Sagittarius November 22 - December 21
For Thursday, November 2 -You will be surrounded by masculine energy today, and you will find it inspiring. The competition hasn't started yet, but you are focused on putting yourself in a good position to be the victor. Watching aggressive activity and fierce athletic abilities will be like watching a beautiful ballet. Get ready to understand a bright new side of the men you care most about.
02 November 2006
11 October 2006
Lunch Break
Your boss is gone so you decide to take a full hour for your lunch break today. Outside it's the perfect sort of day; your favorite fall weather. The air is cool and a little damp and the wind is just strong enough so it's more than a breeze but doesn't leave your hair wild and smelling like dirt. A homeless man is playing the saxophone and the melody follows you down the street and around the block. While you're standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change, a single red leaf falls at your feet and you're struck by the contrast between its dark edges against the pale pavement. When you catch your image in plate glass windows, the reflection seems more fleeting than usual-- more sad and beautiful, too.
***
I went to Borders today to buy a new Bible. I lost mine some months ago, just up and left it who knows where. For awhile I resisted buying a new one, hoping mine would make its way back, but it never did. And in the meantime, I hobbled along, doing dumb things like reading it on-line and stealing the one off my mom's bedside table.
I found a good, small, no-frills copy and took it to the cash register to pay. The guy behind the counter was quite attractive and funny and didn't have too many pins with dumb slogans attached to his nametag. He was left-handed. He liked my necklace. At the end of the transaction he handed me my change and said I'd ask for your number but it seems like you might be dating the big guy upstairs. I dropped the quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies all over the floor.
***
There is a pre-school near my office and sometimes, when I'm in luck, I pass the teachers and their small charges on the sidewalk. The 4 and 5 year olds walk hand-in-hand, in two long columns, and their teachers point out the dangers and delights of the city. They are learning to navigate the big wide world.
I take my time on the trip back to the office today, and walk behind them, at their short-legged pace, listening to the happy chatter. Right now I am content with my life and truly, deeply grateful for it. Still, more and more, I think about Jack, Pascal, Emmett and Sebastian -- the small, serious boys with dark hair and bright eyes that I've painted into favorite versions of my future life. Today, I imagine my boys in striped shirts, walking under the changing leaves with these kids in front of me. I wish for someone to hold my hand as we learn to navigate the big wide world together.
06 October 2006
prizefighter
So how'd you meet again?
At Whole Foods. I was ordering a case of tampons, actually.
Really? And you just marched right up and asked him out.
Pretty much. He's new to the city. He's a boxer and he was training for a fight so we haven't been able to get together until now.
Does he have all his teeth?
Yeah. The first time I saw him, I thought "this is the most attractive man I've ever seen." He introduced himself in the frozen food aisle. I almost fainted.
Incredible.
And then the next time I went in and asked him if he'd like to have a beer and gave him my number. He called 4 hours later. And then called again and I was busy, so he called AGAIN a couple days later.
It sounds like in the eyes of this prizefighter, you're a prize worth fighting for. You're going out tonight?
Yes! I think he's scared of coming into the city, though. He wants to meet in Tenleytown. I mean c'mon...who goes on a first date in Tenleytown?
Well...
So I told him that I want him to meet me in Dupont Circle instead. So we'll see how it goes. He's new to the city so I guess I can show him around. I'm definately the one wearing the pants in this realationship.
You wear the pants, he'll wear the boxing gloves, I guess.
At Whole Foods. I was ordering a case of tampons, actually.
Really? And you just marched right up and asked him out.
Pretty much. He's new to the city. He's a boxer and he was training for a fight so we haven't been able to get together until now.
Does he have all his teeth?
Yeah. The first time I saw him, I thought "this is the most attractive man I've ever seen." He introduced himself in the frozen food aisle. I almost fainted.
Incredible.
And then the next time I went in and asked him if he'd like to have a beer and gave him my number. He called 4 hours later. And then called again and I was busy, so he called AGAIN a couple days later.
It sounds like in the eyes of this prizefighter, you're a prize worth fighting for. You're going out tonight?
Yes! I think he's scared of coming into the city, though. He wants to meet in Tenleytown. I mean c'mon...who goes on a first date in Tenleytown?
Well...
So I told him that I want him to meet me in Dupont Circle instead. So we'll see how it goes. He's new to the city so I guess I can show him around. I'm definately the one wearing the pants in this realationship.
You wear the pants, he'll wear the boxing gloves, I guess.
02 October 2006
autumnal
Little Rat spent the night on Saturday. He slept on the floor by my bed and offered to vacuum my house the next morning. I didn't have any milk for his cereal.
He was scared, I think, about seeing Crazy A again. He was nervous and shrugged more than usual. Do you ever give Andy food? he asked when I made him lunch. Does Andy know how to ride the subway. Does Andy have to walk home by himself?
Later, when we walked through the neighborhood, he put his hand on my back everytime we passed a bum.
29 September 2006
Round and round
The slate grey plates are round.
The orange candles, too.
And the mouth of the green glass vase
that holds the dark red flowers--
standing on its round base--
under the open window
with the rain making cold round
pools in the street outside.
The table is square and so is the rug
and there are angles everywhere,
just below the surface.
We pass the wine around, though,
and the conversation circles and loops
between where we've been
and where we might never go.
We've been here before, though.
The light on the porch wreaths a halo
round your head. Inside I hear his full
voice unrolling round the tin edges of her laugh.
Later, we will spin circles around the room
while Dwight Yoakam sings his mournful song.
For now, though, your words float
like smokerings above my head
while the rain makes cold round
pools in the street beyond.
There are bands that bind and then there
are the arrows that always just miss
the red round heart of the mark.
We've been here before. We will come here again.
And the Moon will spin round
the Earth and the Earth will go
round and round and round the Sun
and we will do our best to hold on.
for JLS
The orange candles, too.
And the mouth of the green glass vase
that holds the dark red flowers--
standing on its round base--
under the open window
with the rain making cold round
pools in the street outside.
The table is square and so is the rug
and there are angles everywhere,
just below the surface.
We pass the wine around, though,
and the conversation circles and loops
between where we've been
and where we might never go.
We've been here before, though.
The light on the porch wreaths a halo
round your head. Inside I hear his full
voice unrolling round the tin edges of her laugh.
Later, we will spin circles around the room
while Dwight Yoakam sings his mournful song.
For now, though, your words float
like smokerings above my head
while the rain makes cold round
pools in the street beyond.
There are bands that bind and then there
are the arrows that always just miss
the red round heart of the mark.
We've been here before. We will come here again.
And the Moon will spin round
the Earth and the Earth will go
round and round and round the Sun
and we will do our best to hold on.
for JLS
27 July 2006
no rhyme, little reason
One blue-sky Sunday, during a drive in the country, we tried to teach Litte Rat to rhyme.
Listen to this, said dad. Cat. Bat. Hat. Flat. Do you hear that?
Fat Matt, said Little Rat.
I'll hit you with a bat! answered Matt.
That's right but don't fight, said Mom
Great! said Kate.
