88 keys: April 2012

We're on the verge of summer and I'm getting that restless feeling, fantasizing about the vacations I won't take for a while and planning some weekend mini-trips. To stave it off a little longer, I decided to finally write about last year's vacation, a week-long cross-country roadtrip, which was my first independent vacation- an adventure in many senses of the word. Sometimes people take trips simply to for the destination, to see people or to get away from other people.

I admit that those were some of my reasons, but sometimes you also have to get away from yourself.

Escape
When the shrill alarm sounded at 5:30 a.m., I jumped out of bed and didn’t look back. My bags were packed and waiting by the door, my maps drawn out, my catsitter waiting and my deli sandwiches chilled in the cooler.

I filled my car’s gas tank and headed west just as the royal blue of dawn faded and gave way to the early summer sun. They would just be arriving at the office, and I wouldn’t be coming in at all.
Some victory tunes shoed me out of state, keeping the adrenaline pumping and my mind far from how much sleep I didn’t get. No matter what transportation I take or how long I’m away, the excitement keeps me up.

A hundred miles in, Chipp Kidd is still keeping me company with his audio mystery waves of intrigue and mild discomfort. At least this was no cubicle.

Exoticism
Miles 300-500 were extraordinary. Even when the landscape was lacking in luster, I was still thrilled and refreshed. This. This has nothing to do with engineering- not for me, at least. Today, I don’t have to explain, even in the most generic terms, the mechanics of road construction or electrical board overloads, green technology or why my degree can take me so many places, many of which I had never thought of or even hoped for.

Today I have $150 for gas, some hearty deli sandwiches, sodas and sunglasses.
It’s really just me, the road and the sky.

No longer in my two-mile radius of apartment, ex’s apartment, office and bookstore. No, today is not Garland to Leverett and back. Today I am crossing so many highways and making so many turns that I don’t hesitate at some unfamiliar crossroads, I speed up and put on my car’s blinker because by night fall I will be somewhere really great.

Somewhere ridiculously far from here. From you.

The Lull
Weeks of build-up put a few expectations in mind, but the months leading up to it had trained me to know better.

I was okay with this.

This, being away from the familiar and not quite to The Other Side. Passing through forest after forest of windmills, I felt it coming on. I would have to face unfamiliarity. I’d have to face him- someone I knew so well before and may find a stranger now. I’d have to face his friends, and my overwhelming fear of meeting people outside the confines of an interview. I’d have to meet his family, and Lord knows I had no clue what to expect there.

But for now, the Oklahoma rolling hills had given way to the farmlands of Texas… growing dusty and even more flat. For now I could embrace the peace and quiet, the hours of listening to the hum of tires on a desert highway.

My heartbeat low.

The cacophony of thoughts that always invade started to slip away, and those that were left somehow mysteriously fit in order. Given another hundred miles, they fell around me, like red dust resettling in the wake of a lonely Winnebago.

I could see the mountains in the distance, and I knew it would have to end sometime.

So Close, So Far Away
The sun and I- in some eternal race- came head to head in New Mexico. The mountains held me in a trance with their slow, deliberate trek to meet me. There was nothing more to behold. A landscape so bare, so beautiful that a broken down shack of cracked windows and junky furniture looks like a piece of art. As if it were so purposefully positioned here, 400 yards from the freeway, a latitude away from the sunset and 400 miles away from everywhere else, that is exactly where you would have placed it- if they had asked you.

Back to Manhattan
When all the ennui had finally been shaken off and given way to excitement and car-singing and the kind of in-your-seat-dancing that you reserve for only the closest friends and when your ghosts haunting you less than normal, for the first time in months that felt like years, your mind is finally at peace.

My overworked and under-rested mind wanted to think and speculate and worry, but it was far past that. Nothing left but to take the comfort of Norah Jones’ voice, the dependability of the road and to face the confrontation of mountains and desert sky.

“I’ll go back to Manhattan, like nothing ever happened.”

“I know nothing about leaving, but I know I should do it today.”

I would go to New Mexico and no matter what happened there, no matter if I was given a reason to stay, I would return to Fayetteville and it would be different. It would be changed. I would be changed. And my problems wouldn’t be solved, but the one thing keeping me from getting out of bed in the morning would be lifted.

I believed this, so it would come true.

