has made Winter Term better. And Stephen has been an excellent work-to-life companion.

- Wooster kids! They were super-cute. A lot of them did basic steps that were syncopated differently, or just moved differently. Lots of big arm motions. Very interesting style.

Cons:
Surprisingly-Touchy Guy. Tall dude in his 40's. Kinda stiff, and strange to dance to. Didn't make much eye contact. We danced twice, which was a poor move on my part. I'm a fan of closeness-- slipping into bluesy-forms is awesome. But I don't want your hand on my butt on a swing floor. Cupping my ass is not where your hand should be. Also, trying to kiss me twice in one song is not good. Yes, swing does bring out the preposterous love-monkey in me, but only in my age-demographic. If you're able to run for president, than I'm far less interested.

Fascinating late-night:
Especially after swing dancing for hours and feeling my endorphins percolate my body, I kinda want to cuddle. And keep dancing. Blues enables this.

Much like swing, I feel nervous with it, as I’m still not technically proficient, but I love it. Technical blues dancers are lovely, but frustrating: at the end of the night, I’m tired. Absurd moves not ingrained in my muscle memory are difficult. Following is hard when your leg has been twitching for the last hour. Given the close nature of it, I feel more wretched when I botch blues than swing.

But non-technical blues? Sexy-blues? When we’re one writhing mass on the floor? That, my friends, is IT. Feeling a stranger move my hips with theirs is the most sensual way to say hello.

The late-night started as tech-blues. It ended with sexy-blues. There were these four awesome leads with great chill attitudes, wry wit, and about 10 tons of eroticism. They were openly emotionally affectionate. They were comfortable with their bodies. It felt like being with circus people. Or like family.

Where do I go?

2010-01-31T10:17:00.000-08:00

In a few months, I'll be moving. I need a job. But where? And what? I begin to ponder. All comments beloved.

I Dream About:
NOrleans
Seattle
Austin
Portland
SF
Big Cities in Europe

That Could Be Cool:
DC
Boston
Philly
Pittsburgh
Ann Arbor
Northampton
Cities in the SW
Cities in CA
College towns
NYC
MOST CITIES OUTSIDE THE STATES.

I like warm cities that are weirdo friendly. Points for a music community, low-cost of living, less terrible unemployment, and hella dancers. Small cities are cool too. Got a clue?

That Alumni Interview

2010-01-23T09:29:00.000-08:00

For some reason, I've never described my own Oberlin interview. This strikes me as peculiar, as I wrote this snazzy entry on things to do when you interview. But never about mine.

The Interns Prepare: Natalie and I, clinking coffee mugs and water bottles before a day of interviews.

On my college tour, I had a slew of unpleasant interviews. One alum wrote down what I said word for word, in a way creepily similar to Rita Skeeter. One student interviewer told me not to apply to her school; another only asked bizarre questions. One interviewer, an admissions officer, pulled up my file and started going through my academics, quizzing me about grades and classes.

But my worst was the weekend before my Oberlin interview. I'd had a terrible interview for Illustrious College*. My interviewer, a criminal lawyer, was deeply unpleasant. For an hour, he talked about the difficulties of his life, then quizzed me on the Iraq War.

He mispronounced my last name in three different ways: Indebam / Inderberg / Aydeenboom. In. Den. Baum. In, like Inn. Den, rhymes with hen. Baum, meaning tree, as in "O Tannenbaum" or L. Frank Baum.

It annoyed me a bit.

Worse, his office was boiling. Even before he started talking about Iraq, the sweat oozed off my forehead. Somehow, he was still wearing a blazer. I'd long-since slipped mine off, and was debating taking off my overshirt, but I didn't want to look tacky. Was the time for clothing removal over? Would he assume that I was making some cheap pass at him?

While we discussed elections, bombings and his quest for admission to Illustrious College's Well-Renown Law School, I wondered if I should subtly start talking about my interests. Should I mention to a lawyer that I did Mock Trial? Should I somehow tie this topic to academics and my great AP Government class? Should I ask pointed, hopeful questions about Illustrious College? Was I going to drown in my own sweat?

He asked me, "But what do you think about the relevance of the electoral process in third-world nations? I don't think it's possible. It's just not a part of their culture."

In the car ride home, I sunk into the seat.
Aries: That was awful.
Mom: Did you say something stupid?
Aries: No, it just... I don't really want to go to Illustrious College now.
Mom: You can't judge a whole school on one person. They can't all be jerks.
Aries: But he was supposed to be a representative! And he was a self-centered [several very obscene expletives deleted] jerk!
Mom: He's also been out of school for a while. It's probably not the college, it's him.

Two days later, I was scheduled to interview for Oberlin. Given the last experience, I was worried. The interview was at the Friends Seminary, a Quaker school in NYC.

The Friends Seminary! 222 East 16th Street, for all you New York types.

The day was bitterly cold. On the way over, my mother and I stopped at two different pharmacies to warm up. To give context: my mother is from Norway *. They invited Vikings, Svalbard, and endless winter. Even my mother, with her Viking-blood, thought the New York City wind was a bit nippy.

Svalbard, one of the only places Norway colonized. Note the closeness to the North Pole.

Once I entered the Friend's Seminary, every muscle relaxed. The space was warm and cozy, with canary yellow walls dotted with childrens art. Big signs that said OBERLIN! lead the way to a lounge, filled with anxious students, parents, and a few admissions folks.

Even after a few minutes to thaw, I still couldn't feel my feet. Gingerly, I asked one of the admissions folks, "How cold is it in Ohio?"

"Well," she said, "It's not worse than this."

"Oh," I sighed. 'Svalbard,' my toes whispered.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked.

"Yes." I replied. Cream. Splenda. Stir.

When the official alum talked to someone else, I scoped out the waiting room. As I'd dressed for the cold, I hadn't really thought to dress shmancy. I was wearing a nice tee-shirt, but also my normal goth pants. And green military boots. Happily, most of the other applicants didn't look too fancy: nice and casual, without being very preppy.

Generally, the college waiting rooms unnerved me. Like an actor at a casting call, I would look around, wondering how good my competition was, continuously aware that said competition might become castmates. Must be friendly, but not too friendly.

But this time, I felt more relaxed. The boy next to me was reading Zadie Smith. The girl across from me was studying for AP Chem-- I recognized the textbook.

"What unit are you on?" I asked.

She grinned ruefully, "Everything, technically. We're doing a practice AP on Tuesday."

"Shit," the boy said, looking up from his book. "That's awful."

We all started talking and didn't stop until we each got called for our respective interviews.

My interviewer was Peter, an alum who worked in the restaurant business. He smiled easily.

For the first time, after about 12 interviews, this was actually a conversation. For the first twenty minutes, we talked about cooking. And dining. And music. And why people do foolish thing. He was a fascinating guy -- completely self-effacing, funny and snarky. Strangely enough, he actually seemed to think that I was interesting too.

We joked about building a time machine... to create time. Just more and more of it. In little sugar packets you could drop into tea or coffee, so your day would stretch out more and more, until all the time-sugar was gone. Also, a music-language scrambler, so that all pop music would sound like Cirque du Soleil soundtracks.

Though I still minded my p's and q's, I didn't feel like he was judging me. He didn't take notes. He didn't ask for my GPA. We were just chatting. Even though we sat in tiny plastic desk-chairs, made for 7 year olds, I felt incredibly at ease. When Peter described Oberlin, it sounded like a painter talking about his favorite work. While it wasn't the most precise photo, the spirit was there exactly.

He even pronounced my last name correctly.

"Was that everything you wanted it to be?" he said, mostly seriously.

"Yeah," I said. "I didn't realize I had a say."

When I got back to the waiting room, I high-fived my mom, who was talking to Chemistry Girl's father. When we left, it felt a lot warmer out.

Notes:

* As mushy as this is, my parents were huge forces in my college search. If my Mom loathed a school, I probably didn't want to go. If my Dad was hopeful, then I was hopeful. As Mom's an immigrant, the whole process was literally foreign to her. Dad never finished college, so picking a good school seemed even more important. We all learned about the crazy process together.

Also, I'm an only child. If I didn't succeed, who would?

* Illustrious College is a liberal arts college located in Genosha. Its graduates win Watson, Fullbright and Rhodes Scholarships, they have an excellent Politics department and a history of winning armed conflicts. Sadly, I was waitlisted at Genosha.

Dancing in NYC

2010-01-10T13:04:00.000-08:00

From Christmas until New Years, I went out nearly every night dancing. These are my notes.

Brazen Fox
A classy sports bar in White Plains. Good for fans of football, Jersey Shore or Armani Exchange. Also, having long talks about friendship and relationships with one's best friend (and an awesome friend of hers).

Calico Jack's Cantina
Club-bar. Patrons take myspace-pictures of themselves, sipping enormous neon-colored cocktails through giant staws. Pop music. Girls in tight jeans, boys coated in hair gel. I was glad I brought earplugs. Not too classy, but not too sketchy. Not really my place, but I liked the company.

The Players Club for New Years Eve's Eve
The Player’s Club was ridiculous: a historic building on Gramercy Park. Old world classy, portraits on the walls. One large dance hall with sticky floors, always filled with dancers. Intimidating. Matching their surroundings, the crowd was very glamorous. The men wore suspenders, and sharp hats.

But the ladies were a class above. Tiny flowers woven into their hair, their dresses showed just enough flesh to entice. Their make-up was flawless: eyelashes extravagant, brows shaped, lips lined and glossed. In their fancy shoes, they all hung within the acceptable rage of 5’4” to 5’9.” And worst of all, they exuded class, grace, and femininity.

While I have good points, refinement is not one of them.

I wore my black tennis dress from the previous night. My bangs were poking upwards. In my yellow converse sneakers, I stood over six feet. I only applied a bit of make-up. Even before dancing a step, I felt a bit warm, the sweat collecting.

I saw Shawn. As gorgeous as ever, if not more so. Suddenly, I realized how much I missed her. We hugged and spoke. She introduced me to her friends, whom I enjoyed and danced with. One of them was a total tease, the kinda guy I become bros with.

After dancing with me, he said, “God, I’m sweatier than a Ukrainian!”
“So true!” I said, “I’m Ukrainian!”
“Ah, I’m so sorry,” he panicked. “I’ve never actually met one before.”
“It’s cool— we really are that sweaty.”

The dance floor was packed, bodies flying everywhere to George Gee's tunes. Though there were more of the younger set, the older folks were the large majority. I danced with some good folks and saw some terrible burlesque.

Well, not terrible. But I’m spoiled. A tap dancing girl in a skimpy outfit is charming, but Catherine had more skill and fantastic showmanship. This girl just didn’t sell it. I miss you, Catherine. And not just when you’re Shirley Temple and I’m the zombie after your heart.

The other one sold it, but I didn’t want what she had to buy. She was on the older side, doing feather fans, with a rather unfortunate outfit.

I was very, very happy when George Gee started playing again.

Connolly's
Stupidly, I didn’t write down the cross-streets, just the address, leaving me wandering around midtown on one of the coldest days of the year. Fortunately, with the assistance of two boys working at a bodega and three of their customers, I found my way. When I finally saw the venue, it was obvious. Connolly's was huge, with a bar on the main floor and the dance floor on the third floor. It was strategically placed near a number of Broadway theaters, so if one needed some liquid encouragement before, after or during a show, it was close.

The dance floor at Connolly’s was big, but packed. While it wasn’t as stuffed with bodies as Banjo Jim’s, dancers absorbed every space. I’ve never really danced in crowded quarters before, so I started to be more aware of where my body was in space. The band was fantastic, dressed in colorful vintage wears. There were three leads around my age; everyone else was much older. One of them was pretty good: when I closed my eyes during a swing out, I could pretend it was John. Almost.

Amanda and I share a deep love for older gents, mostly due to contra. Though younger dudes treat me with polite disinterest, but older gents think I’m the queen of France. Complimentary as this is, I do miss the speed of younger dudes. Older folks jacked style from other types of dance: tango spins, salsa holds, ballroom attitude. Only the younger ones felt like swing dancers, really feeling the music for what it was.

Swing 46
Not really what I expected, both in showing and style. Boilermaker Jazz Band is one of the few swing bands I’ve hear of, so I was expected a big showing of younger folks. Not so much. Like Sophia’s, there were lots of tables, making it hard to see who was really there to dance, and who was to listen. Over the past few months, I’ve gotten over any fears of rejection. While I struck out a few times, I managed to keep dancing for most of it.

Only one sketchball. Vastly outweighed by dancing with the Boilermaker’s drummer during set breaks.

And again, I saw Shawn, which made everything lovely. Seeing her was the highlight of the night.

Club 412
Club 412 convinced me to go dancing from now until forever. There were three dance studios, two live bands, lots of great dancers. Many were older and liked dancing with younger ladies. Slidey floors.

An equal number of follows and leads, and as most ladies were not aggressive, and dudes were shy, I could dance with whomever I wanted. Everyone there was very friendly.

An ancient, tiny Venezuelan guy, Andres, looked at me, and said, “Do you salsa?” I gave my head a wiggle. Kinda. He replied, “Well, then I’ll teach you.” We went to one of the other studios, and he lead me around.

Later on, Carlos, a younger guy, taught me how to cha-cha. Though the basic was different than the cha-cha Nora taught me, it wasn’t too difficult, until he started adding turns. “Thanks for being so nice!” I said, catching my breath when the dance was over. “Well, I like dancing with you,” he said, “and I wanted to cha-cha. Figured this was the easiest way.”

I left coated with sweat, my hair spiked and slick, as if I’d just gotten out of the shower.

Cache at Sofia's
I heard that Vince Giordano, who made the soundtrack for Ghost World, was playing here. The venue was huge, but the term “club” seemed false. The space was covered in tables. The crowd was old, mostly seated. The music, while good, was very… period. Not very funky. I didn't want to pay the cover and left.

Banjo Jim's

Check it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jD9nD8ltRNs&feature=related

This was the band I saw last night, Cangelosi Cards, at Banjo Jim's. The video does not do it justice -- their singer is sick, they all play three instruments. They did everything from old-school jazz, to gospel, and blues. Lucy's recommendation was very successful. Tara and Lucy met me there. There's something wonderful about friends who you can clown with.

It was crazy crowded in there. Though it was only 20º outside, it felt a 120º in there. I felt a wee tad claustrophobic and started talking to the dude next to me (Richard), who was really charming.

Aries: Is it generally this packed?
Richard: It varies. Last week? Empty. Week before that? Full.
Aries: Aw, man, there's no space to dance.
Richard: Wait, you dance?
Aries: Yeah! Do you?
Richard: Yeah! Lindy hop.
Aries: Sweet! That's so great!
Richard: How long have you been dancing for?
Aries: About three months. And you?
Richard: Um. Nine years. ...Don't worry, I'll go easy on you.
Aries: But how do we dance in here?
Richard: Here's the codeword: floorcraft. Unless you know bal.

And then, we danced.

New Year's Eve: The Epic Adventures

2010-01-04T00:10:00.000-08:00

My new year started with fire.

Sadly, my New Year’s Eve had no such luck. I started the eve in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn. In a warehouse.

For every previous New Year’s Eve, I chilled with my high school friends, whom I rarely see. While said parties are nice, that wasn't what I wanted this year. It’s the end of a decade, the decade of high school and college, when I (mostly) grew up. I wanted to go to a real, raging party. Fortunately, I heard of at least 60 options. Cross-listing by coolness and price range, my friends Desiree and Cal chose New Lost City.

The description of New Lost City reminded me of a Mucca Pazza party-- the venue featured three brass bands. Also gypsy funk, techno, "hobotech," crazy jazz, and circus. 9PM until 7AM.

I got incredibly excited, of course. Brass bands _and_ techno? Perfect.

When I got off the L train, my path intersected with a pack of circus folks, carrying hoops, poi, and staves. I grinned, thinking they’d be super-friendly, and tried to chat them up. They replied in monosyllables and monotones.

But no worries, I thought.

In my head, I imagined New Lost City as a giant open space with a large stage where the brass bands would be kicking ass. The crowd would be fun, tipsy and dancing. Not so.

After paying, I walked around the space, which was a set of warehouse units, separated by a block covered in slush. There were about six performances spaces most of which were on separate floors, connected only by the fire escape stairs. The first time I climbed the stairs, I felt elation, seeing over all the rooftops into the hazy distance. As the stairs became more crowded, the allure faded.

None of the bands were playing.

Some spaces had DJ’s rocking out, but the crowd seemed aversive to movement. They stood around, drinking, talking and texting. What were they waiting for?

In the second space, a block over, I checked my coat. Might as well get comfortable, I figured.

The coat check dude and I spoke for a few minutes, mostly about how much it sucks to work tonight, dealing with drunk impatient folks who don’t understand organization. He was sincere, charming and already a little bit tired, his eyebrows semi-permanently raised. I tipped heavily.

The band space was completely empty. The lobby of the second room had a wheel of fortune, with a barker wearing tight pleather pants, body glitter and goggles. I crowd-watched for a minute. It was an odd mix of normies, hipsters and the burner crowd.

I saw someone who looked like Basil, his face angular and confident. I felt an overwhelming urge to walk up to him, or one of the other dudes with facial piercings and hug them, screaming, “Ignore the pearls and the black dress! I’m one of you!”

There were circus people, but it seemed in poor form to ask one of them if I could spin their props to vent. And while they may have been circus people, they weren’t one of my beloved carnies.

I looked at the clock. 10:40. Cal and Des were arriving at 11:30. The worst kind of loneliness is when you're in public, totally surrounded by people, but still completely alone.

My mood tanked.

I called Yoshi, and spilled my thoughts. Yoshi, as ever, was deeply supportive and caring, despite my crazy insecurities. Alright. I would make the best of it.

On the line to get back in, a drunken couple stopped making out and started fighting, seemingly instantly. When I took a step back, the person in back of me pushed me back. I sighed and called John. No response. I left a cheerful message.

The rooms were filling fast, guests holding (and spilling) cans of PBR and Stella. A twee boy spilled his drink on my back as we crammed into the dance room. He glared at me, his pinched cheeks covered in glitter.

The DJ was good, I realized, though so loud that I plugged in my earplugs with more furious precision than ever. I started to groove. It was slightly salsa-flavored, and the light were all bright red, deepening the white walls. For a few minutes, the space seemed warmer.

The boy next to me moved frenetically, and we made eye contact after we kept accidentally kicking each other. He had blue eyes. At some points, we’d purposely kick each other’s feet, ska-style. Then, his girlfriend came back from the bar, passing him a can of Miller. Beer in hand, they started to grind.

The boys next to me were fairly drunk, screaming the words to the song buried beneath the techno. The dark-haired one moved against my back, which was somehow comforting until he grabbed my hips and pulled me closer. When I tried to spin around, he kept me firmly in place. He reeked of cigarettes, his fingers were fat, and he didn’t grind with the beat. At the end of the song, I pushed away from him, gesturing to the door, yelling, “It’s really hot! I need water! Bye!”

He followed me into the hallway, where I explained, “I have to go!” and “I think it’s too warm in here.” He didn’t really seem to get anything except the phrase, “Look, I have a boyfriend.” Then, he left in a hurry.

The hallway was jammed. “Maybe the bands are playing now,” I hoped, the last bits of optimism clamoring for attention. On the fire escape, I heard one of the party organizers say to a bouncer handling the congestion, “We need you by the elevator, immediately. I’ll take care of this area.” “Sure,” the bouncer said. Despite my best interests, I was curious, and took a minute to duck back in.

“Get him under control!” a man screamed. The crowd drew back and a muscular dude, flanked by two bouncers reached out, pushing and punching and kicking. About five feet from me, he dropped to the floor, spasming, and the bouncers picked him up, carrying him away.

I decided to get the hell out of there.

Jon Good. Standing, miraculously, on the second floor landing. I screamed and hugged him. You know that profound, exuberant relief you feel when you see your significant other after weeks apart? That sense of, “God, everything is okay now. A person I trust is here.” I nearly cried.

He had a posse with him: cool Obies who I like, but don’t know as well. I convinced him to bail with me to go to the other space, where I had my bag and coat. We crammed out and walking in the slush, I felt triumphant. A long, thick line wove around side of the warehouse and down the block. And waiting in front of the door, off the line, were Cal and Desiree. They looked fantastic: Cal like a steampunk David Bowie God of Rock, Desiree like an Old English Master of Grooviness. I hugged with furious thankfulness.

Cal and Des are my heroes.

At Oberlin, they produced “Over Her Dead Body,” an “independent, black and white, student-produced, -filmed, -edited, -acted, and -scored lesbian zombie-vampire silent horror film.”

As grads, they’re superheroes. By night, Des works for The Nature Conservancy; by night, she has crazy adventures, with costumes, dancing and shenanigans all across Gotham. Cal is probably the most badassed person to ever live. Since graduating, she’s worked across the rural Northeast, raising awareness for the environmental effects of coal mining, and played professional women’s football.

After joyous greetings, we said:
“I don’t want to stay.”
“This line is ridiculous.”
“It looks impossibly packed in there.”
“Great,” I said, “I’ll go get my coat and bag!”

I did not expect the coat check line from Hell. While earlier, we had cued up in a neat line. Now, a crowd bulged around the tiny doorway. As Kevin said, it was more packed than a clown car up Hitler’s ass. I thought about the coat check dude, who had looked nervous hours ago. It was 11:45.

Though I hate line-cutting, I squished in at the front, behind a super-tall impatient man, who was exerting 6’4’ of importance on the crowd. I was jammed beside a couple bitching about how spending this moment in line was an audacity. Since high school, I’d never had my person around for New Year’s. I wondered if having them around would’ve redeemed this shindig.

‘Please don’t leave!’ I texted to Cal.

At 11:55, I got to the head of the line. The coat check dudes were going a mile-a-minute. The younger one, with the scared eyes, nodded his head when he saw me. “Miss,” he said to the girl next to me, “You’ll have to move back, there’s no space.” She shrieked, “They’re pushing! I can’t go anywhere!” The other one saw my number, and got me my clothes.

“This is crazy,” he said to me; I nodded furiously and said, “I have no idea how to get out of here.” He gestured me to follow him. We walked through the back of the coat check, past rows of scarves and heavy parkas. Each garment was packed tight, like a laundromat. I thanked him repeatedly.

In the back room, I saw the circus folks practicing, some soaking their props. If I hadn’t been so rushed, I’d have sneaked to see what system they were using. Can take the girl outta the circus, but can’t take the circus outta the girl.

As I left, I heard one of the circus folks yell, “Get the fuck out of the way! This shit is going to be on fire!”

And there was Cal, Des and Jon, waiting where they said they would, at the end of the sidewalk. “I didn’t think you’d stay,” I blathered. “I mean, it’s nearly…”

“Oh hey,” Cal said. “11:59…. and… Happy New Year!”

And it was. We sang Auld Lang Syne (Jon harmonized) and as I was breathing, feeling calmer. There was still a huge line behind us, snaked around the warehouse. In the open air, the party-goers seemed less threatening and obnoxious. Just silly for waiting.

Yelling behind us, and a rush of bodies running to the street, bearing poi and staves and torches. One of them poured a line of clear liquid across the street, dropped a match and ignited a trail of fire. The group lit up and started to spin, right in front of us.

Fire. The best way to start the year.

I cried. The happy tears. Everything was okay. The fire spinners weren’t very good, but they were honest, and they reminded me of home. Of friends and lovers, of performing and perfection. Of Yoshi, Liz, Izzie, Ma’ayan, Amanda, Basil and Jim. Of warm spring nights and crowd control. When I wiped the tears away, there were more.

The night blurred together in a happy montage: leaving with Cal and Des, dancing in a smoke-filled, gay-friendly goth club. Military Fashion Show. Mad World. My phone dying. Cal’s grin, Des’s sleepy smile. Creepy giant latex-covered man-devil approaching me. Me, having learned my lesson from the previous giant latex cat-boy, rebuffing him. All-night diner. The folks next to us asleep in their booth. Peach crepes. Company. Happiness.

