2009 was a pretty good Thanksgiving in my book.
It started off with dim sum on Clement with my Grandma. First came turnip cake. Then the shrimp dumplings. Then the beef patty in the big floppy noodle and then the fatty steamed pork in a little dish. It didn't stop until I was nauseous with delight.
Afterward, I went and saw Fantastic Mr. Fox with Karyn at the Four Star Theatre. The Four Star is one of those few remaining holdout neighborhood theaters that lives in constant fear of an omniplex coming in the night to gobble it up. Verdict: Wes Anderson did Roald Dahl justice. George Clooney, being a fox himself, fit his role as Mr. Fox quite naturally.
For Black Friday (known in some circles as Buy Nothing Day), Karyn and I hung out in the Park. We had a pretty good time in the Botanical Garden learning the scientific names of trees (Monterey cyprus = Cupressus macrocarpa, the secret is to visualize HUGE fingers). A lot of the day was spent in playgrounds, and I was grateful for the hearty breakfast and multiple cups of coffee that propelled me to ever greater heights on the swingset. You know you're going the right speed when you can feel your fingers going slack on the chains because you're about to black out.
Anyway, it was probably the happiest I've been since the summer when Karyn and I explored the ruins of the Sutro Baths and went into this shady cave that smelled boozy and later climbed on this big rock that was being engulfed by the incoming tide before we went to watch the waves crash on the rocks and the pelicans fly around near the Cliff House, and then we ate mustard sardines with rye crackers and flew kites on the beach.
Eventually, we met up with Elena, and we had an afternoon snack at the Baghdad Cafe (ever since childhood, I've always passed by, but that was the first time I ate there). Apparently, Elena's still the same badass, having satiated her hunger for butt-kicking with ultimate frisbee down in San Diego. Restless and filled with french fries, we left the Baghdad. One impromptu hike later, we were on top of Corona Heights, near the Randall Museum. It had just rained, and we could see for miles. Corona Heights is one of my favorite places in the City to look at the rest of the Bay.
But now I'm back in reality and about to start finals, and I feel a bit daunted. I've been reading Bobby Fischer Goes to War to stall for time and forget about the clouds on the horizon. It's quite good; I'm at the part where Fischer and Spassky are about to have a showdown in Iceland for the world chess championship. I bought it last night at Moe's Books on Telegraph, where there's an entire shelf of chess literature. My choice was one of the less intimidating books; the others, books like Beating the Sicilian II, were about equal parts chess notation and English.
I suppose this is the part where I get all cheesy and wrap things up, about how my Thanksgiving really made me appreciate all the wonderful, special people in my life and all. Well, there's really nothing I can write that will adequately express the feeling of gratefulness for living a charmed life. Instead, I think I will sit here and smile.
29 November 2009
04 November 2009
X-Country
A parable of the current novel-writing situation:
A tinny bang and a puff of smoke. The girls ran through the damp grass with springy mesh running shoes, ponytails bobbing, elbows jockeying for position in the pack. It was the second heat of junior varsity girls.
She was in the thick of it, the undulating sea of bibs and numbers and gaudy school colors. The air was brisk but she didn't feel the cold; all she felt was the sting in her lungs. Each stride she felt the tight then the slack, pulse in then out of her quads.
She started pushing up the hill, planting firmly each time into the grassy hillside, the smell of the damp almost perceptible. She was turning over and climbing the hill, steadily, still with the pack. She felt the first beads of perspiration, not yet congealing into sweat. And in a moment she felt for the firmness of the ground, and it was not there, just the sudden jerk downward of a hamstrung horse. She went down, grounded, no more rhythmic pulsating forward.
She got up and limped back toward the start.
A tinny bang and a puff of smoke. The girls ran through the damp grass with springy mesh running shoes, ponytails bobbing, elbows jockeying for position in the pack. It was the second heat of junior varsity girls.
She was in the thick of it, the undulating sea of bibs and numbers and gaudy school colors. The air was brisk but she didn't feel the cold; all she felt was the sting in her lungs. Each stride she felt the tight then the slack, pulse in then out of her quads.
She started pushing up the hill, planting firmly each time into the grassy hillside, the smell of the damp almost perceptible. She was turning over and climbing the hill, steadily, still with the pack. She felt the first beads of perspiration, not yet congealing into sweat. And in a moment she felt for the firmness of the ground, and it was not there, just the sudden jerk downward of a hamstrung horse. She went down, grounded, no more rhythmic pulsating forward.
She got up and limped back toward the start.
02 November 2009
NaNoWriMo Day Two
Story starts here.
But his sense of calm shattered when the warm orange lights of the incubation room withered away as streams of blinding white light pierced through the triple-pane ceiling.
Well, that was then, and this was now. And now he was running for his life. He glanced over his shoulder to look back, into the hold of the helicopter he had just been released from. He saw the small, blinking red lights peering out of the darkness of the hold. He knew they were waiting giving him a head start. He knew he would be chased relentlessly, that the chasers were programmed with the sole intention of finding him.
Well, that's show business, he thought. All a part of the price of fame.