“But Brooklyn holds you”

Very suddenly the flat desert gave way to sand dunes, which fell to canyons, red and orange in the dying sun, the temperature falling degree by degree until…you’ve arrived. You set off on a journey simply to get away, and maybe by the time you got there, it wasn’t far enough because it has to stop. You’re here and you have responsibility. Again.

All the running in the world can’t distance you from that.

With hardly any time to breathe, you’re allowed only enough time to freshen up and put on a decent dress. His friends, all the people who have kept him here in the mountains, want to meet you, need to know you instantly this evening before you have a chance to catch up.

There’s dinner and music and shouting across the table and way too many drinks at this altitude. There’s two-step dancing, margaritas, music (country, western and urban), laughter. His friends are your friends and you can no longer blame him for moving away, for wanting something fundamental and stable in his life. Even 1000 miles from your home.

The evening doesn’t end until the very last drop of humidity has cleared, leaving only the delicious touch of the ceiling fan and the dance of the curtains in the slow night breeze.

Everything is suddenly very simple. And you know that you can’t force yourself to go back. You can’t go back to Manhattan. Not yet.

You’re good with parents. Relationships are the trouble. Each time you find someone who seems just right, they find someone else or you’ve already served their purpose, or something happens. Life happens.

But parents and family, you have that down because you had the grades. You have the job. You’re not taking advantage of their son. You listen to their stories. You give honest answers when you understand that they’re ready for them.

Day two, it’s meet his Mother day.

She’s well-educated, from the South without being Southern, beautiful and managed to remain a catch, even after years of being in the same relationship. A business owner, she doesn’t even live with her boyfriend, and seems threatened by no one and nothing. Her house is flawless. Impeccable, even. The decorating is perfectly coordinated- not too much matching, only complimentary. The vinaigrette is homemade, the appetizers perfectly overlapped with drinks and eased into salads and main courses.

It’s about a million miles away from your parents’ log cabin and homemade clothing, homemade quilts and furniture that-thank goodness- was built to last because it was the only thing they had for thirty years. But you are dating this woman’s son. This is a dinner interview where you will be graded on appearance, conversation, culinary knowledge and taste and sensibility of career.

A time or two, you will seem a little eager, but other dinner guests make far more obvious faux pas and you begin to relax. You’re here. You’ve already managed the hardest part: getting invited.

At this point, you can see past the overt perfection into her natural charm and come to appreciate the part of her personality that she jokes about but doesn’t apologize for. You can see yourself hating this woman for all her wisdom and experience and eventually coming to her, one Thanksgiving, ready. Ready to put aside the bitterness that you couldn’t manage it (whatever it was) the first time around, but have placed your pride aside and begun a partnership to take care of the one person you care for most in the world.

Just as you expect to be leaving, you realize you’ve passed: you have been invited to extend the evening at the country club. Dessert, leaning on his arm, inevitable turning in soon- safety from her and the informal-formal-informal interviewing. Safety is near.

The next morning doesn’t provide shelter from the storm.

You are expected to meet Her and her best friend at the country club in the next town over. Without him.
A quick shower, a dash of toenail painting, you grab your bikini and the driving directions. Sheer panic for some reason, as you’ve somehow found your way across the country, but what if you can’t pick this one adobe building apart from the rest? Will she count it against you if you’re late? Is it too late to just be friends?

You arrive on time, with him calling you just as you park in between the BMWs, SUVs and plethora of large trucks of the Texas vacationers. You’ll be fine, he’s not worried. He’ll see you tonight.

You find her instantly, sitting by the pool in a chic black one-piece and sunhat. Her toenails are flawlessly cherry red. Her smile is easy. The three of you settle in, content under the New Mexico sun made bearable by the turquoise breeze cascading off the next range of mountains. This is better than the beach. If you had weather like this, no office could keep you. You’d be sunburned year-round. And you wouldn’t even care.

In this section, they test your credentials. What did you study in college? What do you do for a living? How did you come to this place in your life? If you were to go elsewhere, what is your plan? (Because you must have a Plan even if you don’t foresee leaving.)

This doesn’t bother you because it’s the one area of your life you seemingly have sorted out. You will not lead just any career. They are charmed by your determined optimism and decisiveness. It has earned you maybe an hour of peace.

