There is a pain that resides in the pit of my stomach, and has been stuck there for over a year.
It is a specific and craggy pain, like the pit of a peach, and feels equally as poisonous as that fruitful cyanide.
Nobody knows what it is, but I know its the pits.
Yesterday I went to the Radiology Department of Dominican Hospital for a CT scan.
(This stands for Computed Tomography, but people call it a CAT scan because everybody loves an acronym that is a synonym for something fuzzy.)
The doctors were ready for me; they all had their clipboards and smiles set up.
Before I got there they made me drink a total of seven and a half cups of a thick, white liquid that tasted like tangerines and chalk that would supposedly make my insides glow for the camera. In the waiting room, the kind of place with framed Van Gough re-prints and speckled furniture, they forced me to drink two and a half more cups of the stuff.
I threw up in my mouth in front of all the old people waiting for their hip x-rays, and had to spit it into the trash can.
I was as sour as a peach in winter, and the tangerine chalk was bubbling around my insides volcanically.
I escaped to the hospital bathroom a total of twelve times before my turn came. (By the way, if hospitals have the AUDACITY to make you drink nine and a half cups of ANYTHING, they should really be providing private stalls and scented candles.)
And then the worst part came: a hot male nurse with a southern accent.
With his ever-so-slight, harmonic drawl HMN (Hot Male Nurse) let my name escape into the eighties waiting room: "Mawwly Preeeyntys?"
I rose, with a gurgle, and followed HMN through a corridor of clipboards and closed doors to a changing room.
Handing me a thin, printed smock (those things have potential to be cute, by the way, with some minor alterations) he crooned: "Get undressed heeere, then meet me in the scannnning room, bayack theyrrr."
If I wasn't about to shit all over my white gown, I would have asked HMN out for gin fizzes right then and there.
Instead I padded down the hall in my vulnerable patients frock and let my head hang, a heavy fruit on the end of my branch neck.
HMN was waiting for me, as expected, in the scanning room.
"Lay daawn here, sweetie." he said, swabbing a needle for my IV and radiating a southern glow (one that I'm quite sure rivaled the dull glow of my chalky insides) throughout the room.
"Now, you might feel a hot flush all through your bawdy," he breathed, almost a whisper, "But don't worry, it's to be expected."
I did feel a hot flush. Like something red and spicy was filling my veins.
And I let the camera swirl around my abdomen, searching for the pit in my stomach.
The thing that I always feel in a doctors office is this: VIOLATION.
A simple ENCROACHMENT of my personal space.
An INFRINGEMENT on my insides, my outsides, my all sides.
The PRODDING and POKING and PULSE TAKING that makes me feel less healthy and more vulnerable than before I seeked diagnosis.
There are red stars next to my name at orthodonits offices and dentists offices and pediatritions and skin doctors for my kicking and screaming.
Stop asking me how many drinks I had last week.
How many "partners" I've had.
If I could possibly be pregnant and how many people in my family have had cancer.
How much I weigh and if I am allergic to your poisonous antibiotics.
Some advice for doctors and hospitals:
-Invest in some good art for your waiting rooms and sterile offices; Monet repeats aren't making us feel any less sick.
-Be kind and gentle when you poke us and claw us.
-Avoid playing Jennifer Lopez jazz remixes in your clostrophobic corridors.
-Come up with some modern fucking alternative for drinking nine cups of diarreah inducing white chalk. Its fucking 2007.
-Hem your gowns a little shorter; they could be hot little numbers.
-Hire more boys with southern accents.
-Personal stalls!
I'm sorry if I have bored you, darling readers, with a detailed account of my banal Monday morning and the bowels that went with it. But it is the central concern in the center of my stomach and the only thing worth noting in my sleepy Santa Cruz existence of late.
Results, I hope, will be delivered by my drawling and drool-worthy HMN in the form of a house call.
