Charis Brice: dancer, whiner, fisher, baller.

The Tiny, Flying Wolf : revisited

*NOTE*  -- I wrote the following in 2006.  I now live in a different country and do life with a different partner, a man who reflects love, adventure and gentleness to me daily; I am no longer afraid for my marriage.  My sister and I spoke this morning (she made me laugh) and my brother is sober and shining the light of his smile everywhere he goes, somehow selling something full of goodness after all the shit he's been sold.  


Can the wolf fly?  I am here to tell you, yes.    

 

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I think the fact that most people get married and have children proves that most people are undeniably and irreversibly mad.  Push through the smiles and happy stories of any person’s childhood and you will find a mess.  You will find out that their parents are insane, their siblings dysfunctional and their heritage stiff and strange at best, dark and psychotic at worst.  And yet what do most people do? They get married, and they have kids.  They perpetuate and encourage this madness called family... they just don’t learn.  Isn’t the definition of insanity something like: “to do something exactly the same way a thousand times and to hope for different results on the 1001^st time.”  We are all mad. 

As I sat in the waiting room for my glorious back-cracking this morning I could not help but notice a small boy who was also waiting.  He was probably about seven years old, and was very beautiful.  It soon became apparent that he was different than most seven year old boys.  Maybe autism, maybe something else... it was hard to pin down, but some rhythm in his little self made his every word and movement somehow stand out in the room – he was different.  

He sat across the room from his Mom and yelled out, 
“Can I take off my coat Mom?”

“Yes, you can take off your coat.” 

“Mom, can I put it on the floor Mom?”

“No sweetie, put it on the chair next to you."

“Mom, where do I live on this map, Mom? Where does Darcy live on this map, Mom?”

Every thought in his head was instantly transformed into a question, and his mother’s answers stayed the course; her words were neither self conscious nor impatient - the pace between them familiar.  

As their endless cycle continued across the waiting room a woman entered the building with a baby on her hip and a dog on a leash – the boy was ecstatic.  

“MOM, Mom look... can I hold the baby Mom? Is that a baby Mom?”

“Ask permission first honey – you can look but don’t touch.”  

Hesitation was impossible; he quickly addressed the new mother. 
“Is that a baby?” 

She responded in a twinkly voice with light and fluffy pride as if she had just magically arrived by bubble, “Haha, why yes it is.”  

“Can I kiss it?” 
Her light and fluffy shrank a bit.
“Oh...well, he’s a little sick so let’s just look at him.”  

With that the boy stood up out of his chair and began to flail his arms around and with nearly violent animation he yelled on the top of his lungs, 

“HELLO??!!! HI THERE! HI BABY!!! HI!!!!!!!!”

The baby looked stunned and confused, and the boy was delighted by this response. 

The baby could only hold his attention for so long - he soon ceased his dramatic baby greeting and shifted his attention to the dog.  

“Is that a dog?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is he a wolf?” 

“No.” 

“He is a really pretty wolf... can he jump? JUMP BOY!”  and with that he whisked his arms to the sky in invitation to the small wolf.  The dog owner maturely intervened, “Well he can jump, but let’s not get him to jump while we’re inside...”
The boy complied.  
As the adults began to converse and laugh at a level higher than his intellect and his body, I watched as he continued to look at the tiny wolf - and then suddenly his face changed; it looked like he had just seen Santa Claus.  His eyes snapped wide and wonder filled his face... he again looked up to the owner of the tiny, jumping wolf and asked with blatant and urgent interruption, 

“Can he fly? Can he FLY??”  

The question hung in the air for a moment. 

Other adults looked at each other knowingly... their looks said “Poor crazy boy... how embarrassing.” The owner nervously laughed and said loudly so that all would know she was handling the situation appropriately, “No, he can’t fly; dogs can’t fly.”  
His face fell, but only for a moment.  His wonder was not so easily deflated. “Hell, she was wrong about the wolf thing, she's probably wrong about the flying thing... I bet she’s never even asked the wolf if he can fly” he seemed to be thinking.  And if the wolf couldn’t fly, maybe the baby could.  

