On Finding a Setting

August 13, 2008

This evening D and I had a conversation on the phone that lasted more than our typical phone conversations now-a-days. Actually, we had an argument, but that’s not what this post is about. In the midst of all of it, during the resolution of the whole thing — the time when we are done with the heightened feelings and adamantly trying to prove a point, when we both re-cap what we need and try to find some sort of compromise — I closed my eyes for a moment and could picture my apartment back in Arkansas so clearly, right down to the feel of my bed and the cat’s tail ticking against my leg and the way my bed creaked when I moved. We spent a lot of time talking on the phone in those days, back when he was the California branch of our relationship.

It’s funny that the very thing the argument began with (our arguments rarely end with what they began with) was the very thing I was picturing: Setting. This post is not about the argument, so I’m not going to go into the details of what transpired. For the past few days, however, I’ve been attempting to put into words a discovery I made on the beach Saturday. But I’ve also been trying to challenge myself to improve my writing style so it’s slightly less amateur and emotive. Today I tried writing a post entirely devoid of “I” as a subject. It just doesn’t work in blogging. This is what I came up with:

“One of the major components that separates a seasoned writer from an amateur is the emphasis on setting. The category of seasoned writers is by no means this girl’s dwelling place, but freshman year fiction writing left me with a better understanding of setting in writing. Heck, this blog nearly tripled in its readership once it took on the personal of a Midwestern transplant living in Los Angeles. Or maybe it was the advertising to friends on Facebook that did that.” Can you say boring textbook? I just need to stop trying to justify blogging with failed attempts to turn this entirely narcissistic thing into something literary. It’s a blog. Of course it’s going to have a high degree of gush.

Anyway, what I really wanted to say is that often amateur writers neglect setting in their work, and they leave their poor characters floating around in a readers’ mind in banal, shadowy places like generic bedrooms, rather than putting them someplace specific. In real life, we live in specific places: not just any room, but my room with the pile of laundry on the bathroom floor and the broken blinds and the stale scent of herbal shampoo. Not just any old park, but the park with the statue of the man who invented the chocolate bar. J.R.R. Tolkien is so fantastic with his settings that I am having such a terrible time getting through The Lord of the Rings. Any time Frodo or the other hobbits think of the shire and how they long for their home, I start crying. Homesickness…meh.

Saturday, le roommates and I went to the beach, and the fact confronted me that I’ve only been to the beach three times in the last seven months even though is less than five miles from my apartment. And by going to the beach, I mean donning a bathing suit with at least a slight intention of getting wet. Saturday was the first day since I moved here that I actually immersed myself in the Pacific. And then I realized that part of the reason that I have been homesick to some degree since I left for college back in 2001, moving away from Minnesota for the very first time, is because I have never given myself a chance to get to know the land in any other place.

If you were to ask me about Minnesota, I wouldn’t just say that I lived in a house there or went to high school there. I would tell you about the countless snow structures we built and how we would hang our mittens and hats and scarves over the radiator in our first house to let them get warm before we put them on. I would tell you about the mulberry bushes in the backyard and how they would become so ripe and juicy that you could bump the branches and they’d fall to the ground, washing it in purple, and how the birds would poop mulberry seeds all over the patio. I would tell you how our family built that patio with bricks and sand and cement blocks, and it all went quite well until the ice that winter built up under the bricks made them explode. Every winter the fire department would flood the park for ice skating, and Jack Frost would paint our windows. I remember how it feels to lie in my bedroom, the exact way the bed fits my body, and how it is to wake up there to the sounds and smells of absolute comfort — to knowing the people you love most in the world are only a wall away. When I was a little girl, in our first house, I could always tell who was coming up stairs by the rhythm of their steps. Mom would always stop at the bottom to pick up toys and bring them up. There were twelve steps at my first house. Sixteen at my second.

I never gave myself the chance to know Arkansas that well. There was the damp and musty feeling of our house on Maple Street, where I lived with 3 other girls, and the sounds of the frogs outside my window in that studio above a professor’s garage. There was the feeling of desperation and sadness when I finished college, broke up with my boyfriend, and moved out of that apartment all in a few days. But the same elements and concretes are not there. I was so busy being productive that I didn’t take the time to memorize the number of steps from the ground to my door. These were merely places, apartments for a temporary life. It’s no wonder they never felt like home.