And hopefully, if I get lucky, they will be just peachy.
smoke.
it is 1789 and there are some Spaniards, (very poor but still sexy with their dark eyes and worn clothes) picking up little dirty things off of the cobblestones.
it is Seville, with all of its orange trees and painfully romantic sidestreets, and the things these poor men are collecting are the chewed up ends of the rich men's cigars.
they will unfurl the cigar butts, gather the leftover tobacco, and use newsprint to roll cigarillos.
then they will smoke them on a stoop somewhere, their breath curling, and whisper at passing women.
before that, it was 5000 BC and tobacco was sprouting all over the americas.
in guatemala they were tying strings around their leaves for puffing.
columbus discovered smoking when he discovered his new continent and cigs got sexy with the sailors.
over a billion people smoke now.
i am convinced that over half of these billion reside in brooklyn, new york.
the health conscious hatred for smoking, so prevelent in the golden state of california, has skipped over new york.
perhaps because living is so immediate there (one does not think of life in terms of pulsing organs or organisms in that city but rather as a build up of tasks and tunnels and technicalities), or perhaps because one wishes to be as gritty as the streets and cement that surrounds them, smoking is still the symbol of seduction in the big apple.
new york is a series of little ashtrays and embers.
of the people with their brand:
Rachel: Parlaiment 100's, in boy-cut underwear and socks, padding around the house.
Huriya: Marlboro Reds, ranting about capitalism in the back of a bar in Williamsburg, clip on earrings.
Mike: American Spirit Mediums, outside Peet's Candy Store in a striped scarf.
Tom: Camels (with a cut off filter for extra tar), playing chess under a dim light and cursing.
Sara B.: Camels, sitting on a tire outside the coffee shop.
Damon: American Spirits, lazing in the park on a Sunday, talking about grammar.
Sofie: the occasional Parlaiment on the red couch, discussing line drawings or photographs.
Rodrigo: Bali Shag rollies, planning a revolution on his work break.
Gabe and Jason: whatever they could bum, with wine stained teeth at a loft party...
people in new york create their identities, both social and individual, with their cigarettes.
they leave bars in groups for a smoke break.
they pull lighters out of nowhere and light eachother's ends.
and even though they cough in the night and carry a stale smoke smell they are the sexiest people i have known.
maybe this is because inhaling an alphabet of addititves (this is only A: Acetanisole
Acetic Acid, Acetoin, Acetophenone, 6-Acetoxydihydrotheaspirane, 2-Acetyl-3- Ethylpyrazine, 2-Acetyl-5-Methylfuran,Acetylpyrazine, 2-Acetylpyridine, 3-Acetylpyridine, 2-Acetylthiazole, Aconitic Acid, dl-Alanine, Alfalfa Extract
Allspice Extract,Oleoresin, and Oil, Allyl Hexanoate, Allyl Ionone, Almond Bitter Oil, Ambergris Tincture, Ammonia, Ammonium Bicarbonate, Ammonium Hydroxide, Ammonium Phosphate Dibasic, Ammonium Sulfide, Amyl Alcohol
Amyl Butyrate, Amyl Formate, Amyl Octanoate, alpha-Amylcinnamaldehyde, Amyris Oil, trans-Anethole, Angelica Root Extract, Oil and Seed Oil, Anise, Anise Star, Extract and Oils, Anisyl Acetate, Anisyl Alcohol, Anisyl Formate, Anisyl Phenylacetate, Apple Juice Concentrate, Extract, and Skins, Apricot Extract and Juice Concentrate, 1-Arginine
Asafetida Fluid Extract And Oil, Ascorbic Acid, 1-Asparagine Monohydrate) releases all those sultry endorphines and dopamines that attract us all...
recently the mayor of a near-by coastal town decided to ban smoking from its city limits.
he was called a fascist.
i don't even know what i think about that.
people: do what you will.
mayors: stop telling people what to do.
tobacco: stop killng people.
new yorkers: stay sexy.
and to the poor men of 18th century Seville, next time you get a craving for a cig, reach up and grab an orange from the fruitful tree above you.
lots of vitamins there.
it is Seville, with all of its orange trees and painfully romantic sidestreets, and the things these poor men are collecting are the chewed up ends of the rich men's cigars.
they will unfurl the cigar butts, gather the leftover tobacco, and use newsprint to roll cigarillos.
then they will smoke them on a stoop somewhere, their breath curling, and whisper at passing women.
before that, it was 5000 BC and tobacco was sprouting all over the americas.
in guatemala they were tying strings around their leaves for puffing.
columbus discovered smoking when he discovered his new continent and cigs got sexy with the sailors.
over a billion people smoke now.
i am convinced that over half of these billion reside in brooklyn, new york.
the health conscious hatred for smoking, so prevelent in the golden state of california, has skipped over new york.
perhaps because living is so immediate there (one does not think of life in terms of pulsing organs or organisms in that city but rather as a build up of tasks and tunnels and technicalities), or perhaps because one wishes to be as gritty as the streets and cement that surrounds them, smoking is still the symbol of seduction in the big apple.
new york is a series of little ashtrays and embers.
of the people with their brand:
Rachel: Parlaiment 100's, in boy-cut underwear and socks, padding around the house.
