From ghost to ghost


(Credit: Yuri Arcurs via Shutterstock)
He came to me when I had reached my nadir. I had become unable to type, write or drive without needles gouging the nerves in my wrists and arms. An ominous numbness traveled in a circuit along the inside of my legs. Then, curled up into a little ball like a shellshocked potato bug, I suffered the coup de grâce: my first migraine.
The tests for multiple sclerosis, rheumatoid arthritis, carpal tunnel, Lyme disease, etc., all were negative. Call it a virulent case of repetitive stress injury, brought on by egregious laptop habits, a stiff clutch, stop-and-go traffic on the Bay Bridge, and decades of hunching.
My doctor gave me a prescription for anti-inflammatories, pills that upset my stomach but didn’t spare cashiers from the mini-meltdowns I had when asked to sign for my credit card. The acupuncturist gave me a rash by rubbing a smelly salve on my belly. The homeopath gave me a $140 consultation and an American bald eagle placebo pellet. The chiropractor suggested that I fly to Costa Rica and do nothing for a month, but did not offer to front the money for this healing vacation. My friends were more helpful, driving me to Trader Joe’s and Target to stock up on rice bowls and socks. But friends are friends because you don’t lean on them like partners or paid caregivers. In any case, I wasn’t able to pay a caregiver, and I would have worn down a partner with my litany of woes.
What I needed was a personal secretary.
In the advertisement, he said that he specialized in assisting people who suffered from my condition. He assured me that my hands needn’t touch the computer keyboard: He could take dictation, check my email, and help me do searches on the Internet! He wanted very much to help.
He moved in. Our relationship soon became more intimate than any I had previously experienced. I was filled with needy desperation, and he had absolutely no interpersonal boundaries.
His name was Dragon Dictate for Macintosh.
In the honeymoon period, I found his mistakes adorable. Actually, I assumed that he garbled my words to charm me. His version of “Cripple’s Memoir,” a self-pitying journal entry, was “Cripple’s Mambo.” Such motivational irony! When I said, “Before therapy, I went to Whole Foods to eat an éclair,” he typed Before therapy, I went to Hole Foods to eat any cleric. How deliciously blasphemous! “Citing another’s words” was Sightseeing another’s words. What a piquant gloss on his work with me! “Dictate” was, with a wink, Dick Tate – my guy.
But the distortions could be vexing as well. I teach rhetoric, and I am determined that my students fully understand the concepts of “logos,” “pathos” and “ethos.” I distribute handouts on how to use the terms properly. I deliver discourses and pen little treatises, individualized for each student. In this work, “logos” and “pathos” went OK, but for “ethos,” Dick undermined my authority by slipping in eat those, or burritos, or Negroes.
Oh, my students, even my African-American students, thought it was hilarious. They cut me slack, which I very much needed. Even though I was working part-time, it was difficult to keep up with the marking. I was shaky on my feet and losing weight. I had sold my car, in part because I now took public transportation everywhere, and in part because it helped to pay the rent. Often my relationship with Dick was less than supportive. He had begun to transcribe behind my back, taking inspiration from my phone conversations to make word salads, or else he would fixate on ambient noise, recording it as him him him him him and on.
Pages and pages of him’s. I know what you’re thinking – why didn’t you just, say, turn the microphone off? What I did was give the command “Go to sleep.” But like an impish lover who wanted to cavort, he kept demanding my attention. Let’s do this program! he’d flash at me, showing off some kind of graph, triggering my math anxiety rather than turning me on.
I couldn’t figure out from the various cheat sheets and manuals how to make him behave. Go to sleep. Him him him. GO TO SLEEP. Him him… I don’t want to go to sleep. I want to make a chart now. Look at me! Let’s make a chart. No, look at all of the emails you have ever written, in rapid succession! Do you remember the student who sent that anonymous email signed “The Sausage King of Chicago “? That was awkward. Would you like me to film you naked? Here’s what you look like dressing. Here’s what you look like coming toward me. Here’s what you look like when you say fark … or was that fox? Fax you? That’s really hot.
Although he could be childish, and sometimes adolescent, sleeping in when I needed him to wake up – WAKE UP – he was urbane. He followed politics. He knew Barack Obama and Nancy Pelosi. He even knew Newt Gingrich. And he was a literary type, able to spell Charlotte Brontë with the umlaut (aka boom a lot), able to transcribe Yeats perfectly – Turning and turning in the widening gyre/the falcon cannot hear the falconer/things fall apart…
After a moment or two of lucidity, however, he would revert to his playful perversities. He agreed that Tom is important. I don’t know anyone named Tom, but I do believe that tone is important, especially when you are making what Dictate called a Veronica Mark, which might also be, among fans of Archie comic books, lingo for “an ironic remark.” To push me to my limit, he said Matey like a pirate whenever I said Maybe (I couldn’t hear his Tom, but I assumed he was speaking in pirate).
