The Spiral Staircase

She Is Poor but Rich in Spirit

Here I am, guest lecturing at Tony Liu's English class at Yangshan University.  I didn't know what to say, so I taught them some old SAT tips for guessing the meanings of words you don't know. 

I was honored to be asked to do this, and it was a great way to balance out some of the negative feelings I was having toward China based on the militaristic way this boxing tournament has been run. 

After the class we went out for lunch with Mr. Zhang the philosopher, and although I've always had scorn for Americans who travel abroad and eat at US chains, my relief was immense when they took me to Pizza Hut.  The garden veggie pan pizza was manna from heaven.  Between that and the traditional Chinese medicine candies Tony gave me, my stomach seems to be on the mend.

The students were very shy about asking questions but slowly they opened up.  At the end a young man asked, "So many goods in America are now made in China.  What do you think about this?"

"Wow, can I be honest?" I asked Tony.

He said I could.

It was hard to tell how the students responded to my rambling monologue about locovorism, suicide in Apple factories, and the global village.  They laughed in odd places.  It was hard, all in, to tell how they responded to anything about me.  But I've always believed that with teaching you just have to put yourself out there, because you never know who you'll touch or how.

My favorite question was: "Your dress is very beautiful.  Where did you get it?"

I got it in Brooklyn, but the shoes are from Beijing.

Best Day Ever

Yesterday morning I called up Steve Johnson in Denver, who agreed to talk to me even though it was his birthday and I was keeping him from his morning motorcycle ride.  Steve is a charming man who has been chronicling the misdeeds of the USA Boxing leadership on the Examiner.com and on the blog Inside Boxing. 

Ethan prowled around the living room while I talked, looking adorable and bringing me bowls of raspberries.

After an hour with Steve I got a call from Christy Halbert, the fairy godmother of women's boxing.  A sociology PhD and former pro fighter, Christy knows everything there is to know about our sport and is largely responsible for its new Olympic status.  I had a great time talking to her and got some new writing ideas from bouncing ideas off her brillinat brain.

Then I ate some apples with almond butter and headed out to my wonderful gym, the Atlas Cops and Kids Boxing Club in Flatbush Gardens.  I'd been hoping the week I spent running at altitude would give me better wind, but nothing is as hard as boxing. 

Photo by Mark Fader

"I can hear you breathing, Sarah!" Sosa chided as he worked pads with me.  "Stop looking at the clock!"

On the way out, Coach Tito gave me some yams, yuca, and a mango.  My boxing gym is like a big happy family, only, unlike my real family, the men stick around.

I checked my iphone as I walked to the subway and saw an email from Wendy, my editor at the Threepenny Review.  The subject was "Pushcart" and the first line was "Dear Sarah, Great news!"  My heart lifted.  Writing's lonely and sometimes I feel like nobody notices how hard I'm working.  It was a great bump to find out that my essay Skydive made it into the upcoming anthology.  I vow to use this as motivation to finish revising my memoir proposal with my mom.

I rode the train to Columbus Circle in a happy trance, fast forwarding through any song on my iphone that was not hip hop or uptempo R&B.  My next stop was the 56th Street New York Health and Racquet Club for my 6:30-7:40 PM vinyasa yoga class.  I ate a Clif Bar on my way there.

There were six students in the class, and it was an unusually good vibe.  I told them all to set their own private intentions at the beginning, and I suggested "joy" if they couldn't think of anything.  We did a lot of hip openers and some restorative backbends, and during savasana I recited this Kay Ryan poem that I love:

PATIENCE

Patience is
wider than one
once envisioned,
with ribbons
of rivers
and distant
ranges and
tasks undertaken
and finished
with modest
relish by
natives in their
native dress.
Who would
have guessed
it possible
that waiting
is sustainable—
a place with
its own harvests.
Or that in
time's fullness
the diamonds
of patience
couldn't be
distinguished
from the genuine
in brilliance
or hardness.

I love this poem so much that I always want to recite it during final relaxation, but I restrain myself.  Somehow it just felt appropriate yesterday.  At the end, two of the students told me that patience had been their intention! 

I took the subway to West Fourth Street, where I had a few hours to kill before the Bad Plus's second set at the Blue Note, so I roamed Greenwich Village in search of dinner.  By this time I was starving and kind of wanted to splurge on fancy food but I didn't want to break my streak of eating mostly plants.  Magically, Cafe Blossom manifested itself.  I sat at the bar, where I was served fancy schmancy vegan cuisine by a beautiful, tattooed riot grrrl named Avalon who was named after one of my favorite childhood novels. 

Avalon suggested the seitan marsala, which was delicious.  Ethan and I have been talking a lot about irony lately, and so I was interested to note that Avalon spoke two sentences whose figurative meaning was basically the opposite of their literal meaning: "We don't judge" (in response to my not-at-all apologetic statement that I wasn't a strict vegan) and "It is not a pyramid scheme" (a propos of a certain energy drink).