Can you rhyme like this? If you're name is Andy, you can eat candy.
If you're like Dad, then you drive bad, said Meg.
If you're like Meg, you must want a broken leg, said Dad.
No problem, said Little Rat. He thinks for a minute.
If you're not going to rhyme, don't waste our time, said Matt.
Ok. Ok. Ok. I've got it, Little Rat paused, then scratched his head and finally said If you want to be a warm guy, you've got to sit in a warm seat.
Listen to this, said dad. Cat. Bat. Hat. Flat. Do you hear that?
Fat Matt, said Little Rat.
I'll hit you with a bat! answered Matt.
That's right but don't fight, said Mom
Great! said Kate.
Can you rhyme like this? If you're name is Andy, you can eat candy.
If you're like Dad, then you drive bad, said Meg.
If you're like Meg, you must want a broken leg, said Dad.
No problem, said Little Rat. He thinks for a minute.
If you're not going to rhyme, don't waste our time, said Matt.
Ok. Ok. Ok. I've got it, Little Rat paused, then scratched his head and finally said If you want to be a warm guy, you've got to sit in a warm seat.
26 July 2006
you choose
My father says that you always have a choice in front of you, no matter how bleak, how straight-ahead on the long hard road, the situation seems.
I think about this during the grind of the days.
Even after she turns around, I smile. I don't call her names in my head as I dig my way out of the piles of work.
There is always a choice.
I think about this when Crazy A is at his worst, insane and wild-eyed, threatening and fuming and running away.
You can give in and sink, or you can hold to hope and rise on the sure tide of its promise.
I think about this on the way home from the store, after an awkward run-in, when he can't (or won't) force his eyes to meet mine. You were wrong about him...an irredeemable jerk, I start to think.
And then I remember that I don't have to think of him at all. It's up to me.
I think about this during the grind of the days.
Even after she turns around, I smile. I don't call her names in my head as I dig my way out of the piles of work.
There is always a choice.
I think about this when Crazy A is at his worst, insane and wild-eyed, threatening and fuming and running away.
You can give in and sink, or you can hold to hope and rise on the sure tide of its promise.
I think about this on the way home from the store, after an awkward run-in, when he can't (or won't) force his eyes to meet mine. You were wrong about him...an irredeemable jerk, I start to think.
And then I remember that I don't have to think of him at all. It's up to me.
25 July 2006
warts and all.
DURING the course of our long, tortured relationship Nick gave me only two things of any real or sentimental value: an economy pack of Dr. Scholl's Plantar Warts Remover and a copy of The Story and Its Writer: an Introduction to Short Fiction. If you take a slack, indirect view of things, the warts, a grainy cluster of them on the ball of my left foot, were a gift of sorts, too. These days I try not to place too much credit on those broad shoulders of his, though.
Emily Alderson's parties tended to be hot and over- crowded. All the red plastic dixie cups would disappear in the first hour, leaving an odd assortment of coffee mugs without handles and Pyrex measuring cups for people to fill with cheap beer and even cheaper wine. There was always a lot of talk about Foucault and Derrida, lots of bad hummus and bowls of blue corn chip crumbs. At Emily's birthday party I told a man named Jacques that my favorite book was To Kill a Mockingbird; he practically patted my head and said he found it a "quaint narrative -- tolerable if you go for that sort of thing."
If you stayed at one of these parties long enough, you would hear Emily describe herself as "someone who likes to color outside the lines" at least 3 or 4 times. As far as I could tell, this simply meant that she liked to wear gauzy skirts that were forever getting caught in the chain of her bike and, that said bike was forever being stolen because she either forgot to lock it or took some communitarian stand against locking it, I'm not sure which. Sometimes she would set out HI MY NAME is__________ nametags and lead the way to hip literary irony by scrawling Sylvia or Simone on it and then slapping it across the front of her thrift store blouse. I always wanted, but thankfully could never summon the snotty pettiness necessary, to point out that Simone de Beauvoir wouldn't be caught dead at a party with such cheap booze and bad posturing. How ironic Emily, don't you think?!
I was leaning against going until Ellen showed up with my birthday present, a month and a half late. Lately, a new urge to forge ahead into more adult terrain had exerted itself. A year and 3 months out of college, heading into my second year of teaching English to 9th graders at a well-respected charter school, I wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to parties at the group homes of college acquaintances, but I was getting closer by the day. Ellen, however, was interested in Jake, the wry, handsome graduate assistant for the Masters Program she and Emily were enrolled in. She knew he would be there and knew good and well, as she handed me the box wrapped in orange tissue paper, that my company could be purchased fairly cheaply. The polka dot dress fit like a dream and she knew just the party for me to wear it to.
The late August air held tight to the heat and smog of the day, refusing to loosen its grip even though the sun was already rounding the far curve of the Atlantic, nudging people awake in London. Emily's windows were open and Ellen immediately spotted Jake as we climbed the front steps. The door was locked for some strange reason and when Emily finally opened it she tried to gather us both up into some awkward, sisters-in-arms embrace.
"Girls! I am so glad you made it. Tess! Love the dress. Oh listen to me! What a poet!" she trilled. Behind her the party was in full swing.
"Great skirt, Emily. Is it new?" Ellen asked and I managed to keep a straight face. Ellen isn't mean or smug, in fact she's extraordinarily kind. She notices and remembers quirks and details and reads people like childrens books--her brain moving just a little faster than everyone else's, spinning and storing, gathering and retrieving information. She is both exceedingly polite and terribly impish.
Inside we found the usual assortment of people and the new faces of friends of friends and people who randomly received the Evite. Jake saw Ellen while we rummaged through the cupboard searching for cups and he made a charmingly obvious bee-line for her. She introduced me, he asked some above par small talk questions and seemed genuinely smart and terrific, which really, given Ellen's finicky preference and her ability to detect affectation miles away, wasn't all that surprisng. Soon enough, though,they were laughing a chummy, private laugh--the sort that makes you happy for your friend and irritated that you have to go the rest of the evening alone.
Before Emily's party, my path crossed with Nick's only a few times. Those brief encounters featured short, non-conversations, of little value for extended analysis with Ellen. That night he was wearing his ratty old green Oakland A's baseball cap. He was the only person in the room wearing a hat, and under its brim he seemed both jocular and brainy. At that party, in this city, the combination seemed a rare, valuable find--as delicious as french fries and ice cream. I ate it up.
to be continued...
Emily Alderson's parties tended to be hot and over- crowded. All the red plastic dixie cups would disappear in the first hour, leaving an odd assortment of coffee mugs without handles and Pyrex measuring cups for people to fill with cheap beer and even cheaper wine. There was always a lot of talk about Foucault and Derrida, lots of bad hummus and bowls of blue corn chip crumbs. At Emily's birthday party I told a man named Jacques that my favorite book was To Kill a Mockingbird; he practically patted my head and said he found it a "quaint narrative -- tolerable if you go for that sort of thing."
