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July 27, 2006
.10
We now officially own one-tenth of this house. Our credit union owns the rest of it, but they're nice enough people to let us stay there and do wonderful things to increase its value. After much wading through papers and signing of forms, I've decided that owning a house is like having a bank account that you can live inside of...a pretty good deal, if you ask me.
We pack up tomorrow and head out early on Saturday morning. This will be Whittier's first road trip, and she couldn't be more thrilled. And, yes, our house does have electricity.
Meanwhile, I am thinking about sticking with corrugated cardboard as a decorating scheme. After living with it for a couple of weeks, it becomes eerily normal.
Posted by elissa at 05:49 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
July 25, 2006
Live from STL
Tomorrow, we become home owners.
Due to the (actually serendipitous) misalignment of Noel's start date, the closing date of our house, and our moving date, I am taking a forced, midweek vacation from the whirlwind of packing and cleaning. Good Yoshi and I drove up this morning, and, after taking care of some permit business, he is meeting up with a friend while I people watch from inside a coffee shop on the University City Loop.
I've realized that when I people watch in Chattanooga -- and even more so when I'm back in Hawaii -- I see the passersby as pieces of a narrative. I know the setting well enough to set characters inside the frame, to conjure little stories for them to inhabit. I can recognize a mountain momma, imagine the contents of her Whole Foods grocery bags, and wonder if she is on her way to pick up her kids from horseback riding or mandolin lessons. I can list the eateries where the man with mustard-colored dreds is likely to frequent. I can tell a Covenant freshman from twenty feet away.
But, the people here aren't stories yet. They're sketches -- or sometimes polaroids -- little contextless bits, like the figures I cut out of magazines and layer into impossible collages. I'm realizing again how people and place weave together, changing each other; sitting and watching here will take, and give, more energy and interest.
I would never have planned, or allowed, for myself to quietly sit in my new neighborhood and city. If left to my own devices, I would have been speeding about immediately, figuring out where to go, how to get there, what to do, and how to do so quickly. God was kind to make me still for an afternoon.
I think -- now -- I am eager to learn this place.
Posted by elissa at 06:38 PM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
July 21, 2006
Gathering Scatters
The busyness of planning for, packing, and effecting a move leaves little time for cogent reflection. Even when tackling emotional baggage, I've found myself thinking more in questions and lists than sentences or paragraphs.
(Also, apparently, I make more puns. I blame this on my husband, who puns even without stress.)
What will I miss about Chattanooga? The mountains. My brother and sister. Friends (of which this picture is a representation of an idea, not a limited enumeration.) A professor or two. Our church. As yet inexplicable southern pride, weird roadside anomolies, and other assorted cultural events.
Questions range in interest and helpfulness. There are the mundane and unnecessary: Do we have to switch from Chattablogs? How many pounds of books do we own? Have I escaped without an accent? Then, there are the more intriguing and possibly helpful wonderings that still haven't managed enough reflective time at the table: Have I ever had an original academic thought in my life? Why haven't I thought through the cultural implications of my background and current neighborhood situation? What would it take to convince Rachel Watanabe to move to St. Louis?
But, I suppose the three seven hour drives I'll make in the next week could be a means of grace. Distilling could take a while.
---- Edit -----
After rereading this, I think I've inadvertently stumbled upon an extended beer-making metaphor. Nice.
Posted by elissa at 08:24 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
July 14, 2006
Bruce Arena: In Memorial
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July 10, 2006
Photo Booth: Mac People Gone Wild
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July 05, 2006
Tomato, Basil, and Greasy Divers
The World Cup is drawing to close, and I'm in something of a bind. With Germany's devastating overtime loss to Italy yesterday, the last of my favored teams exited the tournament. The hearty Dutch are back with their windmills and the underachieving Spaniards underachieved. Even my outside picks -- the spunky South Koreans, the impassioned Ivory Coast, and the Aussie comeback kings -- have gone. And the expected winners left early, too; no more does Ronaldinho gallop about the pitch, twitching his tail.
I will cheer for France this afternoon -- not really because of Zidane, but for the racial realities with which the French starters confront their nation -- yet I have a sinking feeling that Italy just might win it all come Sunday.
Yes, sinking. I do not want Italy to win.
I have tried to talk myself out of this invidiousness. I have written lists; I have catalogued the good and noble reasons to cheer for the Italians. Yet it is all to no avail:
1. I think Rebekah Forman is a good person.
(True, but she is not a full-blooded Italian.)
2. I like their wine.
(Yes, but Argentinian wine is even better...)
3. They have produced some of the greatest artworks of all time.
(Undeniable. On the other hand, my graduate work is in contemporary art, and the Italians haven't done much of note in the last fifty years.)
4. I love their food. Pasta. Pesto. Pizza.
(I cannot argue against this. Yet we know that if my stomach cannot convince my heart, then we are dealing with an issue of utmost gravity and darkness.)
I cannot deny the strength of their defense. I cannot dismiss the beauty of their goals. Still, I remain unmoved. I cannot find a moving story of adversity overcome in the Italian players. I am incapable of churning up some vicarious sense of national pride when their national league is embroiled in scandal and corruption. When the Italian team begins to the play, it is as if someone has scattered a bucket of dramatically-gifted mackerels across the pitch.
Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps the Italians are footballers of a most delicate nature, so sensitive to the slightest of seismic changes that the most minute shift of atoms renders them incapable of remaining on their feet.
No.
Oh, reason compels, yet the heart has its reasons reason cannot know. Tuffatori grassi.
Posted by elissa at 11:38 AM | Comments (16) | TrackBack
July 03, 2006
Packing Lessons Learned: 1
Looking online at unattainable home decor objects in between packing boxes of more mundane possessions actually increases thankfulness for said pedestrian articles. Case in point? At least I don't have to pack this:
Posted by elissa at 12:48 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Hope Two Years
Not only is July 3 my half birthday, it was something of a milestone two years ago on a beach in Hawaii.
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