The afternoon brings a pop quiz of sister merriment- doing chores, running errands, swapping a singular obligatory personal detail in exchange for trust.

By the time you’ve earned the chance to actually spend time with him, you are exhausted. And a little sunburned. Just a quick evening of board games and barbequing with his friends and you’ll be ready to (stay up all night talking and catching up with your closest friend? Nah.) …go straight to sleep.
The following days are easier.
You have lunch with the sister.
You help take care of the pets.
You finally get time with the person you came to see, which makes it all worth it. Every. Single. Bit.

You get some time to decompress.
You meet his coworkers, you accompany him on the job and even help out a bit.

Then the last full day comes, and he is suddenly physically ill. You are the tea-maker, the dog-keeper, the house-tender, the family liaison, the fever-breaker. In the morning, his fever breaks and you know he’ll leave for work in a few hours even if he’s not up to it. When you return home, you’ll have job interviews and a stack of work to make up, bills to pay, a cat to tend to, plants to water, a lease to renew.

“Don’t go,” he says. “Leave long enough to pack your bags and just come back.”

Miracle of all miracles, the very things you’ve hoped for have happened. You’ve gotten the green light from the mother, the sister, the sister’s boyfriend, the friends and the coworkers. And most importantly, he thinks he wants you there.

You drive away into the red haze of the desert morning, peering through your sunglasses at the world a little differently. And you realize that you won’t be back- no matter how ideal things may have seemed- wishing you knew why, but knowing it's right.

Knowing it will come to you one day, knowing that he will see it, too.

This weekend I watched the popular movie after only recently finishing the first of the books in the series. The movie answered a few crucial questions for me, bridged gaps that left me grasping for more.

A Clash of Generations
In the book, it was really difficult for me to imagine what generation it looked or felt like. Of course, it’s essentially post-apocalyptic America, but the lifestyle of District 12 seems very colonial and the lifestyle of the Capitol seemed shiny-jumpsuit weird, so my mind threw together some clashing, inconsistent images.

In this sense, the movie was really great, revealing a District 12 that was a mix of the 1920s era coal-mining community with colonial sensibilities: simply dull, washed out clothing; most women in skirts, dresses and some bandanas; bartering and trading for a living, reliance on hunting.

Then, the training of the tributes seemed perfectly modern: simple, efficient clothing (women can wear pants) that didn’t seem to announce any era in particular.

The lifestyle at the Capitol was indeed a mix of generations: many dressed in the corsets and bustles of the late 19th century, but in vivid spring colors, much like is popular at Target and other affordable trendy stores these days, instead of the browns and crimsons of the 19th century.

Even the Capitol, with it’s super-metro city that recalls images of historic Paris and travel via helicopter, chariots, high speed trains... creates this complicated mesh of trends and time periods. Even the post-games interview seemed to have its own generation: more similar to a 60’s game show- everything bright, glossy and pretty.

All to say that my mind’s eye pulling arbitrary images from all sorts of places wasn’t far off from the movie’s mix-and-matched sensibility. I suppose it was a small relief to have this eclectic definition of scene and setting: that the future, apart from being cruel and seemingly hopeless is a wild array of the past and, of course, possibly not a far stretch away from where we are now.

Influences?
Since the movie, a big question has been rolling around in my mind: what about our generation brought us to be so pumped about a story like this? (I’ll throw a few of my guesses out, I'd like to hear yours)

It seems like this fresh new fusion of woods-smart girl power (Pocahontas), kids surviving with few tools (Hatchet), the loss of political innocence/trust (The Giver, The Island, etc) and probably hooked a good deal of Lost fans into a more satisfyingly definitive storyline.

A concern
My partner in crime for the evening, Whitfield, mentioned that he was disappointed in the lack of scenes that actually portray the tributes deaths, that PG 13 ratings had restricted the power of the storytelling. At first I wanted to disagree, for personal reasons like simply not wanting to see more blood or focus on the deaths of children or characters I’d grown attached to, but it’s true. This part of the book-to-movie process should be consistent- the intensity and cutting truth of it. Essential scenes, like the entire night of Cato’s death were critical to the character development of Katniss and Peeta.

Should we allow children to read something brutal and then make the visual portrait less powerful, dulling the sting of it in the name of selling more movie tickets?