If you stayed at one of these parties long enough, you would hear Emily describe herself as "someone who likes to color outside the lines" at least 3 or 4 times. As far as I could tell, this simply meant that she liked to wear gauzy skirts that were forever getting caught in the chain of her bike and, that said bike was forever being stolen because she either forgot to lock it or took some communitarian stand against locking it, I'm not sure which. Sometimes she would set out HI MY NAME is__________ nametags and lead the way to hip literary irony by scrawling Sylvia or Simone on it and then slapping it across the front of her thrift store blouse. I always wanted, but thankfully could never summon the snotty pettiness necessary, to point out that Simone de Beauvoir wouldn't be caught dead at a party with such cheap booze and bad posturing. How ironic Emily, don't you think?!
I was leaning against going until Ellen showed up with my birthday present, a month and a half late. Lately, a new urge to forge ahead into more adult terrain had exerted itself. A year and 3 months out of college, heading into my second year of teaching English to 9th graders at a well-respected charter school, I wasn't quite ready to say goodbye to parties at the group homes of college acquaintances, but I was getting closer by the day. Ellen, however, was interested in Jake, the wry, handsome graduate assistant for the Masters Program she and Emily were enrolled in. She knew he would be there and knew good and well, as she handed me the box wrapped in orange tissue paper, that my company could be purchased fairly cheaply. The polka dot dress fit like a dream and she knew just the party for me to wear it to.
The late August air held tight to the heat and smog of the day, refusing to loosen its grip even though the sun was already rounding the far curve of the Atlantic, nudging people awake in London. Emily's windows were open and Ellen immediately spotted Jake as we climbed the front steps. The door was locked for some strange reason and when Emily finally opened it she tried to gather us both up into some awkward, sisters-in-arms embrace.
"Girls! I am so glad you made it. Tess! Love the dress. Oh listen to me! What a poet!" she trilled. Behind her the party was in full swing.
"Great skirt, Emily. Is it new?" Ellen asked and I managed to keep a straight face. Ellen isn't mean or smug, in fact she's extraordinarily kind. She notices and remembers quirks and details and reads people like childrens books--her brain moving just a little faster than everyone else's, spinning and storing, gathering and retrieving information. She is both exceedingly polite and terribly impish.
Inside we found the usual assortment of people and the new faces of friends of friends and people who randomly received the Evite. Jake saw Ellen while we rummaged through the cupboard searching for cups and he made a charmingly obvious bee-line for her. She introduced me, he asked some above par small talk questions and seemed genuinely smart and terrific, which really, given Ellen's finicky preference and her ability to detect affectation miles away, wasn't all that surprisng. Soon enough, though,they were laughing a chummy, private laugh--the sort that makes you happy for your friend and irritated that you have to go the rest of the evening alone.
Before Emily's party, my path crossed with Nick's only a few times. Those brief encounters featured short, non-conversations, of little value for extended analysis with Ellen. That night he was wearing his ratty old green Oakland A's baseball cap. He was the only person in the room wearing a hat, and under its brim he seemed both jocular and brainy. At that party, in this city, the combination seemed a rare, valuable find--as delicious as french fries and ice cream. I ate it up.
to be continued...
14 July 2006
get real
By no stretch of any of the terms can donations to political campaigns be rightly considered "charitable giving". Please.
12 July 2006
open letter to a friend
Dear Rilla.
If there was more than a handful of sense in the world things would stack up differently with you on top. Not that you're aiming for stratospheric heights from which to gaze down your nose at those below, but you know what I mean. You always do. If the whole world is indeed a stage, people would do well to stop talking and just hand you the microphone.
Do hydrageas bloom all summer? Even when we are old--with feeble knees, grandbabies clambering to be caught up to the safety of our laps-- these blue flowers will call you (the here and now version, wearing your new blue dress) to mind. Something about their cheerful, steady grace; the way they put showy flowers to shame, lasting and lasting in the glass vase settled in the pool of sunlight on the table.
It's strange and funny how one person comes to embody a single virtue or vice, a noun, a place or a even the specific shade of a certain color in the picture dictionary of another person's mind. I could be wrong, but it seems that amidst the whirl of life 'round here, you represent calm, safety, rest to so many people. Here. We can trust you. Let us hand your our secrets, let us sit in your blue, caring calm. Thank you for this and also: I'm sorry. How well I know: even rest itself needs rest-- so where do you find it?
Rilke holds out hope to us, I think. Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside. I am looking for this hillside. When I find it finally, with the old live oak tree at the top, I will send you a map (poorly drawn) and an invitation typed on my favorite old green typewriter on the best, creamiest paper I can find. Under the thick branches and the swish of leaves, we will sit and drink sweet tea and find rest from the lives we lead. Will you come?
in peace & affection,
k.
If there was more than a handful of sense in the world things would stack up differently with you on top. Not that you're aiming for stratospheric heights from which to gaze down your nose at those below, but you know what I mean. You always do. If the whole world is indeed a stage, people would do well to stop talking and just hand you the microphone.
Do hydrageas bloom all summer? Even when we are old--with feeble knees, grandbabies clambering to be caught up to the safety of our laps-- these blue flowers will call you (the here and now version, wearing your new blue dress) to mind. Something about their cheerful, steady grace; the way they put showy flowers to shame, lasting and lasting in the glass vase settled in the pool of sunlight on the table.
It's strange and funny how one person comes to embody a single virtue or vice, a noun, a place or a even the specific shade of a certain color in the picture dictionary of another person's mind. I could be wrong, but it seems that amidst the whirl of life 'round here, you represent calm, safety, rest to so many people. Here. We can trust you. Let us hand your our secrets, let us sit in your blue, caring calm. Thank you for this and also: I'm sorry. How well I know: even rest itself needs rest-- so where do you find it?
Rilke holds out hope to us, I think. Perhaps there remains for us some tree on a hillside. I am looking for this hillside. When I find it finally, with the old live oak tree at the top, I will send you a map (poorly drawn) and an invitation typed on my favorite old green typewriter on the best, creamiest paper I can find. Under the thick branches and the swish of leaves, we will sit and drink sweet tea and find rest from the lives we lead. Will you come?
in peace & affection,
k.
10 July 2006
Self-Evaluation
Please fill in the blank by choosing from the options below.
I am_____:
self-controlled
self-absorbed
self-contained
self-reliant
self-centered
self-sufficient
self-involved
self-employed
self-fulfilled
self-proclaimed
self-satisfied
self-deluding
*Note to self: for highest level of accuracy, have evaluation filled out by someone other than self.
I am_____:
self-controlled
self-absorbed
self-contained
self-reliant
self-centered
self-sufficient
self-involved
self-employed
self-fulfilled
self-proclaimed
self-satisfied
self-deluding
*Note to self: for highest level of accuracy, have evaluation filled out by someone other than self.
27 June 2006
first day: rest of life
In a room with no windows and lots of bottled water, expensive art on the walls, they keep handing me papers and I keep signing my name at the bottom. Print. Signature. Date. Here's your copy. Repeat. I am thankful, truly I am--thankful enough to cry. Health insurance, retirement, pre-tax flexible spending account, massages every other Friday. Would you like insurance for your pet? Just sign here. This is a safety net, not handcuffs. Repeat this to yourself as your own name becomes unrecognizable to your eyes.