I was stunned by his question and by his lack of self-consciousness; he was stunning.  I felt impatience and anger for the people who thought he was crazy – for the piece of me that thought he was crazy.  His hope was so clear in that moment that I almost couldn’t look at him – I almost had to just write him off as crazy.  Dogs OR wolves flying... ludicrous... scandelous.  

I miss my sister.  We haven’t talked for almost nine months.  I miss her most when something hilarious happens to me – I can laugh with my sister like no one else.  

I am angry for my brother.  I want to make the world a better place for him – a place that doesn’t try with all it’s might to make hope and goodness seem like shams sold by a cheap salesman.  I hate not being a better salesman than the world.  

I am afraid for my marriage.  I am tired of feeling the definition of insanity every day as I look at my reflection in the mirror of my husband's eyes – why do I always think tomorrow will be different? Why can I feel so much in my dreams and so little in my waking life?  Maybe it will be different tomorrow.  Maybe it won’t be.  

I am growing more and more cynical towards our country and its leaders.  Why is it that no matter what goodness and strength humanity intrinsically has been given, it is inevitably the greed and corruption and violence that take the trophy?  Government and leadership seem more like a mockery each time a ‘good’ man falls, and they just keep falling.  

I wish I was a crazy seven year old again.  
I want to look at my sister and my brother and my husband and my country like I just saw Santa Claus.  I want to gaze into the vast canyon of silence and anger and hopelessness and lift up my eyes and ask, with the answer already written in wonder on my face, “Can it fly?  Can it FLY?”

Maybe madness and hope are very close cousins.  Maybe they are even lovers. 

Maybe they are both.  

Scandelous. 

Friendship Bartender : Copper Mugs and Bitchface

Sometimes, after struggling to articulate the reasons I am railing and whining against the grain of my life, I have to smile: 
I miss a lot of people, and the new people I meet are not the people I miss. 

 

One of my greatest pleasures of life is going out to eat with my friend Meghan. Not only are we both lovers of trying new restaurants and unafraid of exchanging several pretty pennies for excellent cuisine, we also adore each other. 

There is nothing more fun than having good food and drink in the company of someone you deeply enjoy, and who deeply enjoys you back (HALLELUJAH).

I look forward to my next dinner-adventure with Meghan like I look forward to my next trip, or to Christmas: time with her is that good. I should start calling her "Christmas."  

Last time I was in Seattle we chose a restaurant featuring the Moscow Mule as their "aperitif." It was my first time trying this concoction, and I was decidedly smitten. We kept them coming the entire meal, deciding to pretend we did not speak French at all and that "aperitif" meant, "To drink before, during and after your meal, 4 drinks being traditional." All four of them were delicious, and the drink itself felt wonderfully representative of the perfect, long-awaited magic happening between Meghan and me.

The Moscow Mule is a little bit magic. What is so special about vodka, fresh lime juice, ginger beer and mint? Nothing really. The combination is delicious, duh, but no reason to get breathless or patriotic. However when these same ingredients are placed inside a chilled copper mug, the taste transforms into something new - I'm talking make-up sex, national-anthem good.

What is so hard, really, about making friends? There are people all over the world, and if we break down the list, Making Friends 101 should be an easy A.
Be kind, be open, be yourself... right? It's so SIMPLE. And yet no matter how many times I add the kindness, the vulnerability and the ME to a cup, it is rarely a Moscow Mule.

Friendship requires chemistry. I am not talking about love-at-first-sight, although this sometimes happens (I met one of my best friends at a bar -- she literally met me, kissed me on the mouth, and announced to the bar that she had found her soulmate. She was drunk, but she was right. I have loved her like a sister since that moment). More often the delicate chemistry of friendship occurs over time, influenced by changes in the ingredients or temperature or environment.