Sometimes I think that I will never feel at home again unless I get married, have kids, and settle down somewhere. Nothing reminds me of home more than watching my niece and nephew play and seeing again the things that are important to children. For my niece, it is wearing pink, putting on chapstick, and reading books. My nephew just wants to run everywhere with his binky in his mouth. They want other kids to play with, adults to entertain them, and lots and lots of cookies. They remind me of what it was like to grow up with an older brother and what it was like to have such a big living room… what it was like to have a house not just cover you, but protect you. There were all the alcoves and crannies to that place… the towel cupboard you could climb inside and close the door, the secret storage closet in my brother’s room, the turning cupboard in the kitchen corner where breakfast cereal was kept.

At the same time, I know that my life is here in L.A. now, at least for the next few years, and I need to be investing myself here. I need to pursue the land with the same intention that I pursue the friends I am making here. I need to count the steps from my carport to my apartment. I need to go to the beach every weekend and find a spot to memorize. I need to stop floating around in this generic place and make it specific. I need to find my setting.

Dear Los Angeles,

At first I thought I ought to write something heightened and romantic to celebrate our six-month anniversary. It would be a vulnerable comeuppance, full of all the six-month sentiments I have developed for you in our time together. I thought I should go to a place fitting for this sort of letter, taking my quill and pen to the ocean, for instance, to write to you from the very edge of the continent. Or I could bring my pencil and notebook to the gardens at the Getty and tell you about art and flowers. Yet the more that I thought about the atmosphere for this letter, the more I realized that the most appropriate setting is right here, in the bedroom of my little, messy apartment, full of the every-day noises that are slowly becoming home.

Right now there are six of us living in our three-bedroom apartment, which is quite a change for the girl who used to live alone with her cat, slowly degrading into a life of crochet and watching library movies on her laptop computer. Four of us are legally bound to our place, and the other two are here for the summer, completing internships before they return to their respective institutions of higher learning, both in the South, where it rains. I would not have mentioned the South, except that it rains. I miss rain. You would not understand, Los Angeles. It has been so long since I have smelled the earth.

Right now the closest thing to rain is the sound of E’s shower in the next room. There is also the faint movie mumblings from the living room where M and J are flattened against the couch, watching the TV, and there is the periodic clank of dish and spoon as G washes the dishes. I will never get used to the noise of our little house, nor your noise, Los Angeles. Over my bedroom balcony waft in the noises of the second largest city in the U.S. (I mean you, you fat, fat city) — the distant freeway, the chatting pedestrians on their evening walk, the passing sirens, and the nightly helicopter hover, which I like to pretend is the news instead of the LAPD spotlighting its latest criminal’s rise and fall.

For a while I would miss home at these moments, and I still do sometimes. I miss the kids playing in the lot next to my dad’s auto repair shop, above which my family lives. I miss the dank, musty basement smell of the shop, and having my dad make his living right underneath our home, just a staircase of 12 steps and three rooms away. I miss the quiet evenings and the settling of summer — the stars in the corn fields and the country drivers, my church and my cousins, and the people who have known me longer than I’ve known me, the people who know me because they knew my grandparents. I miss the hospitality, the neighborliness of it all, in the place where all the Thrift Store Owners know me by name.

Do you remember, Los Angeles, a few months back when I left you for the first time in three months? And do you remember how hard it was for me to come back to you, how I cried all five hours back on the plane, and I wondered why I was coming back — why I had to leave my parents and my niece and my nephew and all the comfort of being known? D was busy that week, and I felt so very alone, surrounded by thirteen-million people, coming home each night to this little apartment with a few roommates that I only just met. I think this is what they call culture shock, a thing I only mildly experienced when I moved from Minnesota to Arkansas for college. But after that initial breakdown, things got better. They really did. I think I came to the decision that I was here, with you, and here I would stay. Perhaps I needed that last goodbye, that last purge of what it was like to be a child.

At D’s encouragement, I have recently begun reading The Lord of the Rings trilogy. It has been so very long since I have read a book. I think I’ve been afraid of falling back into my girlhood, where I would hide in my room, reading stacks of books, instead of making friends. It is a lot harder to be an obsessive reader when you have a job. I’m only about 100 pages into the first book, and oh, how I’ve cried. I know, I know, it’s a little early to start crying, but Tolkien has just introduced one of the major themes of the book: Home. Frodo is speaking with Gandalf, and he is first realizing that there is a large and courageous journey he must take, and that no one else is going to do it for him.