When it is time to break for lunch, I pick up my favorite black bag and leave the building without talking to anyone. I walk around the city and peer at the world from under edge of umbrella, wondering at the places I've lived and how they all look similar in the rain. It is cozy, familiar, private under there, and holding on to the handle for dear life, I start to feel like my own person again.
I put in a call to my dad's office to double-check my PPO plan choice and when a secretary asks who's calling I hear a foreign, troubling snippiness in my reply: His daughter in DC. Great. I've been here two days and already I'm losing my moorings. How can you navigate when you can't see the stars for all the city lights? When he calls back, he tells me that my choice are good, my reasoning sound. This is both pleasing and upsetting. Oh good. I can make it on my own in the world. Wait...I have to make it on my own?
When I left home on Sunday, the turgid, plummy bodies of my tomatoes were just turning red. The peppers were so green and small and perfect, the drops of rain sliding down the curve of their crispness, that I almost squealed with delight. Little Rat helped me load my possessions (more books than clothes) and said Don't you know that we're a family and you're not supposed to leave. That's okay. I can forget you if you don't care about us. This is an improvement. When I moved to San Diego, he threatened to run away and join the Navy.
I don't know how to say this because I don't know how to think about it, how to make sense of these pieces. I am smart. I have a brain and, what's more, I have school loans to pay. I like to solve problems, to take the variables and fit them into an equation of my own design and see the solution sweep away some of the chaos and disorder (if only temporarily, temporally). A job, no, a career, with health insurance, a trajectory, a purpose and a login and user ID. I see the point, the need. It's 27 June 2006, not 1906 or even 1946, I'm well aware. I wrote out the date at least 47 time today.
Even so. My ambition curves more toward the things that money can't buy. Even as the panicky, trapped feeling rises in my throat at the thought of committing a whole year there is an ache in my bones to set out roots of a different kind. The Hummingbird Management system might save your documents, but will they really last? When the hiring manager asked me my long-term goals, I didn't tell her about the little boys with freckles and their small, serious shoulders or the rows of strawberries that fall plunk plunk plunk into the tin pail.
When it is time to break for lunch, I pick up my favorite black bag and leave the building without talking to anyone. I walk around the city and peer at the world from under edge of umbrella, wondering at the places I've lived and how they all look similar in the rain. It is cozy, familiar, private under there, and holding on to the handle for dear life, I start to feel like my own person again.
I put in a call to my dad's office to double-check my PPO plan choice and when a secretary asks who's calling I hear a foreign, troubling snippiness in my reply: His daughter in DC. Great. I've been here two days and already I'm losing my moorings. How can you navigate when you can't see the stars for all the city lights? When he calls back, he tells me that my choice are good, my reasoning sound. This is both pleasing and upsetting. Oh good. I can make it on my own in the world. Wait...I have to make it on my own?
When I left home on Sunday, the turgid, plummy bodies of my tomatoes were just turning red. The peppers were so green and small and perfect, the drops of rain sliding down the curve of their crispness, that I almost squealed with delight. Little Rat helped me load my possessions (more books than clothes) and said Don't you know that we're a family and you're not supposed to leave. That's okay. I can forget you if you don't care about us. This is an improvement. When I moved to San Diego, he threatened to run away and join the Navy.
I don't know how to say this because I don't know how to think about it, how to make sense of these pieces. I am smart. I have a brain and, what's more, I have school loans to pay. I like to solve problems, to take the variables and fit them into an equation of my own design and see the solution sweep away some of the chaos and disorder (if only temporarily, temporally). A job, no, a career, with health insurance, a trajectory, a purpose and a login and user ID. I see the point, the need. It's 27 June 2006, not 1906 or even 1946, I'm well aware. I wrote out the date at least 47 time today.
Even so. My ambition curves more toward the things that money can't buy. Even as the panicky, trapped feeling rises in my throat at the thought of committing a whole year there is an ache in my bones to set out roots of a different kind. The Hummingbird Management system might save your documents, but will they really last? When the hiring manager asked me my long-term goals, I didn't tell her about the little boys with freckles and their small, serious shoulders or the rows of strawberries that fall plunk plunk plunk into the tin pail.
16 June 2006
sweetheart, you come by it honestly
Wednesday around midnight I got in my car and drove home. I missed my mom and Little Rat, and watching Norman lumber around the field in his mournful, solitary way. Grahamcracker told me once that my grandfather loved the sight of cattle grazing on a hillside, that he could watch them for hours. I think of my grandfather, a difficult man, and all his characteristics that my father didn't inherit, didn't pass down to me. I drive through the city, the suburbs, and down the wavy length of our small, rural county. When I pull onto the gravel road leading up the hill to our house, a silver fox runs through hazy beams of the headlights. Norman is by the gate so I roll down my window, stop, and watch his dark shape move in the black angus night.
12 June 2006
sleep
Am tired--monumentally so-- even after spending hours and hours in thick, motionless sleep this weekend. Two friends set off to wander through Guatemalan villages and, fitting of their kind, quirky ways, called from airport to say that they had left the keys to their cool (style and temperature-wise) cavern of an apartment under the recycling bin...just for me.
So while most of city frolicked on Saturday afternoon, stuffed self silly with Alice Munroe stories before falling into sort of sleep associated with college--ravenous, fully-clothed, deep, on top of blankets, etc. When handsome man from upstairs knocked on the bars on front door, looking for a frisbee, couldn't pull self together sufficiently to issue coherent, let alone charming, greeting. Instead, stumbled around room, opening and closing drawers and cupboards and mumbling astonishment at obvious lack of sporting equipment. Handsome man would not be unjustified in suspecting drug use on part of girl in basement. Was fully clothed at least.
So while most of city frolicked on Saturday afternoon, stuffed self silly with Alice Munroe stories before falling into sort of sleep associated with college--ravenous, fully-clothed, deep, on top of blankets, etc. When handsome man from upstairs knocked on the bars on front door, looking for a frisbee, couldn't pull self together sufficiently to issue coherent, let alone charming, greeting. Instead, stumbled around room, opening and closing drawers and cupboards and mumbling astonishment at obvious lack of sporting equipment. Handsome man would not be unjustified in suspecting drug use on part of girl in basement. Was fully clothed at least.
07 June 2006
breakfast value meal
Crazy A sat at McDonalds yesterday morning for roughly an hour because he was early for an appointment. During these fifty-odd minutes, he "fell in love" with Sha'nel, a 24 year old girl who works the register. Apparently she is a grown woman, though, because her mother, who works the drive through, didn't say anything when she gave her number to an 18 year old boy. Trust me Kate, she's very mature, he said. I asked and she told me she doesn't that many kids.
summers
6: The window frames the sliver of orange candy moon and insects flap their hard shelled bodies against the screen all night. We lay on top of the covers and wait for a breeze that never stirs. The adults play pinochle around the kitchen table and eat coconut cream pie. The underbellies of our pillows are cool and smooth when flipped. Finally we fall asleep.
