teenage kicks

The rumour mills have been buzzing for months, and I admit I'm curious. Okay, more than curious. Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield are, apparently, back. And 27. And doing things like having sex and eating caviar and getting divorced. I'm not sure how to feel about the twins growing up.

I devoured the Sweet Valley High books for a good chunk of my preteen (and, she types, blushing, teenage) years. If I started reading after school, I could finish a book in a night (leaving a half hour for dinner and two hours for homework). They were engrossing - partly because I thought my junior high school was kind of like Sweet Valley but in Kansas, and partly because I hadn't read a book where I saw myself in both the good and not-so-good protagonists. After reading the first dozen or so, I began a project called "The Backs", where I wrote jacket copy for future SVH books. I had the twins traveling to Paris, learning to skydive, going to their first party where people were drinking - I was sure that one day I'd be the X on the title page (written by X, created by Francine Pascal).

Perhaps one of my most embarrassing moments was finishing Crime and Punishment for my IB exam and immediately opening Starring Jessica (number 71), and being busted by two of the guys in my class. Ahem.

Pascal's series spans over 150 books (I stopped at number 74), has spin-offs for all ages of kids and tweens, and is now targeting the Sex and the City generation. It's a clever time to do it - SATC is no more, and those of us who miss the show can now watch our beloved twins become Samantha and Charlotte. If we can stomach it.

See, the Wakefield girls, and Lila Fowler, and Cara Walker, and Todd Wilkins - they're in this time capsule of coziness in my head. They're beside springtime days in the backyard and getting picked up from the mall in my parents' minivan. They're glued into the memories of my posse, when we'd talk about the characters like they were our friends. Before cell phones, and digital cameras, and YouTube, and all the things that would have gotten us in much more trouble if they'd been around when we were young.

I'm afraid my little bubble of sweetness in middle America might just pop if I let them grow up.

A facade of skyscrapers facing a lake and behind the facade, every type of dubiousness. - E.M. Forster

I find it far easier to exist when my brain isn't cluttered with random smatterings of phrases, deadlines, mistakes, faces, everything that makes up the few million images stored in the sliver of my brain that I actually use. My physical surroundings often dictate the influence of this mental clutter - needless to say it's been a chaotic 08. We're almost there with the flat, after a mind-numbingly expensive trip to IKEA, and by the time I get back things will have begun to make sense, at least in the physical realm.

The mental? Let's just say my creativity has been better.

I'm often amazed that things blossomed so well in Shetland, stuffed into a tiny box with bad lighting and a weird roommate situation. Somehow I managed to push through two books; of course, the distractions in Shetland were few, and the land inspiring in a comfortable, unobstructive way. It's been more difficult in Inverness.
We got to Chicago last Tuesday, and spent the week meandering its streets, remembering its history, eating fantastic food. Matt left on Sunday and I will stay for two more weeks, awaiting a decision on my UK visa. The stress pushed down on me a few hours ago, when I handed a visa agent my packet of meticulous information and I felt a whoosh of relief, fear, and shock take over my body. It's taken over two months to compile the information required, and hours of going through flight stubs, calendars, photos, and memories to sort out just when and why I was in this or that country, for how long, with whom. I couldn't stop editing my letter with additional information that might aid their decision; I checked and rechecked dates; I re-ordered a stack of plastic sheet protectors again and again. These people now know everything about me. Everything, except my brain. Which they might figure out if I'm called for an interview. Trying to prove your worth with only pieces of paper and words to work with is not an easy task.

Chicago is full of muted energy. These huge stone and glass structures reach so high, creating these valleys of breezes, pushing the scents of nearby ethnic restaurants, car exhaust, and a million stories. I like this place. It's unpretentious, but with all the perks of a big city.