He has never left his home, the Shire. He tells Gandalf, “I feel that as long as the Shire lies behind, safe and comfortable, I shall find wandering more bearable: I shall know that somewhere there is a firm foothold, even if my feet cannot stand there again.”

I read this after I got off the phone with my mother, after I told her I will not be able to make it home for the Clipperton Family Reunion in August. High gas prices have made it nearly impossible. This is the first Clipperton Family Reunion I have missed in my life, ever since I was 6. And I will be 26 next month. Mark my words, Los Angeles: If you do something to prevent me from going home for Christmas Eve with my family, going to Grandma’s church for the same Christmas Eve service I’ve attended since I was born, I will up and quit my job and move home.

You cannot ruin 26 years of Christmas, Los Angeles. I do not care how big you are.

All my love,

Ann

D’s car has been sitting in an impound lot at a towing company in Brentwood for two months.

We thought it stolen, and along with it, several of his journals, one very important photograph of his dad, and his schoolbooks and notebooks. Included in the once-assumed-stolen paraphernalia were one pair of his sister’s shoes and a yellow polo shirt. Last night D and I had the honor of going to said impound lot and cleaning out his stuff from the car, after his dad called saying a letter had come to their house stating that the car had been impounded for over two months. If y’all are not familiar with the situation, D’s car was stolen from outside my apartment the day after his birthday. Or so we thought.

Apparently the LAPD towed it for expired license tabs. And when D and I went up to the police department to file a report, the LAPD couldn’t find the car in the system. Therefore, they declared it stolen. Yesterday while we were driving away after collecting D’s stuff from the car, I said, “You know, your car really did get stolen. By the police.”

D is really happy to get his stuff back and jazzed for a fight. By law the LAPD is required to notify owners of cars that their cars have been impounded within 72 hours of impoundment. D’s car has been sitting in that lot since 1 p.m. on April 4. We filed the police report around 4 p.m. on April 4. No one received word of the car’s whereabouts until the afternoon of June 20. There is also the little problem of the insurance company issuing money to pay off the car loan. These are a few things he needs to figure out.

This whole week has been a little rough, and I’ve been battling some pretty intense streaks of anxiety. But when D called me late Friday afternoon with a classic, “Get this…” and he told me the news, his words filled me with the overwhelming sense that everything in my life is going to be all right. Even if the car hadn’t been found, D would have been all right. And even if I can never get my car A.C. fixed or make more money or go to Minnesota in August or write the great American novel, I’m going to be all right.

After re-claiming the stuff we went on this terrific spontaneous date in which we walked on the Santa Monica beach and pier. D played on some of the gymnast equipment on the beach and impressed me with his Mad Rope Climbin’ Skillz. The sand soothed my warm, work-stressed feet. We walked through the crowds of people on the pier, and I felt a part of something young and sweeping.

There were crowds of people and smells of pop corn, funnel cake, churros, and the ocean. Seals were barking out somewhere, probably floating on a buoy we couldn’t see. Young girls were dressed like they were in their twenties — I commented to D that the fourteen-year-olds looked older than I do, cramming their feet into stilletos to deny their mid-’90s birthdays as much as possible. Young dads chased after their kids, and older dads played air hockey with their daughters, feeding quarters into the machine at the arcade. D had coffee, but I was too hot and drank a cup of ice water. We walked and watched until the Friday work day caught up with me. I took him home to his bungalow in the Hollywood Hills, where the hills block the breezes so the night swelters. We had to walk up the steep hill to the bungalow because my car engine grew warm from the heat of the day and driving up hill, stop and go. We hauled his once-stolen stuff up to the bungalow, and I sat outside for a while before I left to let what little hot breeze there was wash over me.

This was the house I came to over a year ago when I visited him from Arkansas, the trip which pushed us to make the decision that it might work out if I moved to California. Before that we had been too nervous, too unsure, but that visit felt so right. And when he came down the stairs to where I sat waiting, it felt right to see his face above mine, as it had felt so right to help him clean the stuff out of his car earlier that day, and so right to experience his excitement that what was once lost is now found.

Some people back home think I moved here to get engaged. They ask my friends and family, “Is she engaged yet?” and the answer is no, I am not, and that will probably not happen for a long time. They say things like, “Didn’t she move there for a guy?” and the answer is no, I did not.

