Happy Halloween! (For everyone but this cat)

So it’s Halloween. Whoopee! In honor of the day’s traditional gore and gooze, I took the day off to have five (FIVE!) vials of blood drawn in order to test for a delectable Spanish parasite and anemia. Other activities included driving the madre to a doctor’s appointment that couldn’t have come soon enough, cleaning the house in preparation for family friends who arrived just an hour or two ago, and finally breaking down to purchase a new pair of jeans. I was going to go for the nice’ns, and only for the nice’ns, but I’ve gotta say that H&M has the Sqin fit down to a science–and for only $39. There is no other skinny jean for me. I also invested in a hot, button down, naughty-librarianish purple dress. I’m not sure where I’ll have occasion to wear it, but in case I ever need it, it’s there.

Last night I mended bridges with a very important friend of mine. My heart feels a little more whole now than it has in a while. Heightening the efficacy of that patch job was an awesome gchat-fueled talk with Greg’s truly exemplary older brother. I may have lost the boyfriend, but I’ve gained a friend, which is certainly better than having bid adieu to both.  Due to such enjoyable late-night internet chatter I got precious little sleep, so I’m thinking that the day’s very next priority must be a nap–and then the gym before I party it up tonight.

In other news, I’m shockingly excited about Trinity’s homecoming tonight. I’ve people to see, many stories to hear, beloved faces/places upon which to feast my eyes and my old self to remember how to inhabit. Reall, I don’t think that a return to Camp could have come at a more opportune time. While true, I had a mixture of love and hate for Trinity for my first two or so years in attendance, it really grew into a place of which I now think only fondly and grew to deeply love. Despite this professed affection for it, though, I never thought that I’d be one of those d-bags just aching for an excuse to get back to my alma mater. Earlier this week I discussed this with Amp. His characteristically classy response:

isteelsheep: Caitlin, I swear to god, if you don’t get some nostalgia/rebound tail at homecoming we’re no longer friends.

That sounds like a decent idea–if I were that kind of girl, that is. Or if at the very least I weren’t such a romanticized prude. In any event, I’m ready for some fun, to see Gwen and James and the women of RAOK (if they’ll even be there), to see Danielle and hopefully Marisa. There are scores more with whom I haven’t been in touch but hope to happen across in my travels. I know that at some point I’ll end up ghosting around the English building, staring at the place where I’ve had some of the best times of my life. Oh yes–make no mistake: I am every bit that nerdy, and that sentimental.

Anyhow: nappytime calls. Happy Halloween, kids. I’ll let you know how it felt to come home.

(Insert Guffaw Here)

If you’re conservative (though if you are, I’m rather shocked you know me and you’re reading my blog) go check out Jamie’s Tumblr and click on barackobamaeatsbabies.com

Or just follow the link I inserted there. But do visit Jamie, too.

A Paean

I thought I could never love anyone else the way I did him. What we had was a deep trust, a special, barely spoken connection based upon implicit respect and mutual esteem. WIth a tiny gesture, a flick of the wrist, the most subtle of pleading or pleased looks from me, he grasped my intentions and proceeded accordingly. Until he stepped onto the scene, no other man had ever given me exactly what I yearned for, just what I needed in just the right spot, every time. He was dead sexy. He was devilishgly funny. He was smart and stylish and had the most wonderful smile I’ve ever seen.

Oh, Adrian! You were the best stylist I’ve ever had!

Beneath Adrian’s competent fingers my hair took a new shape that made me feel bouncier, freer, and more like me than had the heavy brown ringlets with which I’d entered the salon that eve. Sadly, we met only twice before he abandoned me for his homeland in the South, but I’ll remember him forever as the man who gave me the best haircut of my life.

When first I met Adrian I was dubious. Clad in a slim man-cardigan, fresh black Converse, and a pair of black skinny jeans that had he been a straight man would have had me severely nervous for the well-being of his little swimmers, he strode toward me from the back of La Pelu in Chueca. His dark eyes matched his epic black mohawk and the large gauges that weighted his lobes; the sheer magnitude and volume of the piercings that studded all parts of his face and Dios-only-knows-where-else scared the living tits off of me–that is, until he smiled. His was the most transformative, beneficent, countenance-changing smile I’ve ever witnessed. He beamed at me, fearlessly stuck out his hand and introduced himself in a warm, dulcet voice that carried with it at least fourscore exclamation points. I relaxed, told him I was Caitlin, and that I needed a haircut that would make me feel good. He laughed charmingly and told me he’d fix me up right. And he did–twice, for the small fee of 50 euros. I left La Pelu that day feeling like a changed woman–because I was. Nobody’d ever done me like him.