The 5:30AM train. Sleep. A new year. It took a long time to come.

Squee Mix

2010-01-03T10:00:00.000-08:00

Squee Mix
(for Amanda)

Note: Squee is the noise you make when your arteries clog with joy.

01 All I Want Is You [cover] - Vespers
02 Friday I'm in Love – The Cure
03 The Party's Crashing Me - Of Montreal
04 How Do You Sleep – Jesse McCartney
05 All For Swinging Around You – New Pornographers
06 Who Could You Get (To Love You) - The Dependables
07 Might Tell You Tonight – Scissor Sisters
08 Jolene - White Stripes
09 My Wicked Way – Ben Taylor
10 I Put A Spell On You – She + Him
11 Why Don't You Do Right - Amy Irving
12 I Fall in Love Too Easily - Chet Baker
13 West Coast - Coconut Records
14 Haven't Met You Yet - Michael Buble
15 From Here To Eternity – Brian Setzer
16 Sukie In The Graveyard – B+S
17 I Belong To You (+Mon Coeur S'ouvre A Toi) - Muse

Ask, and I'll make you a copy!

Clothes may make the man. (All a girl needs is a tan?)

2009-12-06T09:13:00.000-08:00

Oberlin is a great place. Great restaurants, free music shows, amazing theater, hilarious people. But there are a few things you can't get in town. Principally: clothes.

As Oberlin's my home, and I don't have a car, I haven't gone shopping in a long time.

But yesterday, I went shopping. For serious lady clothes.

Thoughts on Gender:

You know that point in high school, where you figure out your gender role and how much you want to do with it (if anything)? It might involve fixing your hair more often, or buying different clothes? It might mean figuring out how to brand yourself to attract the right kind of significant other. You work out how to flirt best, how to hold yourself, how to dress and act. I never had that.

I didn't really hit puberty until my sophomore year of college. And I've been catching up as best I can. While most people seem to adjust to their gender easily, I think about it.

I'm an aggressive person: blunt, forward and competitive. I like violence, video games, sex and food. I'm physically larger than most of my male friends. I've never had a manicure or a pedicure; I don't own any foundation or blush; I'm not very graceful.

But presenting femme is awesome. It's such a great game. Every morning, when I put on my clothes, I feel such amusement and amazement at the alien-ness of female attire. I shave my pits, groom, exercise, and do everything possible to mitigate the masculinity of my eastern European side. I am a gender ninja.

But while I'm got some mannerisms down, I'm still a bit sketchy on one avenue: clothes. I've figured out how to dress like a girl (cute shirts + jeans! Silly, flouncy dresses and skirts!). But dressing like a woman? A woman with a job but without a family or the presumptions of age?

Common Wisdom on women's workplace garb is weird. Professionalism screams for a de-sexed look, clothes that indicate adulthood, power and prestige. However, *not* acknowledging your gender, is pretty suspect. You want the dress that makes your figure look good, but not bodacious. Class, not ass.

It's hard for me to find that middle ground. Muffling my recent sexuality is as unnatural to me know as dresses were when I was 14. I've worked hard for my positive body image. I want to keep it.

This is where Brandi and Ali come in.

Brandi and Ali are classy, stylish ladies. Ali can look overwhelmingly great in anything, no matter how odd, and Brandi's just... classy. If class were a person, it'd be Brandi. If style were a person, it'd be Ali. After 4 hours of dancing, Brandi will still look impeccable. They understand being ladies. They get it.

We went to Crocker Park, specifically H+M. And I got schooled.

Ali: "What are we getting?"
Brandi: "Shirts and skirts that you can throw on the floor, stomp on and still look good."
Aries: "... Good thinking."

At H+M, they just found amazing things. It was like an episode of What Not To Wear except without the cruelty of a TV audience. They were clear in what worked, what didn't, what needed a different size and what was just... wrong. Given my weird, hip-heavy body, it was awesome to have professional help.

"Spin... Ass is great. But where's your hips?"
"Yeah. That's a no."
"YES. Yes. My god. Yes."
"That would need tailoring."
"No tailoring could fix that. Oooh. See how the pockets poke out, making your hips look ginormous? That's a problem."
"Buy it."

And it was fun. Ali and Brandi are both hilarious, sassy humans and it was fantastic to spend more time with them. I rarely just chill with folks for several hours at a time, which I need to change. As soon as possible.

The Big Tour

2009-09-20T16:01:00.000-07:00

Life? Life is good.

I gave a tour to the direct descendant of John F. Oberlin, for whom the college was named. I was nervous, of course. The only details about the Perrus: French, from Paris and middle-age. Possibly, they had never been to the US before.

In high school, my French teacher was a Parisian. Though an excellent teacher, she terrified me. A strict person, both in diction and behavior, she did not approve of my chronic lateness, imperfect accent or adoration of comic books (I wrote an essay on the Sandman).

In my head, I pictured giving a tour to a pair of irritated blonds, infuriated by my foolish blathering and my inability to discuss Oberlin achievements in conversational French. They would probably bolt from the tour, forcing Ben to fire me for insubordination to historic guests. From there, I would move to the Canada, shamed beyond measure, and wandering across the tundra until I was eaten by rabid bears.

I met the couple in archives, where I confessed I knew nothing about the Oberlin memorial, where we were doing a short photo op. In two seconds, one of the archivists grabbed a book on designs and explained it. The Oberlin Archives are really cool: they have letters from the civil war, including two officers in the USCT. Oberlin is an incredibly historic place, so the archives has plenty of fascinating local information on abolition, racial justice, gender equality, as well as a ton of books completely unrelated to Oberlin. For History and Structure of the English Language, one of our assignments took us to archives, just to see what Old and Middle English scripts looked like. In my Hebrew Bible class, an archivist brought in objects over a thousand years old.

As a history nerd, I explode with glee every time a librarian puts on gloves to look over a text.

The Perrus sat at a table, looking over super-historic documents. I stared at them for a minute. They didn’t look terrifying. Then they shook my hand, smiling. I sighed with relief.

The Perrus with Marvin Krislov.

Oberlin students don’t know much about John Frederic Oberlin. Even his name is perplexing: we call him John Frederic, but he’s also Jean-Frédéric or Johann Friedrich. I’m going to call him JFO for simplicity’s sake.

Our confusion is understandable: JFO never saw Oberlin College: he died before it was founded. On tours, I don’t discuss the ethics of JFO, and how he impacted John and Philo, Oberlin College’s founders. That said, I think I should. JFO was a cool guy. He was very "Oberlin," linking social justice into his role as pastor. In his parish, he built bridges, taught agriculture,founded schools and libraries. Given how Obies work in terms of ecological design and environmental and educational progress… JFO would probably like Oberlin.

On some tours, I do tell an Oberlin founding story, involving bears and Heavenly Signs.
In my mind’s eye, this story takes place in the dead center of Tappan Square, where I told it to the Perrus.

Small tours are different from big tours – I cater towards different interests. In this case, we spent more time outdoors, as the Perrus loved the trees in Tappan, venturing guesses as to what each kind was. We snuck into Hall Auditorium where they mentioned their son was a sound engineer, seeing the paint dry on a new set. They both loved music: jazz for him, classical for her. We spent a while in the Conservatory.

Though there was a language barrier, I think I discussed the uniqueness of the college while still being mildly entertaining. The Perrus reminded me of my own parents, smiling and laughing easily, occasionally mock-bickering in French. It was such a pleasure to meet them.

Oberlin Founding Story:

“Utopia, Philo,” John said, “We are going to build it.”

Philo nodded, chewing on his tuna sandwich, brushing the crumbs onto the forest floor.

John continued, “So often they turn out peculiar, but I have faith in us.”

“I hear in Oneida, each man has seven brides, all children.” Philo said. He adjusted his glasses; speaking of child-brides warped his frames.

“Free love and communism,” John muttered, shaking his head.

Philo fished an ant off of their blanket, letting it walk across his palm for a minute. While John wrestled with big ideas, Philo tended towards more earthly issues: accounting, carpentry and gardening.

“There’s an excellent spot further south that the locals say rings with holiness.” John said.

“That might be too expensive,” Philo added. “Why not here? No one has claimed this township.”

“This area is cheap, but far too swamp-like to support enlightened children. Without a godly spot, the college will fail. We must find a place like Alsace in its beauty, able to attract students great and far.” John’s sonorous voice always comforted Philo, even when he disagreed. They had been exploring the back-country of Ohio for weeks, searching out the spot to base their college. Their boots reeked, muddy and sweaty, and though they had just found a lake the day before, Philo already smelt the stink that had nestled into his body.

“Do you think people will confuse Oberlin with Oneida?” wondered Philo. “The names are familiar.”

“I hope not,” John said as he munched on an apple. “That would be sorrowful.”

A strange noise perked their ears, a low growl spreading from the trees. In the trees, the birds flew away, the squirrels bolting for distance branches. John inched closer to Philo. Philo found his breath strained. The ants were gone now. The brush before the woods parted slowly.

A bear. It stood thirty feet high, with gigantic ivory claws. A stream of drool ran from the bear’s mouth, its maw opened, teeth jutting from each angle. Steam puffed out from the bear’s nose, lined with putrefied snot. The bear’s coat was rust-colored, matted with bits of fur and bone from smaller creatures.

John squeaked and gripped Philo’s hand.

The bear lumbered towards them, its body shaking the ground. A few feet from the picnic blanket, the bear screamed. The incredible roar echoed for miles around, terrifying children and other small animals.

Philo gripped John’s shoulder. He stood, legs wavering.

“Leave this place,” Philo commanded, waving a loaf of bread as a scepter.

The bear paused and jostled its weight around. Eyes glowing red, it eyed Philo. Steam from the bear’s nostrils singed Philo’s eyebrows. His glasses fogged, rendering the bear a darkened smudge.

“Begone!” Philo screamed, realizing how close the bear’s claws were.

With a final huff, the bear turns from the humble picnic and lumbers back into the woods. Philo stands for another moment before his knees collapsed.

John clears his throat. “I think we should build Oberlin here.”

Philo nodded.

Orientation: Best of Times!

2009-08-30T09:42:00.000-07:00

Normally, Orientation is a crazy time, though no one agrees why. Freshmen go through some pretty dramatic changes, and no matter how well Orientation is run, it's going to be stressful. That said, the stress manifests in different ways.

Over the last two years, I've found that for every emphatic opinion, there exists the equal and opposite reaction, delivered just as piercingly. Say these freshmen, Joan and Oliver, are talking about Orientation. You might get something like this:

Oliver: It's too boring.
Joan: It's too busy.

Oliver: Jeez! Is there anyone who doesn't play music?
Joan: Yay! Everyone plays music! Win, win, win!

Oliver: Where's the noise at night? I miss the city.
Joan: Why are my hallmates so loud? I can hear them playing Lady Gaga in the lounge!

Oliver: It's all talk-talk-talk; everyone is telling me what to do!
Joan: I don't know what to do! Someone tell me!

Oliver: Dude, it's freakin flat here.
Joan: It's so beautiful! The sky is so bright, the trees are so green! I'm going to go picnic in the Arb!

Oliver: Registration is so simple. Are we done now?
Joan: WTF PRESTO ATE MY CLASS. FML.

Oliver: I got everything I want! Classes should start now.
Joan: WHERE ARE MY APs? HELP PLS.

Oliver: I really miss my girlfriend. This is going to really hurt.
Joan: The cute boy in Barrows made eye contact with me! Yes!

Oliver: People are really awkward. I can't wait for things to get rolling.
Joan: Everyone is so friendly! This already feels like home.

Oliver: I left so much stuff at home. Strangely, I don't miss it. There's something great about being in a new place.
Joan: It's weird not to go to the living room and see my brother and my dog. I mean, my dormmates are cool, but they're not my family.

That said, this year feels different. Everyone is relaxed, and while there may be some absolutist Joans and Olivers... they aren't as many out there. The freshmen are mature, active and wonderful. I feel so lucky to be here.

For two years, I moved to campus early to be an Academic Ambassador: counseling, consoling and communicating with freshies on issues big and small. (As both Brandi and Ma'ayan are both Academic Ambassadors, they might have a different view of all this.)

Basics of the Academic Ambassadors:
1. Teach freshmen about academic requirements.
2. Serve as a Big Brother/Sister, giving mentoring and advice to make the transition easier.
3. We're the WD-40 of Orientation. We keep things rolling as ushers and guides.
4. Give mini-seminars on academic issues during the first semester.
5. Hang out with Dean Randal Doane, one of the smartest people in the whole world.

Photo Cred: Ma'ayan Plaut.

In terms of our official duties, the big thing we do is give a classroom presentation on academics to our twenty first-years. As we don't have a core curriculum, students have a lot of choice in how they make their schedules. That said, we do mandate some distribution requirements. While they aren't killers, it's a good thing to keep in mind when registering for classes. Not sexy information, but really, really helpful.

My favorite part was helping with registration. I imagine registration as a Scrubs-style daydream....

At one instant, you're sitting at a laptop with at least 3 tabs open, staring at Presto, the course catalogue and the course schedules. You can't figure out if classes are conflicting. Are the classes you signed up for over the summer at the same time as these two totally rock-freakin-tastic courses that would totally fit with your major? Is Presto frozen? Why is it taking so long? How many spots are left? Do I need consent?

... And suddenly, you're on the floor of the NY Stock Exchange! You're wearing newsies clothes that don't fit! Your suspender snapped - fix it! Sell the class! Buy the other class! No, no, get the one with dividends! Oh, the price is rising and your options are tanking! Your ambassador is trying to tell you to take the new class! But the stock is plummeting! You're really hungry because you forgot breakfast and the person next to you just finished cooking muffins for his co-op! He smells delicious! The first year seminar is your only stable stock; you're going for broke! Buy everything! Get a muffin! Take the class!

And then, you've signed up for 4 classes, planned which excos you're going to take, signed up for your library/computer help desk/dining hall/Student Union job and your portfolio is balanced. Phew.

Registering! Photo Cred: Ma'ayan Plaut.

The rest of being an AA is more chill, giving advice and generally helping out. As someone who totally messed up their first year, my advice was generally well-received. There's nothing like a cautionary tale to help clarify some issues.

Truth: I was not qualified to become an Academic Ambassador. I didn't get recommended by a professor. I didn't have a solid transcript to back me up. For the first time in my life, grades were not my strongest suit. And yet, though I had done most of the things you aren't supposed to do, Dean Doane to hire me.

My first semester, I assumed college was like high school, and to do well, I would just do more. In retrospect... that was a poor choice. I took a full courseload, overloaded with work, projects and extracurriculars. I failed a class my first semester and barely scraped by in the next semester. On the positive end, I made tons of friends, worked through some really painful personal problems and took some spectacular classes. I started new things that I fell in love with (radio, improv, circus, storytelling, clowning), but did it with little sleep or planning.

I love helping freshmen avoid making my mistakes.

That said, this year's freshmen don't seem in danger of that. As a class, and individually, they are some of the smartest, most relaxed, charming and friendly folks I've ever met. For the first time, I think I would feel okay if classes never started. These freshmen are just way too cool.

Yesterday, I did Day of Service at George Jones Farm, weeding veggies, moving a shed and chilling with freshmen for a full day. There's something about picking up a shed and sliding it that lets your really understand your peers. When it's hot and sunny, things are heavy and ungainly, they're on it. They're all over it. If we start throwing a peach and it explodes, they'll keep going. They understand how the game works. When our supervisor didn't come back for a while, we stood in a circle, telling stories.

When we did a circus shindig the other night, the freshmen weren't afraid to try anything. They learned fast, they wanted more. Despite moving hundreds, or thousands of miles from home, living in different rhythms with different demands, they rocked it. At the swing dance last night, the room was packed. The raw beginners were wonderful partners.

PS: Every year, around this time of the season, I listen to "This Will Be Our Year" by The Zombies (or the cover by OK Go). Sometimes it applies to relationships (blush), but mostly to school, to hope, to change. This year, it seems more fitting than ever.

The warmth of your smile
smile for me, little one
and this will be our year
took a long time to come

You don't have to worry
all your worried days are gone
this will be our year
took a long time to come.

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy!

2009-07-21T18:54:00.000-07:00

I just saw Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. Live. Free. In Youngstown.

Obviously, I danced a lot.

The Crew:
It was all because of Brandi Ferrebee. Her car contained: me, Brandi, Matt C, Rachel B, and John A.

The Band:

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy!

Big Bad played an awesome set: over an hour of tunes. I remember "Mr. Pinstripe Suit," "Minnie the Moocher", "You And Me And The Bottle Makes 3 Tonight" and "I Want to Be Like You," though there were certainly more. It was solid. Sadly, they didn't play "Maddest Kind of Love." But they nailed out a lot of fast songs with tight playing. Though after a while, I focused less on musicianship and more on the beat.

The venue was a grassy valley, a natural amphitheater. Grass and swing dance aren't great bedfellows, which I never knew before. Brandi suggested wearing sneakers, not flats, but my sneakers looked pretty smelly, so I went with my casual flats. Ugh. The ground had very little traction, and any footwork I had... went away. I danced badly, unsure of my footing.

The swing crowd was tight. Out of the general audience of 300 - 400, there were about 25 swing dancers. They knew their stuff. There was a Greg Schram doppleganger. I wanted to dance with him, but he was really good and had a girlfriend, who he danced with for the whole show. Damn you, monogamoid couple.

John and Brandi were some of the most talented dancers there. John gets totally immersed in the musicality of the song; he scat calls as he dances and is one of the most outwardly happy dancers I've met. Most swing dancers seem to take it very, very seriously. Brandi wields an incredible style: cute, sultry and exact. She prances and pouts when she dances, her hips always moving.

I was only disappointed with the audience. While the grass was full with lawn chairs and picnic blankets, no one stood up. Clapping was minimal. Cheering was slight. Singing call-backs were quiet. The audience was mostly older folks and families; folks who gave little energy back to the band save their presence. Watching amazing performers for free is an incredible privilege. Fail, people.

--
It's something I've noted elsewhere -- normal people suck at being audience members. (The woman sitting next to me at the Tempest actually recoiled from me whenever I laughed.) If a performer does something impressive, you clap. If you don't clap, Tinkerbelle dies and the show is sad. A supportive audience makes a good show great.

I know people express joy differently. I know loud people don't feel more than quiet people. I know I can't pack each show with Liz Hibbard, Ardon Shorr, Grey Castro and Chris Gentes... but I'd like to.

--

I feel guilty when I swing dance. I apologize to my partner before and afterwards. I bumble and shift. My footwork is awful; my timing is worse. It's so frustrating. I want to do it more; I want to learn more and dance more. I want to dance to fast song. I hate being a block to my partner.

But as fraught as I feel, it's still wonderful. Swing's peculiar intimacy has grown on me considerably and the sensation of a good dance is unbeatable.

I unleashed my litany of self-defeating woes on a follow, a really good one, asking for her advice. Her name was Miriam and she moved like a tricked-out ballerina.

"Well," Miriam said, "All of us were once where you are now. We all remember how much it sucks. So when you ask a guy to dance, don't apologize, just say, "I only know the basics." That always works."

Dirty Water for Elephants

2009-07-17T19:09:00.000-07:00

I read "Water for Elephants." Everyone told me to do it.

Water for Elephants was an okay book. Cleanly written. Digests easily. A good book for a plane, here you need something for 4 hours to take your brain away. It was solid, but not very interesting. In part because the characters weren’t very… spicy.

Warning: Lots of pictures. Tons.

Characters:

Jacob= Jimmie Stewart + Harry Potter. In college to become a vet, disaster brings him to the circus.

August= Christian Bale + Handlebar Mustache. Attractive, abusive, crazy.

Marlene: Jessica Alba. Pretty, rich, weak idiot.

Plot---

Jacob: I shall care for nothing.

Circus clowns: It's the circus, you ninny.

Jacob: I shall care for animals.

August: I am charming and highly competent. This boy seems like an excellent lackey. Come, lackey! I will enjoy breaking you! Would you like to wear my suit? It can be a metaphor!

Jacob: I don't... understand... I thought... but you're my boss.

Clowns: Oi, watch the show.

----A circus ensues, followed by circus, cooch, hooch and poverty----

Jacob: Gosh, that Marlene is pretty.

August: My wife is indeed attractive. _pause_ If you smile at her, I will fuck you with a hook and feed you to the clowns.

Jacob: Ah, it is time to run away now. Where were the hookers?

August: My hook is right here, boy. Whenever you want it.

--- There is mad drama because Jacob likes Marlene ---

Marlene: Jacob, don't get upset when August beats me. He can't help it.

Jacob: Angry.

August: I am bigger than you in all ways.

Jacob: You are a bad man.

August: You cannot control your manhood.

Jacob: You’re insane.

Marlene: I am going to cry!

August: I had carnal relations with your mother last night.

Jacob: My mother has been dead for months.

--- Cut scene: fight ---

Ringleader: I make poor business decisions. La la! Elephants for everyone! La la la! I love Rosie!

Poor people: I’m quite hungry.

Ringleader: But don’t you like the elephant, hobos? Don’t you identify with Rosie’s downtrodden, abused, denigrated form, wrestled from an exotic land across the sea? Doesn’t she make you feel majestic and large?

Readers: I think it might be a metaphor for the swollen American dream…

Poor people: No, not really.

Rosie, the elephant: Czesc.

Jacob: She speaks Polish, guys.

August: Listen to me, Rosie, or I will pretend you are like all women and start hitting you until you do what I want.

Rosie: Dude, that was not Polish.

August: This has angered me. It’s punishment time.

Rosie: I am going to cry enormous elephant tears. Skurwysyn.

Readers: This is so poignant!

---Marlene and Jacob make out and feel guilty.---

Marlene: Running away with an older man and joining the circus was an unexpectedly bad idea!

Jacob: Marlene, you're so pretty when you go into hysterics. Your mouth makes an oh shape.

---Circus occurs, followed by historically accurate portrayals of the national malaise.---

August: Guys, I'm not angry anymore. Remember, Marlene? Me? Lovely husband? I bought you a shiny thing! Let’s dance!

Marlene: I knew you were still wonderful and charming! Lovey!

Jacob: But… too good… to be true…

August: You’re like a son to me, kiddo.

Marlene: Let’s have a dance party and eat oysters while the people outside starve to death on poisoned moonshine!

August: We can all dance together! Yay!

Jacob: Um… Okay.

Marlene: Hurray! I will hug Jacob in a platonic manner.

August: …I lied. I am still angry. More than before.

Marlene: ... Please don't hit me with the elephant whip.

Jacob: Also, please don't hit the elephant with the whip. FYI.

---Drama. There is more.--

A Taste of Water

"I look up just as he flicks the cigarette. It arcs through the air and lands in Rosie's open mouth, sizzling as it hits her tongue. She roars, panicked, throwing her head and fishing inside her mouth with her trunk. August marches off. I turn back to Rosie. She stares at me, a look of unspeakable sadness on her face. Her amber eyes are filled with tears."

August is not just beating his hot wife, but he's also abusive to non-native animals. An utter cad.

CAD:

And now you know what I think.

Tall and Short of Oberlin

2009-07-09T17:00:00.000-07:00

Hello!

Remember that video you were in? Well, here it is!

I want to thank all of you for being involved in this project. It was a lot of fun to put together.

Have a lovely summer,
Aries

Road Trip 5: The Last Night

2009-07-09T04:22:00.000-07:00

Dearest Readers,

The backlogged road trip is now over! Still to come: Dallas, NY, Obietown!

Onwards!...

We stopped at Hope, Alabama, birthplace of President Clinton and strolled around. While walking, Yoshi and I had a heated talk on small town living. At first, I lauded them, a bit too strongly. And as we move towards the cold, steel talons of the real world… the closeness of a village is a lovely thing.

Yoshi questioned me: citing the slowness, the insularity and the backwardness. It would be hard for us to find “our people” in nearly any small town. They sold a unicycle in the Hope Bike Shop… but a single unicycle does not make a circus.

