News from the Pool: Tommy's Surprise

"Tommm-meeee, I have a surprise for yooooou," she called from the shallow end of the pool. The little girl beckoned to the boy who clung to his floatation noodle near the perimeter. It was a slow day and the only poolsitters were me, the two young children, and Tommy's mommy.

I was reading Anna Karenina and thinking (once more) that I'd been born to the wrong era & social class, and simultaneously eavesdropping on the conversation of the children. She was what I assumed to be first generation Chinese-American, and he was first generation Russian-American. They were discussing Chinese dragons and whether or not they were scary. But it's this image that stays with me: the querrulous little boy, frustrated that his friend is the better swimmer, his mother listening but holding back, and the little girl, who holds a ball underwater, is calling to him. By sheer kind inventiveness she offers him delights.

Another memory: swimming lessons, pre-1990. Amber Wanner is a popular tomboy in my grade and the only kid I know at the Worthington pool. I am sent to join the advanced class and the instructor has me swim further out to him in deep water than I ever have before. I'm fine on the way out, but it looks too far on my return and I panic and flounder. Amber, hanging on to the pool's edge, reaches for my hand and pulls me in. I have been saved.

These are my feminine ideals. These are the images that sustain me in rough water. Maybe they are real, or maybe of my own making, but these bring me peace where otherwise I might not find it.

Theory: How Ryan Adams Saved "Wonderwall"

This morning's workout had a much mellower feel, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. It occurred to me what had happened shortly after my partner lost interest in curls and just sat down on the bench staring off into space. It was the Ryan Adams cd he was playing. A great cd, don't get me wrong, and of superior taste to our usual "ESPN Sports Jams" or "OU812". Still, it was lacking in the single-minded fury (drums?) that make for a solid workout cd.

But it brings me to a theory I started dwelling on last summer. The Ryan Adams cover of the iconic Oasis song "Wonderwall" is full of haunting power, but even more so following the original. In this case, had Oasis never performed the song with their distinctive brand of nasal, heavily-accented lyrics, then Adams' performance would hardly stand out in its ponderous weightlessness. It is precisely because everyone with a radio had heard that song played to death (a short lifespan, that one) that the cover sends shivers down your spine.

The original features noisy, overlarge instrumentation and lyrics pronounced like the triflings of a power ballad. In a way, this worked to put Oasis on the map. But to return to that song, to render the simplicity of its lyrics in haunting quietness, suggests all the emptiness between the desperate words which previously had spilled out over top of one another like monkeys from the barrel. Likewise, all of the closing held notes from the refrain, pitched up in the original, are muted and pitched down in the cover. Again, the effect is to shift the tone from brazen to doubtful and introspective. If you haven't heard this one, check it out. Just not during your Tae Bo with Billy Banks.

News from the Pool: What is Wet May Not Always Be So

Life at poolside continues on its merry way following an intermission of 18 hours of rain yesterday. The rain has chilled the pool water to a more reasonable temperature, and the storm clouds have broken up most of the excess humidity. It was to the point where my hair had such volume that I was taller. It was so humid my head gained a pound in water. It was so bad that an old lady almost drowned walking by my apartment and had to be resuscitated once carried into air conditioning.

Today I wrote a letter, a good one borrowing some of the drama-queen stylings of Tennessee Williams, from my pool chair. I tucked it away and dove in the deep end, and by the time I was up for air, a gust of wind picked my letter up and dropped it daintily in the water alongside the "5 ft" marker. I laughed, enjoying the silliness of the problems I face, and rushed to retrieve it. Within a few minutes, it was dry, unblurred, and showing only a little crispness for all it had been through. Should we all be so lucky.

I've been rereading Tony Earley's collection of short stories, Here We Are in Paradise. His two greatest, to hear me tell it, are the lyrical powerhouses "Charlotte" and "The Prophet from Jupiter." I know I'm not alone here, but let me just give a shout-out to fictional expressionism: Woo-woo!

Water is my fascination, my spiritual locus. It is my home, a home that runs downhill, that evaporates when the heat turns up. In water, my Tetras circle their little world and think about fish flakes. Or maybe they are attracted to the air and long for wings. Watching the ripples and the sunlight refracting through the depths of blue today, I thought the movement of light on water looks just like the movement of light in fire. Lit from below, the pool burns like a beacon until 10 every night. Is it me that it calls, or is this a call to you?

