I have been interviewing my grandmother for about three weeks now, and the project is progressing in a different way than i thought would. some things interesting, others monotonous and repetitive, bur all grandma. There are things that she doesnt remember so well, and other things that are as vivid as if i had been there with her. tomorrow we go on our feild trip, to her hometown, where she spent must of her childhood. Should be interesting, hopefully she will come up with some gems. She insists that her life was boring and inconsequential, and that no one would want to listen to her or her dumb stories or how ignorant she was of the real world. i insist that her story is insteresting and that i dont care who thinks its interesting, because i do, which is why i am doing it, unfortunatley for me, i started too late in my lazy summer, and i am not sure when i will continue our discussions, but i do look forward to it. On particular interesting gem came from her first trip to Memphis, where her older brother lived. As i was looking through some old pictures of grammies trips to florida and memphis, family reunions and gatherings. One stuck out, one from the trip to memphis, a picture of african-americans swimming in a pool. this was not remarkable at first, beyond the point that it was an odd picture. upon asking, she said that there had been separate pools ans restaurants and busses and restrooms......i instantly knew what it was. 1949. memphis, tenn. segregation. further inspection revealed that there were only african-americans in the pool, which was surrounded by a chain linked fence and topped with barb wire, similar to a prison yard. it was powerful. this is when grammy tells me how appalled, and horribly fascinated, it was to see separate laces for separate faces, when they were all people. coming from upstate new york, in an admittedly shuttered town, she had never known bias, or prejudice. she did have some contact with all kinds of people while working in the ice cream store and the grocery. they had always been customers, people, never black or white. she told me she didnt know what a lesbian was until she was nearly fifty, at which point my grandfather called her a fool, she callled it her ignorance and sheltered that came from her small town upbnringing. i called it a better time, but it is hard to compare then and now. perhaps thats why i started this trip, to glimpse some kind of parallel between then and now.

They come and visit me in the night. One here, and there, then one followed by another in rapid succession, alternating between the left and right. They keep me company at night, when i stare at the blank wall, or at the yard light through the crusty curtain and cracked window. I am reminded of a poem i learned in second grade, aptly titled 'keep a poem in your pocket'. few things stay in my mind, but this one small verse i can recall. Keep a Poem in your pocket and and a picture in your head, and youll never get lonely at night when your in bed. The little poem will sing to you and the little poem will bring to you at night when your in bed. So keep a picture in pocket and a poem in your head and youll never be lonley at night when your in bed. i think thats the jist. The point? My picture is the flashes of light that cross my vision at night, when im alone, in bed. There is no poem.

The night friends came to me long ago, before i knew what they were. Scared, frightened, reliving my last surgery, i refused to accept that my eyes are flawed, imperfect. One does not know how important the most simple of sights can be until they are changed, molded, mutated. The world changes.

Cracked. My summer began as a cracked mirror, reflecting the imperfect world in my imperfect eye. afraid, i withdrew, refused to work for money, instead became the house boy, doing laundry, dishes, vacuuming. True, it was not hard work and occupied little of my time, but thats what i did.

The Summer
So, i have decided that i am going to be a bum, and lazy, and wallow in my self-doubt and shaky eye-sight. work will not be what occupies my summer, no indeed. i say being poor is a most enviable station when compared to the shackles of minimum wage, the banter of customers and the irate ramblings of co-workers and 'guests'. One does not work in my town, oh no, one 'serves' the respectable and much needed 'guests' who graciously present themselves every summer season. You know the kind, many of us have been them from time to time, those slightly confused, mostly wealthy, and sometimes mean pursuers of elightenment and recreation who want to know where this or that place is as they head in the opposite direction that you told them to take. They are spotted by their worn memorabillia, the cap and shirt, shorts and sandal adorned with the logo or saying that is indicative of the locale, one that nobody who actually lived there would wear. A camera is often slung around the shoulder, a backpack next to it, and for the few brave souls who dare to bring their offspring out into the light of day, a trio of children running around in circles, not listening. These people have the ability to make or break a town, village or even a region, and often times they do break it down, into a primordial ooze of suburbia or country that is rebuilt in the image of a city or time period without a shread of the orginal remaining. They are the Tourist.

My dream of writing a screenplay and or a story/book is not dead. I refuse to believe that i cannot follow threw on an idea. I have always loved the idea of serials, or those picture novels that are like comic books that tell a story short and to the point. Having just watched the royal tennenbaums, i like the way in wich the movie was read like a book.

that sounds like bull, and it is. more to come, hopefully some direction will follow.

This blog is going to be about the projects and hobbies that I find interesting, currently, I am completing a globalization project and considering doing one on my grandmother, as well as possible thesis topics for this coming school year, my senior year.