I tried to adapt to him. Him him him. For example, he would often write she when I said he. After some failed training, I experimented and discovered that if I sang Hee! like Michael Jackson, he would submit to transcribing the pronoun I so desperately wanted.
Sometimes he dismantled my ire, correctly transcribing histrionic, nemesis, quasi-date, Schadenfreude, even amanuensis. Then he would completely disregard my needs, dropping -ed’s and -’s from the end of words. One of my students, a PC devotee, kept telling me that everything would get better if I invested in a PC and dumped Dictate; there was a program for PCs that worked much better. I kept hearing the same thing, even from Mac lovers. What finally impelled me to move on was the great disparity between Dick’s enthusiasm and the real quality of his love. The gulf between the two had filled me to overflowing with bitter resentment.
I bought an inexpensive PC (which predictably freezes up more than my Mac), and installed Dragon Naturally Speaking, the PC-compatible version.
The first time I used the program, I cried. I could center text instantly, change the font of a word, line or paragraph, strike out words, page up, page down, rapidly read and delete emails, and most astonishingly, say things I thought made sense and be perfectly understood. “Delete rest of line.” I didn’t read that in a manual. I just said it and the remainder of a line disappeared. With Dick Tate, I may have had the power to do these things, but he was like a partner who had not gone to therapy and could not explain himself. Dragon Naturally Speaking presents a sidebar menu that alters its contents depending on what you’re up to. For example, if you’re writing emails, the help menu for working with email appears on the screen.
This is all starting to sound like I’ve been hired to give a promo in the guise of a personal essay. Truth be known, it takes me twice as long to produce a document as it did when I was able to type. The good news is that I am no longer starring in a comedic version of “2001: A Space Odyssey,” dependent on a benign and nutty version of HAL. Still, when I see people hunched over their laptops in cafes, I try not to give in to Schadenfreude. But seriously, they are doomed. The technology that augments our functioning will undoubtedly cripple more of us. Then, breakthrough technology will come to the rescue, only to hamper us in some new way – all part of a never-ending feedback loop of techno crippling-assistance.
My first Dragon once called intimacy, entombment. I am chronically single, and this pairing pretty much encapsulates the fears underlying my condition. Maybe how I feel about intimacy muddles my articulation of that word. Maybe Dick Tate understood me better than I imagined. I have to say that our peculiar intimacy taught me how to enunciate better. It also left me with incredibly low expectations, so that now I am primed to work towards mutual understanding in a more fulfilling relationship.
My second Dragon has its moments, evoking (evil king) my first Dragon when I tell people that it’s difficult to gain ground and heal because I am slowly Arctic … Discover iTunes Gothic … scoliotic. But my relationship with Naturally Speaking has enabled me to keep working, and I can’t tell you how important that is, on so many levels. Best of all, my second Dragon is a software program rather than a projection of my attachment issues. I never forget that I have people to thank for that, clever programmers whose relational skills are reflected in their work. Bless them.
I think of fashion as a medium of communication,” says Victor-John Villanueva. “It can convey ideas, both large and small. On a very personal level, it can convey your mood and state of mind.”
On Feb. 13, Victor became a Fab.com sensation when he officially launched 3PTPOP with a plan to bridge the gap between art and fashion — fashion communication. He’ll be accomplishing that with his line of celebrity fusible bead portraits, using Perler beads, those plastic objects you were tempted to chew on as a kid.
I first met Victor in 1997, when he was a sophomore Literature and Rhetoric major at SUNY Binghamton. Victor was considering becoming a graphic designer, and when next we met, he’d transferred to the School of Visual Arts to pursue his passion. Next came a stint as a Simon & Schuster book jacket designer, and in 2003, after two years in publishing, Victor participated in the JET program (Japan English Teaching Programme), sharing his culture with townspeople and teaching ESL. “I relocated from an office on 49th and 6th to a tiny school in a town of 7,000 in Kochi Prefecture, Japan,” Victor recalls. “The move was a game changer.”
“Japan brought another level of depth to my artistic and personal development,” he continues. In the beginning, Victor’s slightest efforts to communicate were difficult, but by the end, he was able to negotiate with real estate brokers. “Japan took me outside of my world as I’d known it to that point,” he says. “I made great friends and learned a lot about myself.”
