anna katrina's blog

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anyone else watching generation kill?

sooo good.

the old intelligence of pain

The Story of the Father

This is another story that I often think about: 
the story of the father

after the funeral of his son the suicide, 
going home and burning all the photographs of that dead boy;

standing next to the backyard barbecue, 
feeding the pictures to the fire; watching the pale smoke
rise and disappear into the humid Mississippi sky.

Aware that he is standing at the edge of some great border,
ignorant that he is hogging all the pain.

How quiet the suburbs are in the middle of an afternoon

                                 when a man is destroying evidence,
breathing in the chemistry of burning Polaroids,

watching the trees over the rickety fence
                                 seem to lift and nod in recognition.

Later, he will be surprised
                                by the anger of his family: 
the wife hiding her face in her hands,
                                the daughter calling him names

—but for now, he is certain of his act; now

he is like a man destroying a religion,
or hacking at the root of a tree—

 Over and over I have arrived here just in time
to watch the father use a rusty piece of wire

to nudge the last photo of the boy 

                        into the orange part of the flame:

the face going brown, the memory undeveloping.

It is not the misbegotten logic of the father;
it is not the pity of the snuffed-out youth;

It is the old intelligence of pain 
                                           that I admire:

how it moves around inside of him like smoke;

how it knows exactly what to do with human beings
to stay inside of them forever.

-Tony Hoagland

Happy Birthday Mama.

kg pp

you dudes are ownin it!!

love.it.

summer update

sometimes i get down on this place because of all the peeps i miss, the shows unseen, and--at its (or my) worst--the monotonous predictability. but then summertime rolls around and i can't imagine being anywhere else. 

this season started with forest's 31st birthday party. 

the theme: a sausage party with tarts. 

the menu: five different sausage varieties--handmade and smoked chez nous in forest's tricked out smoker (made from a keg), quick pickles, chez panisse's spicy coleslaw, corn relish, german potato salad, two savory tarts (onion and tomato-ricotta), and two sweet (apricot and blackberry). phew. exhale. this, i believe, was our most successful soiree ever food wise, vibe wise. i only wish more of yous were there to see (and taste!) it.

a couple days later, all of santa fe came out to see beirut play an outdoor show. it's always great when these cats come through because it's home court and everyone (grown-ups, kids, babies, dogs) comes out to celebrate. even better than rocking out to some great music was meeting and/ or reuniting with some kindly brooklyn folk who were all present at a nice, chill brunch the next day.

this past weekend we had the ultimate santa fe summer experience. the day after colin's bday pig roast, daniel took us up to nambe falls. weaving through windy roads--going 40 in a 35 zone--we encountered an old, busted pick-up truck ahead, slowing our roll to 20 mph. so when he had the chance, forest passed him on the left. as he did, this leathery, bleary-eyed man starts waving a sheriff's badge out the window and gets in front to pull us over. dude gets out of his car and we see he's shirtless, sporting only red swim trunks, socks pulled up to his knees and grey high tops. 

snippets of the conversation:

sheriff: i'm sick of you punk ass kids driving through here speeding. turn around and go home!

for: i'm not a punk ass kid! i vote! i pay my taxes!

sheriff: if i had my unit i would arrest you. i mean, give you a ticket. you're lucky i don't have my unit!

susanna (in the back seat, but still audible to all--including the sheriff): is he drunk?

he most certainly was, ladies and gents. and after a few more minutes of inebriated ornery grumbling from him and forceful reassurances on our part that we would slow down that 5 miles in order to be on the right side of the law, he finally let us go. i would have loved it if some friends unfamiliar with santa fe were here to witness the quintessential new mexicaness of the situation. i even joked about reporting him to the ranger at the falls, to which daniel replied that the sheriff was probably his cousin.

******************************************

monday i went to work with arms so sore, i winced every time i used certain muscles. when i got home forest asked why my limbs hurt so bad and i told him it was from HANGING ON FOR DEAR LIFE.

see, when i said that daniel took us up to nambe falls, i meant that literally. up the falls. like scaling slippery rocks alongside water rushing the opposite direction. each tier i assessed the situation, calculating my risks (i.e. if i fall here, i could bang up my shoulders, scrape my knees. if i fall here i could get a concussion, but forest would be able to jump in after me). it wasn't until the last level that i turned to my husband and, in all seriousness, declared "if i die now, i love you very very much."

obviously i made it out alright. if the torrents weren't so deafeningly loud, i would probably have some really lucid revelations stored away, ready to share with you here and now. but all i remember is the roar of the water and some oblique glances back towards the way we came in preparation for the inevitable descent.

it wasn't until the car ride home that i felt proud of what i had done. moving here, i've had to confront my physical surroundings--and the terror they sometimes inspire--in a way i never have before. in this context i find myself, little by little, pushing past the limits of who i am and what i think i am capable of. i am becoming the kind of person who can jump off cliffs and scale waterfalls and brave the cold of lakes fed by snow runoff. perhaps if you grew up here it's not such a big deal to you, but these are things i couldn't even fathom a few years ago.

but mostly, sitting in that car, windows down, sunglasses donned, tunes celebratory, all i could think was how wonderful it is to share this life with the people i love. so thanks, forest. thanks, d. for kicking off this summer proper. come home soon so we can do it again.

ha!