10: I find an old Reader's Digest under the guestroom bed at Grahamcracker's house and cry my way through the story of a young girl who dies of leukemia. Cataloging the girl's symptoms -- the purple-blue bruises appearing for no reason, the aching joints -- I notice that my own elbows and knees feel as though someone is banging at them with a wooden mallet and convince myself that I'll be dead by August. Is that a bruise on my arm? The secret weight of my imminent death colors the summer a shade more poignant than usual. This might be the last piece of watermelon I eat. Soon I'll be too sick to go to the waterpark. When I'm gone they'll be sorry they sent me to bed. At the end of the summer I'm a good two inches taller and need new pants for the fall.
10: I find an old Reader's Digest under the guestroom bed at Grahamcracker's house and cry my way through the story of a young girl who dies of leukemia. Cataloging the girl's symptoms -- the purple-blue bruises appearing for no reason, the aching joints -- I notice that my own elbows and knees feel as though someone is banging at them with a wooden mallet and convince myself that I'll be dead by August. Is that a bruise on my arm? The secret weight of my imminent death colors the summer a shade more poignant than usual. This might be the last piece of watermelon I eat. Soon I'll be too sick to go to the waterpark. When I'm gone they'll be sorry they sent me to bed. At the end of the summer I'm a good two inches taller and need new pants for the fall.
14: I give in and read To Kill a Mockingbird for the first time. For months now my dad has suggested it and I have ignored his suggestion in favor of bb gun wars or eating kakigori in the matchi with Philip. Finally, in a cabin on a mountain by the sea, far away from Philip in Tokyo, I pick up a ragged old copy and fall into immediate, desperate love with Jem, Atticus and Scout. A new thing starts to grow inside me as I read. Probably this thing would have emerged on its own one day; but lying there on the top bunk, it was shaped profoundly by Mrs. Dubose's camellias and the pale, wispy courage of Boo Radley. It is a baby ache at the sudden, small understanding of it all--the bigness and smallness of humans, and the way that goodness, courage and tragedy sometimes can't be separated into their own neat, little boxes.
18: Dot's older brother Leighton was a prisoner of war to the Japanese. After his ship was torpedoed in the South Pacific, he drifted in the warm briny waters but it was really my mother's prayers that kept him afloat, Dots says. She would iron and pray and sing hymns and that is what kept skin on his bones when there were more rocks than rice in his bowl. She digs out a picture of a thin, handsome man in a uniform who could be anyone's great uncle. You know, she says, I swore that if I wasn't married by 25, it would never happen. I met Vern the day after my 25th birthday. She still has some of the letters he wrote and a picture of the two of them kissing on a velvet sofa, the skirt of her polkadot dress spread around her. At the end of the summer she gives me this picture and I pack it in with all the other things to take to college.
20: The months stretch out ahead, hot, muggy and lonely. I take a job chasing tough kids around a sweaty gym. On trips to the monuments, my co-workers sneak off for cigarettes and the kids steal hotdogs from the street vendors. They boy who broke my heart emails out of the blue. The days drain by in an uneven rhythm. Somehow, I move forward.
24: Is it better to know or not to know--to labor away under your own silly predictions, pieced together from bits and observations, small flashes of insight that might really be the glare of a mirror? You could drown in these thoughts, even as you lay in the hot sun at the cool water's edge. Throw the weight of suspense off your back. Keep walking. Wait and see. It's going to be okay.
05 June 2006
weekend words
taste
whisper
laugh
plot
chat
pick
laugh
lug
lift
tell
meet
laugh
spill
drink
sing
dance
dance
dance
dance
whisper
laugh
plot
chat
pick
laugh
lug
lift
tell
meet
laugh
spill
drink
sing
dance
dance
dance
dance
01 June 2006
american dream
Thoreau went to the woods because he wanted to live deliberately. Ellen went to The Woods because her parents bought a house in that particular subdivision.
31 May 2006
The Summer of Promise & Enterprise
quiescent:
One entry found for quiescent.
Main Entry: qui·es·cent
Main Entry: qui·es·cent
adjective Etymology: Latin quiescent-, quiescens, present participle of quiescere to become quiet, rest, from quies
1 : marked by inactivity or repose : tranquilly at rest
2 : causing no trouble or symptoms
- qui·es·cent·ly adverb
I'm half in love already.
26 May 2006
three wishes
Little Rat calls Squirrel to ask for advice about blonde girls since (sadly, obviously) his own brunette sister doesn't know the first thing about real girls. You know what I mean, just like real girls with blonde hair. Girls who are pretty he says as we drive to the library. I overlook this slight in light of his serious desperation and the amount of time he spends fighting his new nemesis: acne. He shakes his head. I almost cry.
Summer vacation is practically here. Yearbooks arrived last week and Little Rat carries his around everywhere, flipping between the grainy picture of her small, sweet face -- smack dab in the middle of a row of B's-- and the front cover where she wrote (purple pen, mildly bubbly cursive):
Summer. Little Rat knows that it is do or die now. That vacation will be long and lonely with only a 2x2 picture and a generic inscription to keep him company. When he hangs up he is resolute. I ask him what he's going to do and he recites the lines that Squirrel suggested; words, she assures him, sure to work on even the hardest-hearted blonde. He looks out the window for a minute, quiet. I just wish I could give her the moon so she'd know he says. He turns on the radio.
*
Summer vacation is practically here. Yearbooks arrived last week and Little Rat carries his around everywhere, flipping between the grainy picture of her small, sweet face -- smack dab in the middle of a row of B's-- and the front cover where she wrote (purple pen, mildly bubbly cursive):
You are a pretty cool guy.
Computer class was fun!!!
Maybe we will have some classes together next year.
Have a great summer!!!
Squirrel gives him sound advice. She is a good best friend to me and this means loving Little Rat as much as I do. Oh, just be yourself she says and then listen to him describe her blonde hair, and how he can't dislodge her from his brain, no matter how time he spends watching cartoons or mowing the lawn. Since the year is about to end, Squirrel and Little Rat decide that he should start by asking her if she's coming back to CHS next year for tenth grade? Does she have any plans for the summer?
Summer. Little Rat knows that it is do or die now. That vacation will be long and lonely with only a 2x2 picture and a generic inscription to keep him company. When he hangs up he is resolute. I ask him what he's going to do and he recites the lines that Squirrel suggested; words, she assures him, sure to work on even the hardest-hearted blonde. He looks out the window for a minute, quiet. I just wish I could give her the moon so she'd know he says. He turns on the radio.
*
After he died, she put her skillets and quilts in storage and moved to Jerusalem -- about as far away from where she began and where she'd been in between. We all loved her more, if that's possible, for this display of grit; this proof of true pioneer stock in today's day and age. From around the world, we watched happily as she found friends and carved out a life of her own after so many years of smiling through truly hard, sad times. The State Department issued a warning: AMERICANS GO HOME. We worried a little, but pointed out to each other that you can get hit by a bus, crossing your own street. When it's your time to go, it's your time to go, whether you're standing on the banks of the Sugar Creek or the Jordan River. She called early on a Sunday morning, not with flight arrival information but with the request that we send her a party dress. Oh, I wish you could see this place in the spring, sweetheart. The desert comes alive.