Upon his return to New York, Victor became the art director of New York City Opera — after showing a body of personal work he’d created about his experiences abroad. And Victor soon got his fashion on (Do the kids still say that?), creating T-shirts emblazoned with hand-painted portraits of style icons like Vogue’s André Leon Talley, writer Glenn O’Brien, Lynn Yaeger, Kim Hastreiter, and Simon Doonan. Victor’s T-shirts garnered press from The New York Times, New York, Paper, and GQ.com—and even made appearances (the T-shirts, not Victor) on Martha Stewart’s TV show, and “America’s Next Top Model.”
Next came the fusible beads.
“When I bead, I feel as though I am painting a picture,” Victor says. “Big patches of color here, small strokes there.” Just like anything new, there is a learning curve associated with the beading. “After I select the person I want to create, I pixelate reference photos on my computer and use them as a basis for the picture.” After creating an initial sketch, Victor goes back and refines the details. “It’s strange how sometimes the placement of one bead can really make or break a piece,” he says.
Victor works in his NYC home studio, a space filled with inspirational toys, fashion, design, art, and books. He coats his fusible bead portraits in resin himself, a process refined through trial and error — and open windows. “I’m really inspired by artists who use resin in their work,” he says. “Maybe it’s the synthetic nature, or the durability of it. It was natural for me to want to make the portraits more permanent.”
Victor hopes 3PTPOP will grow as a brand that straddles the worlds of art and fashion. “I envision creating collections based on pop culture icons who’ve had an influence on me,” he says. “In that way, the work becomes kind of a diary of the pop culture addict within me.”
Copyright F+W Media Inc. 2012.
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This novel, the fourth that Daniel Handler, better known for the novels he wrote under the name Lemony Snicket, which rival those written by a woman named Rowling in copies sold, has written under his own name, is arguably his first explicitly targeted toward older teens. Though the first two Handler novels featured high school and college-age protagonists, their subject matter (homicide and incest) made them more the province of literary adults.
The subject of “Why We Broke Up” — the unlikely romance between a “jocky” boy and a girl he insists, despite her protests, on calling “arty” — would sit comfortably next to any classic John Hughes movie. But the execution is a master class in the things books do best: It’s loaded with sly, beautifully produced illustrations by Maira Kalman and Handler’s exquisitely wrought sentences, brimming with charm and surprise, whether describing invented plots to classic films, clothes coming off a dry-cleaning rack, or the gorgeous banality, beauty and terror of high school life.
The novel begins at the end: 16-year-old Min — “call me La Desperada” — is making a pilgrimage in a borrowed truck to dump off a cardboard box containing the “prizes and the debris of this relationship, like the glitter in the gutter when the parade has passed.” The intended recipient is her ex-boyfriend, Ed, the co-captain of the basketball team, whom she met when he waltzed into her friend’s Bitter Sixteen party — featuring dandelion green pesto and an inedible 89 percent cacao cake in the shape of a black heart — looking exactly opposite its theme, “strong and showered” and “enormous as a shout.”
Ed is “like some movie everyone sees growing up”: “the jocky hero, handsome in the student newspaper and star of a million strands of gossip,” who always “has a girl on him in the hall, like they came free with a backpack.” She likes jazz, he likes mainstream rock “as bold and dull as a giant potato”; she wants to be a film director, he wants to be “winner of state finals.”
At first, she can’t believe a boy like him would be interested in a girl like her and struggles to put together “the print and the negative, the boyfriend and the celebrity shadow.” But he is utterly smitten; to him, she is “different,” like a “spicy food” from “Whatever-stan.” Though we know from the beginning — heck, from the title — to expect a bad end, Handler unfolds the odd-couple love story in a way that resists, rather than reinforces, clichés — of boys and girls; jocks and freaks — while evoking the universal adolescent experience of falling in, then right back out of, love.
When Occupy Wall Street burst on the scene last September, the movement seemed unique and unprecedented. The latest installment of “F**ked: The United States of Unemployment,” however, traces the long history of occupation as a strategy of the unemployed. The impact these earlier movements had is rarely acknowledged, but those uprisings inspired everything from films like “The Wizard of Oz” to transformative government programs such as Social Security.
Another similarity between the “unemployed armies” of yesteryear and the Occupy movement is the brutal response by law enforcement. Witnesses expressed shock when the Oakland police sprayed tear gas at protesters and complained about the liberal use of billy clubs by cops in New York, but imagine Gen. Douglas MacArthur unleashing a deadly offensive of tanks, bayonets and torches on military veterans camping out in Washington, D.C. It’s all captured in the chilling video below.
