The Defunction

How, and when do friendships extinguish? Defunct and decayed, I look at the remnants of friendships past and wonder how something that was only supposed to be wonderful, could have become something else entirely. How can it be that I never realize what's happening until it has already happened? When the tie is severed and the lines are blocked, that is when I've realized the irreparable damage that has caused the complete desecration of a friend. When the the promise of reprieve in the termination outweighs the benefits of carrying on, then, is it then that a friendship ends? Is it ever really a decision at all? Flames licking the walls, water filling the hull, an ending friendship is a burning house, and a sinking ship all at once. Hopelessness and futility saturate what was once joy-soaked. Frustration binds it all together into a horrible bundle and even then the uncertainty and doubt are overwhelming. Thus is the dilemma in the end: the plaguing wonder.

We met four years ago this fall. I remember distinct details of my first impressions. Each encounter glimmers turned end over end in my memory: a pony tail, a pair of sunglasses glinting in the sun, a halo of hair, a pair of eye glasses peering from around the door, a cowboy hat and two blond braids. I was critical and a tough sell. I was reluctant for reasons that I turn over in my head, all of them tumbling around without resolution. I was resistant to people who only wanted to be my friends. The more I examine the remains, the further the truth slips from me. The memories morph and distorted as they are, they are easy to dismiss. The regrets, not the girls. But I try not to let them allude me. It is at first glance something of a mystery. But then there it is, the pudding: despite my reluctance, and resistance, and what in my memory has become an ornery and ugly demeanor, they resisted and our friendship prevailed.

We were a group of six. If memory serves, the times that weren't tumultuous were brief, and infrequent. Two on one, three on two, two on four, five on one, somebody was always frustrated. It was me a lot. Life in a house crowded with girls never suited me. We were still in discovery, even once we had signed our second lease. It was painful, demoralizing at times, frustrating.

There isn't anything I can say about when Jaymie died. All the details of me in those days are false and trivial. What I did, what I ate, how I slept. And now, with years between now and then, there is still nothing to say about it, what it feels like to lose a friend. I still mistake strangers and hope to find her tucked into some place I've forgotten about, like a piece of sea glass I found at the beach, lost in a pocket for safe keeping.

And now I've lost three. Jaymie departed. A second to decay, another to dysfunction. What do you say to the person to whom you've already said it all? We are different than all other friends, I think. Our pack is an anomaly, an aggrandized group, touched, plagued, tortured by death and immortal because of it. I'm also certain that we are none of these things. In the history of the world, the odds and pure reason tell me that we are just a group of girls, issues just as petty as the next. Yet here we are.

I have the deepest longing for the accompaniment of one of these friends. Any of them, but mostly all of them. I've never said that before because I have never realized I felt it. I've been screening some new friends lately with a meal and a bit of conversation. But that which is lacking is the most integral of details: ease, comfort, history, a common repertoire of references to the past. It's what all the substitutes lack.

In the beginning, we must choose friends for a reason. In our beginning, I believe that my friends chose me for some reason that I don't anticipate ever understanding.

A Life In Review

I wouldn't formally call what I've recently been suffering from writers block. I have been writing. I've been expressing myself, which means that I don't have the most important qualifying symptom of writers block. Sure, my newest method is unconventional but it is, as I am so fond of saying, the 21st century.

I haven't been posting, nor scribbling with any sort of frequency, but I have been reviewing up a storm. This is all in conjunction with my new favorite pass-time: online commerce! Sure, at first glance you may dismiss my newest of hobbies as nothing more than a new method of shopping, a variation of the over consumption I already engage in, a lazy woman's wardrobe expansion. But, then I realized that I could incorporate my new form of expression into my bi-weekly trips to Anthropologie. (Markdowns on Tuesdays, newly merchandised sale floor on Thursdays.)

I have been reviewing any and everything that I can and have consumed for the past six months now. Sweaters, restaurants, shoe repairs, YouTube videos, teachers, nurses, nail salons, face washes, coffee beans, iPhone apps, barbecue, my Pharmacist. The convenience of buying online is that Nordstroms, or Zappos will automatically e-mail to remind you that you made a purchase, and that you can review it! A poncho, a bar of soap, a pair of Frye's, no matter the purchase, a few words, and a discretionary number of stars tells a story. With no good friends to be had, perhaps I have been having a relationship with my purchases, which is of course the most disgusting thing I have ever thought about myself, and thus will immediately dismiss.

I, of course, read the reviews that other women post, mostly concerned when it is all a question of fit, how a size runs, the quality of material. There is nothing I hate more than a brief, completely nondescript description of a product. Let me give you an example. Let's say the review in question is for a jersey dress. Any old jersey dress will do. Now, let's say I am looking to buy this dress, but can't decide if I am one size or another. (Do you like how I conveniently avoided saying which two sizes we are supposing I am between? It's really none of your business.) Well, I would of course consult a minimum five reviews but of course it depends on how many reviews there are. I have been know to read all reviews posted, and it seems to me that I am not the only woman expressing herself via E-Commerce review.