As we were talking, a man in a car stopped us, calling out, “Hey, I don’t know you – you new?”
“We’re from out of town,” we explained, “Just taking a walk.”
“We don’t get young people too often,” he said. I bet you don’t, I thought.

Balancing out my conflation of small towns was a general disdain for southern culture. After a while, my insensitivity, crudeness and tactlessness became overwhelming; Yoshi politely asked me to shut my face.

I did shut my face, keeping quiet even when we passed Arkedelphia and Okalona. I tried to be respectful of Texarkana, where we planned on staying the night. Yoshi held hopes for the place, he’d heard of it often enough in Texas. However, I kept mispronouncing the city, which made me sound even more like a Yankee snob. We came up with a few mnemonics for me:
“I am Texarkana’s cold sweat.”
“Yes we texarKAN-a.”
“I’d like to recycle my Texarkana.”

(I was saying Texarkana. Like Madonna. Or Americana. Or Llama.)

I tried very hard to be polite. But Texarkana was a sad, empty town. When I told my dad we passed through, he said, “Guess it hasn’t changed in 80 years.” Apparently it got hit during the dust bowl, sending penniless farmers to California.

From there: Shreveport, the South’s answer to Las Vegas. I was excited – I’d never been inside of the real gambling floor of a casino. When my parents went to Atlantic City for a family get-together, I’d spent my time in the arcade playing Rampage World Tour.

In my childhood, the casino floor seemed so dangerous and glorious. Skill! Chance! Loss! Gain! Bright lights and fast-talking! Cards runs deep in my family – my grandfather was an incredible poker and bridge player. As a kid, I anticipated the day when I could make dough playing cards all day. This was my destiny, to be Aries “Lucky” Indenbaum. Better pay-off than a bank robbery and safe as a CD.

But the Shreveport casinos were not glamorous. Not one bit.

After dinner at IHOP (strawberry pancakes drenched in diabetes-sweet syrup), we went to the casinos: Sam’s Town, Horseshoe and Boomtown. There were a few surface differences between them, mostly in the uniform of the waitresses. Questions were: How pretty were they? How tall were they? What was the color of the waitress costume? Did the skirt end with the thigh, or did the fabric slide away as the ass was finishing its final rotation into the pelvis? How much junk was packed into that trunk?

As we spent more time in the casinos, I felt my disgust grow and grow. Not at the players, but at the structure, which enabled addiction. Pure addiction. The casinos allowed cigarette smoking, had little lights on each machine to allow patrons to order drinks while they played the slots, chatted up high-rollers…. it’s all good business, but to a foul end. The slot machine customers resembled cows at a feedlot.

Given my own associations with addictive behavior, I felt queasy and overwhelmed. The “Requiem for a Dream” theme rang through my ears. Although these were apparently bottom-of-the-barrel places, it was nice to see what remained when the glitz washed away. Gambling in the raw.

We watched one guy play a “sexy” slot machine game for a while. Most of the symbols seemed arbitrary, hearts and diamonds, with one figure of a foxy cartoon chick. He kept playing and playing. I couldn’t even see when he won – most of the lines seemed irregular, and it was unclear which figures were wilds. The machine behind Yoshi and I made a huge noise whenever anyone did anything to it, and all loud, heart-popping jingles. The sound, coupled with the flashing lights and the smell of smoke and booze, made my head hurt.

Yoshi, who had been to Vegas, wasn’t as revolted as I. He played one slot machine based on “House of the Dead” and made $30. While I’m glad he won, and I don’t begrudge him for playing… I was fine avoiding it.

It was a smart system, Yoshi noticed. All of the slot machines were more of less the same, and as computer systems, it would only take a few adjustments in code to make a completely new game. Slap a new plastic cover on it, and it would be done. The Scream game becomes the Blair Witch game becomes the Hostel game, all on the same piece of hardware.

I was happy when we left.

Cleveland-town, everyone.

2009-07-04T10:13:00.000-07:00

Until this summer, the majority of time I’d spent in Cleveland was in goth clubs. I’d gone to Cleveland a few other times: West Side Market! Rock and Roll Hall of Fame! Izzie getting a tattoo! Party with gorgeous alumni! But aside from these events, and my hours of dancing to remixes of The Cure… I’d never spent a full day in Cleveland.

But in summer, Oberlin slows down. There’s still a few amazing festivals, like Juneteenth and the Chalk Walk, but the fast-paced vibe of campus eases. It’s a sleepy little town. The most exciting thing happening right now is a bagpipe conference.

After a long, stressful semester, I love that.

For a day or two.

But with a full week with nothing to do? Yoshi and I looked towards Cleveland.

Great Lakes Science Center + Cleveland.

When I was in elementary school, one of the best field trips ever was to Liberty Science Center. The next year, my middle school went to DC, setting me loose in the Smithsonian for a full day. Being at the Great Lakes Science Center brought me back to that feeling of childhood joy. Though we didn’t get a chance to explore the whole museum, what we saw was awesome.

The main floor was bioengineering. There was a section on virtual reality, file compression, synthesizer music, and alternative interfaces. The exhibits on material science was excellent, with smart windows with LED sensors responding to changes in light and sound.

There were some things that confused me. When you have interactive displays about communicable diseases… why don’t you have hand sanitizer nearby? Especially as the exhibit is child-friendly and children are the cutest little disease vectors… I’d love some sanitizer. Though generally, I love hand sanitizer. My immune system is a little like the shields on Star Trek. They can take a lot of small damage but if something massive hits the Aries Enterprise, the ship goes down. When h1n1 broke, Health Services put up enormous bottles of hand sanitizer at every public hub on campus. Bliss became me.

Besides that, there was a section on addiction. Most of Yoshi’s research experience involves addiction, especially as it intersects with memory. From time to time, he would yell at the machine that supports a “hedonistic model.”

The second floor was play-land. Physics is the best. There was all sorts of lovely games that showed how sound and light can be manipulated. Each exhibit had a purpose, explaining the physics behind funhouse mirrors and giant bubbles. While I tried to be a good adult and read about the thing I was playing with, the museum closing soon. So, I played. There were lasers and musical PVC pipes, smoke holes, plasma balls, an Oscilliscope... Lots of stuff.

At a display on Salmonella, there was a space for visitors to write questions they had after viewing information. While waiting for Yoshi, I added these questions:
“Will Salmonella help me lose weight?”
“Is Salmonella sexually transmitted?”
“When was Salmonella invented?”
“Can I buy Salmonella at Target?”

The second we left the building, we were on Lake Erie, next to a maritime museum. We held hands and watched the seagulls destroy some fish.

From there, we headed to University Circle… And promptly got lost. The map indicated a park bordering the road to University Circle, but it didn’t say what that street was called, nor did it have any nearby streets labeled. So, when we left the road to find a place to park, we got really lost, driving up and down residential roads. Mercifully, the park hugging the road was lovely. It hosted a row of “culture gardens” - statues and alters with fountains.

Meanwhile, the collective blood sugar in the car was sinking, making navigating and communicating more complex. Yoshi’s voice gets flatter when he’s tired, while I start to make less and less sense. We go to our poles. I become Delerium, Yoshi becomes Squall .

vs.

Aries: Germany, Estonia, India, Ireland. The world is so big in Cleeeeeveland. The grass is just so super-green. I could wrap a tree in it and call it good.
Yoshi. Yes.
Aries: Can we stop now and walk through the cultures? I want to see Latvia. Anna’s from Latvia. I hope they have bears.
Yoshi: Parking.
Aries: What time is it? I can’t find my cell. I hope I didn’t drop it in the lake. Let’s go swimming with the duckies…
Yoshi: Food.

Given our hunger, we decided to pass on the culture gardens for a bit and try to find some food in University Circle. Despite staring at a map for a few minutes, we walked the wrong way for a bit too long. Then, we trailed up Euclid and got to Case Western Reserve. Despite having been to Case twice, I had no idea what I was looking for. There seemed to be no food despite the collection of awesome buildings, museums and hospitals. It was an odd campus – I loved the buildings, but it seemed to weird that huge streets ran through the whole thing.

Awesomely geeky garbage cans! Yeah, CASE!

We finally found a strip of restaurants. A cop was going into the pizza shop. We quibbled about whether he was busting someone or whether he was hungry. There was a Chinese restaurant, a deli, a Starbucks… out pickings were slim. We looked across the street and in the same breath said “Felafel?”

Mediterranean food is a rarity in my life and as a long-time vegetarian, hummus is a joy I cannot eat enough of. That said, I didn’t have high expectations. The place itself was not so gorgeous, filled with plenty of plastic tables. The ketchup packets stuck to each other. There were only a few people in the restaurant. The place seemed… greasy.

Yoshi got a lamb kebab; I got the cabbage stew. Both dishes were frighteningly great. The soup was flavorful without being too rich, the vegetable delicious. Yoshi’s kebab was excellent; the pitas offered were light and tangy. Later, we discovered that we stumbled into one of the best restaurants in Cleveland; Falafel Café was rated in the top five restaurants in the city for the past few years. While I went to the bathroom, Yoshi spoke with owner-chef who was from Beirut. “Of course Lebanese food is great!” he announced, “Why else would you go to Lebanon?”

Hunger eased, we walked through Case, past the museums, and to the Culture Gardens, where we wandered around for over two hours.

Highlights:

India! Gandhi looked awesome, with a quote about tolerance on the podium. There were little stones with information on Indian cultural advances.

Germany! The centerpiece was an enormous statue of Schiller and Goethe, looking like old-school fraternity brothers. I tried to read the inscription from Faust aloud, but failed. The statue was so huge that trying to see over the terrible two’s bellies was tricky. The other German who earned a statue was Bach, who did not look too happy.

Finland! Nothing could seem sad next to the Finnish. The poets and statesmen represented looked like sailors trapped within the doldrums, their wind gone, sitting in a ship of fools and eagerly anticipating starving to death. These were sad, sad men.

We didn’t realize the sun had set until the park was dark and the moon was high. Tired out, we strolled back to the car and drove back to Oberlin. A great day. High five, Cleveland.

Road Trip 3: Little Rock is Clinton-tastic!

2009-06-28T16:54:00.000-07:00

We did not have high hopes for Arkansas. Little Rock proved us wrong.

We spent three hours at the Clinton Library & Museum. In high school, I watched “The War Room” for my AP Government class, as well as old election footage from 1992. I developed huge crushes on James Carville, George Stephanopoulos and candidate Bill Clinton. But in my fantasies, I didn’t want to kiss those guys. I wanted to BE those guys. Going to this museum was like going to Disneyland for me.

The museum was supposed to look like a bridge to the 21st Century… but actually resembled a giant trailer. Aesthetics aside, the building was eco-friendly, using local materials and energy-conscious architecture. Most of the information was conveyed through a timeline with pictures, text and video. To drive points home, there was plenty of repletion between written displays and film.

They had replicas of the Oval Office and the Cabinet, which were surprising unattractive. The Oval Office felt cluttered to me, chocked with americana. The saving grace was a moon rock. During a heated discussion, Clinton would occasionally gesture to the stone, saying, “Hold on here – that rock there on that table is 3.6 billion years old – we’re only here for an instant – let’s get some perspective on this thing.”

The museum presented a glowing review of Clinton. Back in the day, government fought for change and the betterment of all people: reducing crime, increasing prosperity, supporting technological advances…. Under Clinton’s leadership, America wasn’t just a superpower,
we were a superhero.

Given the trends of the Bush years – limitations on science and technology, inept handling of the explosive economy, two unfinished wars, few achievements made… I can’t imagine how I would conceive of my country if I were born five years later.

Sadly, the museum didn’t touch on any of Clinton’s failures. There was scant mention of the impeachment proceedings, the massive investigations, the flaws of NAFTA, DOMA, or “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” His innovations in finance laid the groundwork for our current economic flummox.

We didn't see any note on this lady either.

Though I understand the omission of critical information, I could have dealt with more policy and process.
- How did Hilary affect women’s rights besides uttering one of the best soundbites I have ever heard? “It is no longer acceptable to discuss women's rights as separate from human rights.”
- What did Clinton do to help usher in the internet age? Yes, he funded computers in schools, but was there more?
- How did Clinton broker a peace?
- Why not more personal information on “Candidate Clinton”?

As we got restless, we noticed the time and understood our hunger.

We spotted over to the volunteer desk and asked what they recommended for lunch. Small-world alert: One of the volunteers was from Cleveland and had lectured at Oberlin, speaking about time-management. WHAT. I flabbergasted at her. She told us about a catfish place. The other volunteer, a kid who looked like a Boy Scout, told us about “Whole Hog Café,” where Clinton apparently used to go. “Get the Pulled Pork Sandwich. Best pulled pork sandwich I’ve ever had.”

Off we went! Whole Hog, like Rendezvous, had an unsurprising lack of vegetarian options, but given my lack of running around, I wasn’t as hungry as normal. That said, my taste of Yoshi’s pulled pork platter was amazing. Flat-out amazing. The beans and potatoes were unstoppable.

From there, we went back to the Clinton Museum Store so Yoshi could get a present to Professor Dawson, inspiration/terror to thousands of Obies. Then we strolled to Arkansas River Market → a Martial arts garden → highway.

The Little Rock – Dallas leg was a longer one, about five hours. But after about 15 minutes on route, we got a call from Yoshi’s folks. Apparently, there was a giant storm in Dallas, knocking out power and flooding to a huge swath of the city. They recommended we not make the push on and go somewhere else for the night.

Looking at the map, we spotted Texarkana and Shreveport, and aimed for them.

Road Trip 3: Meaty Pyramids of Memphis

2009-06-25T21:47:00.001-07:00

I can’t find my Memphis notes, which is a reflection on Memphis, I think.

Memphis is famous for meat. That said, I know nothing about the culture of barbeque, nor about regional differences in barbeque making. "Dry-rub" versus "Sauce" seems more like a discussion on wanking than cooking.

That said, the dry-rub style of Memphis is one of the state’s charms. So, me and the Texan went to Rendezvous. Rendezvous is allegedly the best barbeque place in the city. However, as we got there in between lunch and dinner, they were only serving ribs and sides. Nothing else.

As I’m not a red meat eater, I couldn’t give a proper appraisal of the meats. Yoshi wasn’t impressed. These were not tender ribs, but seemed undercooked. Bitter disappointment stuck us.

From there, we went down Beale Street. We had a cool conversation with a guy named Eliot who worked at one of the gift shops on the row, then moved along. There were some musicians, playing in the park. At this point, I got a bit foggy. I had forgotten my water bottle in the car. The sun was high and venomous. Things didn’t feel fun anymore.

Interruption of Overarching Theme: Sun, Water, Sugar.
They governed our lives.

From there, we went to the abandoned arena. It was a pyramid. Apparently, they built a new one and just left the old one behind, like a refrigerator on the side of the road. Soda cans and snack wrappers pooled by the entrances, mulched with old leaves and pigeon shit. Homeless people, the lichens of the city, had taken root there.

All of the doors were locked. The brick wall was fake; Yoshi dented it with a tap. Everything was covered in dust. Despite my sleepiness, I loved this weird relic. It reminded me of the pyramid from Stargate, though it bore closer resemblance to the many shuttered and darkened shorefronts scattered thoughout the country.

“Why isn’t anyone using it?” I wondered.

“What can you do with a pyramid? The land here must be expensive— it must be impossible to find a buyer.”
Yoshi, as ever, was right. We were down the block from a row of hotels. There was a river to our left and city hall to our right. Pricey turf.

Still, as we left, I hoped some newfangled Charles Foster Kane would make the place his Xanadu.

Given lunch’s disappointment, we didn’t get barbeque. We aimed for Wang’s, but we had to walk to the car to refill the meter. By then, we were far from the Wang. We found ourselves at the second best Indian restaurant in the city, which provided adequate foods. And from there, we drove.

We had bad hotel luck that night. But eventually, there was sleep.

Road Trip 2: Nash-Nash-Nash

2009-06-19T10:38:00.000-07:00

Where we last left our heroes… Nashville! Turkeys! Abandoned Places! Urban Sprawl! Bourbon!

While Nashville was cool, it’s not the best thing when the first part of your day is the best. Free breakfast was hard to beat; but the Parthenon was even cooler.

Nashville, for some ridiculous reason, has a replica of the Parthenon. Both Yoshi and I knew a bit about its arrangement, structure and purpose. That said, the coolest thing was definitely the size. The damn thing was huge. Really, freakin’ huge. We walked around it, and around the surrounding park, filled with joggers slogging through the heat.

According to the City, Elliston is a “young, trendy neighborhood.” We headed there hopefully, anticipating folks who had tattoos and liked The Magnetic Fields. There would be bicycles! Vanderbilt students carrying copies of Proust! Older folks playing chess with younger kids!

Not so much. Nope.

Elliston wasn’t really a neighborhood, but a street. An okay street, but a street. The two rock clubs weren’t anything during the day and there were only a few open stores. The interwebz announced, “No trip to Elliston Place is complete without a stop at the Elliston Place Soda Shop.” So, we stopped. I believe the trip would have been complete without the Soda Shop. The food tasted like high school lunch.

We were also told about “Elder's Bookstore, which has been serving Nashville's literary set since 1930.” Elder’s Bookstore was, as Yoshi put it, “the worst kind of library.” Dark, dank and unwelcoming, the walls were plastered with signs to be quiet and threats against small children. Conservative agit-prop decorated bookshelves. The bookshop owners sat in overrun desks, quiet and solemn.

From there, we saw Donny Smutz, a contemporary surreal artist who uses politically-loaded images. My favorite piece was called Rapture, showing a man staring at a painting that depicts him, moving through a space. At his right was an unplugged TV, showing a similar image. Upon seeing the art, the man had unplugged the TV. Or vice-versa – there’s no clarity of time. While my description doesn’t do it justice, it evoked feelings of introspection, artistic relevance, consumer culture and passivity, conception of self… It did a lot for me.

Next to that gallery, the Tinney were a few others, once showing SCAD artists, the other one involving redone bicycles.

Then, the Frist. The Frist was fascinating. A former Post Office, remodeled into a museum had an amazing art deco style. “Like Brazil,” Yoshi said. It looked prepared for a high-class cocktail party or a dystopian show trial.

The Frist alternated between traditional shows and new displays-- we just missed one on Body and Flesh. The first show was found was an interactive display to teach children how to make all sorts of art, from abstract representations to figure drawing and printmaking. It was very cool and very simple – a set of stations, most unmanned, with precise instructions on how to start artistic processes. If I had a child, I would totally take zir there. Also, the museum was very inexpensive: 3$ per college students, and kids were free. I will be using my Oberlin ID for much savings.

The second show was on museum design, displaying new structures from across the world. My favorite was the “friendly alien” museum in Graz, Austria. The idea of a building as a presence with personality and charm is hardly new. However, the Pixar-like charms of the museum strike me as something new – magical realism intruding in.

Besides having large reproductions of the architectural drafts, and models of the completed structure, the Friendly Alien building also had a video of how each nostril of the beast was made. it was totally a Miyazaki monster.

I also enjoyed the futurism museum in France, the Stonehenge visitor center and a totally unfeasible planned art/tech building in NYC. Many of the new museums took into account details like LEED, multi-use spaces and architecture’s relationship with the overall feeling in the museum. Form complimenting function. The Frist itself was an excellent study. The retro sleekness and the trappings of a post office made the building a foil for its works. The space itself required creativity, and added a layer of dept to each display.

After Frist, we went to 12 South, one of the allegedly cool walking areas in Nashville. While it wasn’t as empty as Elliston, it was a yuppie daydream, lots of restaurants, a salon, clean-cut kids. Alas. After driving through disappointed, we parked on a hill, and looked at a monument. erected on Armistice Day to memorialize the end of the Civil War. It showed the Spirit of Unity, personified by a rather bishonen boy holding two horses, the emblems of the North and the South. Rather like Equus, really.

We strolled around the park. Some squirrels had sex in front of us. We felt uncomfortable with the level of consent displayed.

Realizing that our blood sugar was tanking, we went to the “Frothy Monkey,” a coffee shop, for ideas on where to eat. The barista was a sweetie, a musician who was now taking university classes. Also, after a bazillion hours of only Yoshi and I, it was fascinating to speak to someone who was under thirty who wasn’t… us.
His best recommendation was a café/grocery in the town where the elderly stars of the Grand Ol Opry lived out their sunset years. At this cafe, especially on Sundays, they’d flock together on the porch and scratch out some tunes.

Imagine Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson and Larry Bird playing some ball on the street. The best players in the business, not worrying about being the best. Just having fun. Now take out the basketball and make it country music.

Apparently, the café made pretty good fries too.

While that sounded amazing, we were hungry. After a few false starts, we ended up at Bosco’s: expensive and unsatisfying. Had a good talk, as a result. Not an easy talk, but something that need to happen.

Night driving. A false hotel, too pricey and full. A new hotel. Sleep.

Road Trip! Day 1: The Epic Kentucky.

2009-06-16T11:15:00.000-07:00

What have I been doing, dear readers? Myself and Yoshi have been on a road trip, from Oberlin, OH to Dallas, TX. If we hit the pedal to the metal, we probably could have done the trip in two days. Oberlin to Dallas is a bit over a thousand miles, 18 hours worth of transit. That said, there was no terrible hurry to get to Dallas. So, we took our time, staying over in Louisville, Bowling Green, Memphis, Nashville, Little Rock and Shreveport.

By 2:00 PM on Sunday, we finished cramming the Camry with the contents of Yoshi’s life. He shipped a few boxes home, but the essentials went with us. The trunk and backseat were packed tight; my knapsack and messenger bag mortared in the few remaining spaces. Though the trip was easy to navigate, we got a bit lost getting onto Interstate 71. We missed a ramp, putting us in the middle of Amish Country, complete with buggies, hills and pie shops. Still, we managed to get back onto 71 and speed off through Cincinnati.

We only took a single detour, to Lake Jericho. Given the biblical link of Joshua and the Battle of Jericho, I thought it’d be a kick to introduce Yoshi to his signature battlefield. Y’know back from when Joshua was God’s Enforcer, spying out Canaan, raising a path through the Jordan River. Joshua the Badass, the Ghengis Khan of the Middle East. …. Yoshi was less amused.

We drove up to the gates, but saw a visitor fee. Lame. So, we decided to park further back and just hiked up the hill to get to the lake ourselves. The grass on the hill grew high, all the way up to my hips. Thistles and pink flowers tickled my legs. The lake was huge, with families fishing on the shore. There was a dock floating towards the shore; I wanted to swim for it, but thought better of it.

We got to Louisville late, so had little chance to re-explore. We had been to the city before during the Great Mammoth Cave Road Trip, so we just retraced our steps.

We drove down Bardstown Road, the alt/indie section of town. It’s flush with small, weird stores, amazing restaurants and folks around our age. Tattoos and band tee-shirts abounded. Then, we got dinner at the on-site brewery/bar we ate at before. Nostalgia tastes good.

One of the most painful moments of the trip was driving down Bardstown, taking us from a cool, friendly neighborhood to strip mall America. McDonalds – Wendy’s – KFC – Bank – Gas. And repeat, with huge parking lots in front of each franchise. On a jog, I got to an abandoned cinema and ran around the parking lot once or twice because there were no sidewalks on the strip. There’s no need for sidewalks. You drive, then sit, and then drive again. You don’t walk here.

This irritates me.

After crashing for the night at the nearest Motel 6, we headed for Bowling Green. But before we got there, we found an abandoned distillery from Heaven Hill. Given my fascination with post-apocalyptic media and abandoned places, the place was fantastic. The distilling vats lay empty, only a layer of dirt peppering the bottom. Weeds grew though the machinery; boots and gloves left behind. Parts of the factory had been eaten away by time and mosses. Yoshi was as engrossed as I was, climbing through the second floor of the distillery.

The shop room was in total disarray. I peered in and spotted a box was from 2002. Had the site lay vacant for 7 years or less? Despite my ardor for “The world without us,” I couldn’t pinpoint when the zombies had attacked and people had ran away screaming.