The reverse is also possible. Relationships can fizzle out - a friend can forget or stop caring - a drink that was once delicious can turn sour, even toxic.

Meghan sent me a present for my birthday. The package arrived about an hour ago, barely procured from the hands of the speedy, Italian delivery man (they are definitely not paid per delivery in Brussels).

After racing down 10 flights of stairs (the elevator is too slow for times like these) and bursting out the front door I successfully detained him by yelling and waving at his departing car.  The driver saw me, got out and began yelling back, angry at me for some reason, that my door buzzer was 'kaput.'  He then ensured that I was Charis Brice by pointing to my name on the package and giving me a thumbs-up.

Oh, Belgium.

I rode the elevator back up to my apartment with a huge smile on my face. I had no idea what was inside the box, but saw that it was from Meghan, so the box was already guaranteed "PURE HAPPINESS."

Inside the box there were two copper mugs and hand-written instructions on how to make a Moscow Mule.  There was also a note telling me that I am missed, I am missed, I am missed.  

I have been openly whiny about making new friends in Europe. It is hard to make friends when your primary emotion is "WHINY, and your nickname, "BITCHFACE" but friends have found me nonetheless (generous souls).

 

This weekend I had a birthday party where I invited the people I have met over the past year living in Belgium. I felt waves of panic during the day before the party and wondered if I had designed the party specifically to make myself feel lonely - but the waves of panic changed to waves of gratitude throughout the night as I received kindness after kindness from so many of the people present.
I have friends in Seattle and friends in Belgium who love me, and I am so grateful. 

Whiny Bitchface is slowly changing to something more palatable; thank god for copper mugs. 

 

Sometimes, after struggling to articulate the reasons I am railing and whining against the grain of my life, I have to smile: 

I miss a lot of people, and the new people I meet are not the people I miss. 

... but they could be someday. 

 

Dinosaur Fish, Tomatoes and Martin Freeman

Things I loved this week:

1. Roasting tomatoes

I know, so random. I bought a bunch of little tomatoes on the vine at one of the outdoor markets in town and when I got home discovered they were absolutely tasteless - truly terrible.
Rather than toss them I decided to try roasting them, which I had never done with tomatoes before.  The result was divine.  I smeared a tiny bit of olive oil on a cookie sheet, and then cut the tomatoes in half and put them on the sheet cut-side-down. I then sliced (not pressed) about 5 cloves of garlic and sprinkled around the tomatoes, and added a little fresh basil (again, scattering around the pan). A little sea-salt, pepper, cayenne (I am addicted to cayenne) and thyme (I didn't have rosemary) and I stuck it in the oven.  I roasted them for about an hour and a half, until they were super wrinkled and tender.  I dumped it all into a bowl and then smeared it on bread with some cendre chèvre on top... DELICIOUS CITY. They were also good for days cold, straight out of the refrigerator. I am about to go eat some now.

 

2. The Wolf of Wall Street

Are you kidding me? This movie left me speechless. It was shocking, entertaining, brilliantly executed and quite nearly perfect; there were several scenes where I thought to myself, "I think this is one of the best scenes of ____ that I have ever seen." Leonardo DiCaprio is perfect throughout. But so are the other actors, the editing, the writing, etc. I wanted to watch it again immediately after seeing it, and I never want to do that.  Go see it.  I hope it wins everything.

Side note: how boring was Gravity? Kill me now.  Sorry, wrong list.  

3. Sherlock

I feel like I have been waiting for 10 years for this season. As usual, it was worth the wait. I mutter, "Benedict Cumberbatch," frequently throughout the day, not because I love him more than Martin Freeman (I adore them both), but because saying his name actually releases endorphines.  

 

4. Watching my man's face as I explained the Chris Christie scandal to him.

5. My friend Meghan buying a ticket to come to Belgium in September

Words fail me. So many people have the intention of visiting, but so few people actually do. Meghan is one of the reasons I consider myself to be the luckiest woman alive, and I will enjoy every moment with her as I show her my home and explore Europe with her. ECSTATIC.