When a woman describes herself as "curvy" or "athletic" or "petite" I feel crazed. What on earth does all that mean? Women are tricky, and with this, I read: "fat," "mannish," and "anywhere under five-foot-six-inches: reluctant to give other details."

Then there are the women who give you all the details, right down to their cup size and the cellulite on the back of their thighs, and how well this particular jersey dress hides it all. These are the women I appreciate. Not the women who give you all the gory details about their midget proportions, their tiny little curve-less bodies. The nail in the review coffin? The MySpace-esque photos of them all in my jersey dress. The only thing less-helpful than a description of a midget in my prospective dress, is a photo of it. I love photos of product, don't get me wrong, but how am I expected to visualize myself in my dress if I'm looking at a picture of a five-foot, chest-less brunette in it?

No matter how many of these I have to sort through, I can usually arrive at some sort of decision. If not, I subscribe to the Buy-Two-And-Return-The-Wrong-One theology. And ultimately, if I am undecided about which color to order, and, after hours of debate, a good nights sleep, and a call to a friend or two, cannot arrive at a decision as to whether or not to order the blue or the red, I am the founding member of the church of Buy-Both-Colors.

Rounding The Bend

Biting off more than I can chew is the only way I know how to approach anything. Though never stretched too thin, sometimes "no" truly is the hardest thing to say. Somehow, things manage to streamline themselves, with several frantic moments of push. It's always preferable when the stars align themselves and certain tasks bump themselves off all on their own; fell through The impracticality of certain commitments usually resolves the rest. And just when I think the load that I bear cannot possibly weigh an ounce more, it always seems to. The last push is always the hardest. Teeth gritted, sweat on my brow, it's the late nights and early morning up against one another that are the worst, but the relief afterward is of course, the best part of all. I've just gotten to the best part!

Please except this as an apology for the lengthy writing hiatus.

The Survey

Recently, while trying to read an article from the New York Times Fashion & Style section, I got tricked into taking an online survey about banking. Tricked may be a bit strong, as I did willingly click to participate but to be fair I did think it was going to be about the New York Times. Ironic, I thought, as I answered questions about checking accounts, credit cards, loans, CDs, and a personal savings that I don't have. Ironic really,all the things in this world I: A. know the least about and B., am the worst at.

Then suddenly, without warning, the survey turned really nasty. Which of the following activities and interests do you and/or members of your household enjoy on a regular basis? the survey nagged me.

Foreign travel: YES!
Gourmet/fine food: YES!
Fashion/clothing: YES!

This is fun! I thought.

Physical fitness/exercise: Eh, well, John I guess can fullfull this checked box for the "household," ha... household.
Current events/news: Since I was trying to read Eric Wilson's most recent exposee "Oh, to Be Young and a Star" I think I more than qualify, I thought, patting myself on the back.
Wildlife/environmental issues: My mere association with parents such as mine more than qualifies me. Check!
Money making opportunities: I suppose if money fell into my lap I would accept it, sure, but what mean this "opportunities?" Doesn't this stupid survey know I would answer yes to the first three boxes, essentially ruling out entirely the possibility of this later one? I did specify my age at the beginning of this thing after all.
Book reading: I read a book this morning! I couldn't help but thank past Andrea for having such incredible foresight.
Self Improvement: What the.....
Watching or playing sports: What a well rounded pair John and I are, says the survey. I smiled here. What does "Self improvement" even mean?!
Charities/volunteer work: What?
Consumer electronics: I do want an iPhone, I thought guiltily, looking with a twinge at the box above.
None of the above:

Well, I thought, hastily taking my belated exit to glorious, materialistic reprieve, what a thoroughly offensive survey.

In Hell

I am in internet-less hell. Hell because there is no Internet. No Internet, because this is Sardegna. I should have known it. I joked about it, that I would be without it, that I would have no choice but to suffer contact-less days and nights and here I am, suffering. Endlessly. This is day two, I remind myself.

Apparently, corrects my MacBook, Internet is a proper noun, emphasizing further the importance of its existence. Along with America, Carmex, and Vogue. Since I can’t live without these three, how then, can one expect me to live without the previous?

My Airport doesn’t find a single wireless network, protected or not. I am literally without options. My access to Internet comes only from the frame shop with an Ethernet plug-in that is a steep hike away in the town center. And today is Sunday. Not only do I know it is closed because it is the day of rest, but also because I am sitting next to the proprietor.

The hours drag on and I wonder if the days will ever change. I wonder how a person lives this way, how long they can endure. "How come there is no internet here?" I ask, accompanied by a practiced, forced smile. “We didn’t get around to putting in the Internet yet. I can use it at work and Valerio uses it at the shop, and so we didn’t see the need.” I nod politely, arranging my face into an expression that I think says, Ah, understandable. “And how long ago did you move into this new apartment?” I ask, my smile now a grimace. “In December.”

It is a cretinous lifestyle, to be sure. Day two, echoes ominously in my head. I can't spell “cretinous” off the top of my head and I try to look it up using my handy formatting palette: “Office cannot connect to the Internet,” it tells me. “Make sure that your computer is connected to the Internet, and press RETURN to try again.” Not only did it repeat the word “Internet” twice, it was even capitalized in the toolbox.