I got a bit freaked out when I walked up to a pond and saw that the surrounding weeds had died. Maybe a chemical problem. Something toxic. Huh. But if it had been that, I thought, they would have marked the area with a sign. Other than the NO TRESSPASSING one we ignored.

At Maker’s Mark, we found out that the distillery had been shut down a few years ago after a fire. Not that a distillery would be flammable.

Maker’s Mark was interesting. Hidden away in the hills of Kentucky, the place was very well branded and much more accessible than Heaven Hill Distillery. At Heaven Hill, the tour guide and most of the folks on the tour were good ol’ bourbon boys. They had little jokes I didn’t understand and overall, I didn’t feel that welcome. Maker’s Mark was aimed at a much lower common denominator… that included me. The place had branding all over. The tour started from the refurbished Samuel house that was pretty 50’s-tastic. There was a Frigidaire and the trappings of the perfect post-war home.

Maker's Mark Bottling Station. Hand-dipping each bottle in murder-sauce.

The tour emphasized the family structure that could have read like a child’s primer on gender roles. Dad runs the business; Mom handles decorations! Dad makes the decisions; Mom designs the logo! Son becomes CEO; Daughter leaves! Boys invent things; Girls use the things they invent!

This also irritated me.

That said, there were things I like:
- It was an environmentally friendly system, with anaerobic bacteria break down wastes in water with the methane produced heating part of process.
- They had really smart marketing, including an “ambassador’s program” for Maker’s fans and really cool production material.
- On the tour, they let us dip our fingers into distiller’s beer to taste it. The distillation process is amazing – being so close to it was stupendous.
- At the end, we tasted “white dog.” White Dog is the bourbon before aging, which tastes like raw rubbing alcohol. Unpleasant, but fascinating.
- Everything was wax-dipped. Kinky?
- There were German physicists on the tour.
- The house lounge had Harry Potter-style moving portraits.

After the distillery, we got to Kentucky Down Under far too late. Nearly everything was closed, and the sticker price was a bit much for a lame show. From there: Cave City (cute/crappy gift stores) → Subway (meat looked poisoned) → Wendy’s → Mammoth Cave.

Yoshi has a problem with turkeys. The last time we were in Mammoth Cave, two wild turkeys jumped out of the road, freaking the bejesum out of Yoshi. As we drove into the park, a turkey strolled out of the woods to the side of the road. Yoshi’s reaction was excessive. Upon seeing the turkeys dart onto the road, he yelled, “Motherfucking cocksucker!” and slammed the breaks. Then, he cowered in the car seat for a while. His knuckles were white, gripping the wheel tight.
I spoke very gently. “Yosh, it’s okay--”
“TURKEYS!”
“They’re just birds--”
“TURKEYS ARE NOT OKAY.”
“I love you very much-”
“NOT OKAY.”

We drove slowly until we reached the parking lot to go hiking. On the trail, Yoshi saw some turkeys in the park and decided to run into the woods after them. Allegedly to photograph them, he said but it seemed more probable that he would garrote them in the dark brush. The turkeys escaped easily, but Yoshi kept vigil to ensure his safety.

After that, the night was quiet. We got to Nashville, walked around their downtown (lights, music, drunks!) and crashed at a hotel.

I am the pointy-head.

2009-06-04T18:44:00.001-07:00

(Please let me not become a tool.)

Graduation: Suits, Sundresses and Speeches!

2009-05-31T07:12:00.000-07:00

Say "commencement" and I think of the iconic hats in the air, formal attire, caps and gowns, long speeches, hugs, final goodbyes, traditions, pomp and circumstance, Latin diplomas.

But Oberlin students don't really do traditional. So I had no idea what to expect.

We got up at 6:30, leaving the house close to 8, so we could get our placement card in time (the placement office closes at 8:30). Then, we did nothing for a while. I got some coffee. Walked around. People-watched. Only about a third of the school wore caps and gowns. More folks wore caps, some decorated the tops. Some folks were really fancy, dressed in prom-best. Most folks I knew wore simple dresses, suits, button-down shirts. Yoshi wore a suit and a top hat.

And me?

Wednesday of Senior Week, Conversation with Beloved Parents:
Mom: What are you going to wear?
Aries: Uh. I don't really know. I don't have time to buy a dress.
Mom: You don't have time to get a dress? I thought you were done with finals now.
Aries: Guys, circus. Circus every day. No time to take a scenic trip to score a dress. I'll look nice. I got a few dresses from the swap.
Mom: ... all right.
Dad: No cap or gown? There's going to be a lot of photos.
Aries: No.
Mom: Wear what you want--
Dad: Just don't do it naked, okay?

The next day, I looked at Weather.com. Sunny, they predict. Warm, they say.
Perhaps... a sun dress?

Sundress. Not a shower curtain.

At 9:00, I lined up, though the illustrious "I" section was pretty small. Then, we waited and waited some more. I skipped to the bathroom, running into professors in their official regalia, as well as Ben Jones, Captain-in-Chief. On their parts, the professors were wearing formal academic regalia, fascinating costumes indicating what kind of degree they held. Their robes were huge, adorned with collars of all different colors. They looked like ... well... Harry Potter characters.

The marshals, who led the graduation procession, held batons that looked suspiciously like magic wands. As if they were charming the whole event to go according to plan.

Wands out.

As I left the bathroom, I heard the blast of trumpets. Before I knew it, we had marched to our seats. The ceremony begun: a prayer, introductions, greetings, then Honorary Doctorate Degrees. Though the winners were really cool people: pioneers, activists, scientists and administrators ... some of the introductions were on the long side. The presenters told us the accomplishments of the award recipients, talking about the awards they had won, the councils they chaired, and the foundations they founded...

Meanwhile, Weather.com didn't lie -- the sun was pouring down. As the speakers went on and on, I could feel my arms and legs heating up.

Ary and San. Notice the sunlight?

My favorite presenters were Lynn Powell and Dan Stinebring awarding degrees to Mary and Steve Hammond. It was a perfect match. Mary and Steve are the pastors at Peace Community Church and serve as amazing community leaders. Their work supports so many different groups at Oberlin, from long-term residents to homesick first-years. Dan and Lynn, a physics professor and a poet, are deeply involved in political and arts work. They opened up their house to the Obama campaign, to which they and their children contributed thousands of hours. In Dan's astronomy class (which I loved), he stopped class the week before the election and gave us a lot of voting-related information.

Dan, looking super-serious.

Lee Fisher, Lieutenant Governor of Ohio, gave the introduction for our commencement speaker, Richard Haass. It was an amazing introduction as the two were friends, graduating from Oberlin in the same year. While Haas won immediate success, Fisher had 7 rejection letter from top law schools. The speech was funny, unlike all of the introductions before. Fisher also shockingly humble, never mentioning that he's running for US Senate.

And then, the Commencement Speaker, Richard Haass, speaking on dissent. ... It was interesting. Take a peak here, if you like. Haass gave an apology, not a speech. He didn't make a strong case for showing dissent by working within the system, or how to gracefully duck away from a diseased organization (as he allegedly aimed). The trouble? He used himself as an example. Haass was a foreign policy adviser to both Iraq wars, and stands within the line of bureaucrats that enabled the current situation.

Moreover, the question of dissent in the workplace is not uncommon, but the extremity of Iraq is a bit... enormous. And, at this time, very clear. Most office issues are gray; they're tragic choices for employers and employees to make. They're personal, confusing and unclear. This was not a speech about shades of gray, the kind of thing a recent Oberlin grad is likely to experience.

That said, it was interesting. A speech from a top-notch alumnus speaking on really, really high-security decisions is pretty fascinating, regardless of whether it clarifies my office-place moral quandaries.

Conveniently, President Marvin "Much Adored" Krislov gave an excellent talk that was everything I could have wanted from a commencement speech. From Krislov, we expect brilliance. He's a Rhodes Scholar who took a case (Grutter/Gratz v. Bollinger) to the Supreme Court. His speech was about his unability to get a job after college until he took a part-time job at the YMCA ... it was encouraging. Sometimes, opportunity takes a while, he said.

We stood to receive the diplomas, crossed the stage to shake hands/hug the President-Much-Beloved Krislov and the Class President, Sir Derry. President Krislov gives good hugs, the sign of a great leader.

I walked back to my chair, dazed. When we'd all finally gotten our diplomas, the hats flew into the air. Folks started to hug all around me, wishing each other well.

Liz and I see each other...

And strike!

Everyone loves hugging Yoshi. Especially pretty girls.

The Job!

2009-05-30T06:33:00.000-07:00

A week after the first interview, I got an email that I should come in to "answer a few questions." I flipped out a little. Put on a dress, my nicest/tallest heels, tried not to vomit. From the email, I wasn't sure who was getting a follow-up. 38 people applied for the two fellowship jobs, many of them very qualified.

When I arrived at the office, a bit shaky in my heels, Ben Jones was smiling. He asked me a few hard questions which I stumbled through.

Then, he shook my hand and offered me the position.

So... I got the job! I'll be in Oberlin for one more year!

Have a lovely summer.

PS:
From the Source:
Aries Indenbaum -- Web Fellow
Aries works in the Office of Communications assisting the director of new media explore third-party social networking opportunities for Oberlin, managing the Oberlin Stories Project and the admissions blog site, and generally maintaining a connection to the student body. She graduated from Oberlin two days ago with a BA in creative writing. Aries was born in Point Reyes, California, and went to school in New Rochelle, New York. "In my free time, I tell stories, contra dance, write, run, and do circus," she says. Before graduating, Aries worked in admissions and blogged about her experience as a student.

Senior Week (in Webcomics!)

2009-05-23T07:59:00.000-07:00

There are two questions of commencement:
1. What are you doing next year?
2. How are you feeling?

I
The job search, in this economy, is very difficult. It causes a lot of stress for graduating seniors who aren't set up with something by commencement. Given the recent strains in journalism, publishing and academia, a lot of upcoming alums have difficulty getting jobs in the fields they want.

It's not a dead-end, but it takes longer than normal. More students are moving into entrepreneurship and starting up with new companies. There's a silk-screening collective start-up, a Chinese learning software company, a music clinic for kids, and a fair-trade Moroccan crafts business.

Environmental studies majors get more luck with the swell of green jobs. Given the billions in stimulus funds given to science research, biology, chemistry, neuroscience, physics and engineering majors (in total, about a third of Obies) are sitting pretty.

I just got a job for which I'm incredibly grateful and happy. And I'll talk about soon, I promise.

And it's not a job like this:

Yeah, I don't think it'll be like this.

II
As for the more difficult "how do you feel" issue...

Everyone takes Commencement differently. Seniors run though several different emotions:

1. Joy! No more papers! No more tests! No more cramming! It's beautiful and there are parties with cool people whom I need to say goodbye to!
2. Sorrow. Where are all my friends going? Should I live with my parents? I'm going to be so lonely...
3. Bliss! I'm ready for the real world! College was amazing, and I'll continue the things I learned here way out there!
4. Anxiety. The real world is scary. People are mean and cruel. What will I do after I get out of work?
5. Confused. I don't know what to feel. I'm going to miss Oberlin, but I'm okay with my plans.
6. Everything All At Once. Like below comic.

While other folks have had the time to feel/think about graduating, I really haven't. Between organizing another circus (we do a commencement show), finishing up a Creative Writing Anthology (Little Leaf), going to functions and freaking out about how cool my job is going to be... I haven't really been self-reflective. Surprised?

Savage Chickens understand me. Even if I don't really understand me.

But I'll try.

College has been better than any other time in my life. When I think about who I was when I arrived here, and who I am now... there's a huge difference. I am a fundamentally different person now. I met amazing people, learned great things, made many stories. I grew up in Oberlin. That's something that doesn't change when finals are over, or during Senior Week, or after I throw my cap into the air and hug all my friends. That change lasts for years.

Addicted to Bad Ideas: Punk-Metal-Rap-Ska Music Shows

2009-04-14T08:07:00.000-07:00

Time: Tuesday Morning

There are tiny, intense bruises on my knees and elbows. My hearing is still iffy.

I can still feel the crowd's moshing, dancing and pushing, the way the ocean still moves you even after you've gotten out of the water. I can still see the crowd: folks making a space in the center of the dance floor to let couples kick-dance a demented carnival homba. When the Inferno changed the tempo, the circle exploded into a flying moshpit.

World Inferno Friendship Society. Bucketkickers.

This feeling is familiar.

Time: Sunday Morning (two days previously)

My ears hurt. My thighs hurt. I am super-duper happy.

Tonight: Music party at Harkness, with Andrew Gombas, Birthday Kids, and Dos Mil Días De Fuego. Before that, I saw Spring Back, a dance show, so it's been... a long night.

Spring Back!
The dance department here is growing, with more folks than ever enrolling in classes. We took in two new members of the faculty: Holly Handman-Lopez and Ashley Thorndike. Spring Back is part of the block of dance shows hitting around now -- Sprung, Colors of Rhythm, Essence's Steppin' in da Beat, Oberlin Dance Company and a lot of senior recitals. Warner, the main dance/theater building, is booked. If you dance, this is a good time for you.

The main focus of the dance department is modern, with contact improvisation, capoeria, bodywork and ballet getting some love too. Half of the pieces in Spring Back were modern, the others hip-hop, folk or break. As I have the dance awareness of a child, I seperate dances into:
- Emotive: You're communicating how you feel!
- Movement: You move amazingly! Your body is a work of art, a tool of creation!
There was a nice combination of both.

I must admit to a certain narrative inclination, which poses a problem in an unfiltered enjoyment of movement. Whereas in circus, I see tricks as, well, tricks... dance is an art form. It has meaning. So, to my plot-centric brain, it should have a narrative and relationships.

In the dance piece with three women, they were totally a mother with two daughters who had recently lost their elderly father in a tragic threshing accident. The daughters adjusted to the lost by throwing themselves with childish abandon into their farm tasks; while the mother dejectedly resumed normal functioning.

There were monks in brotherly love, a bride left at the altar, spirits of global warming wrapping their warlike arms around one another with apocalyptic glee...

Or, at least, that's what I saw.

I've had a few conversations with Kai about the difficulty of writing about dance. I can talk about how it made me feel, but not always so clearly about what occurred, without creating childish scenarios. The moves themselves were impressive: many of the performers wore kneepads, given the amount of times they flung themselves at the ground. All of the modern soloists controlled their bodies precisely. Their handstands landed slowly and gently-- they cartwheeled over and around one another.

With the folk/hip-hop/break dances, I find there's more of a vocabulary, because I'm less caught up in a search for story-meaning. They picked the crowd up. The hip-hop group did an incredibly tight piece that looked straight out of a music videos. SPARK rocked, showcasing their old heavies with their new blood. They popped, locked and broke, making Warner into their space. I've seen them do more ridiculous stuff in the past, but this act was so seamless.

I ran to Harkness, ready for action.
Question: Why don't dance concerts end with the audience having a dance party with the cast? Does strike really have to happen the instant the show ends?

Harkness Concert

Harkness Basement is a place of great joy. Amazing bands have played there, amazing food eaten there. It's a cafeteria: there are chocolate milk stains that will never leave the ground. The tables were rolled away and the ground was mopped. On the wall, there were still the co-op food posters on the wall by the drum set:
"Pros and Cons of Soy" and "Report Ideas to the "Fun Committee!""

Fun Committee of Harkness?

Andrew Gombas went first. You may remember him from Ma'ayan's post about Organs... He does music too! Acoustic and electric guitar and brilliant songwriting. Most of his songs are about some twisted, mangled love... like that time you went home with the prettiest girl and she was really into roleplaying games. Like the role-playing game where she's the "dominant young woman" and you're the "stupidface who took her to your home, got stabbed 19 times and robbed blind." That was a good song. It was a singalong.

I love this photo. Andrew looks like Mr. American Psycho.

Andrew:: "You may now know this, but I used to be an improv-style spoken word performer in the south side of Chicago. A rapper, one could say. So, I'll need two words from the audience to let me go..."
Audience :: "Watermelon!" "Somali pirates!" "Elk!" ""
Andrew:: "I heard... ''gun-related violence" and "attractive women."

So, Andrew rapped about ''gun-related violence" and "attractive women," which has a refrain that's so virulently not-PC that I don't think I should share it. Despite all of his evil-doing and disturbing lyrics, Andrew is a truly kind, warm and amazingly stable man. His nickname is Pickles.

Birthday Kids went up after: Liz, Ralph, Jim and Jesse, playing jam rock. Liz sang like a mellowed Janice Joplin; Ralph played the bass like a bear locked in a cellar for a few months. Jim controlled his drum set perfectly, and Jesse loved that guitar like a lover long-separated. The boys were all Connies (conservatory students): Jim is TIMARA, Ralph and Jesse are composition.

They have a lot of fun when they play: one of their games was "Mess with Jesse." Game was: Jim and Ralph would make a rhythm, and Jesse would solo. When folks got bored, they would raise their hands and Jim and Ralph would set a new tempo. Five hands determined the game, so it changed a lot. It also proved how ill Jesse is. That boy loves his guitar.

Liz and Jesse. Note how Jesse cannot see how gorgeous Liz is, due to his overwhelming love of his guitar. This is devotion, people.

After that... Dos Mil Días De Fuego!
Grey on rap/vocals; Sam on vocals; Khari and Sarah on the turntables, Ryan on bass; Jim on drums. It was awesome to hear them in a better venue (not a living room), even if I still didn't hear all of Grey's lyrics.

Grey spreads the word. Word, Grey.

They're an interesting band, with a lot of fluidity. Some songs are really furious and hip-hop/rap/metal, others are silly. Grey makes an excellent emcee, really pushing the crowd; Sam makes jokes and keeps things light, leading interactive dance sequences. She has a low, sweet voice, like a cup of hot chocolate in the morning. Khari and Sarah are sick-- they played amazing dj sets between each band, keeping the energy high. Their samples were tight. Ryan makes superb faces when he plays and holds the beat steady. And Jim? Jim is incredible. He played drums for both bands and after their intense, kickin sets, he smashed out a crazy solo.

Note: Ryan's face. It is superb.

Jim declared King of America.

It was an excellent crowd. We had enough space to dance -- Harkness basement is able to serve over a 100 members for each meal, so it certainly had space for 100 people to dance. There was a lot of good energy there: most people knew someone in the band, or really liked their style, so we had less general-party people and more open, happy, high-kickin' folks.

I left happy and sore, the way it should be.

Introspection: Aries versus Aries

2009-03-28T06:31:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine was looking at one of my stories the other day and noticed something, "Your characters don't think very much, do they?"

"What do you mean?" I replied. "They aren't stupid." She's read a lot of my pieces, so her opinion matters to me. We were in the library, in the Commons. I had just started drinking my every constant cup of soy milk.

"No, not stupid. Just not introspective."

"But why would I want them to be introspective?" I asked. I sipped at my milk.

She paused. "Aries, most people are introspective. Most people here at least."

"But I'm not."

"Really?" she seemed surprised. Her eyebrows did a cute wiggly-thing.

"No, I plan things. But I don't really think... about stuff." I paused. "Actually that's weird. I don't. I mean, I do think. Like this milk, it could be better. They should replace Silk with Edensoy cause it's a zillion times better."

"Introspection isn't thinking about milk. It's thinking about yourself."

"But I'm pretty boring on the inside." Even saying it, I felt disinterested. I looked around. The boy next to me was reading BBC News. He looked pretty unhappy. The girl at the other section of the desk was working on a Powerpoint presentation on the Black River Watershed.

"Really? Don't you have a blog? Don't you have things to say about yourself?"

"Bloggers don't have to be introspective," I protested.

"Blogging implied introspection. It's self-reflection," she clarified.

"I am not self-reflective. Reflection clutters narrative."

She put her hands up, "It's not a bad thing. You just... might want to think about stuff. Sometimes. You don't have to, but it's good. Sometimes."

There was no more milk. Dammit, I thought.

"I have to go to class," she said. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said. We hugged and she left for class.

Questions:
How many happy introverts are there? Why would I want to be introverted? What could I gain? Aren't most writers introspective so they can mine the human spirit? Do I have to care about the human spirit? Do humans have a spirit?

Maybe I can come up with a motto. That's just like self-reflection, yes? Is it useful to include introspection in a narrative? In a blog? Do you care about what I think (do I?) or just about what I do? Is 'show, not tell' a good rule to apply to life? Can I be introspective without being crippled with self-doubt?

Are you an introvert? Are you happy?

Can't I just have a daily motto? That's like introspection. It's a game plan. I like game plans.

Like this one:

Mammoth Cave: the longest entry in the world.

2009-03-26T06:22:00.000-07:00

Oberlin is a small town. A lovely, charming town, but a small town nevertheless. And sometimes, it's great to just get out of town. Thus: Spring break in Mammoth Cave!

Our Heroes: Yoshi, Erika, Andrew, Iris and I
Our Place: Kentucky, Mammoth Cave and Louisville
Our Enemies: Winter, rain, nighttime.

Highlights of Our Adventure:

Mammoth. Mammoth Cave is the world's longest cave. Its held a tuberculosis hospital, a Methodist church, saltpetre (an element of gunpowder) and millions of tourists. We took two tours of the cave - a total of five hours underground. One tour guide was amazing: Jo Duvall had been working in the cave since the '60s and knew everything about everything. When President Reagan visited the cave, he talked to Jo to get information for his soundbites. He was a self-identified hillbilly with the articulation of a college professor.

The other tour guide was less amazing, but did have a great sense of humor. When we entered a wet portion of the cave and started seeing stalactites and stalagmites in formation, he explained, "When stalagmites and stalactites conjoin, we call them columns. Some people call them pillars, but I'm a Kentucky man, so pillars are what I sleep on."

We camped out about 10 minutes away from the main cave entrance. Our tent and a bunch of our supplies came courtesy of the Outing Club. Outing Club is so cool - they give free camping funds for food and gas, as well as backpacks, tarps, tents and anything you need for a week/weekend away from school. They've sponsored trips to the Rockies, the Adirondacks and places near and far from the college.

Team Family. Our second tour of Mammoth Cave was a lantern tour - we were given one lantern per family. Given we weren't a family, but yet we were a group, we bunched together and declared ourselves Team Family™.

Friendliness aside, groups take a while to bond. I'd never hung out with Erika, Andrew or Iris before for a long period of time. There's an easy way to tell when an Oberlin group bonds (cite: Yoshi) - it's when we all say we're from Ohio. Decisively. For the first day or so, the "Where are y'all from?" question yields... "Ohio, but-" "California" "Texas" "Wisconsin" "Pennsylvania, by Philly" "California, then New York."

After another day, we are from "Ohio." No ifs, ands, or buts.

Not us. Still, it's a big cave.

Delicious food. The benefit of going camping with co-opers is that they can cook like nobody's business. With excessive amounts of rice, pasta, potatoes, mushrooms, garlic, olive oil and mozzarella as bases, Erika/Andrew/Iris made some pretty incredible food. Also, there was much less snacking than other road trips I'd been on. The focus was much more on meals and eating together.

Flutes. Andrew, a double-degree classical saxophone/anthropology major, was playing in the pit band for Reefer Madness. Though he has very little flute training, they wanted him to play a specific line from Peer Gynt for the show. So, he needed to learn flute in two weeks. Who better to teach him than Erika? Apparently, Erika played classical flute for over a decade. So, each morning, as breakfast cooked away, Erika would teach Andrew how to relax his embouchure and play gorgeous music. It was amazing to watch how fast Andrew learned the instrument and how well Erika taught it.

Badass Hiking. I am virulently afraid of falling - I have trouble with any sport involving mountains. I love hiking, though, as long as the paths don't try to kill me. On our first real day, we went hiking, in search of the river. An ice storm had ripped through the parkland in late January and had felled thousands of trees and blocked off a number of roads. As a result, we had to take a more circuitous path to get to the river - a windy little path past tiny waterfalls and giant downed trees. Andrew found a tick on his leg, but the rest of us escaped (I hope). While there were hundreds of birds near the campground, we didn't hear so much as a peep up in the hills. Just miles and miles of woods.