He wasn't entirely sure why he had signed the release. He blamed the bright lights. They knew that bright lights made him eye implant act up. But then there was the issue of the prize, of course he wanted the prize as much as the others. That's how it worked, they paid the money on one end to hunt him, and he got a share of it if he survived for long enough. Seemed like a fair enough deal at the time. He thought that he was smarter, better than them. He had the benefit of wits and good looks, and the others, well, they'd just have to live with vaporization at the hands of a metallic beast controlled by a spoiled fourteen year-old.
It really was a fabulous plan on paper. It just killed so many birds with one stone, so to speak, though he wasn't entirely sure what a bird was. He had heard about them in childhood, but he didn't really believe in birds. Anyway, the system was efficient. Everyone consented and some of them might even live. He still wasn't sure why the telekineticvision people had approached him. Maybe he shouldn't have entered that raffle that one time.
But the offer was good. He was willing to be hunted, for a price. And somewhere out there, people wanted to hunt, also for a price. Well, it was only a matter of time before a central program planner at the TKVN (telekineticvision network) had the bright idea of bringing these two groups of people together.
Of course the money was good. Otherwise he wouldn't be facing a godforsaken wild with a child's school backpack stuffed with survival supplies. He still didn't understand that part, the child's school backpack. He had a vague recollection of someone at the network saying that they were getting requests that there be more humor in the show. Blood and guts just got blase, after a while. So now it was blood and guts and Dora the Explorer. There was probably some sort of promotional tie-in as well, he thought.
He felt his eye-implant buzz with a mild current. He knew they were broadcasting, live too. He didn't quite recall what handicap he had, this time. This was his fourth time out. He had only to complete this one, and then one more, and he could go home, mound of cash in tow. But he wasn't thinking about that right now. Right now he needed a suitable place to stay while the others got weeded out. He could already see some of them right now, huffing along the ridges of the valley he was in. Idiots. The surest way to not last the first hour was to be as conspicuous as possible. Better you than me. He ducked down through the willow leaves, pushing them aside like a bead curtain in a doorway. The creek was running low and stones in the streambed were barely damp. It was cool, and he could feel his chest tire of running, the adrenaline wearing off, the wet square of t-shirt against his backpack against his back.
It was dusk, and through the gaps in the tree he saw the specks of the other contestants, silhouetted against a brilliant orange sky, warm and all-embracing. He looked back down to his feet, he didn't want to twist his ankle on the uneven stones. He had come this far. He didn't want an anticlimactic ending.
He saw something. From the smooth rounded forms of the stones, a distinctly angular object broke with the prevailing geometry. He stopped to pick it up.
But his sense of calm shattered when the warm orange lights of the incubation room withered away as streams of blinding white light pierced through the triple-pane ceiling.
Well, that was then, and this was now. And now he was running for his life. He glanced over his shoulder to look back, into the hold of the helicopter he had just been released from. He saw the small, blinking red lights peering out of the darkness of the hold. He knew they were waiting giving him a head start. He knew he would be chased relentlessly, that the chasers were programmed with the sole intention of finding him.
Well, that's show business, he thought. All a part of the price of fame.
He wasn't entirely sure why he had signed the release. He blamed the bright lights. They knew that bright lights made him eye implant act up. But then there was the issue of the prize, of course he wanted the prize as much as the others. That's how it worked, they paid the money on one end to hunt him, and he got a share of it if he survived for long enough. Seemed like a fair enough deal at the time. He thought that he was smarter, better than them. He had the benefit of wits and good looks, and the others, well, they'd just have to live with vaporization at the hands of a metallic beast controlled by a spoiled fourteen year-old.
It really was a fabulous plan on paper. It just killed so many birds with one stone, so to speak, though he wasn't entirely sure what a bird was. He had heard about them in childhood, but he didn't really believe in birds. Anyway, the system was efficient. Everyone consented and some of them might even live. He still wasn't sure why the telekineticvision people had approached him. Maybe he shouldn't have entered that raffle that one time.
But the offer was good. He was willing to be hunted, for a price. And somewhere out there, people wanted to hunt, also for a price. Well, it was only a matter of time before a central program planner at the TKVN (telekineticvision network) had the bright idea of bringing these two groups of people together.
Of course the money was good. Otherwise he wouldn't be facing a godforsaken wild with a child's school backpack stuffed with survival supplies. He still didn't understand that part, the child's school backpack. He had a vague recollection of someone at the network saying that they were getting requests that there be more humor in the show. Blood and guts just got blase, after a while. So now it was blood and guts and Dora the Explorer. There was probably some sort of promotional tie-in as well, he thought.
He felt his eye-implant buzz with a mild current. He knew they were broadcasting, live too. He didn't quite recall what handicap he had, this time. This was his fourth time out. He had only to complete this one, and then one more, and he could go home, mound of cash in tow. But he wasn't thinking about that right now. Right now he needed a suitable place to stay while the others got weeded out. He could already see some of them right now, huffing along the ridges of the valley he was in. Idiots. The surest way to not last the first hour was to be as conspicuous as possible. Better you than me. He ducked down through the willow leaves, pushing them aside like a bead curtain in a doorway. The creek was running low and stones in the streambed were barely damp. It was cool, and he could feel his chest tire of running, the adrenaline wearing off, the wet square of t-shirt against his backpack against his back.