The Music Of This Street

In my apartment I am constantly being confronted with the pluses and minuses. Single bedroom: plus. Two bathrooms: plus. Freezer the size of a microwave: minus. Shower that shares a wall with a sleeping roommate: minus. Neighbor above in high heels: minus.

But recently, I discovered the two greatest plus of them all. And funny enough, it isn't even in my apartment.

People talk about the music of a city. The garbage trucks, the traffic, the shouts and hollers of pedestrians, car stereos. But I have found myself living in the apartment afforded the most music of all. Real music. No on in this apartment plays an instrument, and it isn't the apartment below me blasting theirs, it is the real, live pianist living in the building across from mine. His windows look directly into my own, and he is a he.

I found out last week when I awoke and opened the shutters. Putting on my slippers, wondering what combination of people might be present in the dining room, I went into the kitchen for my morning cappuccino. Seated at the table, not sour at all (at least not yet) was Giudy, hunched over her computer, oscillating between her thesis in a word document and the online social networking site we all know and love. She was playing music, a concert pianist, or at least I thought so. I complemented her music choice and instead of smiling politely and thanking me, her face contorted into a kind of grimace, the kind that says simultaneously, what on earth are you thinking and oh you like that? cause it's doing nothing for me.

"It's not me," she said, "it's the man across the street." I looked up and out the open window, to the one adjacent. Now I could tell. Clearly, this was no MP3, it was a live person, playing some wonderful piano cantata. "You don't like it?" I asked, slightly disgusted that she could be such a Grinch. "It's impossible to study when he plays, and he always plays in the spring and summer. What a nuisance." (Here, I paraphrase, and would like to note that her criticism was not so well mannered indeed it included several expletives, but seeing as no appropriate translation exists from Italian to English, I feel her point is better served in the way I have described it.)

I couldn't believe it. I can't believe it. How could someone dislike the sound of a piano, an uncomplicated, wordless tune? Here she was, practically in agony over the sound of a baroque masterpiece, and I felt I should thank this man. How could she call this a disruption? Live, free, moderately low-volumed music. I made my cappuccino and made a hasty exit, afraid that her colorless, repugnant attitude could be contagious. Back in my room, I threw open both windows.

Today finds me with windows flung open wide, reclined on my bed, looking out towards his window and up to the sky. I awoke at 9:30, relatively early considering the late hour at which I finally switched off the light last night. It was to the sound of the music, drifting through the shutters, not waking me but rather invading my sleep, pervading my dreams. When I rolled over into this realization, I opened the shutters immediately, to allow the music better entrance to my room. A nuisance? Never.

He plays daily, and for hours on end. Sometimes slowly, encumbered. Perhaps it is a new piece, I imagine. Sometimes quickly, expertly, as though he wrote the piece himself. He rarely loses his place, or stops abruptly, and each time he does, so too does my heart. Has the concert ended? When will the music return? It inevitably begins again, and I've usually stepped out by the time he finishes, an easier acceptance than having the music end on me. Today I heard the beginning as well as the end of the concert.

These private concerts, as I like to imagine they have become, are something I will miss greatly. This, and Friday evenings. Downstairs and across the street is Chet Baker, the restaurant, not the man. Every Friday evening, they arrange tables out on the terrace and serve dinner in front of a live jazz band that plays for no less than four hours. Somebody explained to me that the restaurant's namesake lived for a number of years in Bologna. Though only once a week, this concert lights my block ablaze. I love the music, followed by the applause. I love the applause as much as the music, because that too is live. It is in appreciation. It isn't Giudy's disapproving ear, and it isn't my roommate's boyfriend screaming "ENOUGH!" out the window, like he did today.

The Smells In This City

Until four months ago, I had never lived in a big city in my life. The realities of such a life have been confronting me daily since I arrived. It's crowded. Everything is stone and concrete and brick. Its filthy. With few green spaces, all tucked out of the way in isolated corners, there is dog excrement everywhere, usually in the shape of a smashed skid from the shoe of the poor pedestrian who was so unfortunate as to step in it. There are homeless begging, and insistent street vendors who seem not to know I have a particularly large bubble of personal space because they seem always to be entering it. But worst of all presented itself just one week ago when all of a sudden the spring seemed to arrive all at once.

One night it was beautiful, and hot, and a whole new side of the city showed itself. The smell. The smokers were always here but it was one bus ride I took last Wednesday in particular when I realized the reality of living in a city is infinitely worse than I'd imagined. I rode this particular bus on a day that was hot though not unbearable. I could discern each distinct smell coming for each individual passenger.

As the heat increases each day, it gets worse. Sometimes it's better to stay home and starve than go out and confront my neighbors and fellow Pam Supermarket shoppers, their lack of hygiene a complete affront. But it's not just the people. It's the trash cans, the dog excrement, the plumbing in my apartment, the exhaust from a million cars. It's disgusting.

Please, oh please, take me to the Pacific!