Late March is not the gorgeous time in KY - it's still winter, there's not so much green. But there was gold. Some of the trees held little golden leaves that make a whooshing sound in the wind, similar to rain. It reminded me of the wobbly-headed tree spirits (kodama) in Princess Mononoke.

Kodama! Keep reading, it gets cooler.

After a while, we got a bit bored of this. We couldn't see the river, but according to the map, it was all around us. We went off the trail, which meant a sliding descent.

Given my violent acrophobia, this excellent idea turned uncomfortable very fast. Fear is a somatic emotion - I can feel my heart speed up, sweat pour, and a redness settle over my face. My voice becomes harsher, stomach acid sloshes around my gut. I wanted to be alone. I stared at the river for a few minutes. It was a shining aquamarine, gorgeous and clean.

However, it turned out that Erika was also afraid of heights. After a few minutes of descent, we crawled up to the trail.

Below us, the trio kept going: Iris and Andrew are rock-climbing geniuses and Yoshi has massive upper body strength. We could hear their voices, but not what they said. After about 15 minutes, they rejoined us on the trail, Andrew looking sheepish.

"What happened?" Erika asked. "Did you get to the river?"

"No. Andrew did something really stupid - " Iris said.

"For the sake of testosterone, can we replace stupid with badass?" Andrew interjected.

"Okay. So?"

Andrew had been climbing and saw a steep drop a few steps ahead of him. Aloud, he said, "This will be so much easier if I drop my bag down first."

After dropping the bag and hearing the smack a few minutes later, he said, "Shit. Guys? I need to get my bag back."

So Andrew jumped down and found he had no way to get back up the sheer cliff. There were a few minutes of frustration.

In order to retrieve Andrew, Iris gripped onto a tree, Yoshi hung onto one of her legs, and Andrew climbed up their human ladder.

"Badass," we said.

Our Heroes!

Iris. I didn't know Iris at all, before this trip. But over the days, I started to really enjoy her company. She's from Madison, Wisconsin, and is a life-long co-oper. When she was younger, she lived in a family-focused cooperative and grew up in a much larger family than most other people. We talked about co-ops a lot; I'm thinking of trying to live in one after I graduate for cost/community purposes.

Iris was a founding member of After Midnight, Oberlin's only coed a capella group that sings jazz standards. Whenever Iris or Andrew sat next to each other in the car, they would practice "Lush Life," one of the saddest ballads of all time. Gorgeousness. Iris also had some of the most insane camping stories of going out to odd little islands in Wisconsin to see gorgeous lakes and climb giant rocks. She's also one of the most cheerful, strangely ethereal people I've met -- someone who doesn't get brought down by the little things.

Iris wants to save humanity from becoming extinct. Like this guy to her left.

Yoshi. You know all about Yoshi, gentle viewers. He's my favorite person. On the second day, when he was driving, turkeys attacked the car. Yoshi was terrified. Whenever he drove after that, we pantomimed turkeys, playing into his gobbler-trauma. Though he hadn't gone camping as much as he'd like to, being outside of the school-world is good for him. When we told stories by the fire, I really loved to hear his. I know most of them, but he's a really skilled speaker, so it just gets better and better. He's really good at pausing.

I like him a lot.

Sleeping Yoshi is unaware of the panda about to devour him.

Andrew. I met Andrew as my co-lead for a play that Erika's girlfriend Sarah wrote for David Walker's Playwriting class. We portrayed wanna-be cultists who would do whatever it takes to get into "The Order." Andrew's character kicked the snot out of me while I creepily insisted that he do it. It was so much fun. But that show was at the end of the semester, so we never got a chance to hang out. (Also, I had a gigantic crush on him at the time so I found it difficult to speak in full sentences when he was around.) We did a lot of singing along in the car to Cake songs. Andrew was also a super-mega-tastic outdoorsman. He worked at a nature camp for seven years and thus knows all the less-dangerous ways to have an excellent time. He knows the dangerous ways too, but sometimes keeps mum on them.

And he speaks Czech. This boy is too hardcore.

Timmy and Andrew (Andrew on the right, looking like a Scottish folk hero. Timmy looks pretty foxy.) Credit: Ma'ayan.

Erika. Erika's been composing/playing for circus for as long as I've been around, but as a double-degree student, she's been busy. This year, she's sharing a house with Liz Hibbard, one of my favorite people in the world. Despite her practicing five hours a day, I get to see her more often when I chill in her house. This is excellent, as Erika is simultaneously chill and focused. She's got the easygoing Bay Area feel (her parents are Japanese hippies) but the ambition of a pianist. She's also endlessly curious, charming and considerate. We spoke about environmental politics for a while and I found out that Erika went to MLK Jr. Middle School, Alice Water's Edible Schoolyard. I've read about her middle school in academic papers on sustainability. Craziness. Also, as a shout-out to the project, she's working on urban food sustainability and wants to work in that field after college. Pay it forwards?

Erika, looking chill, photo courtesy of Yitka, who takes sweet pictures.

Swing Dancing > "Real World"

2009-03-10T06:21:00.000-07:00

I never bought any of that "greatest years of your life" crap in high school. Sadly, it seems that sentiment might be valid as far as college is concerned.

This terrifying thought struck me last weekend at a Mardi Gras party at French Language House. It wasn't a great party. The venue was too small and didn't have the best acoustics. Still, it was $2 to see an amazing New Orleans-style jazz band ... with beads, tasty king cake and masks. While dancing, I realized it wouldn't be this easy in the "real world." Music wouldn't be ubiquitous; conservatory players would be hot, expensive commodities. Friends would be harder to access, communities harder to join.

In fear of the real world, I resolved to do as many excited, ridiculous things as I can this semester. Especially new things. Like swing dancing.

This weekend I spent a majority of my time at OJDF - Oberlin Jazz Dance Festival. All in all, I took five classes and attended four dances. The classes were perfect: equal follow-lead ratio, strong teaching, good dancers. Very few folks were raw beginners, but we all needed a bit of help, so we could all teach each other. It takes me a long time to learn anything dance-related, so my ability to pick up lindy hop, charleston, Suzie Q's, turns and swivels was surprising.

The Saturday night formal dance was incredible. Obies don't get gussied up all that often, but when they do, it's a sight to be seen. I can still see the shimmer of Ploy's red silk dress ruffling in the hot air. We destroyed that gym floor - the floorboards rattled when the whole crowd danced. The festival hosted two competitions, one individual and one for couples. Competitors weren't only Obies - a few pros entered in, as well as some folks from Kalamazoo who visited for the weekend. It was incredibly well run and the collective skill level was amazing.

I'd always liked swing, both participating and watching. In my first year, I took the Swing Dance Exco but I didn't keep up afterwards after busting up my ankle. Freshman year was a long, long time ago, so I thought I'd lost it all. But this weekend, a lot came back, and I found it pretty easy to pick things up. I've still got a long way to go to feel proficient or be a tolerable follow, but this weekend was so energizing and inspiring. I want to do it. OSwing organizes a jazz dance every 2 weeks, and does a smaller jam each week, as well as blues dancing.

And sometimes, they just do ridiculous stuff... Example: Brett and Haley.

Normal dancing

Preparing for something?

Hot damn.

So much air!

Awwww.

(Photo credits: Ma'ayan "Freakin' Awesome" Plaut)

The attitude of Swing, like Contra, is super-social. I must insist on the superiority of contra for friend-making, due to its inherent silliness, but swing is a social dance. I feel as if I understand my friends I've danced with... in a different way. Sometimes, even watching them dance is enough to get a bigger view of them. When some people dance, they drop their guard. They laugh, they smile, they sweat, they mess up and keep going.

Work it, dance it, write it.

2009-03-08T06:15:00.000-07:00

In comparison to the first week of school, by the fourth week, I can tell a bit more where my energy is going. In short: everything takes five times the effort I originally expected. Sigh.

Admissions:

As an intern, my job is to interview prospective students, and assist the overall admissions process. I answer emails, work the front desk, speak with families, do filing. Right now, the counselors are working like mad, reading applications and meeting in committee. Each application gets read twice, then discussed in committee. Molly explained to me that the process is much more egalitarian here as compared to other colleges/universities. The first reader serves as the lawyer for the student, arguing their case to the rest of the admissions board. The decision is made by consensus, not solely by the dean.

Through this process, my respect for the admissions counselors has grown even larger than before. The sheer quantity of work they do is incredible.

Sco:

This week was a good one, dancing-wise. I grew up around music--my Dad ran a PA company, my grandmother has a Ph.D in music, my parents used to sing to me all the time. So when I need something to make me happy, music works best. Especially loud, silly music. On Wednesday, the Sco hosted Motown night, which got very, very crowded. I heard songs I haven't heard since election night, which was one of the happiest events of my life. The elation to "you can feel it all over" by Stevie Wonder was amazing, and the rest of the group was so alive. Whenever a mass of 100 people dance, there's so much energy generated that the mood becomes potent, electric.

Thursday's techno night was much more relaxed. My friend Daniel was DJ-ing--he played excellent trance. I met Daniel before school started: he's a first-year international student and I was catering some of the orientation events he attended. I remember working at a karaoke picnic, and arguing with him about which one of us should sing first. Anyone I can argue with is someone I want to befriend.

Yesterday, the Sco hosted a fundraiser for IYS (Immerse Yourself in Service) which hosted Triceratops, B-52s Cover Band, Bowie Band, and OSTEEL. Picture this entry, now add more hopeless noodling over how cool the Bowie band is. Their guitar players are ill, sick, ridiculous, and impressive. They turned "5 Years" into a rock epic. After the Bowie set, the crowd chanted "One more song!" or "Ten more songs! At my house!"

When we finished dancing, Ma'ayan invited myself, Yoshi, and Amanda back to Harkness for some pie. During the day, Ma'ayan and Daniel had made Derby, Bavarian Creme, and Chocolate-Coconut-Pecan pies.

Pie = Love.

Neurophysiology:

Some people speak Spanish, French, Chinese. My friends speak Science. If I didn't speak at least some pidgin Science, I couldn't understand them at all.

At Oberlin, I've taken Human Neurobiology, Behavioral Neuroscience, Abnormal Psychology and, at present, Neurophysiology. As much "vocabulary" as I've learned in class, I've gotten most of my grammar from my friends. I heard about Becca's woes with programming for experiments on childhood development, Alex and Jo Ling's fish, conversations on whether snails or crayfish would prove more effective for gathering data on neuronal membrane potentials.

I can tell I learned something in college because when I read this phrase at a normal pace: "'Cerebral activation patterns induced by inflection of regular and irregular verbs with positron emission tomography. A comparison between single subject and group analysis'" ... I understood it completely.

Three years ago? Not so much.

I wonder what my college career would have been if more of my friends spoke fluent Humanities. I might know about epistemology, determinism, or radical self-conscious ethnocentrism. As is, there's always more to learn.

Writing:

Creative Writing is a fascinating major--we don't have Honors, Capstones, or Theses. We just write, write, and write. This semester, I'm working with Chelsey Johnson and Sylvia Watanabe on a super-long project: The Novel.

Remember the Novella from last semester? That was the larva. This semester, I've gotta hatch a butterfly.

With Sylvia, I'm in a super-small workshop (five people) who are all top-notch kick-butt writers. Most of us were in Novella last semester, so we've got a feel for each other's styles already and have gotten comfortable being very constructive with one another. Workshops work when you can say to a writer: "This character? He's a jerk. He's not funny. He's not smart. Why is he here?" ... without being self-conscious.

With Chelsey, I'm going over the piece, full blast, each week. We did a close reading the other day and met for over 2 hours. It was great. Chelsey's focus is fabulism, a super-crazy writing style similar to magical realism, from writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Aimee Bender, and Ursula LeGuin. She gets my weird, post-apocalyptic romance stories.

Happily, my friends get it too, as the other language they speak is art. Making it, mostly, not analyzing. The mechanics of the creative process are so fascinatingly messy. All the rehearsals that take too long, the film shoots that die in poor lighting, the muscles pulled before the rehearsal, the paint splattered on new clothes, or hours of research for a character who will take up about a minute of script.

Even if we don't love the same thing, we love it in the same way.

Main Street Readings: Flash fiction, poetry, and bluegrass!

2009-02-18T05:20:00.000-08:00

Dear All,

We are delighted to invite you to read your flash fiction stories at the Valentine's Day Main Street Reading on Sunday night, February 15 at 8 p.m. Before we announce you as the winners of our competition...(etc).The five invited readers and their stories are:

Mack Gelber: "Frosted Flakes"
Sarah Hoffman: "Toaster Angels"
Aries Indenbaum: "The Happiest Place on Earth"
Marilyn McDonald: "A Certain Age"
Anna-Claire Stinebring: "Odd Jobs"

We will be sending out a general announcement soon. Thanks so much and congratulations!
Lynn Powell & David Young

----

When I got the note, I started dancing in the library and letting out some jubilant obscenities. I hadn't expected to win, especially for a story I hadn't workshopped, in a style I was new at. It made the whole thing very, very sweet.

The Main Street Readings pair the Creative Writing department with the local community, which is flush with great authors. Events take place at the "New Union Center for the Arts", an old schoolhouse with a giant steeple. I've seen poetry readings there, children's theater, fashion and arts displays. Freshman year, Boredom, a semi-improvised dramedy group, used to perform there. The place reeks of good memories.

Boredom: Guy, the cool older kid, with Shawn, the neighborhood cutie, attached.

The V-Day readings started with the Outhouse Troubadours, a twangy, loud, and totally kickass bluegrass band. The players were tight, their sound was spot-on. Doug, who lived in my dorm last year, is an awesome banjo player. He murdered his solos in gorgeous new ways. Their fiddle, guitar, mandolin and upright bass players were similarly skilled -- the fiddler plays in OSTEEL as well and seems an all-around musical wunderkin.
I know their singer, Alex, who kicked the crack out of her notes. I didn't think Obies could sing with that much country. Best of all, they were all really, really into it. You can always tell when the band actually loves to play, and they did.

Outhouse Troubadours at the Cat, photo credit to Ethan Robbins.

After the band, Nancy Boutilier read love poems. Now, my inner sap aside, I don't really do love poems. They unleash whole new worlds of atrocious. I normally feel a bit nauseated after hearing five. But not now.
Nancy's poems were brilliant. She wrote the way I want to write: explosive, funny, poignant, amazing and sharp. At the end, when she said she liked my piece, I felt like I'd been regaled by sweet angels.

Then, it was the students' turn. Marilyn McDonald had written about elementary school love, which the night's organizer, Lynn Powell, read aloud. Marilyn isn't a student, but a violin teacher in the Con, now playing in DC. Oh, Oberlin. The second writer, Mack, wrote one of the meaningful, thoughtful pieces I can never create. He focused on the frayed relationship between a middle-aged husband and wife. The story was melancholy, but never outright sad, or depressing, just very... realistic. Anna-Claire's piece was incredibly visual, emotional without being melodramatic. It was like watching a gorgeous short film, rather than a story. It was simple--girl has sunburn, boy helps her find pharmacy--but loving in a larger and more gorgeous way.

The third story was easily my favorite of the night. Sarah wrote letters from a man begging forgiveness for his emotional unreachability. The letters were hilarious, describing angels in the toasters, and the alien-ness of the narrator, who called himself an "autistic badger." Sarah had a deadpan, Buster Keaton-esque delivery that proved remarkably effective, reducing the audience to spasms of laughter.

Despite my confidence with storytelling to large groups, I get terrible stagefright if I have to read in public. Like piss-myself-and-cry stagefright. I sat on my hands so they wouldn't shake. There were about 60 people there, but I knew many of them. Somehow, friends are scarier than strangers. My story was also the only "R rated" tale, driving a small family out of the room. It was a story of teenagers in lust, at Disneyworld. Some of my professors were in the audience, and the thought of saying inappropriate things in front of them was galling. Still, I did it.

Afterwards, there was wine and chocolate, the best way to end a weekend.

Hieronymus Bosch in a Hot Air Balloon

2009-02-11T05:18:00.000-08:00

At the beginning of the semester, Oberlin has Add/Drop, when students can make changes to their schedules. If you're not sure if you'd like to take Human Origins, History of Medicine, or Epigenetics, you can attend all of those classes to check them out. During Add/Drop, Obies overcommit. This is inevitable. There's the Exco Fair, overwhelming and marvelous. There's a community service fair. New plays start auditioning, new ensembles grow into a niche.

For the first time, I'm going to try not to overcommit. Really.

Schedule:
Writing Project II: The Final Project (Sylvia Watanabe)
Grant Writing (Jan Cooper)
Western Architectural History (John Harwood)
Neurophysiology (Michael Loose)
Storytelling Exco (Me and Amanda "Tigerkiller" Lozada)

Independent Writing Project II
Sylvia taught Novella. Sylvia is my advisor. Sylvia is amazing. After you finish the workshop component of creative writing, you take independent projects where you meet one on one with your project sponsor. My goal: I want to put on a really exciting, new senior recital. More on that front soon.

Grant Writing
During Winter Term, I met with one of the performers and the tech director for Circus Contraption, a raunchy circus. One of the things I'm super interested and curious about is art management, so it was a good time to ask weird little questions...

Terry, Tech Doctor: Right now, we make about 80% of our income through tickets and sales.
Aries: That's awesome!
Terry: No, not really. We're just lousy at grant writing.

And then, a little lightbulb flickered on top of my head. I could take a whole *class* on Grant Writing! I would have a useful skill!

After two classes, Grant Writing does seem to be super-useful. We're doing it in a hands-on manner. First, we get in touch with an organization, either personal, or a community group... then, we learn all about them, learn how to write grants, and go try to earn money. Instead of Friday class, we have private meetings with the prof, Jan Cooper, who's really sweet.

Approaches to Western Architectural History
This class is so, so good. Yesterday, we talked about the merger between classical and Christian styles, as well as the mythos of Architecture, and the oddity of a thing invented and practiced before it was named.

Quotes:
[On the linguistic origins] "We pull the thread, and, as the Weezer song goes, the sweater unravels."
"There was no TV in Sodom and Gomorrah."
"I have opposable thumbs. I'm the boss here."

John Harwood is also a dreamboat, rather like Professor Indiana Jones in the classroom scene of Temple of Doom. No matter what gender you're attracted to, there's something nice about listening to someone handsome early in the morning.

Neurophysiology
When I don't take science classes, I can feel parts of my brain start to... rot. If I were to take a lateral slice, various parts of my cerebrum would be the consistency of cottage cheese. Or Ricotta. Something creamy that you eat with melon or salted ham.

I went through the science library the other day and nearly imploded. I needed a science, like peanut butter needs jelly. So, I looked through the course catalog on Wednesday, researched open Bio/Chem/Neuro/Physics/Geology classes and saw Neurophysiology.
I really like neuroscience, and the combination of Physics and Neuro seems lovely. I've only taken one day, so I'm withholding judgment, but it seems hard and really, really good. Prof. Loose has a really clear style of teaching -- he's going over membrane potentials until they feel intuitive.

In high school, I rather disliked most sciences, excluding Biology. When the teacher started drawing equations and models on the board, I fought to stay awake. I didn't really see the applications of it; I didn't think they could apply to me. I worked hard at my classes, but my heart wasn't in it (only my pig-headed need to do well). These days, I like the mathematical component of the sciences. I enjoy learning mechanisms, messenger systems, and all the little details. I like working on my problem sets.

Dammit, Oberlin. Dammit.

Storytelling Exco (Me and Amanda "Tigerkiller" Lozada)
If you missed this entry, here's a recap on Storytelling:
I took the Exco my freshman year, taught it my junior and senior years. My co-teacher is Amanda, one of my good friends, who I got close to when she took the class her freshman year. She is coincidentally one of the coolest people in the world. We're making the course our own.

Storytelling is an interesting practice, because the narrative is clear, but audience-speaker relations can be muddied. Unlike traditional theater, we encourage a lot more improvising, more fresh, experimental jokes and uses of scenery. So, to improve that aspect, we're leading more group and theater activities. Over Winter Term, Amanda worked on "In the Blood" as tech director, but also took some improv workshops, including a week-long course on Theater of the Oppressed. Together, we've got lots of ideas.

Amanda and I:

For the first class, we did "Yes, And," a storytelling game that improv groups use a lot to teach listening and innovation. Our three groups told stories...
1. Hieronymus Bosch in a Hot Air Balloon, poisoning children with evil candy.
2. Small Woodland Creatures start an earthquake that nearly destroys them all.
3. The Knights Templar drown in a Nerf Ball Pit, after ripping a hole in the sky.

It's going to be a great semester.

Flying and fooding

2009-01-29T05:13:00.000-08:00

Everyone I know has some flying rituals. Little things they think about -- places they get milkshakes or coffees. Stretches they do, people they call. Me, I always stay up too late packing the night before and spend much of the airport experience in a half-dead daze. I sleep on planes, curled up like a little child.

Once we landed at Cleveland-Hopkins Airport, I woke up and raced for the LCT stop. After waiting outside for 10 minutes, I huddled indoors and discovered I had missed the last bus by 15 minutes. Gahhh.

The LCT, or "Lorain County Transport," is a cheap bus running between Oberlin and Cleveland Airport, as well as other points in the area. The LCT runs seven times a day normally, and more so during special days (i.e. end of semester). If you can make the LCT, life is easy. If not, you're stuck with a taxi with a flat rate of $64 before tip & tax. Again: gahhhh.

If you've missed the LCT, it's customary for Obies to hang out at the airport to find someone to carpool/taxipool with. It's a nice way to make friends and save a bunch of money.

This time, I ended up meeting Lucas, a freshman from Oakland, who's really cool. He deferred for a year, taking a job for half the time and spending the rest of the year on Amtrak, seeing the country. He had spent his WT writing up and editing his journal from the travels. It was really interesting to see how his trip had differed from mine -- while Lucas went solo, I've normally had companions when exploring new areas. While I can be by myself without a problem, having company gives me a lot of perspective.

--

Right now, Yoshi and I are at home, on Pleasant Street. Oberlin is snow-covered, the college officially closed down for the day. It's good to be home, too. We notched the thermostat up and are putting away candy from Theo Chocolate, the only free-trade and organic chocolate-makers in the US. It's tasty chocolate. We just had dinner with the "Harkness Foodship," a group who stayed in Oberlin for Winter Term.

Everyone summed up their Winter Term in five words or less. I remembered these:
"Herodatus was a badass." (Greek Language Intensive)
"Playing with Legos." (Child development)
"Hip-hop is a one-word contraction." (Music and Spoken Word Readings)

Eliza wrote a limerick on her neurophysiology research:

A neuron, E1, had a mission
To excite all its neighbors' condition
Except, on occasion
In retaliation
'Twas paralyzed with inhibition.

... Though I forgot the words, I remember the other projects -- technical director for a play, building a super-computer, and Ma'ayan's Story Pirates.

As Ma'ayan can do a better job explaining the Harkness Foodship, I can sum up: it's an unofficial, Winter Term dining co-op where friends break from their projects to cook delicious meals. Last night's dinner was shish kabobs, cucumber salad, and couscous, with chocolate dipped fruits for dessert. The shish kabobs were either made of lamb or seitan, depending on preference. It was all very, very tasty.

The company was also wonderful to have again. To have a full table of people, happily eating a home-cooked meal... my heart shudders with fuzzy good thoughts.

Circus Parties and Finales

2009-01-26T23:10:00.000-08:00

"It must be Thursday," Ben said. I poked my head up from my straddle-stretch and saw most of my classmates taping their wrists and putting leg braces on their ankles. We were getting bedraggled, after countless handstands, cartwheels, and rope climbs. Yet as the weeks wound down, we got closer and closer as a group. In class, we were taught not to be competitive. We were never set against each other -- we were partners, coaches to each other. Afterward, I didn't feel jealous or inadequate towards my peers. It made it easy to be friends.