News from the Pool: A Touch of Brazil

The summer progresses as readily as I digress, and despite some romantic theatrics this weekend (quite the debacle I can assure you), the pool is still where the heart is. So imagine my delight Sunday when the numerous Brazilians who live at my apartment complex, as well as their friends, settled in for a long afternoon at the pool with guitar, maracas, and another small percussive instrument I didn't recognize. Even better, the handsome one with the dimunitive frame (picture a Brazilian Jack Kerouac) had a fantastic voice. The icing on the cake - I don't understand a word of Portugeuese, and could enjoy the music without the clickity-clacking of that overdeveloped part of my brain that fusses over words.

A peculiar time for me. While this weekend marked the culmination of my anxieties over an attraction of the unrequited variety, it was also distinguished by a great time dancing with a friend. One couple were transformed beyond sexy on the dance floor, venturing into the realm of the gods to a samba beat. We did our best and had a lot of fun, because of and in spite of the constant attention of our instructor.

This is a rare entry for me, more about myself than usual. A peculiar time indeed...

Synchronicities with Tennessee

Perhaps it is a sign of irresponsibility to search for answers in signs, but that’s increasingly all I have to work with. I’m now reading the letters of Tennessee Williams to long-time intimate Maria St. Just, and the signs (compiled from both this and the Leverich biography) just keep piling up. Here are some initial parallels between us.

1. Williams’ much bemoaned permanent umbilicus mirrors (to a greater extent?) my own attachment to my mother. Mine, however, is not given to pretending to faint to get attention.
2. Williams’ consequent admiration of strong, independent women who speak their mind regardless of the outcome represents his unfulfilled desire to be more like them, as it does mine.
3. Williams and I both prefer the company of one or two others and rarely large social events; both he and I feel compelled to play an exuberant role at such affairs and they are quite tiring as a result.
4. Williams and I both frequently bond with married couples or life partners, again living vicariously through others’ experience of arrangements we fear to undertake. (At midlife, Tennessee did find this home life – there may be hope for me yet.)
5. Tenn and I both struggle with ambivalent feelings regarding sexual urges (gratification vs. purity), though our tastes differ somewhat.
6. Williams and I both have a penchant for nicknaming. His include: The Little Horse, Five o’ Clock Angel, Miss Priss, The Texas Tornado, Choppers, and Le Chevalier Sans Peur. Some of my favorite inventions are: Little Bear, Sparky, Bean-pet, Pretty Boy, Face, Wildes Thing and The Kid.
7. Speaking of naming, both Tennessee and I have both invented nicknames for ourselves – his stuck.
8. Speaking of self-naming, Tennessee frequently employed the signature “10” as an abbreviated version of his moniker. As a fifth-grader, I played on my advantageous surname by scrawling at the top of each wide ruled page
“Chris x 106”. Spooky.
9. We’re both writers with little sense for managing money, though not indulgent.
10. We both live (or did live) a bit too much in our imaginations, without wholly sensible perceptions of reality and a poor judgment of character. But if you could only visit the place, maybe you’d understand…

Theory: One Day Late is Great

It's important to know how businesses make their money. Especially when deciding how late to return things lent to you by one such money-making venture. The power company makes its money by filling the air with smoke, so if you don't feel like mailing your check for $112.59 tomorrow, it's cool, bud. Just send it a week from now and make it out for $114. Likewise, public libraries make their money by taking note of the decline of both western literature and the reading public. Therefore, why not keep your battered VHS copy of Chinatown a few extra days. No one will miss it... so long as you cough up two bits. On the other hand, screwing around with your landlord, the IRS, or my cousing Guido is not such a good idea. Too much pain involved.

The whole point of billing by mail is to allow the customer the pleasure of paying the bill at his/her leisure. This is why I take such decisions so carefully. Due the fourth, you say? I think not! I will govern the dispensal of my own funds, thank you very much. And this automatic withdrawal for monthly bills, granting them electronic access to my every last cent? Don't count on it, corporate dudes. So, in short, it's a fine day when you can send your little check in the mail a day after it was due, just to let the bigwigs know where you stand.

*The best I could manage for today - my thoughts are scattered on account of an important discussion in the near future...