6. Café Georgette and my birthday party

I don't know if anyone will show up (expat reality), but the venue is so fun that I will just dance with Arnaud and order drinks from my personal bar-tender for the entire night regardless. Complete with one of the best burgers I have had in my life (I know, extreme but true), a smoking room and a view of the city, this private bar (within walking distance from our house) above Café Georgette makes me very happy. It also makes me wish that I could fly all my Seattle and Chicago and Texas and Arizona and Louisiana and Tennessee and California and North Carolina friends up to attend... again, wrong list. 

7. Zella "live-in" Leggings, from Nordstrom

When I say that I never want to wear anything else, I am dead serious. I have arranged every outfit around these bad boys since receiving them for Christmas. My sister Kensey and friend Nikki have told me for years that they are fabulous - I am now a believer. I can now frequently be seen stroking my legs distractedly, amazed by the support and comfort they feel and the softness of the material. I am getting excited just talking about them... they are in the wash right now so I feel panicky.

 

8. Watching my man get dressed in the morning

I said it. Every morning I pretend to be asleep but am actually watching as he busts into the bedroom from the shower, always rushing.  It's such a good show every time, like an intimate, erotica vitamin. 

 

9. My red watch

I received a beautiful red watch from my man for my birthday. He once gave me a battery charger for Christmas, so let's just say that this gift took my breath away.  I  feel about the watch like I feel about saying Benedict Cumberbatch.  Win.  

10. Feeling like a food snob

Not that being disappointed is fun, but realizing that we eat (cook) very well as our norm was a fun moment this week.  We ate at a "nice" Italian restaurant and could not believe how mediocre the food was.  We still had a great time and loved the atmosphere, but spoke later about how our "home cooking" put their "upscale cuisine" to absolute shame.  Then we high-fived and slapped each other on the ass.

11. Dreaming about dinosaur fish

I had the most vivid, apocalyptic dream that the world transformed into a thick jungle where  dinosaurs again roamed. The main point of the dream was that the FISH were about a thousand times bigger than normal - dinosaur fish - it was a fly-fishing wet dream. YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN the fish I was catching on my 5 weight fly rod...

 

12.  Ishmael Beah

How am I just hearing about this man and his books?  Thank you Colbert Report.  I felt more hope watching a 10 minute interview with Ishmael, a phoenix, than I have felt in quite a while.  I am starting his books tonight.     

My worst fear

*** do not read this blog post unless you want to be neurotic like me about bed bugs *** 

 

As she sits and watches the January rain pouring down, the sun strangled from the sky until May, they are waiting. As she picks her cuticles and sips her coffee and waits for her soaking hair to dry because she again forgot her umbrella, they are waiting.

It is time for a confession.
My name is Charis, and I have an almost crippling fear of bed bugs.
My home has never been infested, nor have I ever been bitten (though I imagine it often). I only know one person (who has admitted it) who has been infected. Yet despite my complete lack of direct interaction or suffering because of them, these disgusting little bastards continue to sit proudly on the throne of my absolute most righteous terror.
I am absolutely terrified of bed bugs.

Early in the night when the sun goes down and the mountains fade from her view, the world gently tucked-in beneath a giant blanket of darkness, they are waiting.

 

It all started when a guy I used to sleep with -- we'll call him Fernando -- informed me that one of his friends had an infestation of bed bugs in a living room couch. It was so bad they ended up putting the couch on the street. Disgusting story, right?
I listened, was grossed out, and went on with my life, virtually unaffected.

Fast-forward a few months and Fernando discovers that he has bed bugs as well, all from sleeping on his friend's filthy couch.  That's when I began to panic. 

What if on one of the nights Fernando crashed at my place he had unwittingly delivered hitchhikers from parasite hell? I googled, and googling bed bugs was the single most awful decision I have ever made; I have never recovered.