I got to the Blue Note in time to hang out with Dave King's daughter Ella before the show and admire the cool magnetic toy from the Gugenheim gift shop with which she constructed metal snowflakes and stars.  We sat drum side, close enough to see her father's feet.  The night before I had sat right behind my husband and contemplated the plaintive quality of his piano tone and how fitting it is that we use the word "sweet" to describe both cake and music.  Maybe on Sunday I'll sit in the center so I can focus on Reid. 

Drawing from Ken Parris series 104 Work Weeks

I had forgotten that Andrea was coming to the show and got a jolt of pleasure when she came to say hi.  The Merce Cunningham dancers have been scattered to the winds in the wake of their guru's passing, but Andrea has landed on her lovely feet.  We closed down two places and I threw caution to the winds and had two Manhattans.  On the ride home, Ethan told Andrea's new boyfriend that he was a beautiful, strong man with a great name who could accomplish anything and that he was therefore reminiscent of David Boreanaz from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  I've always loved Ethan for being the rare straight man who will say such things.  

We watched a great episode of Buffy when we got home, Lovers Walk, the one where Spike wants to cast a love spell on Drusilla but decides it's not worth it. 

"I'm going to do what I should have done in the first place," he says.  "I'll find her, wherever she is, tie her up, torture her till she likes me again.  Love's a funny thing."

We finally went to bed around four. 

 

Running in Santa Fe

It's exquisite out here in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where I'm helping a friend write her book.  I've been running every day, and the 7,000 feet of altitude makes it super challenging.  My first day here I was headachy and out of breath even when sitting on the couch.  But it feels good to run at altitude, like I'm lifting weights with my lungs. 

I found this helpful page of good places to run posted by the Santa Fe striders.

Our first day we trotted around the trails down by the Randall Davey Audubon Center. 

Nobody is nicer than the ladies in sun hats and bird earrings who work the desks at nature centers.  Perhaps they are all the same lady.

Yesterday we ran along Old Santa Fe Trail, from the plaza downtown where vendors hawked chile ristras and turquoise earrings up a sloping hill to Amelia White park, where the benches had eerily appropriate quotations on them, all of which I have forgotten, but I think they had to do with not worrying about how fast you're going. 

Today I ran six miles that felt like twelve along the Chimisa Arroya bike path.  Aside from the sensation of suffocation, this was a blissful experience.  It's a sort of desolate desert vibe on this asphalt path, much of which follows the train line.  I saw a lot of bikers and cute dogs.  A kind man in a turban advised me to drink lots of water.

Photo: Missy Wolf

After the run, my inspired traveling companion took us to Kakawa Chocolate House, where I became extremely stoned on the combination of runner's high, altitude sickness, and Mexican drinking chocolate.  Served in a tiny cup, my atole was rich with 100% dark chocolate, agave, and hot chile peppers.  Cornmeal gave it an unctuous texture.  An ideal recovery drink that made me feel like an Aztec god.

Please Kickstart Me to China for the AIBA Women's World Boxing Championships

Please consider supporting my groovy new Kickstarter campaign to produce daily journalistic coverage as well as a long-form essay about this historic tournament.  Lots of fun rewards!

Vision Quest

Where has this movie been all my life?  High schooler wrestler Louden Swain decides he wants to move down in weight from 190 pounds to 168 pounds so he can wrestle the best kid in the state, Shute.  In this scene he informs Shoot of his intentions.

 

Happy 11/11/11

I would never go to a movie because I thought it would be about cars

I was puzzled by the spike in my blog ratings three days ago.  What could have caused the bump from five readers per day (four of which are me) to an astounding 300? 

Apparently, a Michegan resident named Sarah Deming is suing the distributors of the film Drive, because she found the trailer for the film misleading.  Sarah Deming went to the movie thinking that it would be about cars, and it wasn't, so she wants her money back.  Also, she thinks the movie was anti-Semitic.  I am not that Sarah Deming.

Race Report - Philadelphia Rock and Roll Half Marathon

When my cousin Nikki suggested we all run a half marathon together, my heart sank.  It sank because I knew I couldn't say no although I dearly wanted to.  It was May, seven weeks after I'd given up my kidney, but that wasn't the problem.  The problem was: I hate to run.

But I do love my cousin, and I knew I could not refuse the chance to have family bonding time that didn't involve getting wasted and reminscincing about our traumatic childhoods.  So I bought some shoes and started training.

It was also kind of perfect because I'd been working as an assistant on the forthcoming autobiography of Scott Jurek, one of the world's best ultramarathoners.  I was reading all this stuff about how Scott managed to run 135 miles non-stop through Death Valley in the heat of summer while only eating vegan burritos.  