At the beginning of the month, we had class, ate lunch together at some local restaurant, and then split up, either to shadow classes or to wander Seattle. It wasn't a very cohesive group -- outside of circus, we didn't have so many similarities. Some of us were extrovert-dance-party-dance people, others were more... chill. When we went to an arcade, I forgot that not everyone likes shooting zombies, playing pinball, and rocking out on DDR. I believed these were intrinsic "good things," like sunlight and cotton candy. It seems that not everyone enjoys large dark rooms with flashing lights, violence, and loud noises.

But as the weeks went on, we gelled. There were circus parties on Saturday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday with dancing, massage circles, cooking, and games. Part of getting good at various circus skills is learning how to hyperextend your shoulders, arch your back, and make your abs hard as stones. Games become absurd and physical -- flexibility tests involving a broom, a push-up game with beer bottles, a bending game with a paper bag, and tipsy handstand contests. We did the things you aren't supposed to try at home.

On Thursday, we got in to see Teatro Zinzanni, a lavish dinner theater circus. Through school, we got a massive discount so the whole class and four teachers went. Teatro Zinzanni is a real-life Moulin Rouge, the stage and seated areas overlapping with mirrors, red velvet, elaborate costumes, feathers, glitter, and hats. The acts collide with a 5-course dinner, with acrobats doing flips off the tables, and the dinner plates being spun.

Though we were sitting in the outer ring (yay, discount!) we still saw an amazing show. The highlight was Les Petits Freres, three incredibly skilled acrobats with a great slapstick routine. Their finishing move was a three-high (person on another's shoulders, on another's shoulders) that they got into from lying down. The whole circus-school crowd, squashed into two booths, erupted with applause. We stood, cheered, and didn't sit down. After weeks of practice, we all knew, in every tired little muscle, how hard that move was.

Les Petits Freres!

Chef Caesar!

Audience participation was integral to the show. The maestro, Chef Caesar, pulled up a number of people, mostly women, to flirt with. But the big deal was when he needed a replacement and needed to find "three virile men" to choose from. Our group all pointed at Terry, one of our teachers who's a really gifted physical performer. He's Charlie Chaplin, if Chaplin could do aerial rope. We pointed at him, cheering. Except rather than Terry, the "Chef" winked at Yoshi. Yoshi, your narrator's boyfriend, was one of the selected.

The other two guys were big, all-American boys, blue-eyed and straight-haired. One was big and manly, the other was young and manly. Yoshi is 5'3'', slim with long hair and a goatee. The odds seemed a bit stacked. "Chef Caesar" serenaded the two other guys first, cooing over their bulging muscles and masculine charms... then approached Yoshi. I waited for the seemingly-inevitable barrage of short jokes.

Instead, Caesar started singing Jesus Christ Superstar. He finished a few verses of the theme song as well as "I Don't Know How to Love Him." The host hugged him, yelling, "You're back! I'm so glad you're back! Baby, baby Jesus, you sacred stud!" In the audience, the circus crowd exploded with laughter. Yoshi isn't a very Jesus-like guy. He's a neuroscience major from Texas.

In order to win Caesar's crown, the three guys had to dance to "She's a Lady (Woah, Woah, Woah)." The game: every time Tom Jones sung the word "Lady," the man would have to point to a lady. While looking sexy. The first two guys went up, one by one and did an okay job. In the back, one of the waitress/performers gave Yoshi two pieces of advice:
1. "Take it off."
2. "Show them that Jesus could dance."

And Yoshi did. We've been doing dance warm-ups for the past 3 weeks -- both modern, ballet, and hip-hop. Yoshi served it up, stripped off his jacket, and pointed at ladies. The crowd crowned him victor and he got a little medal that said WINNER!

The next day, we had our final performance of "Look what I learned!" with individual acts and a big group number. Given none of us knew any of this before, it was amazing how much and how fast we had learned. Some of the others in the group excelled at one thing or another: rope, tightwire, trampoline, acrobalance, etc. For me... I didn't find a specialty, but I did find an area to improve in. For two weeks, I was scared of the trapeze. I couldn't get the most basic move, the "basket hang." It's not complicated, but I don't like holding myself upside down. Sticking my butt over my head is different from most other things in my life. But after I nailed the basket hang a few days ago... I got less scared of the trapeze. So, I made a short routine. Three of our coaches gave me advice on form and taught me some new moves (mermaid! bird's nest!). I shook out my newly-calloused hands and put on a little act.

We finished up with a few pyramids, doing slapstick-style interludes. The best was the "running man" number. Two duos stood face-to-face, grasping the other's wrists, making a little square platform that someone could balance a foot on. Or he could pantomime running a marathon, a la Prefontaine, with the duos whistling the "Chariots of Fire" theme. Then, we had a picnic lunch, did more handstands, went to a contra dance, and had a party.

This has been the best Winter Term I could imagine.

Seattle, the city of neighborhoods.

2009-01-21T23:14:00.000-08:00

After two weeks of circus school, I have bruises on my arm from hula hooping too hard, a cut lip from a bad handstand, big cuts on my foot from aerial rope, as well as more arm strength, new friends, better handstands, more confidence and balance. I'm stronger than ever before.

While circus school eats up over 20 hours a week, I do recognize a world outside of the tumbling mats and trampolines: Seattle.

I've been to Seattle once before, to visit colleges when I was a high school junior. My mother pointed out that college was more than your classes -- it was where you were living for four years. College had to be livable.

One of my priorities for college was getting out of New York. The east coast mentality doesn't resonate with me. While I like my ethnically diverse food, towers and subways, I've got a fondness for places with shared eye-contact and repeated meetings. I don't like to rush, and I'm not so fond of stress. Going west seemed obligatory. So my parents and I looked on the map and idly poked around. I didn't really know what I wanted in a college -- big/small, rural/urban -- so it seemed better to go by location and scope it out.

"I've never been to Seattle," I said, imagining gray skies, coffee, comic books and indie bands.

"When's spring break?" my parents asked.

In five days, I visited Puget Sound, U-Dub (University of Washington), Evergreen State, and Reed. I loved the classes at Puget Sound, the architecture at U-Dub, the artsy vibe of Evergreen, and the academic vigor of Reed. All of them were brilliant, though none of them felt like home. Given the pace of the trip, my mother and I didn't get much of a chance to poke around, but we liked the misty city we passed through. We would come back one day, we decided.

That day has come.

Yoshi and I struck it lucky: we're staying with a wonderful young couple. Karina, an Oberlin alum, read a little note in the local alumni newsletter and thought: "Yeah, I'll put up two circus kids." Bless her. She and her husband, Chris, have been incredibly welcoming. They've got full-time jobs and do capoera, kajukenbo and dance on the side, so they're pretty busy, but when we've had some shared time, we've hung out.

Karina and Chris live in the Central District, about 10 minutes by bus from the International District, Pioneer Square, and downtown. Delicious Vietnamese/Thai/Ethiopian/Chinese/Japanese restaurants are minutes away. We've been able to get bubble tea every other night. Otherwise, we've explored.

Seattle's downtown closes up at about 6:00, every day, which is super-weird. When we first got here, the lack of folks around a commercial area seemed rather creepy. With all the alleyways and fog, it seemed like a horror movie, just waiting to happen. Apparently, the present temperature (mid-40s) is considered "cold." People stay in, rather than trolling the streets for excitement.

Aside from downtown, we've wandered through Fremont, Beacon Hill, Green Lake, Georgetown, the International District, Central District, UWashington, Kirkland and Madrona. We've haggled for pizza, gone contra dancing, taken yoga, drunk bubble tea, gone shopping at Uwajimaya , talked to Native American art dealers and organic pizza makers, been harassed by homeless women, gotten into fights, eaten potluck burrito dinners, and been lost on buses. We've heard riot-folk and good stand-up comedy.

It's been great. While I miss the pulsing, busy, friendliness of Oberlin, I love the city in the sea.

Off to Circus School!

2009-01-10T23:16:00.000-08:00

Given my recent activities - teaching a circus arts Exco, producing a circus show and organizing OCircus - it seemed easy to decide my Winter Term project. Right now, I'm in Seattle, studying at SANCA, the School for Acrobatics and New Circus Arts. To put it succinctly, this school is going to kick my ass.

One of the purposes of Winter Term is to give Obies the ability to use resources that the college can't provide. My first Winter Term, I went to Hawaii to work on my godparents' orchid farm and learn about permaculture. My second year, I lived in Guadalajara, taking 4 hours of Spanish classes a day and living with a Mexican family. Last year, I split my term between home and Oberlin, working on an independent writing project. Over the last few years, I've spent more and more time working on OCircus and need more guidance, both in terms of skills and experience. Though learning from one another is valuable, it's also good to have the perspective of a professional from the field - someone who can be a mentor.

SANCA was founded by a professional rigger and a nurse, five years ago. Chuck, the rigger, had gotten into gymnastics rather late in life, using the muscles he built as a construction worker/stunt double. He started teaching acrobalance informally, and one of his students got a bright idea. Jo, an inner-city nurse, was noticing higher rates of childhood obesity, and few cures. Circus was a non-competitive, but very physically intense activity - wouldn't it be great to start a school, open to all ages and backgrounds, to build confidence, skill and strength through various circus arts?

These days, SANCA is run by about sixteen teachers, five of whom are Oberlin alumni. Besides teaching classes, they do outreach in middle schools throughout the greater Seattle area. As we have a really strong connection here, SANCA designed a special 3-week intensive course, just for Oberlin students. We're taking a three-hour classes each day, shadowing/assisting in other classes for five hours a week, and we can attend any additional adult classes with spaces open.

Class is hardcore. We spend about a half-hour doing warm-ups: jogging, stretching, dancing, moving, and then move on to skills. We've tackled crazy jumps on the trampolines, climbed rope, twisted around the aerial silks, walked on a tightwire, run on a rolling globe, hung on the trapeze and a German Wheel, as well as juggled, balanced, and tumbled. For three hours, with about four ittie-bittie breaks. I can genuinely say it's the most physically intense thing I've ever done. I love it.

After class, the priority is simple: food. Protein, in particular, as so much of the activity is anaerobic. Yesterday, my class got lunch at Stellar, where the pizza really was... stellar. It was really great to just sit back and eat tasty food with people I'd spent hours sweating around. After lunch, I shadowed two youth classes. Phew. Running after little kids isn't exactly exercise, but it is exhausting. Watching the nine-year-olds do things that I can't is particularly humbling. One of the little girls was an incredible gymnast, excelling at aerial rope tricks, her long blond braid dangling into the rope.

The little kid group I had afterwards was adorable. At first, I had trouble spotting handstands because their hips were so far away. Even so, they all high-fived "Coach Aries" at the end. I am a rock star to four-year-olds.

After five and a half hours of circus, adult acrobalance class was... difficult. After doing head-stands for the second time that day, I wanted to curl up in a ball and nap for hours. Exhaustion aside, I learned a lot.

A bit of terminology: acrobalance is the art of two or more people manipulating each other through space. If you've seen a human pyramid, or a piggy-back ride, that's simple acrobalance. One person is the base, who stays in contact with the ground. The base moves the flyer in complex and fairly precarious positions. Generally the lighter person is the flyer; however, the moves are more about physics than strength. A small flyer can still support a larger base, but it's a lot harder.

One of the coolest things we went over were two-highs, where the flyer stands on the base's trapezius muscle, while the base grips their legs and presses down with their head. If all goes right, the flyer is locked in, totally safe, five feet above the ground. A good base can walk around with their flyer. At the end of class, I got to base a two-high, resting the co-founder of SANCA between my shoulders.

Right now, my entire body aches. My neck is afire. My rhomboid is iffy. My thighs are confused. My biceps are in agony. This is perfect.

More about Seattle life soon. For now, bed!

Finally finished with Finals.

2008-12-21T19:51:00.000-08:00

The hard part of Finals is ... finishing them.

I completed my Ancient Sexuality paper just in time. In my haste to take a nap, I sent a "Yay, here you go!" email to Professor-Captain Kirk Ormand, but forgot to include the attachment with the actual paper. It had been a long night.

I've spent the past few days on the paper, focused on seductive lyric poetry in Greece and Rome. I argued that the poems weren't seductive at all. Generally, the poems demeaned the person they were hoping to woo. The pieces, in my view, were intended for something else entirely: asserting the masculinity of the narrator/author. The paper was called "Boyfriend Training."

I muddled through the Astronomy final, nailing the math problems, but totally forgetting how to find supernovas and any useful data about quasars. I'm still working on finished David's paper. The day after the Sexuality paper, I worked on the drama paper, but for some reason, I didn't save it at the end of the night. I lost about 4 hours of work. Pleasantly, I also found that when I opened the document, my paper was awful. Really, quite awful. So I spent the past 5 hours trying to make the paper more coherent.

And then, I worked on novella. And worked. And worked.

And now, I'm done! I've been to the library, bought my parents Christmas presents, worked out at the gym for a really long time, gotten dinner with my grandmother, and slept.

Overall, I fought really well in the War Against Procrastination, battling the axis of academic apathy:
1. Friends
2. Webcomics
3. Events

Friends
These are the Clytemnestra of my life, the sweet dangers who may lead to academic disabling. Pretty, kind, intelligent, bearing tasty things and good ideas. We all cluster in the academic commons of the library, cozy ourselves and chat. I must be wary of them.

Webcomics
A laundry list of foes:
XKCD, Questionable Content, Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal, Married to the Sea....

Events
Around the end of the year, most folks have their recitals, final projects, and all sorts of ridiculous study breaks. Some days, the "Study Breaks" start at 10:00AM and end at midnight. If you attended all, you'd be in trouble. I focused on a few: a three-band show, the Dead Hear Footsteps (WOBC radio noir drama), the Storytelling EXCO's final show, and Artwalk.

Artwalk is one of my favorite events at Oberlin. The art students of all levels and mediums take over studios, the classrooms, and the hallways of the building. Any empty space is snatched up and covered with photos, sculpture, or paintings. Hallways, furniture, doorways... last year, there was a sculpted boat made of passports sitting between two of the art wings. It's free, open to the public, and packed.

Some of my favorites:
Seth's photos. Seth is one of my coworkers for Academic Ambassadors and his project was perfect. Obies are not very... formal people, in action or in decor. We wear comfy clothes. We're pretty chill. So when there's someone who behaves in a more formal manner, it's pretty interesting. Seth's pieces explored his own formalism, with two black and white photos selected from his set. In both, he was dressed like a young power-broker, tied to a chair or wearing a dunce cap.

Natalia's Quinceañera photos were brilliant.

I asked my friend Izzie if she had any pieces for Artwalk (she's an art major), and she ducked her head and said, "Yeah, but it's no big deal. Don't go for me." Izzie is modest. And highly ridiculous as her piece was beautiful--a dual-layered piece using transparency sheet with the physical form and an underlayer with the skeletal structure, shaded to show a sense of emptiness. Still, Izzie was better than Liz, who forgot to tell me that she had a mixed-narrative piece up--a giant mural with a woman waiting on a road, Wyeth-esque, with a story she told playing on an old walkman.

Many of the pieces were interactive games. A crowd favorite was the Cat Chess Board:

(Anna and Sandhya)

Speaking of Anna, she also had a piece up that gorgeously blended about 10 different cartooning styles, from Ramona Quimby to Eloise. I got lost in it for a while.

Besides this, there were a wall of faces, an installation piece on the divide between Palestine and Israel, colored vials, comics (one by Nick Wirtz, a design/artist/video genius). Antonio built a tank.

The work was so imaginative--being able to see it really helped me through the tedium of Finals.

Afterwards, I went to the Cat and danced to OSTEEL, Oberlin's awesome steel drum band.

Happy holidays!

** Photo Credits to Ma'ayan "Gorgeousface" Plautand the OSTEEL website!

2008-12-10T19:49:00.000-08:00

Work it for Women was sponsored by 4 different organizations: SURF (Students United for Reproductive Freedom), ACTS (Advocating Choice Though Spirituality), ACLU (American Civil Liberties Union), OC Democrats, and HIV Peer Testers. Outside of the Sco, each group set up tables with information, selling brownies and snacks to raise money for local abortion funds. And inside of the Sco, after a donation, was really excellent music.

As Medicaid covers the procedure only in cases of rape, incest or life endangerment, abortion is functionally inaccessible for low-income women in this area. The money raised by Work it for Women was to help women with the costs of an abortion: travel, overnight stays and child care. At one count at the end of the night, the event raised over 2,000 dollars and also educated hundreds of students regarding the difficulties of obtaining an abortion, showing ways in which students can help.

After talking to a few SURF workers, I went inside to the concert. I caught the tail end of Like Bells, Will's really amazing band, and stuck around for The Sauce and The David Bowie Cover Band.

The Sauce is the high-quality funk jazz that play really solid sets. If there's an official school function in which dancing would be good... the Sauce is there. They're mostly jazz studies majors who have their licks down, so when they play, it's obvious that they're having fun. The guitarist, Jamey Arent, was particularly on, wearing this incredible look of rapture during his solos. The lead singer, Alex Birnie, did an amazing job working up the crowd. I had slid to the front and stood near Mike King on keyboards, who looked zen for the whole show, even when the tempo picked up.

And then, the Bowie Cover Band. Confession: I love David Bowie.

When I was still a bump in my mother's womb, my dad made my mom an excellent Bowie mixtape for her hour-long drive to college. Twice a day, she played the mixtapes, for my entire fetus-hood. I gestated through Space Oddity, Ashes to Ashes, Modern Love, John, I'm Only Dancing and Young Americans. My brain formed with saxophone solos. Now, as an adult, I know the lyrics to Bowie songs that I've never heard before. I've watched Labyrinth, the Prestige and The Man Who Fell to Earth. I know all the different stages of Bowie, from Ziggy Stardust to the Thin White Duke.

The David Bowie Cover Band shook my world.

First, it was a big band: two sax players, two guitarists, a violinist, a drummer, a pianist, two back-up singers and a front man. They were all very attractive. Very, deeply, poignantly attractive. I needed to fan myself as they did sound check. The whole band were all in some form of Bowie regalia -- Andrew, one of the sax players, had the Aladdin Sane face-paint; Derek, the guitarist, wore a man-dress; the drummer wore faux-snakeskin pants. And the lead singer embodied Bowie, his blond hair slicked back and his eyes rimmed with eyeliner. Throughout the set, the Lead Bowie adopted the trade-mark mannerisms perfectly. He only left the persona for a few minutes during a break in the set to read a PSA about abortion statistics.

The crowd responded very, very positively: fans howling lyrics back at the band. Some of us jumped onto the step in front of the stage, just to get a little closer. Most of the folks in the audience were dancing in a crazed exuberant way: arms flying, hips shaking, legs kicking. You don't grind to Bowie; you dance. At the end of the show, the line for the water fountain was impressive.

After the concert, I walked one of the organizers home, to Johnson House, then back to North, which is the longest walk one can take on campus: 15 minutes.

The next day, after a tour and two circus meetings, I went to Ed Underhill's senior recital. As mentioned here, the composition students at school are top-notch. Ed's focus was on evocative, narrative pieces -- after college, he's going to grad school for film musics. From his concert, it's pretty clear that he's already on his way. Also, he plays the accordion. What can be better?

(Ed playing with Erika Oba in the Circus)

His first few pieces were solos and duets, but his final two pieces incorporated a small orchestra -- there were up to 19 people on the Warner stage. The final two pieces were incredible; the word "soaring" was described for those pieces. Best of all (for me), the pieces told a story. More than many pieces of writing, Ed's music had a strong narrative arc, which really grabbed me. The entire audience sat rapt, completely enraptured. I read an article in Slate that pinned down the feeling: "elation."

It was a good weekend.

+ Photo Credits: Kate Ettinger and Ma'ayan Plaut

Contra Dancing: What, Where and Why You Should Do It

2008-12-07T19:26:00.000-08:00

As mentioned, I'll do anything for a contra dance. But what is a contra dance?

Well, depending on who you ask, it's a line, social, square dance, or barn dance, built out of English folk dance traditions. A caller reads out instructions for the dance, walks everyone through it once, and calls out moves throughout the dance. Everyone partners up, but also dances with every other couple on the line. I think it's all a metaphor for infidelity within small towns: you'll stay with your partner, but you'd really like to take on your neighbor.

The contra theme was "Formal," so I wore my little black dress and went out to dance with fine-frocked ladies and buttoned-up gents. I've been getting into leading, as well as following, which is helping me with my overall frame. The contra scene here is very cool with non-standard gender pairings: women leading women, men as follows... it's all good. It also leads to better dancing all around, when you understand why your partner makes the movements that he/she does.

It's a very easy dance to learn. The essential move is the "swing," where each partner faces the other, rests their arms on the other's back and spins around. It's awkward for the first few times -- you feel as if you're skipping while attached to another person -- but with practice, it comes easily enough. The other moves are deliciously simple: the allemande, the do-si-do, circles, stars... all of which the caller's say in time with the music, so the entire room of dancers moves in unison with their separate partners.

And of course, there's live music. The contra band has a rebellious streak, changing its name for each gig. Tonight, they were "Stretchy Rhino." Or "Chewy Rhino." Or "Tasty Rhino." Besides a fiddler, there's sometimes dulcimer, banjo and percussion.

It's also a great way to make friends. Rather than club dancing, contra has space to speak with your partner, rather than just whirling around. I've gotten to meet some amazing people: not only other Obies, but folks from around Ohio. As I've been doing it since I was a wee first-year, I've gotten to see people change. One girl who started going when she was 12 has now hit puberty and talks to me about middle school -- another partner has just fathered a child. It's a different slice of life.

One of my favorite partners is Glen, who I've been dancing with for about 3 years. Besides being a supremely kind and generous landlord to college students, Glen works as an electrical engineer. His workdays start at 5:00 AM and end at 6:00 PM. Strangely, he's a relaxed, easy-going guy. Over the summer, we got coffee and chatted about progressive radical baptists, permaculture, music and peace movements. As much as I love college students, it's nice to be able to connect with someone who's in their 50's.

The dances typically end with a waltz, but this one had a special ending show, from the rapper sword Exco, dancing with huge bendable swords in gorgeous patterns!

*Images courtesy of Dale Preston, Ma'ayan Plaut and the Oberlin College Contra Dance Club!

Don't Let Go of the Coat

2008-11-29T19:11:00.000-08:00

When I was a freshman, I got to campus a day early before Orientation started. Mom and I took the day to walk around town and dedicate ourselves to one vital task: buying a winter coat. This was, of course, in August, but my mother is Norwegian and believes (understandably) that one could not live without a good coat.

So, we strolled through town. The college and the town are literally built into each other, founded in the same year. There's no set point where the town "starts" and the college "ends": no wall, gate or door. Initally, this confused the hell out of me, but now seems normal. In about 5 minutes, Mom and I passed a café, comic book shop, two hair salons, two banks, an ice cream shop and a dozen different restaurants - Asian Fusion, Chinese, Mexican, breakfast, classic Americana... but precious few clothing stores. Curious, we asked the saleswoman at Ben Franklin's, the town five and dime. She smiled at us and waved us down the street to Bead Paradise.

The store right next to the official college bookstore, Bead Paradise has huge glass windows and three sections: on the main floor, an upscale clothing and jewelry section; upstairs, an eastern section; and downstairs, a dirt-cheap vintage section. While my mother briefly dallied at the beads, I ran down to the vintage floor. It was gorgeous. Each inch was packed with discount dresses, skirts, slips, rubber boots, leggings, hatpins and winter hats.

We ooh'd. We ahh'd.

In the back stood a wall of coats where my mother was waving her arms, saying, "It's you! It's you!" My mom is a hard lady to ruffle-up, so this behavior was pretty exceptional.

It was a good coat, camel-colored, made off a recycled fleece-type material. I walked over and tried it on. The sleeves were long, giving my fingers had a lot of wiggly-space. The inner lining had a shiny and very soft front layer holding back a small woolen layer, the thickness of an eraser.