Oh, Adrian! You were the only one who’s ever given me a haircut with which I am truly, deeply, almost sensually satisfied! Why ever did you go?

Of course, after he left me I was quite sad, but saw others. The first was a terrifying woman named Monica who possessed a thick, jungle-style rope of blue-dyed hair that she wore tossed over her left shoulder. This should have tipped me off from the beginning. The next was a sweet, gorgeous girl named Conchi who sported cool clothes and nerdy adult braces. I liked her a lot, even wanted to be her friend, but the fact remained that she cut my hair too short. Then there was the American named Sandro, my latest in a series of unsatisfying haircuts. They all tried, but could not deliver the funky, angled bob I remembered blooming beneath Adrian’s fingers. No one has even come close to doing what he did for me.

Until now!

There is a new man in my life and his name is Daniel. I slid into his chair on Wednesday during my lunch, dubious again but for entirely different reasons. The place in which I found Daniel was not the ritziest of salons, nor was it the cleanest. But within an hour of comfortable chit chat about the Iberian Peninsula (he’s lucky enough to have some Portuguese heritage and the relatives to visit to prove it), fashion, and why open-toed leather high-heeled booties are unacceptable in every and all circumstances , I’d relaxed and he’d crafted me a haircut that is an acceptable analogue to the work of the famed Adrian. While my new hair is not quite as sassy nor as high-style funktastic as the ‘do homemade by the unparalleled Adrian, it has a the sass, the swing, and the sweet layered backside (oh yeah!) to satisfy me. Plus, he called me sweetie, plied me with Reese’s Peanut Butter cups and his card, and told me if I needed any adjustments I could walk over during lunch–any time–and he’d do me up how I wanted.

Now that’s what I call a good man.

Enter The Dø

The name is The Dø (as in Do, Re, Mi, minus Julie Andrews), and the song is “At Last.”

I first heard this band, a delightful duo of Finnish and French–Olivia singing in English and Dan playing in…well…musical notes–about 8 months ago when I was still a madrileña. The album is a masterful mixture of folk, assy rock, nearly M.I.A. inspired, aggressive hip-hop on “Queen Dot Kong,” and school yard chants as in “Playground Hustle.” Give them a listen. It spans every genre identifiable to me, so I guarantee there’s something fresh and inviting on their album “a mouthful,” to tickle your fancy.

Goddamn, I wish I still lived in Europe so I could see them live.

This is completely terrifying.

Click here for synchronized Presidential Debating.

At least our presidential candidates are on their talking points…? *squirm* Eeee!

I stole this from here–The Triumph of Bullshit–a pretty ill blog which you should also be perusing, because it’s inarguably great.

It isn’t easy, but I’ve made it look pretty good.

For days now–three, to be precise–I haven’t cried. I’ve felt as though I’m steadily growing taller, standing straighter,  stooping over in a motion of sick and woebegone fetal aching less and less.

When the phone rang on Monday night I did not answer. I watched it there on the bed as it sounded and stared at the familiar numbers flashing across the screen. My palms were pricked with sweat, heart raced as I gazed. But I did not answer. Only after it had lain dead for a while, chimed to signify a missed call and new mail, did I listen to his message. My real name–not Peach, not Little Dove, not Bean–in his voice, then his own name, as if I couldn’t tell who it was, as if I hadn’t been holding on to that voice telling me he loved me across months and miles. He said he wanted to see how I was doing. He said he was glad I was reconnecting with my friends. He said he’d been conferring with the older brother I like so well, that I should use my November tickets out West to see graduate schools in California in place of seeing him. He said he’d call back.

And that’s when the shaking commenced.

Somehow I texted back a curt reply about having already canceled the plane tickets. I said his obligation to me was at a close. I said to tell his wonderful mother that he’d done his job by getting in touch. I said he was a “very good boy” to have done so. He called seconds later but I just stared there at the phone, knowing that if we spoke now, it would be only to hear him protest that he’d called because he wanted to, not because his mother or his brother told him he should. And I’d know it was a lie.

If for a second I believed he’d called because he cared, I would have flipped it open. I would have said hello.

How do you love someone who does good only out of fear of the punishment he’ll receive should he not? How do you believe in someone to whom giving something to you will always translate into giving something up? How do you trust someone to whom loving you, by definition, can be nothing but a job, even if it is a job with occasional acknowledged benefits? These are questions to which I do not have the answer, so regardless of what my heart wants, of the intimacy I crave, of the continued confusion and the indignation of being given up on, I cannot–I will not–answer the phone. I can’t put myself at risk to continue loving or wanting something that I shouldn’t want back, that doesn’t want me back, either. His bed is warmed now. His ego is stroked. I was the suspect, prehensile tail that kept him from pulling on his new life, one leg at a time. He’s evolved into something that does not require or include me.