Huriya: Marlboro Reds, ranting about capitalism in the back of a bar in Williamsburg, clip on earrings.
Mike: American Spirit Mediums, outside Peet's Candy Store in a striped scarf.
Tom: Camels (with a cut off filter for extra tar), playing chess under a dim light and cursing.
Sara B.: Camels, sitting on a tire outside the coffee shop.
Damon: American Spirits, lazing in the park on a Sunday, talking about grammar.
Sofie: the occasional Parlaiment on the red couch, discussing line drawings or photographs.
Rodrigo: Bali Shag rollies, planning a revolution on his work break.
Gabe and Jason: whatever they could bum, with wine stained teeth at a loft party...
people in new york create their identities, both social and individual, with their cigarettes.
they leave bars in groups for a smoke break.
they pull lighters out of nowhere and light eachother's ends.
and even though they cough in the night and carry a stale smoke smell they are the sexiest people i have known.
maybe this is because inhaling an alphabet of addititves (this is only A: Acetanisole
Acetic Acid, Acetoin, Acetophenone, 6-Acetoxydihydrotheaspirane, 2-Acetyl-3- Ethylpyrazine, 2-Acetyl-5-Methylfuran,Acetylpyrazine, 2-Acetylpyridine, 3-Acetylpyridine, 2-Acetylthiazole, Aconitic Acid, dl-Alanine, Alfalfa Extract
Allspice Extract,Oleoresin, and Oil, Allyl Hexanoate, Allyl Ionone, Almond Bitter Oil, Ambergris Tincture, Ammonia, Ammonium Bicarbonate, Ammonium Hydroxide, Ammonium Phosphate Dibasic, Ammonium Sulfide, Amyl Alcohol
Amyl Butyrate, Amyl Formate, Amyl Octanoate, alpha-Amylcinnamaldehyde, Amyris Oil, trans-Anethole, Angelica Root Extract, Oil and Seed Oil, Anise, Anise Star, Extract and Oils, Anisyl Acetate, Anisyl Alcohol, Anisyl Formate, Anisyl Phenylacetate, Apple Juice Concentrate, Extract, and Skins, Apricot Extract and Juice Concentrate, 1-Arginine
Asafetida Fluid Extract And Oil, Ascorbic Acid, 1-Asparagine Monohydrate) releases all those sultry endorphines and dopamines that attract us all...
recently the mayor of a near-by coastal town decided to ban smoking from its city limits.
he was called a fascist.
i don't even know what i think about that.
people: do what you will.
mayors: stop telling people what to do.
tobacco: stop killng people.
new yorkers: stay sexy.
and to the poor men of 18th century Seville, next time you get a craving for a cig, reach up and grab an orange from the fruitful tree above you.
lots of vitamins there.
dependence.
so here's a new concept: china.
why didnt we think of it before?
oh, because china used to be communist (sccaaarrry) and we didn't want to talk about it.
now that we are importing 200 trillion dollars worth of goods from them each year, we like to read about that big red country all the time.
our economic dependence on china is like a toxic romantic relationship.
we keep on going back to them even when they screw us over. (these are the relationships i thrive on: i must be your classic american girl!)
recently i read that there has been an abundance of faulty goods imported from china.
poisonous toothpaste, dirty fish, etc.
and yet our imports are higher than ever.
we can't stop booty calling china even when the booty isn't all that good.
it makes me sad to be dependent on things that aren't good for me.
sometimes i feel like a country: settling for a low price, trading out my own resources for clanking toys and silky fabrics that are good to the touch, depending on someone else for stability.
wouldn't it be nice to hold true to our own, distinctly american idea of independence?
nestle into bed at night with a glass of wine and a book and be completely content?
no hopes or needs for anyone of the opposite sex, or in america's case, the opposite side of the earth?
we are always looking for something to round us out.
in many cases, (such as my love life and the entire concept of free trade) this is actually holds us back from creating our own stability.
the irony of this all: china may be on its own road to economic independence.
and we (america) will be sending texts at four in the morning saying "where are you? come over!" that will be left unanswered by i-phones in the east.