I've started doing The Artist's Way, a book that was trendy with people I knew in Seattle a decade ago. I've been avoiding it for years, but it screamed out to me today. Also bought Art and Fear, as recommended by a friend who is a wise, creative soul. My intention is to re-inspire, to find, perhaps to congratulate, and to free, to allow myself to continue this journey. Do we make art for art's sake? Is it the process of creating, or the finished product that matters? Does it count if I'm the only person who reads it? Or, as I fear most, the only person who cares?

Just discovered the Onion's Sunday Magazine. This one kills me. Of course, it would explain a lot.

"Do you honestly think Jesus would carry a gun and vote Republican?"- bumper sticker, Wichita

Christmas at the Pedrojas, December 18.

2:31am, 24 December. Room 223, I think, eight hours into the 12 it will take us to get back to Lerwick. The sea is thrashing us back and forth, my handbag is sliding towards the door, then back, Matt is snoring in the bunk across the narrow room. I’m listening to the Indigo Girls for the first time since the autumn of 2001 and on the verge of crying. It’s been a weird week of miniature epiphanies and minor setbacks but I’m finally heading back to an island nearer to the North Pole than to Kansas where the sun will be scraping the land for few invaluable hours a day.

This is the first time I’ve not been ready to leave Wichita ever. Ever. I’ve never held a deep connection to my hometown; I spent my youth plotting my breakout, dreaming huge, wishing circumstances had clashed to spit me out of a more exotic locale, such as Los Angeles or New York City, or even Kansas City. And as the story goes, fifteen years later, I become as cliche as millions before me who find themselves with uncomfortable affection to a place they once despised. There are decent galleries; more eclectic cafes than Starbucks locations (thank god); restaurants from places as far-fletched as Nepal, southern Chile, Sweden; theater and film events to rival those of any other city; a promising number of people with “Make the scary Republican go away!” and “Do you honestly think Jesus would carry a gun and vote Republican?” affixed to their rear bumpers. Of their cars, of course. This is, after all, America.
Somewhere in the past two weeks, the shift of frustration has melted with some deep sense of pride for how this city is evolving. It’s chilled-out; its pace resembles that of Portland or Vancouver. People eat out, a lot, in groups, sharing laughs. The American dream of home ownership is attainable. People here travel, because they can afford to spend their two weeks abroad. They dress well and drive nice cars and their homes are immaculate - money goes far here. And the skies are huge, the sunsets glowing in sherbet oranges and reds and yellows.
These realizations took a long time to simmer - it’s easy to point out the ridiculous nature of America and overlook the more immediate self-transformation. Idiots still loom everywhere, edging closer to ruining everything, but the balance is beginning to shift; inspiration for a better planet is everywhere - often subtle, perhaps ill-received, but well-intentioned.

Above, Christmas Eve in Shetland, just before sunset.

I went to dinner with friends I’ve known my whole life. We’re all in our 30s, and are beginning to settle into the lives we’ve created for ourselves. Our stories include divorce, offspring, deaths, heartbreak, cancer, love. Gathered around that table, attempting to stomach insane portions of food, was a group of people far more committed to each other, to their families, to their lifestyles, than to their jobs. This is rare, to be in the company of eleven people who have a clear sense of priority. Work was mentioned as anecdote, not lifestyle. No one moaned about their jobs. Indeed, everyone is in their proper place. Rob has cut down his teaching days to paint; Pete has shelved his camera and dove into his job as a counselor at our old high school; Val shifted her career in social work to a less mentally taxing job; Alex is making a mint selling cars; Justin is a talented contractor. All are with partners who share their passions. Spending the evening with a group of people so content was refreshing. There is much to be said about the balance these people have achieved.

And there is much to be said about not conquering the world, about reveling in where you are, not losing sight of the future but enjoying the now.

Does this make me middle-aged? Yikes. So I got on a plane, traveled halfway round the world and escaped. Only this time it didn’t feel like escaping.

Lodge on the Loch, Aboyne, 22 December.