*
We are dancing barefoot on the wide wood planks of the porch to Gillian Welch who, as he points out, (craning his neck back to look in my eyes) is strangely, strikingly beautiful with her buck teeth and knob knees.
Oh me oh my oh.
Look at Miss Ohio.
She's a-runnin around
with her ragtop down.
She says I wanna do right
but not right now.
There is the smell of the sea lingering in the air, mingled with pipe smoke and a little leftover rain. People are drinking whiskey, laughing softly, dancing. Someone throws a glass off the roof next door. It shatters in the street below but no one even looks. When I breathe in his shoulder, it is cotton and spice and sweat on his collarbone that fills my nose.
With your arm around her shoulder
a regimental soldier,
Momma starts pushing that wedding gown.
You say I wanna do right
but not right now.
His lips are the tiniest bit cold by my ear when he whispers. I'm sorry about today. I wish I could always love you as much as I love you right now. There are things to say but it doesn't seem the time. I look over his shoulder into the black sky where planes fly in circles over the water, tracing and re-tracing their holding patterns, waiting to find the firm promise of the Earth below.
Yeah I know all about it,
so you don't have to shout it
I'm gonna straighten it out somehow
Yeah I wanna do right
but not right now.
25 May 2006
24 May 2006
famous last words
John & Lacey were going out when school ended in late May, just before the start of hurricane season. A few days before she left for Europe I spent the night at her big downtown apartment and her parents took us bowling at the their Club. She was an phenomenally good bowler, even as a seventh grader, and I can still see her so clearly, standing there in perfect concentration, her purple shirt tucked into her gap khaki skirt, her socks rolled down until they touched the tops of her own red bowling shoes. Prim is a good word for her. Sweet. Nice. She thought we were best friends. He's going to be so lonely this summer. Take good care of him for me.
23 May 2006
1989
On summer evenings, Jim mows the lawn after dinner and Nadine pulls weeds from the flowerbeds laid out along the front of the white house. Three small kids chase each other around the front yard. They love the dewy dampness between their toes, the spring of the earth as it pushes back against the meager weight of their cartwheels. Once the grass is mowed into rows of green velvet, Jim pushes the mower back in the garage and the kids run out from the house, fresh from the tub, and buckle in. Nadine follows. She leaves the door unlocked.
At Dairy Queen they order Mr. Mistys, the sweetest mix of ice and syrup that paints their small mouths immediate, raspberry blue. Jim takes a drink out of each cup before passing it to the back seat. I have to make sure its not poison he says and the kids yell Daa-aad! Nadine likes the salt and sweet of chocolate and peanuts together and takes quick, neat bites against the melty pull of heat and gravity.
They drive to the edge of the small town, past the high school, along the Snake River, through the stand of Russian olives, until they are in the hills and sagebrush. There is nothing but the sky and the colors of the desert--the muted greens and browns and golds--and the sound of small mouths taking it all in, drinking it down to the last drop.
At Dairy Queen they order Mr. Mistys, the sweetest mix of ice and syrup that paints their small mouths immediate, raspberry blue. Jim takes a drink out of each cup before passing it to the back seat. I have to make sure its not poison he says and the kids yell Daa-aad! Nadine likes the salt and sweet of chocolate and peanuts together and takes quick, neat bites against the melty pull of heat and gravity.
They drive to the edge of the small town, past the high school, along the Snake River, through the stand of Russian olives, until they are in the hills and sagebrush. There is nothing but the sky and the colors of the desert--the muted greens and browns and golds--and the sound of small mouths taking it all in, drinking it down to the last drop.
write
I have no ambition and far too much imagination for my own good. This doesn't look great on a resume.
I am committed, however, to finishing my book in the next two months. I will give it to my mother and Squirrel to read and Oprah, too, if she'd like a copy.
Welcome to the Summer of Promise & Enterprise.
I need to find a job.
I am committed, however, to finishing my book in the next two months. I will give it to my mother and Squirrel to read and Oprah, too, if she'd like a copy.
Welcome to the Summer of Promise & Enterprise.
I need to find a job.
22 May 2006
lessons
IF a homeless man tells you you're pretty, it's okay to smile as you walk down the block.
Don't have important conversations at coffee shops. Do you want Starbucks to be the backdrop for your entire life? Well, we were sitting there at one of the little round tables and a HEAR MUSIC NOW sampler was playing in the background and I was stirring raw sugar into my fair-trade coffee and next thing I know he's down on one knee...
There is such a fine line between saying something that you need to say--getting it off your chest--and wasting your breath. Learn the difference; pearls before swine and all that. Tell people what they mean to you, but know the value of reticence, the meaning of reciprocity and its place in the equaion.
Once I knew a man who was an artist, but who supported himself by teaching He was helping me (minorly) with a project and I mentioned that I greatly respected the work of a former colleague of his. He said Ah yes. He is a good man and was once a close friend. When we worked together he always loved a certain painting of mine but he could never afford to buy it. I will never forget this -- the sinking feeling as this man plummeted in my estimation. If you can give or do something for another human being that brings them joy or comfort or aid, shouldn't you? It's just canvas and paint, words and time, metal and earth. Moth and rust destroy afterall, and miser can never be cast in a more favorable light.
The notion that boys are more immature, or less mature if you prefer, then girls holds some water when you are 13, 14, 15. It's true. There are physiological differences, no denying it, that account for the discrepency in maturity levels and the ability to link action with consequence, behavior with outcome. Now we are 24, 25, 26, and older. Now, we need to stop pretending that this gap is anything other than willfulness, self-indulgence. We are the only barriers keeping ourselves from growing up and living happily ever after.
Don't have important conversations at coffee shops. Do you want Starbucks to be the backdrop for your entire life? Well, we were sitting there at one of the little round tables and a HEAR MUSIC NOW sampler was playing in the background and I was stirring raw sugar into my fair-trade coffee and next thing I know he's down on one knee...
There is such a fine line between saying something that you need to say--getting it off your chest--and wasting your breath. Learn the difference; pearls before swine and all that. Tell people what they mean to you, but know the value of reticence, the meaning of reciprocity and its place in the equaion.
Once I knew a man who was an artist, but who supported himself by teaching He was helping me (minorly) with a project and I mentioned that I greatly respected the work of a former colleague of his. He said Ah yes. He is a good man and was once a close friend. When we worked together he always loved a certain painting of mine but he could never afford to buy it. I will never forget this -- the sinking feeling as this man plummeted in my estimation. If you can give or do something for another human being that brings them joy or comfort or aid, shouldn't you? It's just canvas and paint, words and time, metal and earth. Moth and rust destroy afterall, and miser can never be cast in a more favorable light.
The notion that boys are more immature, or less mature if you prefer, then girls holds some water when you are 13, 14, 15. It's true. There are physiological differences, no denying it, that account for the discrepency in maturity levels and the ability to link action with consequence, behavior with outcome. Now we are 24, 25, 26, and older. Now, we need to stop pretending that this gap is anything other than willfulness, self-indulgence. We are the only barriers keeping ourselves from growing up and living happily ever after.
