Mourning the Red Line

We had an awkward relationship of push and pull.

There was a point in time where I hated it so much, I preferred to walk 5 miles home. There was puke, a wiry more-man-looking transvestite, many drunks and a guy I swore was about to hijack the bus. There were loud teenagers, people playing their cell phone rings over and over again to simulate a song, teenagers playing dice on the floor, broken air conditioners, broken-down engines, handwritten signs, surly drivers and the overwhelming number of surprisingly nice ones.

And then there were the guys: the guy who stared directly at me for miles, the guy who brought a loud radio on board (and the driver who never told him to turn it off), the guy who borrowed someone's cell phone to tell someone he promised he was going to buy a whole PILE of pills if they'd just give him one tonight, and the many, many guys who have asked me what I'm reading, if I'm a student and what my tattoos mean.

10 years ago it was the bus I had to take. 4 years ago it was the bus I refused to take (after the previously-mentioned almost-hijacking). 3 years ago it was the bus I realized was the only real option to take to do almost everything I needed to do.

Over the past 4 years it has been detoured through every aspect of the major construction of the light rail line. The Red Line rumbled over rough streets sometimes sending every rider airborne. It navigated down narrow lanes that Honda Civics had trouble inching through. Bus riders waited at bus stops in the middle of the summertime that sometimes consisted of nothing more than a pile of dirt.

It seemed that the Red Line was the everyman's bus. You could take it to or from jail or to the airport. I've seen pilots, students, ex-cons, prostitutes, nurses, lawyers, homeless, drunk, sober, fat, skinny, parents with screaming kids and parents whose kids always said please and thank you. I would look at the single moms wrangling their 2 or more children and see me, my sister and my mom riding the bus in Reading, PA. I like to assume that I was the well-behaved kid who never said a word. Sometimes the best came out in people when then told the driver to wait for someone running for the bus or the worst when a healthy 20-yr old wouldn't get up for a limping elderly person or pregnant woman.

But now...poof! The Red Line is gone—never to be ridden again. The light rail has replaced it's heart and 2 other bus lines have picked up its head and it's tail. As much as I dreaded the potential smell and experience that might occur on every ride, I'm looking back on it like I just graduated from some university. After a quiet morning ride on the antiseptic and bright light rail, I craved the darker moodiness of the Red Line rumbling down Washington Street towards 16th. The bright interior lights of the Metro make it almost impossible to watch the desert sunrise and without a detour to the airport, there's no point where everyone looks up as we take the bridge over the freight rail yard or Salt River.

All of the ickiness about the Red Line ended up being what ultimately has endeared itself to me. Something like an unappealing body part that you eventually get used to and then realize that it kind of defines you. Referring to myself as having "bus hands" just doesn't seem to be the same without the Red Line. It seems I invented that term because of the Red Line and the number of times I've seen people cough and sneeze into their hands and then grab the exact same pole I need to touch.

Germy, icky, run-down, loud, close, smelly, warm, cold, obnoxious, generous, kind, rude, annoying, frustrating and genuine.

Bye bye Red Line.

hope for america

There's always a lot of banter on the city bus—it's mainly the reason i wear my iPod before, during and after my bus ride (that, and the drunk/letchy/lonely guys who try to strike up a conversation about the book they could care less about that you're reading). Normally, my reaction is to try to tune it out or hope for the banter to become numerous enough that it all blurs out like a wordy wave of the ocean.

Today was different. I don't know, call it my renewed sense of hope in humanity, my excitement that what i may have thought was impossible occurred (impossible being that which i feel would make our lives better), a feeling of togetherness with my community as an entire café broke out in applause and cheers when Obama won Ohio—but something was just a little different. Maybe it's like one of those moments where you've never met anyone from Idaho or Wyoming before and then you meet someone who is from there and then suddenly it seems everyone you bump into has a connection to there. Or maybe it's what non-cynical people see every day of their lives—people who have seen the impossible happen and no matter how long ago it was, still hold out that positive hope for the future.

Today, the guy muttering to himself/at large was muttering about how even if John McCain had given Barack Obama 100pts, he STILL would have won the presidency. What? Was he watching the polls? Did he vote? He CARES?? Then, 2 young men struck up a conversation about how they can't believe it happened and happened the WAY it did. 2 young men, talking politics, expressing disbelief and hope...it made me turn down my iPod and try to listen in more to what they had to say. But then I was actually bothered that they weren't speaking loud enough for me to hear them. For a bus where people sometimes have conversations OVER your head from the back of the bus to the front, this, too, was a rare occurrence. 

I'm wondering what the ride home will be like when everyone is more awake and the reality of the situation has settled in.

mourning trees

A crazy storm last night here in Phoenix—the first time I can say i was honestly scared about a window breaking or a tree falling on the roof. We got lucky. I woke up to find this right outside our window. Winds at almost 80MPH, hail, almost 2 inches of rain. I wondered what it must be like to be caught in the desert in the middle of something like that. It seems frightening here but mostly because of all the stuff we've grown and constructed around us.