Matt organized a spa day (bless him!). Musings while receiving a wonderful massage included:

• Five days clad in the same pair of jeans doth not an attractive woman make. Thanks, Air France, for finding my second bag and finally delivering them both five days later with only one visible breakage issue.
• Going through my 2000+ CDs in my parents’ basement was cathartic; rediscovering the songs I had shelved for years had me remembering how far I’ve come as a music consumer, not unrelated to the germination of a personality.
• I’m on the cusp of figuring out my identity as an author, and am in love with the new book I am piecing together, my second attempt of a story that hasn’t bubbled around in the corners of my brain for a few years. This one is working. That feels good.

Christmas Eve in Shetland, 2:20pm. Sunset.

Today, Christmas in Shetland, where Santa plays the fiddle and arrives on a pony. Maybe. Matt's at work, and it's already weird to be alone with the BBC Breakfast show on Christmas Day. It's also Matt's birthday, so I am attempting a cake to take to him later. The light is beginning to wash the land in a strange purplish light, and I'll get out later to wander. But for now, happy holidays from Shetland.

Christmas is a time when you get homesick - even when you're home. - Carol Nelson

This has been a ridiculously unproductive few weeks. With the lame exception of a few spurts of pseudo-brilliance, I've let my mind turn to mush and fill with the silly little things that fill days if we let them. It's been great to sample Americana life again. The ease of life here is highly underrated.

I visited my university last week (photo above) and it felt good to be back. I hadn't seen the town in a decade, and charming little Lawrence, KS has now joined the world of corporate stores and restaurants - though some stubborn characters have kept the best places open. The university was as majestic as I remembered - the limestone buildings of the KU campus are stunning, especially with the ice-covered trees gleaming in the light. My first stop was to Allen Fieldhouse, of course, and the new basketball museum is a powerful tribute to the deep history of KU and the game. It was finals week, and the bleary-eyed students were mainly clad in baggy sweats - it took me back to the chaos. Sigh.

How cute is this dog? Nessie is a rock star. I am in love with her. I miss having a dog. It's been so good to be around my family this month.

And the frantic crossing off of the list begins. Mad rushes to the supermarket, Target, the outdoors shop, gadget places, etc. etc. - everything is just so much cheaper here. As I meander the well-stocked shelves of the local SuperTarget, which is nearly three times the size of the center of Lerwick, Shetland, I can understand why and how the culture of consumerism is allowed to fester. Everything is cheap and designed to make life easier, better, or happier. It's sad that the American dream is now intertwined with ownership, along with the more noble ideals. I was listening to a discussion on the radio the other day that posed questions to American callers, asking if they were willing to give up their lifestyles to help curb the environmental damage of creating all these 'things'. While all said they recycled and tried to save energy, few were willing to stop buying cheaply made goods, or stop driving their cars, or stop buying toys made in China. It seems the impact of this consumer lifestyle has yet to hit parts of these shores.

Perhaps it is down to mere size. Everything is bigger here. We can store our stuff. In other parts of the world, and in some places in America, your space is limited, so you buy what you use and don't bother with anything else.

Safe travels to everyone travelling in the next couple of weeks. Dream of sugarplums and red-nosed reindeer and dreidels and white Christmasses.

The shit detector

I've often mentioned Hemingway's quote about the built-in, shock-proof shit-detector: "This is the writer's radar and all great writers have had it." New book? SHIT. Only took me 27,000 words to figure it out (that's over a third of a novel). I had an epiphany on Tuesday whilst slogging through one more chapter and realized that it's shit. Why the hell I thought I could just dive in without letting the idea germinate is beyond me. So am picking up work on something I began in the summer of 2003, my first TASIS summer, that takes place in Montagnola. I think I have to be away from a place to capture it on the screen. We'll see how it goes, but so far I'm liking it.