In short, spaces have multiplied, been broken up and have diversified. There are spaces today of every kind and every size, for every use and every function. To live is to pass from one space to another, while doing your very best not to bump yourself.

from "species of spaces"

georges perec

favorite birthday review

jeffrey (my big little brother): your party was like straight out of great gatsby.

top that, homies.

you are the red flag runner and to be near you again would mean life

someone said that to me once--can you believe it? anyway, here's a story:

once upon a time i lived in france. and during that time i fell in love like i'd never fallen in love before. twice. i fled to bologna for christmas to get away from one and found myself very swiftly in the entaglements of the other. this kid in italy was an american i had known from california. i met him on the eve of my leaving for oakland. he was goofy and charming. loose and long-limbed. and really fucking smart. i knew at the end of that first night i wanted him in my life for the long haul. he moved up north about a month or two later--an hour and a half south--to go to school in the woods by the sea. our relationship was all starts and stops from the beginning: pull me in close, hold me tight, then pull away. over and over and over and i couldn't get enough. i was 18. it's really pretty lame looking back on it but his capriciousness made me feel important somehow. he was my jordan catalano. and moments with him felt like i was living in a movie.

two years later we are holed up in his apartment doing nothing but "mangiare, bere, et scopare."  after months and months of wooing my tempestuous frenchman, i was sliding easy-like into a fling with someone who had been consistently swelling and breaking my heart since the day we met. we read poetry, we talked all night, we prepared extravagant and laborious meals that required napping before we ate them, and we lay in bed all twisted together and languid. when i think about that christmas i think about foggy windows, the heat mingling with the cold outside of my first freezing winter.   

i also remember the same push-pull from before, but for some reason, when it was time for me to go back to france, i felt fairly secure in our newfound closeness. as if after all his reticence, he was finally ready to let me in. when we said goodbye he said he and his roommate would be stopping to visit on a road trip through france and spain and, ultimately, morocco. on the long train ride home, i kept my palm pressed to my mouth to keep from smiling too hard. 

i never heard from him again. nothing. i wrote him constantly--first epistles dripping with affection. then just brief notes about practical matters like repaying him for my ticket back to france. still nothing.  

it's difficult to remember how bad a blow it was. here i am on the brink of 30 and that 20 year old pain is tinged with a certain nostalgia. it's such a lovely thing to be young and have the ability to love so impetuously. the thing that bothers me from time to time is the why. did he freak out about how close we had gotten? or just simply change his mind about me? perhaps he died a horrible and violent death in or on his way to morocco.  

ten years later the questions still rise up out of the muck of all the matter stewing and reducing in my little brain. things i don't like to think about bubble over from time to time to remind me just how little a picture i have of the totality of my life. my stomach churns at the complexity of emotions it brings to the fore: so much doubt and confusion and sadness and longing... for him and for that time and for who i was--and for who i wasn't. always leading me to the conclusion that i just wasn't enough. 

so there's the wind-up. here's the pitch: i saw him last week. on my trip to new york, for and i went to see grizzly bear at columbia and there he was, standing about five feet away from me.

i was confused at first because he looked younger than he did back then. like there should be a really ugly painting of him hiding in a basement somewhere--that eerily pure and boyish. throughout the set i kept sidelong glancing to try to assess the situation:

but those are his glasses.

but his hair is so short and uncool.

but the pouty lips.

but those horrible shoes--he was so much hipper than that.

but that is definitely his bad posture.

in the end, his hands gave it away--those long slender fingers. it took me through all of grizzly bear's songs to conclude it was him. but then, what next? pretend like all the unpleasantness never happened? strike up a conversation and maybe solve my life's biggest mystery?

in the end i froze. i couldn't find an opening and i was too terrified to make one. the headlining band was unlistenable so we went out into the night in search of food and conversation. so much was happening right then: i was with one of my dearest friends--my girl currently living in brussels who i see twice a year, at most. i was also with for, the best fucking love and friend i have ever had and i was at the end of a hectic day of art-watching and multiple rendez-vous-ing.

perhaps if i was freshly showered and stunningly bright and kempt, i would have felt more confident. but the day started in the bk and ended at columbia university, with several stops inbetween. i was exhausted and self-conscious. unsure and unbrave.

for and i met up with more homies the next night at larry lawrence--a bar whose tender kept my husband up and out till four in the morning a couple nights previous. i spilled the proverbial beans to eleanor and ryan--went through the whole beautiful and painful story. they were floored by my inability to act. i realized then the extent of my cowardice.

luckily i am a super google sleuth. seeing as though the show was only open to columbia students, i have sinced learned that he is now a teaching fellow in the italian studies department. i have an email and a snail mail address. this information is like a marble in my hand i carry with me all day long. i pass it back and forth, roll it in my palms, clutch it tight, and blow on it for luck. perhaps one day i will summon the courage to use it. or perhaps i will just tuck it safely away with all the other invaluable but forgotten treasures of my heart.

best war movie ever

speaking of war movies, three kings is playing on hbo these days. my hands down frakking favorite. so funny and tragic and gorgeous and so improbably perfect.

i know that it's been all obama all the time around here lately. i'll get back to regularly scheduled programming (i.e. poetry, sappy reminisces, and mommy laments)... someday soon i hope. i wish this primary would rap up...

forest and i were talking the other day about how raw and vulnerable our hearts feel these days.

it is exactly how i felt waiting in line for this roller coaster before he and i got married. i remember my white-knuckled grasp of his shirt collar, comforting myself in the smell of him and the feel of his cool arms. that anxiety mixed with excitement and fear all calmed by his steady hands and easy laugh--manifest reassurances that i was going to survive this and everything was going to be just fine.

i've been in love with roller coasters ever since.

you pretty mofo

Darian Dauchan @ NorthBeast 1st Annual Grand

are you a new mexican or a new mexican't?

that's what i'm talkin bout Bill.

really proud to be from my state today.