BY THE WAY: are iphones even cool?
my little sister wants one, she tells me, but not until they are perfected in about one to two years.
way to look ahead, grace.
pretty soon, i predict, we will all be rocking out to our ringtones and syncing up our touch screens and babbling about our bluetooth all together. all around the world.
this little machine, only 3.5 inches wide and weighing in at a whopping 4.8 ounces, will have us all hooked.
another dependence device.
thanks, steve.
and thanks, capitalism.
why didnt we think of it before?
oh, because china used to be communist (sccaaarrry) and we didn't want to talk about it.
now that we are importing 200 trillion dollars worth of goods from them each year, we like to read about that big red country all the time.
our economic dependence on china is like a toxic romantic relationship.
we keep on going back to them even when they screw us over. (these are the relationships i thrive on: i must be your classic american girl!)
recently i read that there has been an abundance of faulty goods imported from china.
poisonous toothpaste, dirty fish, etc.
and yet our imports are higher than ever.
we can't stop booty calling china even when the booty isn't all that good.
it makes me sad to be dependent on things that aren't good for me.
sometimes i feel like a country: settling for a low price, trading out my own resources for clanking toys and silky fabrics that are good to the touch, depending on someone else for stability.
wouldn't it be nice to hold true to our own, distinctly american idea of independence?
nestle into bed at night with a glass of wine and a book and be completely content?
no hopes or needs for anyone of the opposite sex, or in america's case, the opposite side of the earth?
we are always looking for something to round us out.
in many cases, (such as my love life and the entire concept of free trade) this is actually holds us back from creating our own stability.
the irony of this all: china may be on its own road to economic independence.
and we (america) will be sending texts at four in the morning saying "where are you? come over!" that will be left unanswered by i-phones in the east.
BY THE WAY: are iphones even cool?
my little sister wants one, she tells me, but not until they are perfected in about one to two years.
way to look ahead, grace.
pretty soon, i predict, we will all be rocking out to our ringtones and syncing up our touch screens and babbling about our bluetooth all together. all around the world.
this little machine, only 3.5 inches wide and weighing in at a whopping 4.8 ounces, will have us all hooked.
another dependence device.
thanks, steve.
and thanks, capitalism.
addiction.
i have stopped drinking coffee and now i am no longer creative.
the stuff is powerful, you know.
today i read that it is the second most valuable economic commodity in the world, after oil.
maybe that's because without it, you can't be creative.
you can't even make anything.
sometimes i feel that i can only produce after i consume.
this is the vicious cycle inside the average american.
fill me up, and then i will shit all over you.
wikipedia (also known as the american public that knows how to use the internet) defines ADDICTION as "a recurring compulsion by an individual to engage in some specific activity."
the american public is addicted to so many things!
like wikipedia!
and fucking each other over!
and coffee!
there is a man named Levi Bryant that criticized even using the term "addiction" because he felt that it would perpetuate the cycle of addiction. in short, he beleived that he who labeled himself an addict would be less likely to transform himself; he would beleive that addiction was within him.
hey Dr. Bryant, why dont you try to stop drinking coffee and realize that the only reason you came up with that creative idea about addiction anyways is because you were so hyped on caffine and so confident with yourself that you actually published that outlandish idea.
i am going to go fix up an espresso on my parent's fancy machine because i can't handle not being addicted to anything.
the stuff is powerful, you know.
today i read that it is the second most valuable economic commodity in the world, after oil.
maybe that's because without it, you can't be creative.
you can't even make anything.
sometimes i feel that i can only produce after i consume.
this is the vicious cycle inside the average american.
fill me up, and then i will shit all over you.
wikipedia (also known as the american public that knows how to use the internet) defines ADDICTION as "a recurring compulsion by an individual to engage in some specific activity."
the american public is addicted to so many things!
like wikipedia!
and fucking each other over!