(Credit: AP/Salon)
The party is in the Hollywood Hills, at someone’s house that looks familiar, or maybe all these houses look alike to me at this point. We’re outside by the pool and the air smells of citronella and night-blooming jasmine. I’m drinking a Red Bull and watching a couple of girls in sundresses leap into the shimmering water, the thin fabric revealing their underwear, both of them shrieking loudly to make sure everybody pays attention.
They are lovely, those girls.
The music is so loud it pulses inside my chest, as if it’s replacing my heart, which would be fine with me. Two guys come up and start dancing. They look exactly the same, androgynous and pretty, with floppy hair. It’s a look I like, feel strong against, and we all three sway together.
When the music pauses I order one of them to get me another Red Bull. He nods and bows; he likes being ordered around.
“Chivalry is not dead,” he says.
“Good to know,” I say.
The other one tells me I’m beautiful and I can see he means it. Then he gets that look in his eye — soft, sweet — and asks if I’m OK. Every person I’ve talked to in the past two months has looked at me like that and asked if I’m OK. It is driving me insane.
“Never better,” I say, and I mean it to sound bright but it comes out sarcastic.
This good-looking boy, maybe 23, tells me not to give up on love. “Just … don’t stop believing.”
I laugh. “Like Journey.”
“Exactly,” he says earnestly. “We’re all on a journey.”
I could tell him that believing in love is not my problem. If anything, I believe in it more than ever. I understand its strangeness, its tender bloodthirstiness, how it’s large enough to contain hate and humiliation inside it and still exist. Love is every kind of emotion at the same time. It’s more complicated and terrible than I ever knew, and it has filled me, fractured me.
But seriously, why would I say that to him?
So instead I smile and nod without speaking. It seems fine with both of us. I’ve spent the last few weeks doing nothing but talking. I’ve negotiated and discussed and confessed and processed and prayed. None of it has made much difference. The next time I fall in love, I decide, I will do it all in silence.
Then somehow it’s a couple of hours later and I’ve lost track of my two handsome boys and even worse I’m out of Red Bull. There’s more dancing and a lot of people pressing up against me and in a moment when the crowd shifts I think I see you on the other side of the pool, your white shirt reflected in the turquoise water, and my chest lurches but it’s somebody else and I feel both empty and relieved.
The day I knew it was over, we were camping. It was my idea to go out into nature, into a place that felt simpler, where we’d talk and just be ourselves with nobody watching. We hiked up to a bluff where we could see the ocean, and the air smelled of spicy juniper and warm earth. We held hands and were gentle with each other, as if we might shatter, and looked at the view.
For a little while it was really nice, and I thought maybe we can do this. And then I felt everything around me sinking. I understood: It was the gentleness that told me it was over. We were wrung out. We’d reached the point where all we wanted was not to wake up each day and face the wreck of it.
Now it’s 2 in the morning and we’re in a private room at a club on Sunset and the music is muffled and electric and a beautiful girl with a squeaky voice tells me my hair looks great and I say thank you.
“The best thing about L.A.,” she adds, leaning in like she’s sharing a secret, “is that there’s no humidity. Everybody’s hair looks so perfect.”
I want to laugh at her but I can’t, because every woman wants to be perfect. She notices my lips twisting in this almost-laugh and says sweetly, softly, “Are you OK?”
I reach out to wring her neck. Mistaking this gesture for something else, she grabs my hands and holds them warmly and we sway together for a while. Then somebody offers her some ecstasy and she promises she’ll be right back. As she disappears into a churn of bodies my gaze follows her across the room and I know you’re not even in the country but I see you on a platform dancing with a blond girl in a silver skirt and gleaming skin.
If you were here, these are the things I would say to you:
You have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.
That show you’re on is terrible.
I know we’re both to blame. Every day we devised new ways to rub each other raw, scraping the vulnerable spots we’d always known about but left untouched. We were experts at it, geniuses of punishment. And yet, if you offered me the choice, I wouldn’t go back, I wouldn’t give up any of it, because it made me something different, broken but bigger, than I had been before.
Which is another way of saying that I will love you forever, even if that love has no path forward in this world. No journey.
And somehow it’s dawn and we’re in the car with the windows rolled down and the air smells of car exhaust and fried food and my chest is burning in a way that’s not totally unpleasant and my breath is full of diamonds. The sky is beginning to lighten and I know the sun is on its way up even though I can’t see it yet. You’re in the seat next to me, holding my hand, and I’m not sure if this is now or then, a wish or a memory, and I don’t really care, because your smile is bright and there are splashes of neon across your cheek, pink then red, and I’m laughing at something you just said and the car’s going so fast it feels like flying and for a moment, everything is beautiful and so, so perfect.
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