Throughout our neighborhood, powerlines were down and giant eucalyptus and fir trees broke or uprooted themselves. Without saying too much, the following are pictures within walking distance of our apartment, including an entire street blocked off.

dad dreams

I had an interesting dream last night. And as much as i'm aware that countless people tell others their dreams in an effort to either get them to answer questions or to make themselves sound more interesting, i thought this one was especially relevant given all these issues i've been dealing with about my personal disaster. I also feel like i have to get this stuff out—in the process of purging. The next piece i have in mind will have me recounting as many stories and memories as i can think of to pull them to the surface and loosen their power on me.

So, i'm in my parent's house, standing in their kitchen. I think my mother is behind me but my dad is sitting at the table in the crowded dining room. I'm yelling at him and saying something like that he's a little man or that i don't care what he thinks or that he's insignificant. Then i realize, by saying it, that it reaches the point as it would when i was a kid where i pushed him to the point of violence. There would be this moment when his rage would come out and he could no longer control it. Sometimes i knew when i was about to do it and sometimes it would come by surprise but i got to learn that small moment when the air shifted and i needed to run.

At the moment in my dream where i said what i said and the air snapped and he burst slightly from his seat, i watched him pick up a hanger that was sitting on the table. Then i turned my back and crossed my arms and he beat me on my back right side with it. I said or thought something like "you can't hurt me anymore" or "it doesn't hurt" and it didn't. I didn't feel any pain even though i could see, from above, the welts on my back. He never really left his seat at the table—i guess a testament to his usual aloofness. Then i walked away and went upstairs.

My mom was upstairs in a room with me—distraught but also inactive. She seemed upset that this was all occurring, like she would be when i was younger and he would hit or slam me but it seemed her fear of him over-rode any instinct to help me. I told her "he can't hurt me anymore. it doesn't matter. it doesn't hurt anymore. it used to and i needed you and you didn't do anything. but it doesn't hurt now." And she stood there, dressed in red (which she never wears), looking exceptionally young, and with a bewildered look on her face.

The whole time in the dream i wasn't upset or angry or disappointed. It was like i was standing above it all and couldn't be affected by it anymore. I know i'm still far from that but it's inspiring to see that my mind is working at it and that there can be another side to all of this. The recovery from the disaster. It upsets me now to read this and think of it as me and something that i think about and still deal with. It's something that defines me. It upsets me like watching a sad story about someone who has to break a tie with something she had hope for but instead was stuck with the mucky reality.

strange home

It is strange to be home. I'm not sure how much time it will take to adjust or if i ever will. It's something different than geographical difference.

The ride back was about as emotionally and mentally strenuous as the month-long experience in Wisconsin. Confused thoughts, feelings of displacement, wondering what's next, wondering what's right for me, wondering what i want. I doubt it's something that will ever become terribly clear.

On the way back, i left my mark in a few places—once in Colorado and twice in Utah.

ending

It's already Wednesday, and as i get glowered at by yet another tour group, I'm summing up my work.

Now all of a sudden it feels like i haven't been here at all. It feels like i just arrived yesterday. Time away from and together with people is nominal. There's just never enough time for anything.

It seems impossible to think that i could conceive of and complete a piece or anything in this span of time. But somehow i did. A big messy blob—we'll see how it goes after i look at it a month or so later.

Below is the opening portion of the video i've worked on. It could probably stand alone but since i think this project will be a part of a larger project to do, i'm not worrying too much about specific orders. There is another version with a lead-in to the rest of the video.

The disaster can keep going on since it always continues and exists in everyone. I think for me it's become a way to get at what i always want from people which is behavior, discussion, thought without pretense and defenses. People being people without worrying about how they're supposed to be. Which is really just me trying to figure out how to be myself despite what i feel people want me to be or my nervousness around my own expectations on how to behave around others. If they choose to participate, they have to reveal something, which is always the big risk. It's about my insecurity. And i think i feel the least insecure when i'm talking to others and they're not pretending with me. But it's all very complicated. What is authentic after all? All speaking and writing is a combination of communication and concealment.



video is copyright 2008 by Jen Urso

damages

In the continuing realization of my neglect and poor health care as a child, i got to experience a day of barely any eating except what soft food i could mash into my mouth due to my TMJ acting up again. It started innocently in the morning while trying to eat a granola bar. The apple i had also brought back with me to my room sat mockingly on the corner of my bed all day. What a tease.

I thought this image described the experience rather well except that my hairstyle and sweater choice isn't quite as fetching.

This has been going on since the age of 14 after i fell on a railroad track (don't ask) but i didn't put 2 and 2 together until i was almost 30. As a teenager, my jaw would regularly lock open or closed—an extreme version of what i experience now (i'm better at sensing the warning signs). It is the most frustrating thing to not be able to talk or feed yourself. What's odd, is that i didn't even think, until yesterday, that this should have been something my parents should have taken me to the doctor for. It is really strange to find more evidence that actually generates physical pain of my parents lack of concern and attention as well as overall laziness. If your child couldn't chew because her jaw was locked shut, would you just provide her a straw and some tomato soup? I'm also finding it interesting that as i unearth certain emotional pains from the past, physical pains are making more sense. They begin to go hand in hand. The other would be the repaired fracture in my lower back that (the doctor says) occurred a very long time ago, most likely in childhood. It's painful every day.