19 May 2006
Charles & Beatrix
Charles packed his suitcase and traveled East. Beatrix met him at the airport with a sign drawn on thick cream paper with her best charcoals: Welcome Charles!
On the way home, Beatrix took a wrong turn and got them lost. Don't worry said Charles. I enjoy a good adventure.
During the day they went to school and work. At night, they sat on the floor and cut pictures from old magazines and turned the pictures into cards. They sent these cards back West, to Charles' sisters and their grandmother.
It snowed one night and didn't stop for the morning sun. They stayed home from school and work and Beatrix made them big mugs of tea with cream and just a bit of sugar. All day, Charles and Beatrix watched the snow pile up.
I think I'd like to have a doughnut Charles said. They mixed flour and yeast, warm water, sugar and shaped the dough into balls and dropped them into the bubbling grease.
Late that night the snow stopped falling, so Charles and Beatrix tied scarves around their necks and set out through the drifts, down the street and up the hill covered with trees. In the clear air, under the full moon, they could still smell the maple on their fingers.
for JCS.
On the way home, Beatrix took a wrong turn and got them lost. Don't worry said Charles. I enjoy a good adventure.
During the day they went to school and work. At night, they sat on the floor and cut pictures from old magazines and turned the pictures into cards. They sent these cards back West, to Charles' sisters and their grandmother.
It snowed one night and didn't stop for the morning sun. They stayed home from school and work and Beatrix made them big mugs of tea with cream and just a bit of sugar. All day, Charles and Beatrix watched the snow pile up.
I think I'd like to have a doughnut Charles said. They mixed flour and yeast, warm water, sugar and shaped the dough into balls and dropped them into the bubbling grease.
Late that night the snow stopped falling, so Charles and Beatrix tied scarves around their necks and set out through the drifts, down the street and up the hill covered with trees. In the clear air, under the full moon, they could still smell the maple on their fingers.
for JCS.
18 May 2006
no guts, no glory
It is SPIRIT WEEK and today at the pep rally, I was the teacher representative on the 8th grade team for the popsicle eating contest. Together, 10 of my students and I ate 83 popsicles in 5 minutes. I ate 8; 3 cherry, 2 orange, 2 grape, and 1 banana that almost did me in. It was one of the more painful and gross things I've done recently.
We lost to the 7th graders but came back and killed them in the tug-of-war contest. The Spirit Stick is ours for another year.
We lost to the 7th graders but came back and killed them in the tug-of-war contest. The Spirit Stick is ours for another year.
mixed tape sing along
5 points for each correctly identified artist.
Winner gets HUGE prize.
I can smell cheaters from miles and miles away.
Side A:
1. "So near but you're so hard to touch"
2. "I like you so much I talk to everyone but you"
3. "He said you are the highest apple in the tree"
4. "When routine bites hard and ambitions are low"
5. "There's too many people you used to know, they see you coming they see you go"
6. "So you're brilliant, gorgeous and ampersand after ampersand"
7. A dreamer of pictures I run in the night --You see us together, chasing the moonlight"
Side B:
8. "She's delicate and seems like the mirror but she just makes it all too concise and too clear"
9. "I try to see it in reverse --it makes the situation hundreds of times worse when I wonder if it makes you want to cry every time you see a light blue volvo driving by"
10. "I'll see you next fall at another gun show. I'll call the day before like usual"
11. "Let's get together before we get much older"
12. "There's always time on the telephone line to talk about things to come"
13. "If I couldn't flow futuristic would ya..."
HINT: Sean Paul is NOT the answer.
Winner gets HUGE prize.
I can smell cheaters from miles and miles away.
Side A:
1. "So near but you're so hard to touch"
2. "I like you so much I talk to everyone but you"
3. "He said you are the highest apple in the tree"
4. "When routine bites hard and ambitions are low"
5. "There's too many people you used to know, they see you coming they see you go"
6. "So you're brilliant, gorgeous and ampersand after ampersand"
7. A dreamer of pictures I run in the night --You see us together, chasing the moonlight"
Side B:
8. "She's delicate and seems like the mirror but she just makes it all too concise and too clear"
9. "I try to see it in reverse --it makes the situation hundreds of times worse when I wonder if it makes you want to cry every time you see a light blue volvo driving by"
10. "I'll see you next fall at another gun show. I'll call the day before like usual"
11. "Let's get together before we get much older"
12. "There's always time on the telephone line to talk about things to come"
13. "If I couldn't flow futuristic would ya..."
HINT: Sean Paul is NOT the answer.
17 May 2006
how Little Rat got his name
It rained the day we arrived in Thailand. And the day after, and then the day after that. It rained the whole first month (July) actually, and most of the second month, too. At first we, my family (a father, a mother, three brothers and a sister) and me, lived in a little bungalow (#7) on the grounds of the resort owned by the proprietor of the school where my parents worked. This bungalow faced a little lake where Chinese ducks paddled in circles and it backed up to a stream running along the bottom of a ditch. The guards (boys with machine guns) who patrolled the property said not to go back there for fear of cobras, but I never saw a single one all the hundreds of times I ran darted across the cement beam, stuck in the mud. The grounds of the resort and the school were greenest green, tended by an army of gardeners who lived in the adjacent village. Craggy mountains rose up around us and at night, when it stopped raining, the sky was yellow.
Every morning my parents set out for the school, through the torrential, defeating rain, to try to get things in some sort of shape and order for opening day. This meant that we (a bossy, dreamy oldest sister, a brooding 14 year old boy, a moody 7th grade girl, and 2 semi-lingual Bulgarian dirtballs, 9 & 11)) were left in the bungalow to drink coke and watch MTV Asia and You've Got Mail. This movie, stuck randomly in someone's carry-on as an afterthought, was the only one not packed and sent in our shipment which was, at that point, still five months from arriving.
At first the five of us kids were homesick and a bit shell-shocked. Soon enough, though, that gave way to a raging case of cabin fever. The maids came and changed sheets everyday while we stood there, pretending we didn't mind their stares. We counted snails and lizards and stood under the sala of the bungalow and threw bread to the ducks on the rapidly rising lake. Before long, littlest brother could say every line of You've Got Mail by heart and we could sing the top ten pop songs from Indonesia. We slammed doors, locked each other out in the downpour and fought on the cold tile floor.
The moody 7th grade girl and the littlest brother went at it the most. She would boss him around and he would buck under her authority and pinch her. She would squeal and push him out in the rain or threaten to put spiders in his hair. His vocabulary was strange and flexible; it expanded at odd angles to accommodate the words rushing through his new life, with us, and in this place. Finally, he decided that he'd had enough so he came up with the worst invective he could cobble together and hurled it at her with all his might: You are a piggish squealing baby rat Queen! You are just a fat pig cow snack! For full effect, you must stop and imagine this fully: these words being shouted across a bungalow in Northern Thailand by a wiry brown boy, in a raspy little eastern European accent, who is crying and who hopes, quite understandably, that this sentence is as mean and damaging as he is furious.