 

As her tossing and turning at last grow still, finally slipping into a sleep deeper than her will, they begin to stir, their flat, weightless bodies scurrying towards her. To dine before the perfect moment means death, and these creatures love to live. They can wait for 9 months without feeding, like a baby waiting to be born. All their waiting lives are spent in hiding, their bodies pressed like guerrilla contortionists into the crease of a mattress, an electrical outlet, the lining of a jacket, completely still, hidden, waiting, hungry.

The right moment arrives only rarely – always in the deepest night, when her heart and breath slow to a point clearly declaring oblivion and helplessness. This is when they feast.

Blankets and clothing mean nothing to them – their agility and contortionist expertise allows them access to any portion of the body they desire. Some bodies taste better than others – some are delectable, causing gluttonous feasting and multiple meals in one night, others merely suffice for sustinence, boring them with the lack of a secret ingredient.

 

Here are the facts. Bed bugs love to travel and can be found all across the world. They are easy-going, Republican and Gemini. They can travel up to 100 feet to get to their prey in the night -- however they usually "infest" and live in an area within 8 feet of where someone frequently sleeps. They do not like to be far from their food. They can wait up to 9 months without feeding and be perfectly fine (meaning that you can move into an apartment that has been vacant for 6 months, and not realize that bed bugs are included in the rent). Their bites are felt and appear differently on every person, and it can take 9 hours to 14 DAYS for their bites to show up on the skin, meaning that you can be feasted upon in a hotel and not know until a week or two later. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to anyone, you have carried bed bugs in your luggage and clothing to multiple other hospitable locations - airplanes, hotels, couches, homes, etc. Or so goes my ongoing nightmare.

The places on her where they choose to feed swell up in their honor – a flag of sorts, “Here is where we took what we wanted,” the swollen flesh seems to convey. These signs of invasion cause her to curse and to scratch, searching in fury for the cause, but by now hours and even days have passed, and the culprits are long returned and sleeping in their hiding places, satisfied and patient, full and pregnant, already beginning their wait for the next perfect moment for themselves and their children.

Feeling panicky yet? Feeling itchy? Feeling anxious for no reason except a description of a parasite? Welcome to my world.

Try as you might to catch them in the act, they are virtually impossible to find. Fernando used to set his alarm for multiple times during the night with a flashlight beside him, and never once discovered a single bed bug in his home with his own eyes. Yet he would awaken the next morning to a new round of itchy evidence. They wait until the heart beat and breathing of their prey have slowed down to the slowest rate possible: usually 4:00 in the morning. I think of them as having human-like intuition and evil, corrupt little souls. I cannot imagine anything more creepy...

...except for this: unlike other infestations, bed bugs cannot be terminated conventionally: they are immune to poison. The only sure-fire way to get rid of them is by using extremely high heat. Terminators actually bring in crazy industrial heaters to spaces that are infested, and bake the little bastards dead. This technique is limited in availability, extremely expensive, and not extremely effective.

I have no idea why bed bugs won the right to so effectively terrorize me. But they did.  Fear of them is where my anxiety lands: and I hate them. Thanks a lot, Fernando. Thanks a lot, google. ("Thanks a lot, Charis," you are now saying).

Her breath quickens as she tries to calm herself, but images and phantom sensations of crawling invaders prohibit her from sleeping. Every invitation she whispers to herself to sleep, to breath, is instantly turned on it's head by the fear of awakening her crawling nightmares. And so she oscillates between her logic and her fear, her sweet man laughing in blissful sleep beside her, leaving her to stand guard alone against the invaders, her only weapon a racing heart.

 

Expat soup

I recently made soup while wearing only underwear. This lack of classic attire was neither a rebellion against the confines of restrictive clothing (if I had a nickel…) nor was it in hopes of seducing the various raw vegetables (don't act like you haven't noticed -- vegetables are sexy). Far from scandalous my reason for rocking "the toddler" was because I simply could not find the gumption required to get dressed. Since when has getting dressed required gumption, you may be wondering? Since this week, I would answer. Nakedness by lack of gumption, she cried.