A while back I realized for the first time that being anxious all the time is not normal. I realized that I have a problem I need to address, and one way to address that problem is to constantly do the things that scare me. I had lost a sense of peace, and I thought it was gone forever. I thought that anxiety would always be part of my life and that God had put it there to make me push myself, to make me stronger, to let it lift away whatever chaff I possess. Now I realize that I really didn’t lose that peace at all — a lot of other things just got in the way. And lately, there have been a few days where I have felt completely at peace, completely free, and I realize that victory is mine even though I don’t always feel it. In a lot of ways D brings that peace to me because of his constant hope, and his confidence and assurance that everything is going to be fine. It’s as if we’ve both helped each other scoop up the stuff we once thought was taken from us into plastic grocery bags to take home.

I didn’t move to meet up with D. I moved to meet up with a piece of me I thought was gone. Moving to L.A. scared me more than anything I’ve ever experienced, and yet I am here, I am in an apartment, I have a job, I’m making enough money to cover my expenses, I’m making friends, and every day is a new adventure. I’ve had to roll with a lot of changes lately, a lot of situations that aren’t ideal, but at this point in my life, I need to relax. I’m tired of merely coping with the things that disappoint or scare me. I want to face them with the confidence of someone who has conquered many fears.

Thank you, friends, for all your support and prayers. I’m still more homesick than I’ve ever been in my life, but the feeling of loss is inching away. D’s sister E is staying with me this summer while she does an internship at MTV, and we, along with Roommate Girl J, went to our church small group last night. It helped to be surrounded by the few friends I’ve made since moving here. Today I got some praise from my boss at work, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Also, I just got a raise and health insurance, so even though I know I won’t be there forever, it was nice to have some affirmation.

It’s hard to describe what I’ve been going through for the past few days. Last night at small group I told someone that when I got off the plane in Tennessee to see my family, it was raining, and the smell and dampness of it all made me long for home. I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound of my dad emptying his pockets of loose change — a sound I remember from being a little girl, lying in my parents’ bed while Dad added to the wealth of an overflowing and cracked Cool Whip container on his dresser. I thought we must be rich because of that huge mound of change just sitting there in all its shiny glory.

The trip to Tennessee was the first time my two-year-old niece L recognized me without getting shy when I first saw her. My nephew E is walking and charmed everyone at the wedding. Even though my family has always been great, it’s amazing how much those kids complete us. And I’ve discovered that I can make those kids laugh like nobody’s business. Being an aunt is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever experienced. My favorite cousins and aunts and uncles were all there, including my cousin S and her husband T. It was the perfect weekend. We went on walks. We went to museums. We went to a farmers’ market in the middle of the square. My cousin R got married. We danced at his wedding. We all went to watch L swim in the pool. She informed us that there were no sharks in the pool. Apparently L has been concerned about sharks ever since Finding Nemo became part of her movie repertoire.

On Monday I cried all the way back to LA in the plane. Like my first year of college, the first several months of this adventure have felt like summer camp. Being reunited with my family and then having to leave again seemed wrong. Culture shock is setting in. I’ve forgotten what that’s like. And I think part of the reason this homesickness seems so much worse than it was in college is because having that niece and nephew have helped me understand a little more what being a parent is like. It has made me understand a taste of how proud my parents are of me and my brother, and how great it must’ve been for them, for those few little days, to have us all in adjacent motel rooms and clambering into the same mini van.

Yes. I miss them. I was crying even before I left them. I was hoping that the time away would make me excited to come back to L.A., but alas, all I can think of is winter melting away from Southern Minnesota and the dank, musty smell of Dad’s auto repair shop. Perhaps it is good to be so far away because when I think of home, I think of perpetual Christmas and all those perfect weekends when it served as the getaway and not the prison. Some days I wonder if any other place could feel like home to me. Even though I lived in Arkansas for six years during and after college, it never had the same appeal. Home has always been a word reserved for the North Country.

Edit:

Sadie tagged me in a movie meme last week and I haven’t had a chance to respond yet. Here is my response:

Top 10 Movies:

1. Breakfast at Tiffany’s
2. Rear Widow
3. Sullivan’s Travels
4. My Fair Lady
5. A Very Long Engagement
6. Annie Hall
7. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
8. Duck Soup
9. Mary Poppins
10. Pretty In Pink

I don’t really tag people in memes anymore, but if they want to do this, I’d be interested to know favorite movies from Katie, Betsy, Amity, and anyone else who cares to comment.