I am obsolete.

The last time I saw him was from a plane  rising into the air, away from the Oregon coastline I was certain I’d see in only a few months. To my surprise he’d stayed there at the airport for nearly an hour after we’d parted, waiting for the last glimpse of my plane as I left him to his new life. At the time I’d thought it was a way to hold on just for a few moments more, but now I wonder if he stayed and watched just to confirm that I’d finally actually gone, giving him entirely back to himself. I wonder if he rejoiced after.

I sobbed so hard on the plane that the stewardess brought me more napkins, offered an extra glass of wine. I don’t know why he stayed now, and I don’t know why he cried, too, when we said goodbye. I’m trying to untangle why, the night before, he’d pulled the blankets over both of our heads and pulled me against him, eyes welling with tears. He told me he wished he could keep me there forever, and I believed. I remember the dark sparkling of his eyes in the dim light, of holding onto him and weeping, of telling him that I didn’t want to go. I know that at least I meant everything I said.

If he called again I’d answer, but I don’t know why. He could have kept me by his side forever, but he’ll never get me back.

What Cindy McCain looks like on the inside

I’ve no idea from where Porto requisitioned this little gem, but I’m glad he sent it my way.

Dance, Monkeys, Dance!

For some reason, whenever I bump In Step by Frankmusik in my iPod (thanks for the tip, Jamie–though I doubt you’d deign to read this), regardless of what’s happening around me or where I am, it seems as though the world moves to my soundtrack. Today on my walk from the bus stop to the café where I sipped espresso and toiled at grad apps,  I glimpsed a little girl bouncing up and down on a suburban front porch, moving perfectly in time with this song. As I neared, grinning, I discovered that as there was a sweet bonus on the other end of the leash to which the girl held: there, an equally bouncy golden retriever puppy bumbled out his ecstatic puppydom to the very same beat. Because this song is my addiction of the day, I listened to it again on my walk home and was lucky enough to glimpse a tall, lanky skater boy of about 19 committing one of the coolest acts of dance I’ve seen in the recent past–also to the tune of my song. He unabashedly shook his limbs to a beat he couldn’t even hear for the benefit of two eyelinered young women who giggled at him and made eye contact with me as I passed.

Oooh! And–while I remember–I caught this rare creature on camera the other day whilst walking past the library. Really. I want to know: who let this androgynous sonofabitch out of Hot Topic? And why did no one notify him that emo is dead before they did so?

Emo Kid is Emo

…or perhaps someone did apprise him of that fact, and that’s why he looks so morose?

Unlike emo kid, I walked around for most of my day mildly smiling and feeling more embracing, connected to and accepting of the world around me than I have in a very long time. I’m beginning to feel like me again. I don’t know how long it’ll last, but I’ll take it while it’s willing to come to me.

*I make no claims to be so optimistic on the morrow–I am, after all, an incredibly sensitive, pathetically  girly girl.

Rachael Yamagata–If you read this, know that I’d Heavily Consider Going Lesbian for You.

Rachael Yamagata

Rachael Yamagata, that eye-ravishingly beautiful, whiskey-voiced vixen, has been amongst my favorites since first I heard her in 2005. Her combination of heartrending vocals, thoughtfully, sensitively, achingly sensual lyricism and tiny bit of eccentricity ushered me uncomplainingly into love at first listen. While Happenstance, her 2005 effort, remains a true gem whose glitter is unchallenged by similar talent that’s arrived upon the scene since its release (“Reason Why,” “Ode To,” and a later release, “Would You Please” will always be a holy trifecta of good in my book), her new album, Elephants…Teeth Sinking Into Heart, is nothing short of a masterpiece. I’ve been obsessively listening to it (read: forcing everyone around me with ears to listen to it, too!), since I received my preorder about 3 weeks ago. I highly, highly encourage you to check it out. Listen to “Sunday Morning” and “Over and Over.” Fuck. Or just the whole thing, over and over again. It’s worth it–truly.

H’anywhay, after a little bit of internet sleuthing today I found another song of hers titled “Woman,” which doesn’t seem to appear on any album I’ve purchased before this. In the interest of spreading around a good thing, here. Just listen, and see if you don’t fall in love, too.

\”Woman,\” by the Inimitable Rachael Yamagata

About my aversion to amusement parks, + deep appreciation for Fielding and Dostoyevsky

I have never, ever been particularly amused by amusement parks. When I do go to amusement parks, even when I pay for them myself as opposed to being dragged along for free as part of a group bonding activity in which I have no desire to participate, my default activity is people watching. I survey hulking families and their poorly behaved spawn gallumphing about the park’s bounds, stuffing faces with fried dough and Dippin’ Dots, deploying ferociously awful grammar as though it were entirely acceptable, and yelling over other roaming herds of monolothic Americans. It’s fun at first, but gets pretty grim pretty fast. Also, I find it usually results in sunburn.