and coffee!
there is a man named Levi Bryant that criticized even using the term "addiction" because he felt that it would perpetuate the cycle of addiction. in short, he beleived that he who labeled himself an addict would be less likely to transform himself; he would beleive that addiction was within him.
hey Dr. Bryant, why dont you try to stop drinking coffee and realize that the only reason you came up with that creative idea about addiction anyways is because you were so hyped on caffine and so confident with yourself that you actually published that outlandish idea.
i am going to go fix up an espresso on my parent's fancy machine because i can't handle not being addicted to anything.
birthday party.
today was a day of births and deaths.
when i woke up, i felt like death.
one of those mornings where sleep's haze reverses the fairy tale and turns everything gold to grey.
couldn't get up off of that cot with that sleeping bag on the floor of a dirty san francisco apartment. couldn't decide what to do with myself when i finally rose.
for three hours i moped around like a zombie, moving from room to room, opening and shutting doors of a house that did not belong to me.
then my friend andrew who is growing dreadlocks and always singing peaceful songs came to pick me up and i left that apartment and hopped into the car to head back down the coast to santa cruz.
although i love san francisco, the place was suffocating me (perhaps because of the ambiguous nature of the korean neighborhood and its sunny streets and anglular bay windows, how i could not define any of it) on this particular morning.
on highway one, as soon as we could see the water, i was born again.
the drive and its beauty, its shelves of cliffs and the way the road became courageous in its turns, consumed me entirely.
(california's natural juxtaposition of hills (in their pallate of yellows and browns) and beach scapes (wet with greens and blues) has never failed to rejuvinate me. it is as if the higway is a line down the middle of the landscape, dividing the canvas of the coastline into camps of earth and water. the brambles and stickly trees of the hillsides dare not cross the road into the territory of the dark cliffs and the bright ocean, for this would be coloring outside the lines.)
back in santa cruz: my family sits on the back porch, looking over the sea. they are drinking beers and the sun is fading, which makes perfect sense. when i join them, they are talking about the moths.
mom: "the moths sure are dwindling down..."
dad: "yes, they are. but look up there, where the light is coming through that oak tree. see all of them, there?"
mom: "oh! they are so beautiful! i want to film them, if we had one of those hand cameras..."
me: "they look like gold confetti."
sister: "all the little kids call them butterfies..."
these oak moths, brown, plain things wtih short life spans and papery wings, are re-born in santa cruz every five to ten years, and have entered our lives like locusts this summer. apparently these creatures have been inching around as caterpillars since late may (we failed to notice them then) and have now entered their summer adult phase of consumption and reproduction.
i have heard rumors of landscape devestation all around santa cruz; garders have not prepared for this frantic phenomenon!even we are noticing a depleation of the leaves of our strong oaks...
we are all quite interested in the moths. maybe it is the bitter beer we are drinking that makes the topic seem crucial, or perhaps the fact that santa cruz lacks drama enough for dramatic conversation. either way, the moths are making us think.
dad: "what do you think these moths are thinking about?"
mom: "make more moths!"
me: "they don't think. theyre moths."
dad: "what, you think insects don't think?"
me: "they dont think about reproducing, they just do it. did you know that dolphins and humans are the only ones that mate for pleasure?"
dad: "bullshit. no way."
me: "i swear! look it up!"
the conversation continues in this manner for some time, all of us staring up at the glitter of the sun shining through the wings of a group of moths. we wonder about where the moths go when they are gone, where they come from, what they are called. i find this preoccupation with something natural to be very refreshing.
i think about the comings and goings of these insects.
they arrived only a few weeks ago.
in one more they will be gone.
births and deaths in such close proximity to each other. fertilization and the decay of those fleshy wings, all within a month.
when we finish our beer, the sun is still high. (summer means that days like this will never die, for the shadows only begin to creep when it has already become late.) there is a faint squeaking, audible only when the breeze calms, coming from the dead grass close by.
a baby wood rat is dying in the weeds.
there is debate of what to do with this animal, struggling to breathe and move.
andrew, my dreadlocked friend, takes it out to the strawberry fields in the tough cradle of a shovel.
he digs a hole for the rat in the furrowed soil and cracks its head off with the point of the shovel.
many times today, something has died.
