Sometimes we are small

Today I had the day off because David's girlfriend, whose name I won't attempt to spell in English, is coming to visit the U.S. for the first time, and he needed Saturday off. So we switched our shifts at that all-encompassing world of hokey-pokey and most usually all-accepting land of awe, the Good Food Store. The Taiwanese girlfriend has seen most of Europe and the East, but to see the US for the first time during an era where most of the world scorns us - where some of us even scorn us - is a strange thing to ponder. My selfish mind merely hopes that she will find something small and wonderful to hold dear about this country, besides what she has already found, which is David. I told him that at least she would be visiting one of the most mind-bogglingly beautiful places in the United States...the Rocky Mountains. He says that he's lived here so long that he takes it for granted.

He said that Joe and I should meet them for coffee this weekend, that we'd like her. I feel small and as though I would be that typical American that other countries rebuke upon hearing my American accent. I feel the burden of my country's flagging reputation, and I haven't even left my apartment.

On my day off, I spent the morning catching up on my favorite bloggers. You all write with such bravado and elegance. I feel as though we are listening to the same music. Please keep writing.

Last week I followed Megan around after work. She needed someone to hold her hand while she got her face pierced. Everyone laughs when I say that "She got her face pierced." But I can't say it anymore precisely in the time people give me to say what I want to say. You know how slowly I speak - people are too eager and impatient to hear through my slowness. Anyway, she got poked on her cheek, the blood flowed enough that I looked away, and Megan left a hand print in my newly crushed right hand. It's cute, though, her face sparkle. The man who punctured her in the face owns the tattoo and piercing establishment and usually does tattoos, so I asked him about birds, about scissor-tailed flycatchers. He whipped out a book of his work - lots of birds. He asked "Is it green?" No. "Good," he said. His name is Lee and he wants to tattoo a bird on my body. This is my bird:



What do you think? There are more pictures on Google images.

Here are my issues:
1. Where do I put it? Where I can see it and enjoy its beauty or where I can hide it if I want to do so?
2. In flight or not?
3. In color? It has such beautiful colors.
4. I'm terrified of putting something permanent on my body. If you've ever noticed, I enjoy being unadorned. There is something cleansing but beautifully mortal about taking off all your clothes, all jewelry, letting your hair fall down against your bare back and acknowledging that moment of the temporary return - the return to the moment before Eve felt shame at her nakedness, at her purely untethered self. It's a return to something that must be lurking deep inside us, something that is true and unconscious. If it wasn't there, I doubt I'd feel the way I do just before stepping into the shower. Maybe this is why I hate bikinis as much as I do; if you want to be practically naked, take off the uncomfortable spandex and feel a little bit freer. I doubt I'll ever cut my hair off because I utterly love the feeling of my swinging hair against my lower back.

But I can't take a tattoo off whenever I feel the need to be primordial or untethered to this social world. Would a scissor-tail be a part of me or a weighty piece of jewelry?

Well, if you have any thoughts, let me know. I wish I had a picture of Megan and her pierced face, so you could see how cute she is.

A good book or two to leave you with:

Instead of posting here I've been reading quite a bit, and three of the last four books I've read I highly recommend.
1. Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides - Long, beautifully written, though the last third of the book chances in tone a bit. Easy to follow while maintaining its stylistic beauty, so most people should like it.
2. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez - Many of you may have already read this or tried to read it, and I'll admit that I had some difficulty keeping up with it, but if you can pull yourself through seemingly meaninglessness of the plot, which happens to fill 99% of the book, the last paragraph will fill your soul, and you will say to yourself, "Yes, this book was everything it needed to be." But you can't understand the last paragraph without reading the book, so don't cheat. And if you think this book sucks, well.... (I'll just shrug my shoulders and probably understand.)
3. Gilead by Marilynne Robinson - Her first book Housekeeping is in my top five books of all time. Gilead didn't come close to that but I'm certainly glad I read it. It's an easier read with less action and more reflecting on Robinson's distinctive perceptions of loneliness, Christianity, and faith. I will always enjoy Robinson's style.

That's all. Much love,