But it isn’t for the crowds that I dislike amusement parks. See, I’m not a gigantic fan of thrill rides–least of all roller coasters. Why do people love the terrifying ascent of each hill and attendant anticipation of a great fall, then that horrible, sick, rising feeling in the gut as you plummet towards earth? And they love it enough to sustain it multiple times in one ride, no less! See, call me crazy, but none of that appeals to me. I don’t choose to take myself  on physical adventures that can make me feel so horrible. Happily enough, today I concluded that I have no need to do so, because I can induce these very same sensations all by myself, free of charge, without standing in line and sweating, running the risk of contracting some sort of awful staph infection from the seat belt or being puked upon by someone three seats above me on the ferris wheel. This week has been one big fucking roller coaster ride. I’m up! I’ve down! Then, oh god! I’m flatlining! Oh shit, down again! Then without warning I’m retching out psychic and emotional illness over heart-wrenching, gut-hollowing images of what it must have been like every time he took her home. I’m sickest, however, over the knowledge that maybe I loved someone I didn’t know at all. Maybe I loved someone who, as he once intimated, didn’t really know how to love or be compassionate. Maybe for two years I’ve simply been an experiment, used as a template for how one acts when one deeply cares. Maybe I don’t know anything at all.

Maybe I’m going to go be sick again. Fuck.

(Service announcemet: Okay. That concludes the angsty portion of this entry. Now. Read on to get a dose of lit’rature)

To combat the sickness and my own unattractive descent into misery, I’d like to share a few literary snippets. The first comes from Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones, an 18th Century novel initially received with some fierce contumely for its amorality, but which is now canonized for its exquisite attention to human manners. In this scene Squire Allworthy, the novel’s figure of goodness and virtue, has a stern talking to Jenny Jones, the strumpet who’s left her bastard infant in his home in hopes that he’ll care for it out of beneficence. Allworthy initially lays into Jones for the opprobrious situation into which she’s delivered them all, but in short order turns his invective upon her unknown violator. Specifically, Allworthy fulminates men who achieve empty use of women as fucktoys by professing to love them. I adored this selection because I think it’s exceptionally well written and exceptionally incisive. Here’s some of Allworthy’s speech:

“Love, however barbarously we may corrupt and pervert its meaning, as it is a laudable, is a rational passion, and can never be violent but when reciprocal; for though the Scripture bid us love our enemies, it means not with that fervent love which we naturally bear towards our friends; much less that we should sacrifice to them our lives, and what ought be dearer to us our innocence. Now in what light, but that of an enemy, can a reasonable woman regard the man who solicits her to entail on herself all the misery I have described to you, and who would purchase to himself a short, trivial, contemptible pleasure, so greatly at her expense! For, by the laws of custom, the whole shame, with all its dreadful consequences, falls entirely upon her. Can love, which always seeks the good of its object, attempt to betray a woman into a bargain where she is so greatly to be the loser? If such corrupter, therefore, should have the impudence to pretend a real affection for her, ought not the woman to regeard him not only as an enemy, but as the worst of all enemies, a false, designing, treacherous, pretended friend, who intends not only to debauch her body, but her understanding at the same time?” (Henry Fielding, Tom Jones, p. 53, super class Barnes & Noble Classic edition)

Researching for the Literature in English GRE, I’ve been doing some overview-ish reading about the works and lives of the many non-British authors with whom I’m embarrassingly unfamiliar. During today’s exploration of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, I learned about Anna Karenina (which is DEFINITELY next on my reading list) Crime and Punishment, The Brothers Karamazov, and just a few moments ago, Notes From Underground by the big D. man himself. Notes From Underground is widely regarded as the first ever existentialist text, so naturally it has its depressing undercurrents of determinism and ennui. Yay! Anyhow–here’s something that struck a chord with me (yes, this is harvested from Wikipedia. Yes, I DO feel dirty, thank you).

“He (the Man Underground) states that despite humanity’s attempt to create the “Crystal Palace,” a reference to a famous symbol of utopianism in Nikolai Chernyshevsky’s What Is to Be Done?, one cannot avoid the simple fact that anyone at any time can decide to act against what is considered good, and some will do so simply to validate their existence and to protest that they exist as individuals.”

This made me feel remarkably free and, for a moment, quieted my brain chatter. Really? I wondered. You mean that sometimes, things are just horrible and there is no deep reason to undergird or explain it? Maybe that’s just the case, and maybe that conclusion saves me a lot of wondering for tonight. From my heart to yours, Fyodor, thanks.