but on my computer, glowing late tonight, i can think only of things today that have lived: a car raide with my three sisters, laughing into the leather interior. the heat of the wooden deck, my father laying simply in his chair. a dinner of lively chatter, my fathers sixty-fifth birthday. my mother, when she knew no one was watching, playing her accordion along with the radio.
when i woke up, i felt like death.
one of those mornings where sleep's haze reverses the fairy tale and turns everything gold to grey.
couldn't get up off of that cot with that sleeping bag on the floor of a dirty san francisco apartment. couldn't decide what to do with myself when i finally rose.
for three hours i moped around like a zombie, moving from room to room, opening and shutting doors of a house that did not belong to me.
then my friend andrew who is growing dreadlocks and always singing peaceful songs came to pick me up and i left that apartment and hopped into the car to head back down the coast to santa cruz.
although i love san francisco, the place was suffocating me (perhaps because of the ambiguous nature of the korean neighborhood and its sunny streets and anglular bay windows, how i could not define any of it) on this particular morning.
on highway one, as soon as we could see the water, i was born again.
the drive and its beauty, its shelves of cliffs and the way the road became courageous in its turns, consumed me entirely.
(california's natural juxtaposition of hills (in their pallate of yellows and browns) and beach scapes (wet with greens and blues) has never failed to rejuvinate me. it is as if the higway is a line down the middle of the landscape, dividing the canvas of the coastline into camps of earth and water. the brambles and stickly trees of the hillsides dare not cross the road into the territory of the dark cliffs and the bright ocean, for this would be coloring outside the lines.)
back in santa cruz: my family sits on the back porch, looking over the sea. they are drinking beers and the sun is fading, which makes perfect sense. when i join them, they are talking about the moths.
mom: "the moths sure are dwindling down..."
dad: "yes, they are. but look up there, where the light is coming through that oak tree. see all of them, there?"
mom: "oh! they are so beautiful! i want to film them, if we had one of those hand cameras..."
me: "they look like gold confetti."
sister: "all the little kids call them butterfies..."
these oak moths, brown, plain things wtih short life spans and papery wings, are re-born in santa cruz every five to ten years, and have entered our lives like locusts this summer. apparently these creatures have been inching around as caterpillars since late may (we failed to notice them then) and have now entered their summer adult phase of consumption and reproduction.
i have heard rumors of landscape devestation all around santa cruz; garders have not prepared for this frantic phenomenon!even we are noticing a depleation of the leaves of our strong oaks...
we are all quite interested in the moths. maybe it is the bitter beer we are drinking that makes the topic seem crucial, or perhaps the fact that santa cruz lacks drama enough for dramatic conversation. either way, the moths are making us think.
dad: "what do you think these moths are thinking about?"
mom: "make more moths!"
me: "they don't think. theyre moths."
dad: "what, you think insects don't think?"
me: "they dont think about reproducing, they just do it. did you know that dolphins and humans are the only ones that mate for pleasure?"
dad: "bullshit. no way."
me: "i swear! look it up!"
the conversation continues in this manner for some time, all of us staring up at the glitter of the sun shining through the wings of a group of moths. we wonder about where the moths go when they are gone, where they come from, what they are called. i find this preoccupation with something natural to be very refreshing.
i think about the comings and goings of these insects.
they arrived only a few weeks ago.
in one more they will be gone.
births and deaths in such close proximity to each other. fertilization and the decay of those fleshy wings, all within a month.
when we finish our beer, the sun is still high. (summer means that days like this will never die, for the shadows only begin to creep when it has already become late.) there is a faint squeaking, audible only when the breeze calms, coming from the dead grass close by.
a baby wood rat is dying in the weeds.
there is debate of what to do with this animal, struggling to breathe and move.
andrew, my dreadlocked friend, takes it out to the strawberry fields in the tough cradle of a shovel.
he digs a hole for the rat in the furrowed soil and cracks its head off with the point of the shovel.
many times today, something has died.
but on my computer, glowing late tonight, i can think only of things today that have lived: a car raide with my three sisters, laughing into the leather interior. the heat of the wooden deck, my father laying simply in his chair. a dinner of lively chatter, my fathers sixty-fifth birthday. my mother, when she knew no one was watching, playing her accordion along with the radio.
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