It was dusk, and through the gaps in the tree he saw the specks of the other contestants, silhouetted against a brilliant orange sky, warm and all-embracing. He looked back down to his feet, he didn't want to twist his ankle on the uneven stones. He had come this far. He didn't want an anticlimactic ending.
He saw something. From the smooth rounded forms of the stones, a distinctly angular object broke with the prevailing geometry. He stopped to pick it up.
NaNoWriMo
Well, as we all know, November is National Novel Writing Month. The last two attempts at literary glory never made it past 10,000 words. But here we go.
The Next Great American Novel
(c) 2009
The bell rang and Josiah was off, out of the gate. He could hear the beeping of the countdown timer on his wristwatch signifying how much time he had left before the chasers were released. An electronic beep came from his wrist and he knew he was screwed. He knew he was screwed before he even got into this mess, before he even landed on this strange and distant land. He knew he was screwed when the flash of lights took him away from his home planet. He could trace it all back to the night he had gone out to tend to his hydroponic fields of hyper-corn.
The growing season that year had been a good one, and the famines in the Central Republic States of Lesser Europa had helped increase demand. Aid agencies the world over were buying up all available stocks of hyper-corn to feed the skeletal peoples of Lesser Europa (in the news, they were pejoratively referred to as "twigs," in addition people from that region spoke a strange dialect of American). Anyway, life couldn't have been going better for a central farmbelt grower of hyper-corn.
But that night was unlike any other. The usual gale-force winds that came from the north had stopped and an unnatural stillness filled the air. Josiah walked over to where the chicken coop used to be where there now stood a large structure of steel and glass that vaguely resembled a greenhouse, but more squat and glowing with a warm orange light. He scanned his thumb and went inside the airlock where he zipped into a hermetically sealed suit. He went through another doorway, this one separated with only vertical strips of clear rubbery plastic. As he checked on the nutrient broth pools, and even the poultry protein ovules seemed to quiver with fear in their petri dishes at the aberrant weather behavior. The backlit glow of the petri dishes cast odd shadows against the ceiling as Josiah paced up and down the rows, methodically checking for molds or other infections in the incubation room.
He liked to think in the incubation room. There it was warm, warmly lit too. The orange light and the gentle humming of the fans pushing the lazy hot air through the room made him feel as if he were in the womb. He could close his eyes, and almost taste what it felt like to be suspended in amniotic fluid. In the room, he liked to think, and he liked to not think. There he could watch the embryos develop with complete involvement, abandon, or disinterest. Whatever he felt he projected into the nutrient broth. On a good day he was feeding America. on a bad day, he was another embryo in a cup, to be consumed or flash-frozen within a metric week of spawning.
The Next Great American Novel
(c) 2009
The bell rang and Josiah was off, out of the gate. He could hear the beeping of the countdown timer on his wristwatch signifying how much time he had left before the chasers were released. An electronic beep came from his wrist and he knew he was screwed. He knew he was screwed before he even got into this mess, before he even landed on this strange and distant land. He knew he was screwed when the flash of lights took him away from his home planet. He could trace it all back to the night he had gone out to tend to his hydroponic fields of hyper-corn.
The growing season that year had been a good one, and the famines in the Central Republic States of Lesser Europa had helped increase demand. Aid agencies the world over were buying up all available stocks of hyper-corn to feed the skeletal peoples of Lesser Europa (in the news, they were pejoratively referred to as "twigs," in addition people from that region spoke a strange dialect of American). Anyway, life couldn't have been going better for a central farmbelt grower of hyper-corn.
But that night was unlike any other. The usual gale-force winds that came from the north had stopped and an unnatural stillness filled the air. Josiah walked over to where the chicken coop used to be where there now stood a large structure of steel and glass that vaguely resembled a greenhouse, but more squat and glowing with a warm orange light. He scanned his thumb and went inside the airlock where he zipped into a hermetically sealed suit. He went through another doorway, this one separated with only vertical strips of clear rubbery plastic. As he checked on the nutrient broth pools, and even the poultry protein ovules seemed to quiver with fear in their petri dishes at the aberrant weather behavior. The backlit glow of the petri dishes cast odd shadows against the ceiling as Josiah paced up and down the rows, methodically checking for molds or other infections in the incubation room.
He liked to think in the incubation room. There it was warm, warmly lit too. The orange light and the gentle humming of the fans pushing the lazy hot air through the room made him feel as if he were in the womb. He could close his eyes, and almost taste what it felt like to be suspended in amniotic fluid. In the room, he liked to think, and he liked to not think. There he could watch the embryos develop with complete involvement, abandon, or disinterest. Whatever he felt he projected into the nutrient broth. On a good day he was feeding America. on a bad day, he was another embryo in a cup, to be consumed or flash-frozen within a metric week of spawning.
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