Actions like 'donning pants' do in fact require energy; science has proven it. On this particular day math and science combined: I had only enough mojo to do one thing. I chose soup.

And so my day continued. I made the soup. The soup was good. I remained naked. No one cared that I was not wearing clothes. No one laughed or chastised or cheered or whistled or became concerned or fell in love or slapped my ass or copied me or felt condescending or got offended. No one had any reaction whatsoever because no one saw ("Thank GOD," my parents are thinking).

If a woman cooks soup in her underwear and no one sees, is she still indecent? ("YES!!!!"… sorry, just my Dad that time).

I think she is. But I am not entirely sure.

I am realizing more and more that I feel undeniably out of sync when I do not have a witness or when I refuse to witness. It is the absolute driving rhythm by which I exist - my heartbeat. Not just to be seen of course, but to be known and to know.

To communicate is to breathe, and to go through life without that breath would not be any life at all... and also makes it difficult on some days to acquire pants.  

The more I isolate the more easily I can become invisible, my skin becoming transparent and my blood fading to air.
The depth at which my lungs can take in air is the depth at which I am in relationship. When this air in my lungs grows shallow, because of isolation or language or depression, I start to fade. Or so it feels in my ever-visual world. Remaining unfaded and embodied has grown more challenging living thousands of miles from the people, landscape and language I know and love the most.

I am so very lucky to live here, and I love it : but not a day goes by that I do not think, "My GOD the air here is thin."

I was reminded this year (as if I needed another reminder) of how much I love books and movies: because in reading and in watching I am moved beyond myself and my solitude into someone else's life and into someone else's story. What magic this is!
All books and movies are exhibitionists, and people are no different. It is like deep down we are all Stuart from MAD TV, jumping maniacally, twitching and yelling "LOOK AT ME!" He has long been a hero of mine, for obvious reasons.

I think we also witness the earth.  Long runs center and illuminate me in a way nothing else does, each foot pounding and pulling against the earth, the ground reminding me that I exist, that I am felt, that I am grounded yet also flying. The stars that expand me, the bugs that bite me, the fish I hunt and catch and then kiss and throw back : these are a different sort of witness, but a witness nonetheless. My breath deepens. My skin darkens.

Paintings long to be seen.  Stories long to be told.  Races long to be run.  Soup longs to be tasted.  My ass longs to be slapped.

If I cannot interact with the world surrounding me when I travel, then to hell with travel.  And when I stick a flag into the ground and yell, "HOME", if just then I cannot see the art, love the person, listen to the story, explore the city, taste the soup and slap the ass, then to hell with flags.    

I annoyed so many graduate students when I was a teaching assistant after reading their brilliant, academic papers filled with excellent writing and solid research, by then leaving the comment, "So what?"

 

If all that I

learn and do and know and fail at and eat and drink and wonder about and dance with and scowl at and create and delight in and grieve and long for

does not have a witness (a listener, toucher, learner, lover, hater, taster, watcher, teacher, critique, fan, partner) then to hell with all those things I have done: soup to masters degree.

My itty-bitty-tiny baby 19 year old brother sent me a short video of himself singing a song that I had mentioned over Christmas vacation always made me cry. In the video his friend plays the guitar beside him, and my brother's face while singing is as lovely and nakedly sincere as his beautiful voice.

At the very end of the short song he smiles at me and that's where the frame freezes: his smile. His smile portrays so much love I can hardly bear it. His smile also speaks of so many other things that only a younger brother can feel about his older sister. Compassion, perhaps? Gratitude? Acceptance? Concern? A unique combination of emotions and experiences mixed together to create his love for me, revealed in that smile. Unlike any other love, because we are unlike any other two. This is what I mean by witness.

 

I hear his song and I see his smile and my breath deepens, my skin darkens.

 

If a woman lives very far from the people and land she loves, does she still exist?

 

Yes.