We did the jacket's longevity by dropping it repeatedly on the ground, then jumping and stomping on it. I warmed my hands in the pockets. I popped the collar, buttoned, unbuttoned and re-buttoned. I rolled up the sleeves. We wanted something lovely that would last. I tried on other things, to test the waters, but returned back to the original.

Perfect. Twenty Dollars.

I've worn it nearly every cold day, for the past 3 years.

It's my defining piece, from when I was a gothic first year, to a shaved-headed sophomore, a harried junior and now, a senior. Whenever I've slept on one of the comfy couches of a dorm lounge, it's been my blanket. When I went camping on Fall Break, it was my pillow. I've used it as a towel, when my real towels were still in summer storage. I used it as a bandage when I've fallen on my face, the time I went "skating" on the ice in the Arb. I've worn it to see renowned speakers, like Michael Pollan. I've traveled in it, across the country, from New Orleans to Dallas, Poughkeepsie, Pioneer Valley and San Francisco.

Last year, the pockets wore away. By now, there are long rips at the side, making it look like a fashionable lab coat rather than something meant for wind, rain and snow. There are mud and salt stains on the edges and the cuffs are frayed. Worst of all, the inner lining, so soft and delicate, has ripped almost entirely away. The coat is just canvas now.

Last week, someone on my tour asked, "Is your coat meant to make a statement?"

I stared dumbly at her and burbled out, "Uh... Not really, no. It's like my skin now, y'know, I can't really not-wear it. ...Yeah." Which was potentially the weirdest thing I've said on a tour in recent memory.

So today, Black Friday, day of national capitalism, I went to buy a new coat. The vintage store in the bead shop has since closed, but most of its goods have gone to Ratsy's, the antique store just past the public library. Ratsy's has a more focused selection than the old vintage store, targeting '50s era Americana. Inside its homey walls lies everything from old-time Life magazines, wooden furniture, china, plastic dolls, and ancient Oberlin College yearbooks. Given my height, nearly six feet, and proportional hips, '50s Americana is not my era. But I did find a coat.

I love it. It's red, long, warm with unnecessary buttons and belt. The inner lining isn't as soft, which is probably good, and the overall material is hardier, a bit closer to wool. It cinches in the back, so I can look ladylike if I want. The sleeves are a bit shorter, so I'll potentially get less wear on them. It looks like it can take a few years of not-so-tender care, wherever I may be.

The owner, the eponymous Ratsy, was at the cash register and gave me a free toy! I also purchased: a hat and a present for Ma'ayan.

I'm keeping the original coat, of course. There's a lot of life in that bit of fleece.

To Do List

2008-11-23T12:01:00.000-08:00

To Do:
(I think you can tell a lot about someone by their To Do list.)

Memorize and Block Scene from Arcadia for David Walker's Contemporary British and Irish Drama class.
There are many reasons that David Walker's class is amazing. It's the quintessential discussion class at its most effective. David makes sure the conversation avoids becoming cyclical, but doesn't lead discussion too forcefully, save to have us focus on individual scenes at some points. Discussion moves swiftly, as everyone in the room cares. The class has an interesting mix of Theater and English majors, two very different groups with very different concerns. When we do check-ins--a quick go-round-the-room of each person's gut response to the play--I hear an incredible flurry of comments addressing everything from structure, to gender, a character's particular motivation, intellectual ideals, trouble with staging, one's emotional response, use of language, social implications and a million other things.

We're reading Tom Stoppard's Arcadia this week, so a familiar phrase in check-in was "My mind is blown." Chris Sherwood has spent years telling me about how amazing this play was, and how he needed to do it as his honors project. Then, he would start babbling about gardening, budding sexuality, hermits, historical revisionism and how staging it in Hall Auditorium would be the best thing in the history of the world excepting the invention of Legos. And for years, I would nod and say, "Of course, Chris. Absolutely."

Except Chris was correct. Arcadia is amazing.

The other repeated check-in question was: "I wonder how this looks staged."

That's my homework. Each week, two folks in the class present a scene--blocked, memorized and polished. It's really incredible to watch the classroom get transformed into a stage and to see my demonstrative, passionate classmates become a rapt audience. I'm up for this week, playing 13-year-old prodigy Thomasina as she plots fractals, plays the chaos game and gets googly-eyed over her tutor. I'm excited, but I'm awful at memorizing. I love doing "research"... which is to say, reading about chaos theory.

I'm also doing the scene with Alex Huntsberger, one of the best actors at Oberlin. Normally, Alex is a pretty relaxed guy. But when he goes into character, it's incredible. The Alex-ness of him goes away, and someone completely different peeks out from behind his eyes. I've seen him in shows before--but to watch the transformation from 2 feet away is ... mind-blowing.

PS: When I botched one of the monologues, I kept my face down for a large part of the following discussion. Damn you, overdeveloped sense of shame.

Write More for my Novella Class
Right now, I've churned out 47 pages of a dystopian love story criticizing big box culture called "Wasteland." It involves sewage, child labor, the 1939 World Fair, engineering and romance. I need about 20 more pages, and need to polish it up before my Novella class eats it alive. Novellas are "baby novels," so we're aiming for stories between 50 to 75 pages, which is pretty demanding.

After years of workshop classes, I've got a pretty thick skin, so I'm none too worried about my class of 12 brutalizing my little baby story. But they're all really smart, so I want to make the best use of their time. So the more story I have written, the more effective their commentary. The class has a fascinating mix of writers, all with very different tastes and styles. Some of the novellas are solidly realistic; others more stylized, experimental and surreal. Many of my classmates are taking really big risks--writing through unreliable narrators, or doing fascinating things with form. It's fascinating to watch them through the process.

Paper for Ancient Greek and Roman Sexuality Class!
- Decide whether writing on Catullus or Tibullus.
- Choose poems: read the naughty parts of Catullus out loud to friends.
- Think up brilliant thesis. Smile contentedly.
- Write outline, then discuss with Professor-Captain Kirk Ormand.
- Write first draft, go to Writing Center, weep, rewrite.
- Get an A on paper.
- Rejoice!

The Rest of the List:
- Borrow Nikki's astronomy notes from day missed due to illness. Read about black holes.
- Write lesson plan on Busking for Circus Arts Exco.
- Go Rock Climbing.
- Go to Tumbling Club.
- Go see Jesse's Senior Recital, The Illusion, Cinderella (Cendrillon, an opera), David Bowie movie The Hunger.
- Lead a few circus meetings.
- Run the Turkey Trot?
- Get some sleep?

Is this safe? Safe enough.

2008-11-16T07:20:00.001-08:00

Most events at Oberlin start a little late. Timeliness is a virtue, of course, but most shows are friendly to stragglers. Especially at the Cat in the Cream - the line for cookies gets pretty insane. Given that, we expected to close the doors at 8:10, anticipating that by 8:00, the show's start time, we wouldn't have much of a crowd.

Except by 8:00, every seat was taken. And by 8:05, the room was packed.

When Ed started playing accordion with Erika on piano - meant as background "settle it down now" music - the audience took it as an overture. They sat still, went quiet and rapt. I choked down a blissful squeal as Chris and Greg ran up from the audience, yelling, "Welcome, to the Johnson Family Circus!"

Because I'm in an act, I don't watch the whole show. But the parts I saw were brilliant. Jim's act was phenomenal - he worked the crowd into a screaming ball of delight as his LED poi cut new colors into my eyes. The jugglers nailed most of their throws. Amanda's facial expressions were priceless. Greg and Chris added new lines to their scenes, so the dialogue was even punchier.

There were no disasters, no missed cues, the step didn't break this time... It was polished. And good. I felt so proud of every single person involved.

The show's tone was well-balanced. There were cute acts, like the hula-hooper with self-esteem issues, the stepdancer who triumphs over other bullying steppers, the bellydancer who gets the stagehand-clown, an independent mermaid and a ballet act. Then, there were more mature acts, like mine... a bed of nails act.

Over the summer, I saw a circus cabaret in NYC called Vicious Vaudeville that incorporated a bed of nails into a strongman sideshow act very successfully. We like success; we wanted to emulate. So, over Fall Break, Yoshi, Amanda, Nikki, Erin and Atty built this terrifying looking object with the nails spaced an inch apart. It was meant for Yoshi.

But when Yoshi lay down on it, it hurt him. A lot.

But when I lay on it, it didn't. It tickled.

The way a bed of nails act works is basic physics. The amount of surface area you have spread over the nails, the easier it is. Weight and pressure gets distributed evenly - the more nails you cover, the less painful it is. If you drop an apple on the bed, the nails will rip through the apple. If I walked on the bed, the nails would go through my feet. That would be bad.

But, if I lie down on them with my torso flat, my weight more or less evenly distributed... all is well. It's also a helpful thing that I'm really tall (nearly 6 feet) and have a bit of flub around my stomach. It hurt Yoshi most because he's both smaller and slimmer than me. When he lies down, the nails hit bone and muscle, with less surface area to compensate. On me, they hit flub and muscle. Flub is malleable - bones aren't.

Of course, enough people have seen the county fair boards where any volunteer can lie on a bed of nails without a whit of pain tolerance or training. This is why I complicate things, by using less surface area, doing low-level contortion and by ... uh... not wearing a lot of clothes.

Is this safe? Safe enough.

Do I have a spotter? I have two at the ready, a bit offstage!

Does it hurt? Yes, but no.

Should I worry about tetanus? Yes.

Am I going to worry about tetanus? No.

Is it fun? Yes. Oh, yes. In the audience's glare, my adrenaline peaked and my ability to feel pain decreased. For the full houses we brought in, I landed two moves I hadn't before - a split with my hands up, and a cool stretch on my belly. I felt like a million bucks.

I love the circus. I love this show. I love all of you weird, incestuous bastards. It is my great pleasure to work with you all.

--

(Regarding Stress)
Aries: It's super weird, my nose randomly started bleeding in class. It was like my face was menstruating.
Yoshi: It could be humidity change. Or a brain tumor. Hopefully not the latter.

Johnson Family Circus!

2008-11-13T07:21:00.000-08:00

There's an expectation in circus that you have a life... outside of circus. While theater shows demand hours and hours of presence at rehearsals and such, circus is always a bit more low key.

What do I mean, low key?

Well, the show is a week away and we still haven't choreographed the finale. The set loads in today; the performers use the space on Monday. We go up Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

We're putting up the show in my favorite venue on campus - the Cat in the Cream. The Cat in the Cream is the best coffeehouse / jazz / folk / poetry venue that I could imagine. It's big, yet intimate, seating about 200 people tops. On the stage - which has taken a lot of abuse - there's a Steinway. The back wall is covered by a huge mural of musicians, in a style reminiscent of a more upbeat Orozco. The light and sound operating boards aren't too hard to use, the space gets pretty warm. All the shows are free.

And, they sell cookies. Big, homemade cookies.

The premise for this show is pretty sweet - we're the Johnson Family Circus, a slightly campy vaudeville traveling show. It's got a nice meta quality to it, describing Oberlin (and the circus) to a tee - we may not be blood relations, but we are a family. It's going to be fun - the Mother and Father emcee characters have great chemistry. The acts are solid.

It's a funny bunch - circus always attracts an interesting mix of dance-theater types and math-science types. The folks who bellydance and the folks who juggle share the stage. We've got a nice mix of ages for this show; there were some really talented first years who gravitated towards the circus: Joe is a professional clown, who's traveled from Sri Lanka to South America, doing clowning with Patch Adams; Greg is a relaxed Conservatory student who's a great improviser. We have live musicians - Erika on the piano; Ed on accordion and Jim on drums - all of whom composed music for the show. The leadership is pretty democratic: we determined the show's theme by popular vote, there are 3 directors (Liz, Rachel and Daniel) and a producer (me) who workshop all of the acts. Everyone does their own choreography- the directors and I just clean things up.

Everyone has the same attitude: this is fun.

You need to have a lot of good humor to get through circus, because performances are uncertain. The trick might fail. The jugglers may botch their tricks. The gymnasts might hurt themselves; the acrobalancers might drop each other; Ed might not land his backflip; I might spear myself on my bed of nails... there's a lot of built-in nervousness. That's why folks watch with baited breath for us to fail... and that's why we do it. If you're too serious, the act is dull; if you're too silly, you might hurt yourself.

It's all about balance - sometimes we fall, sometimes we don't. As long as we have fun (and don't fall too hard), everything is okay.

Halloween, the best holiday.

2008-11-02T08:48:00.000-08:00

Halloween on a Friday Night. A great thing.

Earlier in the week, the college's costume "shop" sold the old costumes from shows and operas past. I clocked in pretty well, nabbing a leather dress (!), suspenders, shorts, a skort, a black blazer, a shirt/sweater and a hat for $22. I really love the feel of these clothes- most of them were used for about 3 weeks at most on an opera; I like feeling like a "character," sometimes. The costume sale itself is always a lot of fun, and a study in co-operation. Too many people cram into the lobby of Hall Auditorium; there's one bathroom, 2 mirrors, and not much privacy. There's a problem that when you put your own stuff down to try other things on, someone might unknowingly try to purchase your clothes. Although there's so little space, so many pairs of amazing cheap clothes and so few opportunities to see what you look like, students get more polite. There was a quiet line by the mirror to scope out how well the new top hat (or blazer, or pants) looked.

Sadly, I used none of those clothes for my costume. I went as Bettie Page, which is hard to do, in public. For the sake of Oberlin College, I won't do too much description. Suffice to say, I looked classy. Bettie Page: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bettie_Page

We had a special day in astronomy- Prof. Stinebring had to go to a huge conference, so the observing staff taught a lesson about the life cycle of our sun. To make things a bit more exciting (Halloween and all...) they wanted some circus stuff there. So, I gathered a few jugglers; Ali was already in Astronomy and prepared to spin poi for glory and honor. The performers did an awesome job; they were used to show different fazes of solar activity, as stars move from the Main Sequence, to Red Giants, Planetary Nebulae and White Dwarfs.

After class, I finished my weekly response for Professor "Captain" Kirk Ormand, then went to TGIF. During the warm months, TGIF is a big outdoor party in Wilder Bowl, right by the Student Union. Sometimes there's a dj, sometimes, a live band. Students chill out, relax after a week of work. The circus uses the time to give lessons, juggle and mess around for a while. Given the oncoming train of winter (despite the 65* temperature)... there was no outdoor music, as normally, but there were still many people about.

A bunch of folks were in costume - Poison Ivy, Rorschach, Dr. J and Mr. Hyde, a Romance Novel Character, Harley Quinn, Starbuck, Scarecrow, Spider Jerusalem. There was a Belle and Prince Charming who kissed theatrically in the center of the quad; we applauded. I sat on the grass and listened to a folk duo on fiddle and guitar for a while; a Tuxedo Mask gave me a slim rose.

Orville taught me some new acrobalance moves, so I can lift more tiny people around. My favorite was the "lazy man's sit-up," in which I, the base, lay on the ground, knees bent and arms up at a 90 degree angle. My flier (tiny person = flier) stands on me in a funny way, a foot on each of my thighs and their hands on my hands. When they lean back, I do a sit-up and move to standing, with them standing on my thighs. Basically, it makes the Tiny Person look super-strong, when it's actually physics that's super-strong.

In preparation for Halloween, Ma'ayan took out the media lab in the library. Mudd Library is an absolute fantasy castle- there are a kazillion little rooms that all have magical purposes, that you never know until you need it. There are screening rooms, a computer store, a theatre, statues, writing centers, study carrels, womb chairs, group study rooms, huge computer labs, a silent floor, a sunbathing roof, rainbow couches, storage, old printing presses, a "dock" and a photo studio. A hundred Rooms of Requirement.

This one was on the fourth floor and was a full studio, made for photoshoots. It looked like something for Hollywood, not our very 70's library. About 20 people filtered in and out, throughout the night. It was a blast; there were posed gunfights and cross-canon flirtations (Mrs. Lovette + Poison Ivy). We got pretty giggly under the bright lights.

I love this holiday.

After photos, I went to The Breakfast show at the Sco and danced for 2 straight hours. The Sauce opened and were incredible, as usual; the Breakfast was very danceable, rock-jazz-jam with little openers of songs from cartoons. Looking around the crowd was surreal: elves danced with cavemen, Clockwork Orange droogs moshed around, zombies and faeries flowed around the sides of the stage, a dinosaur waggled its tail to the beat.

As for me, I thrashed. Thrashing in Bettie Page shoes... was a poor choice. I staggered home, brushed my teeth and collapsed.

I woke up 20 minutes before work, still in my Bettie Page costume. It's amazing how fast I can shower, change clothes, brush my hair and put in my contacts. I took an extra minute to fold my costume, giving my respects to Ms. Page.

Fall Break in Oberlin

2008-10-25T20:13:00.001-07:00

During Fall Break, there is nothing going on on campus. No concerts. No dining halls open. The libraries close at 5:00 PM, not 2:00 AM. Most people go home, take road trips, do service projects, practice...

Me? I love Oberlin when it's quiet. It's relaxed, and the sleep debt of midterms boils away into a well-rested calm. There are still a few scattered students around -- reading at Java Zone, doing research in the Science Center, putting books in the shelves, sipping cocoa at Oberlin Market, petting kittens at the Ginko Gallery... but mostly, it's a small town. And when it's so quiet, I enjoy my hard-won free time. I take up my whims.

After my tour yesterday, I had lunch with an air traffic controller and an airplane pilot at Agave. The controller lived in Medina and his daughter was interested in Music Education; the pilot had flown over Oberlin thousands of times and had always wanted to stop by. They were an interesting pair- real friends, who went on adventures, taking trains across the country and seeing little slices of the world. When I "grow up," I want to still have voyages.

After finishing my coffee, I wrote a little bit for my Novella then walked to Baldwin. Sadly, not all dorms on campus have bathtubs. Baldwin has a nice tub. And though I had neither towel, nor soap, I decided to soak as long as I could. It was so quiet, just me in the big bathroom.

In the break periods, I work out until I'm exhausted and my arms are numb. I can chat with Elizabeth as long as I like, not having to worry about the paper, the meeting, or the class. Elizabeth is pretty amazing, one of the people who I would not have met but for blessed chance that her work hours in the weight room were in line with my work out times. I like being able to talk while I lift- I like it when exersize isn't a chore, but a thing to be enjoyed.

I ran in the Arb the other day and took a break to dunk my feet in the chill water in the Reservoir. I couldn't feel my toes for the rest of the run, but it was worthwhile.

I've worked every day this week for Admissions, from about 8:30 until 1:30. All of my interviews were wonderful- the prospies were awake, interested and really awesome. It was a pleasure to talk to them. Saki was working at the same time as me, so in between answering emails, we chatted. I shot the breeze with Jen, my tour guiding boss.

I got a bit tired of the daily tour question--
Prospie: Where is everyone?
Aries: It's Fall Break. Most people go home or have adventures.
Prospie: So there's no one here except except for boring people?
Aries: ... I'm going to talk about the architecture of Mudd Library now.

But overall, it's my place. I've been able to have long, long talks with my friends, decompressing from the semester's half. I've been able to sit in bed and dream. I've read plenty: Stoppard's "Arcadia," a book of Bukowski, the new "Flight" graphic novel. I feel so comfortable here.

I'm excited for classes to restart again, but sometimes, there's nothing better than a break like this.

The other question that I only get sometimes:
Prospie: Why didn't you go home?
Aries: This is my home.

Chorale at 2:45 minutes in...

2008-10-16T06:02:00.000-07:00

I listened to Jim's piece "Chorale" this morning.

Damn, it was great.

At first, I'd imagined it would be like the music I normally listened to- something to hear while doing something else. But no. It was challenging, difficult, in a way that literature should be. It was also miles away from my normal listening style, much more electronic. Jim's a TIMARA major (Technology in Music and Related Arts), his sound is deeply divorced from my ordinary mix of Ben Folds/Decemberists/Muse/Cake/David Bowie/Scissor Sisters. I can only compare it to the soundtracks from "Children of Men": without being in a lyrical form, it's deeply emotional and jarring. There's an apocalyptic sorrow that hangs over it, a thrash of echoes.

Most of the folks I know in the Conservatory are Composition majors- overall, they're a splendid, friendly, eccentric group. But strangely, I've heard very few of their official pieces. Even Eric, who I've known since freshman year-- I can remember hearing only two of his official composition, one at a departmental function, and the other at his Senior Rock Concert. I've heard some of Sean's pieces, but few-little of Ed, and none of Kurt, who I spent 30 hours a week with. Secretive bunch.

It was nice to listen to Jim's piece in the sanctity of my dorm room, rather than the concert hall; wondrous to hear my beloved computer, Kiwi, belt out music I would call art, not entertainment. There's also some innate pleasure I take in knowing that my friends are really freakin talented. Somehow, I know folks who can make music out of nothing.

Good way to start the day. I had to sit down for a while afterwards.

---

Midterms are squeezing in on us all- I ran into Erin and Daniel after working (albeit distractedly) in the library for a bazillion hours and we chatted, in that timeless way that finals/midterms enables. The ends of the conversation get stretchy and long, gasping into some deep revelations on the Way People Are. It's like a dream, 3AM conversations feel so profound when they happen, but afterwards, I'm left disoriented- "What did we talk about? Why? I don't know." My mind gets fuzzy at night.

The crux of my work is a paper for David "Brilliant" Walker on the play "Blasted" by Susan Kane. Blasted is playing in NY- if you're there, you should see it. But I'm terrified of the paper. Papers are not my strongest suit- my analytical style is scattershot, or more geared towards oral presentations than written documents.
My thesis: all love in "Blasted" is communicated through violence. It's not a difficult argument, but I struggle with the presentation of it. My theses are not always too strong or revolutionary; I hesitate to be overly critical of a text. I'm also not an expert on formal dramatic analysis and JSTOR yielded only one paper on the topic I could look to as a model.

I think I'm going to throw the paper at the Writing Center tonight, and ask for their tender mercies. Phew.

Night you can't remember

2008-10-12T06:30:00.000-07:00

My Mom is here, my Mom is here!

She got in on Thursday, and we spent much of Yom Kippur in the Arb. This is a trend for me. We chilled in the stone circle, we walked around the reservoirs, we talked.

It was a strange call-back to my freshman year. Tom had a tradition of going hiking with his Dad on Yom Kippur. After Services, he and some friends went off to the Arb; I ran into them on the way. It was a gorgeous day, the sun was amazingly bright and the air seemed impossibly clear. All of my friends were in formal wear, looking dapper and official. We sang off in the woods, both jewish tunes (that I didn't know) and standards (that I did, like Origin of Love).

I remember singing in the river. I remember being nervous.
--

My Mom and I don't see eye-to-eye on absolutely everything, but otherwise, we do good. We've had a lot of long chats. My Mom often gives me the good prudent advice I don't take (think, do things slowly). Thinking, prudence and acting in moderation are not my strong suits. They serve their place in my more professional life, but in my social life, I swing towards effusive. I'm trying to think. I'm trying to plan. To plot. To play.

We saw the Shape of Things together, before rushing off to Techno Night.

Mom: I don't really like Neil LaBute. Is one of your friends in it?
Aries: Anna. She's the director and she's really good.
Mom: So she owns the play, more or less. It's all her.

Shape of Things was excellent- I loved the set, lights, staging and acting. All the characters rang true, in their own strange way.

But the script itself wasn't really my thing- there weren't really any lines I'd say I'd recall, independent of their staging. The characters, though played realistically, were all one-sided. Outside of the storyline, they didn't seem to have lives. The characters seemed to be written in their late 20's, not college age. The double-date scene looks like something talking about young marriage, not a scene from a small Midwestern college in a smaller Midwest town. There are no papers due, there are no sports games, no outside world, no ephemera.