Aah, America. One of my favorite new discoveries is brought to the masses by Sonic®, that throwback to the 50s drive-in that has become as prevalent as Mickey D's in some towns. I used to love their Cherry Limeaids; now I wonder just how much artificial flavoring one child can ingest without going mad. Sonic's newest creation are cheesecake bites. That's deep fat fried cheesecake to the layman. The ad campaign on TV is shocking.

I've now been chastised by numerous shop assistants when saying I don't need a bag or sack. One, who was fronting a line of quite a few other customers, made a scene of throwing away the bag that I renounced, and then, as I left, called out, "You one of them liberals?" It didn't register until I was out of the shop, fuming and wondering if there was any hope for my country. Waste is everywhere - massive food portions in restaurants, hideously expensive fruits and vegetables (especially organic), the 'super size it' phenomenon that ranges from bags of chips to cars - why the hell does someone in Kansas need a Hummer? The impact is completely lost here - which makes me sad. Between that and the hideous presidential campaign, I'm ready to go back to my little European world where all of this seems far away. Don't even get me started on the amount of prescription drugs commercials on television, in magazines, and on billboards.

My cousin ran for office last November. She lost, but not by much. I have always admired her - she doesn't just bitch about it, she tries to do something about it. The thought scares the hell me, so I cower and point fingers.

Skinny Bitch. Very interesting take on the food industry in America. Bitch-slaps the reader into the realities of how we eat and how it's affecting our health. I've looked further into their sources and some of it is frightening.

Coming again to save the motherf***ing day, yeah.

Black Friday

I am thankful for: air travel, which is a very cool concept overall, but why does international air travel involving connections have to be a pain in the ass all the time? Perhaps it's some sort of carbon emissions karma or something. Or perhaps receiving luggage = expect delays. And I'm always seated by the screaming three-year-old whose mother is on crack and has no control over the kid who is smacking me on the leg with her pink stuffed poodle. And then seated behind a large woman in sweatpants who deems it appropriate to YELL her philosophies about life in Houston compared with life in Manhattan, Kansas during a 10pm flight to Wichita. I asked her to quiet down and she laughed in my face.

Like most expats, the first steps on my native soil is always a confused mix of shock and comfort. Running through the Houston airport, dodging blobs of fat hanging off bodies and trails of children smacking one another, the scent of french fries in the air, was as cleansing as a yoga breath. Aah, the consistency of American airports at holiday time.
I thought the television was kidding when I first heard the advertisement for JC Penneys, 'opening Friday at 4am'. Then the same for Kohl's. So when my mom and I drove past the latter yesterday, I found it photo-worthy. Who the hell goes shopping at 4am? Is consumerism really that rampant to force bodies that should be sleeping off their food comas into the wild of holiday shopping? I have yet to hear if these tactics paid off.

My mom and I went to Sam's Wholesale Club yesterday. This is the Midwest Costco, basically. I was floored, flabbergasted, shocked by the hugeness of everything. Two gallons of cranberry juice for $2.50. Six gourmet frozen pizzas for $3.00 Three liters of Heinz ketchup for $4.00. A pound of cheese for $2.00. Who in the world needs this size of anything unless you're running a restaurant? Oh, right, the people who are buying these things. In the twenty or so minutes that we were there, I counted NINE people who were not overweight. Nine. And this is the day-after-Thanksgiving crowd. When did America become a nation of gluttons? Granted, I am in the Midwest and it is Black Friday, but I don't remember seeing people this big when I grew up here. I went to the gym last night and was one of three people working out, and one of the guys works at the gym.

I wonder where the voice of the normal people lies. It seems that people are either overweight or underweight; the curse of the size 20+ versus the curse of the size 00.

Subject change. The number 1-ranked college football team lost last night, and tonight KU plays Mizzou and the television has already started showing the tailgating parties at Arrowhead Stadium in KC. This will be damn exciting. The rivalry dates back to the civil war (Kansas was a free state, Missouri a slave state) and people are bringing up all sorts of stuff.

Happy Thanksgiving.