Nikki, her husband Steve, and her sister Melissa were all in.  I tried to rope in my husband and my brother, but I'm bad at positive peer pressure.  My husband kept making fun of the rock and roll component, because he is a jazz musician, but I think he is just jealous that nobody wants to hear abstract piano improvisations while they are running. 

We decided to use this excellent training plan, largely because it was free.  Thank you, Hal Higdon! 

The astute reader will note that the very first run of this training plan is 3 miles long!  That is about 2.95 miles more than I am accustomed to running.  Therefore I had to train for the training plan first.  I did this by listening to violent hip hop on my ipod and alternating walking one song and running one song.  Then I ramped up to walking one song, running two songs, etc. until I could do three miles nonstop.  Getting to this point was almost the hardest part.

Please note that AT NO TIME during training or competition did I cease to hate running.  Only sometimes, when I had been running about an hour, did the hatred fade to a dull, throbbing dislike.  My calves got more muscular.  I think I lost a little weight, unless the scale at that restaurant I went to the other day was set intentionally low to encourage higher food bills. 

The day of the marathon dawned crisp and breezy.  I got up early, drank coffee, and ate a banana.  The night before I'd had a bean burrito, in honor of Scott Jurek, although mine was not vegan due to the sour cream and cheddar.  My stomach felt pretty good, and I had two packets of caffeinated GU in my pockets, flavors: cherry-lime and tri-berry.  We got in our "corral" and waited to start amid the throngs of thin people in lycra.

Kind of exciting milling about in corral number 20!  I thought only briefly of the Oklahoma stockyards.  Some girls next to me were wearing Liver Disease tee-shirts.  Over the PA, the announcers - one of them a famous runner, I forget who - were pumping up the successive corrals as they took off.  There were so many people that it took about 30 minutes before corral 20 got to start.  By that time, you could actually see the fastest runners coming back, on the far side of the Schuylkill River.  I dashed off to pee one last time, trying and failing to avert my gaze from the hellish maw of the port-o-potty's opening.

I'd been surprised by my cousins' desire to run separately.  I'd sort of been thinking we'd all go together, atthe pace of the slowest person, but everybody wanted to go at their own pace.  So I went out ahead with Steve, sending energy back to Nikki and Melissa behind us.

Normally the first 15 minutes of a run are terrible, but I was shocked by how fast the first mile went.  Adreneline, I guess, although it's so much less adreneline than a boxing match that I hadn't noticed it.  The second mile was much harder.

Steve and I settled into a beautiful rhythm, chatting a little now and then, and the miles just clicked by, every one of them exactly ten minutes long.  Ten minutes is considered pretty slow, but it's as fast as I go.  I was really surprised that I wasn't even slowing down after 5, 6, 7, and 8 miles.  It was something about having Steve there with me.  Sometimes he would have a surge of energy and sometimes I would.  We kept each other going.

 
This is a few months ago at the renewal of Nikki and Steve's vows.  In my capacity as priestess, I described Steve as "a crazy Irishman who throws a football farther and builds a house better than anyone else, and who cries when he hears U-2."  To that I now add: he is a great running buddy.

Along the way there were stately oaks, adorable cheerleaders with pom poms, people with cowbells and funny signs like "Hurry up and finish - they're almost out of beer."  I felt an outpouring of gratitude to these people for their selfless offers of energy.  When I passed the 10 mile mark, I had run as far as I'd ever run before, and I knew I would finish.

The music portion of the event was sort of a misfire, I thought.  I'd imagined the music being broadcast over a larger area of the course, but it wasn't.  It felt disrespectful to run right past each band, taking such a short time to appreciate their music.  Steve got excited at one point because there were bagpipes. 

I ate my tri-berry GU at mile six and the cherry-lime at mile 11.  This turned out to be a bit of a strategic error because they both had caffeine and, combined with the coffee I'd had earlier, they made my heart feel kind of twitchy and strange.  Sort of like the time I took yohimbe before a boxing match and went into cold sweats.  Live and learn. 

Steve slowed down on the last mile, and I shot ahead toward the finish line.  Then I thought: What is my f*ing problem?  I ran with Steve for 12 miles and now I'm going to ditch him so I can finish 2 minutes faster?  I couldn't see him when I looked behind me, but I waited at the side of the road and was overjoyed to see his white tank top plowing forward toward me.

The only hill on the course was right before the finish line.  Oy vey!  We held hands and sprinted across, and then came the only part of running that I do not hate: Stopping.

We finished in 2 hours, 15 minutes, 58 seconds.  Then we sat down on the soft green grass and drank champagne.  Nikki rolled in ten minutes after us, Mel a few minutes later.  We seem to have recovered fine and are even talking about doing it again.

 

 

Make Mine a Double

I'm happy to be in this groovy new anthology.

 

Glenn Gould Skydiving

Ethan and I both have essays in this season's Threepenny Review.  His is about live music.  Mine's about jumping out of an airplane.