I think that made the actors and directing look even better. The fact that I still felt for these characters who were otherwise... unbelievable... that was good. I didn't write off Adam as a shlub because Donny reminded me (and the audience) that we've all been there, been Mr. Pathetic In Love, Willing to be your Anything. Evelyn was stone-cold... and sexy. There was never a point when I didn't understand Adam's fascination with her, even if I didn't share it. Jenny's sweetness, her awkward, silly averageness were elevated; Phil's assholishness was rooted in jealousy. It was well done. And I love to watch my friends, my peers act. There's a recognition of "oh, you're my friend, I trust you!" when they move on stage. Donny's a skilled actor; he's damn good. But I know that on a certain level, I always love his characters a bit more because it's him playing them.

The set. The museum lights. Oh, god.

The final scene... I could have done more with the clinical. The concept of base material gave me shivers, but I wanted a bit more. The ideas of modification, of shaping, of how ones' love changes another are of intense interest to me. The use of sex and sensuality as tools are not lost thoughts for me, nor the sad, desperate inferiority of the beloved to the lover. I'm a fan of the ideas, but the way LaBute executed it... I don't know. There are more profound and terrifying ways that love changes people.

I'll remember the bedroom scene for a long time. Dammit, Anna Strasser. Dammit. You kill me.

Mom!

2008-10-09T05:58:00.000-07:00

My Mom is visiting! Yay!

The Argument:
Con: No work accomplished, I'd bet.

Pro: Mom.

Con: You have a test!

Pro: MOM!

Work Ethics

2008-10-04T15:20:00.000-07:00

Bad idea: Working on a Friday night.

This week, I had a paper due on Friday – a fairly normal thing. But it took forever. On Thursday, my computer imploded, killing off my draft. This slowed me down. But what really dogged me was my ambition to make The Best Paper Ever.
I've got a strong love of learning, writing and reading. During breaks from college, I read for fun. Writing is my passion. But what keeps me at Mudd Library from dinner past midnight, is my all-consuming fear of having my professors think less of me. Kirk Ormand, my Ancient Sexuality professor, is Just Too Cool. I would rather eat a baby bunny than disappoint Kirk.

So, I'm working. I'm working. 4:30 rolls around- it’s Friday. TGIF. Outside in Wilder Bowl, there's a really great DJ and about 300 people are talking, relaxing, and getting out the stress of the week. Most of my amazing friends are outside, frolicking in what could be the last gorgeous day before fall drops its terrifying curtains of chill across campus and we're all wearing sweaters and sniffling inside. The last lovely afternoon.

And I'm writing about male vs. female poets in 6th Century Greece. Sappho. Mostly Sappho, given she’s the only woman poet we have- fortunately a good one:

“Or if she flees, soon she'll pursue,
she doesn't accept gifts, but she'll give,
if not now loving, soon she'll love
even against her will."”

Then it's 6:00, and my friends are going to Pizza Night, at Harkness. Apparently, Eliza’s dessert pizza is just out of the oven- it has cinnamon. There'll be live music, one of my friends mentions. There's an Open Mic night later. And a Contra Dance.

And I'm inside writing: "For many Greek women, their house marked their boundaries- they were indoor creatures, not expected to live outside."

I think about Kirk, Coolest of the Cool. Captain Kirk. King Kirk. Commander Kirk. I am his deputy, his knight, his homegirl. This paper is mine. I keep on typing.

I get hungry, stop into the Decafe and get an amazing mozzarella sandwich. Other sandwiches get freaked out by how amazingly cheesy my sandwich is. They quail. I eat my sandwich in a hurry. Sappho waits for no woman.

I return to typing and I get lost in the readings. I scramble for my thesis. I retype some ugly phrases. I bemoan my lost draft. I look at the clock. It's 9:00, and I'm tired. I should keep working. I really should. I just have 2 pages left.

But there's a contra tonight.

So… I go contra dancing. It's better than expected- the new callers are great! I dance with Glen, Catherine, Sean, Yoshi, Aaron! One of the dances go horribly awry and Glen and I run to opposite sides of the floor to spin our neighbors! The musicians are great! I take off my shoes to waltz! I spend about 20 minutes play-fighting with Yoshi after the dance finishes at 11:00! Sappho, Kirk, I know you'd want me to do this!

I return to my dorm, sweaty, exhausted, and overjoyed. I bang out the paper and fall asleep, around 3:30 AM.

Woman who fell from the sky

2008-09-29T06:25:00.000-07:00

Letter from Ms. C, teacher at Prospect Elementary School:

Aries,
You were the hit of the day! As you could tell from their behavior, my students were enthralled, and your creation story fit perfectly with our studies.

Thank you so much,
C

On Friday, Liz and I went down to two fourth grade classes and told Native American creation myths, to finish up one of their social studies units. I came a tad early and saw them in reading lab. Watching twelve children reading novels made all my sappy places get a bit more gooey.

Once class started, I told the "Woman Who Fell From the Sky," an Iroquois story about how the earth was built off of a Turtle's back. The kids really liked it: the boss fight with Mosquito, any form of domestic violence, happy cows being butchered.... I forgot how amazingly morbid children are. Liz and I had worried about the distracted nature of children and the fairly static form of tale-telling (one person, talking, go). But they seemed to get into it, to understand the brother's fight and the mother's frustration. At the end, they asked for another ("Encore! Encore means more!" one of them shouted), so I told them the Ash Lad story. It was nice to always have something ready, off-the-cuff. It makes me feel all... professional.

Storytelling has been the pillar of my college experience. I took the Storytelling ExCo my first semester, and it opened me up. I told things to my peers- not strangers, but not friends (at least, not yet) - that I didn't tell anyone else. Club was outer performance and inner therapy; it was comedy and tragedy. In a tiny room in Wilder, always too warm, we told scary, cultural and personal stories.

When Liz and I taught the Exco, it made us into very close friends. We were only aquaintances at the start- Liz was the girl who baked amazing brownies and laughed like a giant. We had had possibly one real conversation, tops. Then, we saw each other at our best- doing the thing we cared about most. I know I'd be missing something if I hadn't taught with her.

-

For Sunday's Storytelling Club, Liz gathered information about professional storytellers. Apparently, you can live on it. I would love that. I would so, so love that. The national conference is this weekend, so no go for now, but maybe next year. This is a perfomance style I really adore, that works in all of the things I focus on: stories! theatre! public speaking! improv! fancy word play! rhetoric! And it gives me a community; it makes me real friends -- Liz, Amanda, Adam, Mog, Jenny, Brett, Andrew...

I transmuted part of my budding novella into story, which worked pretty well. It furthered my plan of not doing a Senior Reading, but a Senior Recital- an hour of stories.

Probably love stories.

"You're gonna be damn tired at the end," Liz said, who loved long-form epics. "But it'll be great."

I don't write my stuff anymore, I just kick it from my head.

2008-09-25T05:46:00.000-07:00

Ratatat, playing at the Sco on Tuesday, was insane.

There were two starter bands: E-Rock and Panther. The former I really enjoyed- he came in wearing a black cloth over his head, covering his face with big sunglasses and a white bandanna holding it all in pace. He looked like a robber, if not a terrorist. On his arms, he'd drawn robot-style joints and a heart. Overall, an awesome aesthetic. His set was solid electronic dance music. I liked "teengirl fantasy" more, pound for pound, but it was an awesome way to start it off. I wouldn't hesitate playing it for my Dad when he asked what newfangled stuff I listen to.

Panther was a bit to indulgent indie, but with a solid beat and amazing drummer. The singer seemed like a self-absorbed dweeb- he made his voice echo on nearly every track- still, I danced.

The Sco filled to its sweaty brim as Ratatat set up. I was at the very front for the two openers; by the time Ratatat was ready to go, I was about 4 rows of people in after a bunch of folks pushed ahead of me.

Izzie looked around and said, "Guys, we're gonna get crushed," a mix of fear and excitement in her voice. The dance floor filled more and more.

The instant Ratatat started, the crowd became a huge, amorphous organism. We swelled, we danced, we jumped, we moshed. The Sco workers moved to the head of the stage and pushed the crowd back, away from the equipment. Despite the claustrophobia, the crowd was really pleasant, all of us swaying in the sweaty human ocean. Sweaty isn't the right word, but it approached the soaked-ness that described the whole audience.

I love Ratatat.

---

"What's so funny about attrition?" asked Prof. Kalyn, in a lesson on Zipcar for Entrepreneurship.
Yoshi and I looked at each other and laughed. I'm obsessed with attrition and Yoshi and I had a disagreement about the value of following up on new OCircus recruits through some alternative means. Yoshi wants us to build a solid structure and let the newbies settle as they will; I want to increase the social activities of the club to increase the cohesion of the club.

On Friday, we had an incredible showing at TGIF: it felt like a festival. There were so many freshmen learning, picking things up... I taught about 8 people beginning poi, including a girl who was the spitting image of Harper Jean. About a fourth of us, myself included, pulled off our tops and rocked out in our bras/skins. Given the number of people, it was pretty paramount in my mind to keep as many as I could around. New blood, my friends. New blood.

-

Death of a Salesman was phenomenal. It was something special- the Theater Department brought in 5 Actor's Equity folks to put on a professional show. Adrian Brooks was Willy Lohman. Adrian Brooks, Captain Sisko in Deep Space 9, amazing actor and orator. His reading of Willy was painful and brilliant, making his dementia more explicit and grand than I imagine a lot of actors would do. Justin Emeka, who teaches theater was directing and playing Biff- he did an amazing job. The lead cast- the Lohman family- was entirely African-American, meant to highlight a racial component in the class struggle, so visceral by Miller's play. I stopped noticing race about 10 minutes into the show, going from "this is the African-American experience" to "this is the American experience." Bernard and Charlie were very Jewish refugees, an interesting choice- Josh Sobel, who's in my Drama Literature class, played Bernard and did an amazing job, especially with the age component of the play. Raphi was brilliant, as ever.

Walked around Oberlin after seeing Salesman, to go from Very Serious Theater, to a campus where music echoed out of every third house on a Saturday night. I'm glad I saw it. I cried afterward for about a half-hour.

---

Pertinent quotes:
"I'm a robot! I've always been a robot! Our relationship is doomed!"

Decline and Fall

2008-09-20T11:27:00.000-07:00

Dear Wall Street,

Please, babe, get better. Do you remember that stock market project we did, back in the good old days? You know, the 90s? I miss that.

Yours,
Aries

--

Rebel Diaz, playing at the Sco, was so good. They were three singers, two of them siblings, who sang political populist hip-hop. The lone woman of the group was one of the tightest, most amazing rappers I've ever heard. Their beats were dance-able- if they hadn't been such a powerhouse performance, I'dve been rocking out in the back, trying out what I learned at SPARK.

SPARK was demented in a good, life-affirming way. Hip-hop is not my traditional domain, but I do like it. I didn't get a shuffle-step, but I got most of the rest. I'm a fan of top-rock; I'm not looking forward to pikes, except in the awful-bits that like when I fail at things. I take a long time to learn movement styles; I need a lot of repetition and things don't come naturally to me. Expecially... uh.. hard things. Like anything that involves balance.

Post-Diaz, we went to Agave for the coffee and burritos. It's nice that something other than Downtown Pizza and the Feve stays open past midnight on a weekend. Especially when that thing is Agave. Blessed Agave.

Clean prose.

2008-09-16T17:58:00.000-07:00

In Novella class, we just discussed Hiroshima by Hersey, which appreared in the New Yorker in 1946. When it came out, "Hiroshima" took over the entire issue, there were no articles or cartoons. It sold out within hours. Hershey follows 6 survivors of Hiroshima and writes in an old-world literary journalism- not gonzo, or pretentious. It's not a long read, but it still takes a while time to get through. By page 20, I was bawling. You know the stage of crying when you lose control of your bodily functions, and express your sentiments in infant whines and moans? That.

After reading it... I've never felt more guilt of being an American. For the earlier atrocities (Middle Passage, genocide of Native Americans, slavery, imperialism), my family wasn't here. But in WWII, my grandfather was in uniform, an immigrant proud to fight for his new home. He was one of the first men to land in Osaka after the Japanese surrender. Grandpa believed he would have died without the bomb.

As I read, I kept thinking, "We all deserve to burn in hell." The discussion was excellent.

---

Thanks, atmosphere!

2008-09-11T22:38:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday, I had my lab for astronomy. To call it a lab feels a bit unfair: we looked at the summer sky for about an hour after taking a long walk through the soccer fields. There’s very little air pollution in Oberlin, so the dark is really.. dark. I couldn’t see the crowd of Astronomy students (there were about 40 of us out there) until I was right next to them. Besides my professor, there were three helpers and two upper-level students who act as tutors for the class. One of them, Everett, who I met in my first year at a swing dance, explained some of the basics – Cassiopaea! Polaris! Then, I stared at the moon and Jupiter though these crazily powerful telescopes and listened to Professor S explain what caused stars to twinkle.
“Do you like to breathe?” he asked. We all nodded. “Well, thank the atmosphere!” he continued jubilantly, going on to explain how the density of the atmosphere (generated by the horizon, due to Earth’s middle-heavy shape) caused stars to glimmer as their light reflected through. Professor S is probably one of the most cheerful, jubilant lecturers I’ve ever heard. He also says the word “sky” in a very warm, sweet way.
With a green laser, so powerful that he had to put it away when a plane flew by, Professor S pointed out the Summer Triangle: Vega, Deneb and Altair. I can find it everywhere now.

---

Circus Arts Exco went really well today. We’re a day behind in the syllabus, but as a group, we’ve started to work together. There’s comradery growing between the circus core and the new folks. I love teaching this group; it’s gorgeous to watch folks work together. As we’re going to be doing a lot of constructive criticism later, it’s important to get to know each other.

Otherwise, OCircus is kicking-off. We’ve got a weekend booked for the Fall show at the Cat and the Cream, so November will be a crazy, crazy month.

Diagnosis: Ridiculous, amazing day

2008-09-10T04:53:00.000-07:00

Tuesday did not feel like a Tuesday.

Classes were grand. Discussing the play “Saved” in my British and Irish Drama class was excellent. In “Saved,” a crowd of men stone a baby to death… because they can. The ensuing talk about the relative merits of violent satire was pretty heated. Normally, discussion classes take about a week to get brewing- we spend the first two meetings being polite and wearing some kid gloves, just to get used to each other out. Not this one. It was refreshing to hear “I disagree completely,” followed by some interesting, evocative point… on the second class. We talked about everything from the duty of theatre, censorship, how graphic cruelty fits in and when it’s alright to laugh.

Immediately after class, I ran to the Storytelling meeting. Teaching an Exco Class isn’t difficult; figuring out logistics, like meeting times, that's hard. Liz told her “pirate story,” with the killer line: “What’ya do with 40 pirates... Get funding!” It's so fun to teach the Storytelling Exco to first years, having taken it as a freshman myself. The students seemed to get how it worked, automatically sitting in a circle and chatting, but getting really quiet once the stories started. Storytelling Exco is a workshop class, based around improving spoken performance. We meet once a week, tell 10 minute stories to each other, and give constructive criticism. And people really listen, because for 10 minutes- listening is their job. Not taking notes. Listening.

-

From there, I sped to the Tumbling Club, met some new gymnasts, and worked on flexibility. Carey taught me how to do funny things in a bridge; Zwasi pulled my limbs around. We watched the freshmen do some amazing things. One of the first years, James, is ridiculous. He can do a series of 10 flips in a row, in socks on wet grass, without warming up.

Carey: So, how did you learn that?
James: Well, I saw the gymastic floor competitions on TV and just... did what they did.
Zwasi: WHAT?! You didn't train?
James: Not really, no. It looked cool.
Zwasi: You just saw it on tv.
James: Some things on youtube.

-

The real Tuesday-buster was GZA, a founder of Wu-Tang, playing at the ‘Sco. I was in the front row, when the crowd of 350 started shouting “Wu-Tang, Wu-tang.” There was a girl who had a Wu-Tang tattoo dancing on the other part of the stage. There was so much energy in the crowd. I had slept little the previous night and started to feel a bit woozy, which quickly passed away after I got some water.

By the fountain, I ran into one of the members of “Teengirl Fantasy,” an Oberlin electronica band and gushed about how cool he was. Teengirl Fantasy had opened for the show and had gotten the crowd to a screaming, rocking peak. Given the audience was more a hip-hop crew than electronica, that's not so easy.

The concert continued, becoming a giant wave of arm-waving and dancing. I left at about 12:40, covered in sweat. A good Tuesday.

We are the Mystery Men.

2008-09-05T23:22:00.000-07:00

Classes!

They are all so, so wonderful- Modern British Drama, Astronomy, Ancient Sexuality and Novella... and I'm auditing Entrepreneurship and German History.

Entrepreneurship bodes well. It's a strange class, with an odd, multi-pronged approach with lecturers, grant writing workshops and lessons in start-ups. The professor is a Conservatory Dean, who I did an Information Panel with over the summer with Admissions. She talks quickly but clearly about how to get funding for creative ideas.
In lighter news, I ended up sitting next to my best friend. I forgot that we can think... similarly. So, when the prof would prompt a class response, I would write a word down, and Yoshi would whisper it at the same time. These words were "niche" and "innovation." Not exactly the first words one imagines after an open-ended question.

I forgot which classroom my Modern British and Irish Drama class was in and raced up and down the 2nd and 3rd floor, looking for Professor Walker's face. It was funny to poke my head in and out of classes, hearing the little phrases: "patriarchy," "financial disincentive" and "Metternich." I arrived sweaty and 5 minutes late, and proceeded to chew out the play "Look Back in Anger." The class is stocked with theatre majors and some of the main male actors in my year (Mooney, Alex, Kevin, Sobel).

Ancient Sexuality and Astronomy promise to be brilliant; Novella starts on Monday.

---

Looking over schedules walks the careful line between exciting and terrifying. Logistically, I know I can't take a super-demanding schedule given my other responsibilities, but... I want to take everything. I feel odd thinking this when I've spent the last week convincing first years not to overload themselves.

Registration at Oberlin is a funny business for a first year. There are three rungs: over the summer, you choose a first year seminar and another class ; during Orientation, you register for your full schedule; and for the following week and a half, you can add or drop classes as you please.

The middle rung is the trouble. PRESTO, the online Registration system, is pretty easy to use, but it has a few pokey points. Chief issues: the course descriptions are on a separate site and there's no auto-updating list of the open courses. This is normally not a problem... but in the last registration slot, there normally aren't so many open slots to preserve small class sizes. So, it becomes a scramble.

Which is where I come in, pointing freshmen towards open classes as they register. It's one of my favorite parts of Academic Ambassador-ing- exploring the wild jungles of Presto with first-years, slicing through the course catalogue for those amazing classes- "Mass Politics and the Media Age," "Satire," "Climate Change," "Salman Rushdie"... and snagging spots in them.

Once class starts, and Add/Drop begins, everything chills out.

Still around

2008-09-03T17:53:00.000-07:00

Exco Fair, staple of my college life.

For two glorious hours, the Root Room (the old Reading Room) becomes a mad bazaar of tables, stuffed with students selling their awesome classes. Excos (Experimental College Classes) are student and community taught- the popular ones are Swing Dance, Tango, Steel Drum and Calvin and Hobbes. The new ones- Swedish Language Exco, Astrology, Buffy, Knitting and Grass-Roots Organizing- looked pretty sweet too. I really want to play Calvinball before I graduate this fine institution.

I'm teaching Circus Arts Exco, to do both skillshare and individual performance work. I hawked for two straight hours in the vein of: "You, step right up and join the circus, miss, you're so pretty, I bet you'd look prettier upside down-backwards-on fire!" It was successful: I got about 40 names for a 12 person class. Gah. In the end, I had to waitlist people I cared about/wanted to accept. It was painful to have to pass over my friends to do a more random, equitable selection.

First meeting of the class went well. It had 16 people, which was a good size. I spent a bunch of time prepping and it all worked out. We did mostly improv/dance exercises.

-

Contra danced!

Emma was calling and stoked the crowd. I danced with Grey, Jeremy, Glenn, Nathaniel, Kokoteca and Sean and saw... the whole dancing crew, inclding some new, lovely freshmen. All of the town dancers thought I was set to graduate, so they asked variations of "How's the fifth year coming along" or "What the hell are you doing here still?" In a charming way, of course.

Left soaked with sweat. My feet are an unholy terror.

Day of Service!

2008-09-01T05:05:00.000-07:00

In the name of all things holy: Ratata and GZA (founding member of Wu-Tang Clan) are playing at Oberlin. Life is too good to be believed.

--

Day of Service!

When I was a first-year, Day of Service (DoS) was my favorite part of Orientation. DoS is meant principally for first-years or any early arrivals, and acts as a great way to connect firsties to the Oberlin environment and community in a meaningful way. My Day of Service was to do some parks upkeep and trail clearing- which I loved. I like to work outdoors, to sweat and get muddy. After DoS, I used to walk over to the George Jones farm- where Oberlin gets a lot of its produce- and work until it got dark. Also, working at George Jones meant fresh, right-off-the-vine tomatoes. And I will do some serious malarkery for good tomatoes.

Now, as a senior, I decided to be a Site Leader - the pointperson for my group. We were a small bunch- me and 4 freshmen- Emily, Gus, Rachel and Michael. They were very chill folks- all very relaxed and wonderful. We were working at Plum Creek, the river that runs through Oberlin, cutting right where "Downtown" ends, still within an easy walking distance. After playing 2 Truths and a Lie, we walked across the bridge lined with flowers and got to work: clearing out invasive species, weeds and beautifying the public park.

The site supervisors were Kate ad Robin, two amazing local ladies who had the words "Role Model" painted all over them. Kate, who looked more like a paintet than an activist, had started the Western Land Concervancy to safeguarded various properties around Northern Ohio from development, to be used as nature reserves. Kate mentioned the struggle of selecting sites to buy - a small beachfront or a huge farm- and the struggle of working with complex paperwork and with folks who distrusted the government and any associated organizations. She was also incredibly modest, glossing over the fact that she founded the Western Land Concervancy. Robin, who owned the property, was a trip: she raised 7 kids, worked 30 hours counseling in the local schools and ran a private psychiatric practice.

The work was fun. Robin and Kate gave us a variety of shears and rakes to take out as many weeds by the creek edge as we could, as well as removing any garbage we found. The creek was about 10 feet below street level, so we had to prune the stones that lead down to it. There were lots of big weeds, vines and elms that we battered away. We finished the job in record time, with less people than normal.
The only downside to the work was the prevalence of poison ivy. Found out I'm not allergic to PI... Yay!

Status reports

2008-08-24T05:14:00.000-07:00

I met my new class dean today, Monique. Besides acting as a class dean (read: guidance counselor/life coach/godparent) she worked in Student Academic Services and Students with Disabilities Office. She's one of the best admins I've ever met- respectful, kind, engaged. She's good people.

There are few things better than a good Administrator. Systems exist for a reason- they give structure and power. When people know how to navigate the system with kindness, care and humanity- they are enormously powerful.

--

After catering, I got my syllabus for Novella class with Sylvia Watanabe. It's pretty common for professors teaching upper-level classes to distribute their syllubai before class begins, so students can prepare the readings/homework early, or go bargain book hunting to make textbooks more affordable.
Verdict: this class will be bliss and rapture.

From the syllabus- "Class mantra: This is a workshop. "

Our final Paper Topic is: "Why this book sucks/does not suck."

This is why I love writing classes. Whereas in English classes, you talk about the social implications and various merits, the Creative Writing questions are: "Does it work? How does it work? Can we change it?"

---
Catering for the International students is pretty righteous. Everyone is from everywhere! At the opening International Students Dinner, I found some folks born in the US, but educated entirely abroad, who had taken my tour in the spring. One was from the Netherlands, but had gone to school in Croatia, Britain, South Africa... and had an awesome sense of humor.

Aries: So, your parents are spies?
Nederlad: They don't like me to talk about it.
A: Does that mean CIA?
Nederlad: It could mean that. If you want it to.

I forgot that most foreigners eat.... slowly. It's a bit agonizing when you're waitserving. At least Americans, for all our piggishness, eat fast. And finish fast.