When they came home that afternoon our parents loaded us into a jeep and we drove down the mountain road, lined with black scrawny chickens and mangy one-eared dogs, to the city below. We told them about our day, leaving out the bitterest bits of fighting, and of the new insult we'd learned from P. We are a family that does many things together and that afternoon, we threw back our heads together and laughed and laughed at the oddness of people, and words, and places .
The "Piggish Squealing Baby Rat Queen" caught on like wildfire. We turned it right back around and aimed it for P. and he has never escaped it-- not even now, many years and miles away from that day. For a long time he was Baby Rat Queen, and then just Baby Rat, which has evolved (with one eye towards his American socialization and -- hopefully-- normalization) to the less mortifying nickname of Little Rat. My brother may have started his life in a small village by the Black Sea coast of Bulgaria. But Little Rat-- he was most certainly born one rainy afternoon in small bungalow surrounded by the craggy mountains of northern Thailand
Every morning my parents set out for the school, through the torrential, defeating rain, to try to get things in some sort of shape and order for opening day. This meant that we (a bossy, dreamy oldest sister, a brooding 14 year old boy, a moody 7th grade girl, and 2 semi-lingual Bulgarian dirtballs, 9 & 11)) were left in the bungalow to drink coke and watch MTV Asia and You've Got Mail. This movie, stuck randomly in someone's carry-on as an afterthought, was the only one not packed and sent in our shipment which was, at that point, still five months from arriving.
At first the five of us kids were homesick and a bit shell-shocked. Soon enough, though, that gave way to a raging case of cabin fever. The maids came and changed sheets everyday while we stood there, pretending we didn't mind their stares. We counted snails and lizards and stood under the sala of the bungalow and threw bread to the ducks on the rapidly rising lake. Before long, littlest brother could say every line of You've Got Mail by heart and we could sing the top ten pop songs from Indonesia. We slammed doors, locked each other out in the downpour and fought on the cold tile floor.
The moody 7th grade girl and the littlest brother went at it the most. She would boss him around and he would buck under her authority and pinch her. She would squeal and push him out in the rain or threaten to put spiders in his hair. His vocabulary was strange and flexible; it expanded at odd angles to accommodate the words rushing through his new life, with us, and in this place. Finally, he decided that he'd had enough so he came up with the worst invective he could cobble together and hurled it at her with all his might: You are a piggish squealing baby rat Queen! You are just a fat pig cow snack! For full effect, you must stop and imagine this fully: these words being shouted across a bungalow in Northern Thailand by a wiry brown boy, in a raspy little eastern European accent, who is crying and who hopes, quite understandably, that this sentence is as mean and damaging as he is furious.
When they came home that afternoon our parents loaded us into a jeep and we drove down the mountain road, lined with black scrawny chickens and mangy one-eared dogs, to the city below. We told them about our day, leaving out the bitterest bits of fighting, and of the new insult we'd learned from P. We are a family that does many things together and that afternoon, we threw back our heads together and laughed and laughed at the oddness of people, and words, and places .
The "Piggish Squealing Baby Rat Queen" caught on like wildfire. We turned it right back around and aimed it for P. and he has never escaped it-- not even now, many years and miles away from that day. For a long time he was Baby Rat Queen, and then just Baby Rat, which has evolved (with one eye towards his American socialization and -- hopefully-- normalization) to the less mortifying nickname of Little Rat. My brother may have started his life in a small village by the Black Sea coast of Bulgaria. But Little Rat-- he was most certainly born one rainy afternoon in small bungalow surrounded by the craggy mountains of northern Thailand
16 May 2006
cl
possible vs. probable - 24 (DC)
Reply to: your anonymous craigslist address will appear here
Date: 2006-05-16, 3:55PM EDT
Is it possible to take a list of characteristics or attributes (real or imagined) and spin them into a neat little paragraph that doesn't read as though you, the author, are terribly insecure, a raging egomaniac, or just plain old dumb? And then, supposing that you do come up with this sparkling but modest gem of shameful self-promotion, will it really move the reader, sitting at his desk in the middle of the day, to action? Could he really turn out to be a good thinker, kind-hearted, with a warm smile? It's possible, I guess, but is it probable? Now, that is the better, more pertinent question.
You tell me.
searching for a heart of gold
"I promise you will not be dissaponted in terms of myself being as cool as you. "
-- single white male on craigslist in search of single white female.
-- single white male on craigslist in search of single white female.
15 May 2006
** Pre-VITE **
Have developed helpful method for sorthing through headache and stress attached to party planning:
Say goodbye to E-vites and hello to the Pre-VITE, the simple tool (NOT YET SEEN ON TV!) to help you measure your REAL popularity score and your friends' true fickleness factor!! With Pre-VITE anyone can be a successful social engineer.
Simply send out survey below:
Please fill in and check blanks as appropriate:
___ I would love to attend.
___ I will attend as long as ____________ will be there.
___ I will attend as long as ____________ will NOT be there.
___ I will attend unless I get a better offer from ___________.
___ I will come out of a sense of duty but will bring ______ & _______ to make the evening bearable
___ It sounds like fun but I like to keep my options open, as you already know.
___ Thanks for the offer, but I wouldn't be caught dead there. Dream on.
___ I can't make it but I'll send my intern.
(copyright pending.)
Keep your eyes peeled for a Pre-VITE for Memorial Day!
Say goodbye to E-vites and hello to the Pre-VITE, the simple tool (NOT YET SEEN ON TV!) to help you measure your REAL popularity score and your friends' true fickleness factor!! With Pre-VITE anyone can be a successful social engineer.
Simply send out survey below:
Please fill in and check blanks as appropriate:
___ I would love to attend.
___ I will attend as long as ____________ will be there.
___ I will attend as long as ____________ will NOT be there.
___ I will attend unless I get a better offer from ___________.
___ I will come out of a sense of duty but will bring ______ & _______ to make the evening bearable
___ It sounds like fun but I like to keep my options open, as you already know.
___ Thanks for the offer, but I wouldn't be caught dead there. Dream on.
___ I can't make it but I'll send my intern.
(copyright pending.)
Keep your eyes peeled for a Pre-VITE for Memorial Day!
for my mother
Saturday the sun was shining when everyone and their mother expected grey and rain so I went with my own mother to the farm down the road to find plants for our garden. On the way there we followed a pickup and when it braked suddenly, my mother's arm shot out in front of me; her mere (freckled) flesh and bone standing guard between me and windshield and beyond that--the wide, cruel world.
She does this often, and I laugh: her futile attempts at thwarting the laws of physics. My oldness, my supposed grown up status. The love behind this gesture, the way that it has not changed through all the years, all the sudden stops and starts on new roads in strange towns.
At the farm I trail her up and down through the rows of plants. As with everything else in her life, she had a precise vision of the way it should look and a plan for how to get it just right. She holds up plants, examines their leaves, makes measurements with her mind's eye and coordinates colors and heights. Two old men, in worn, sagging wranglers and feed company T-shirts follow us around and smoke unfiltered Marlboros. She chats easily with them and they take the plants she selects from her hands and set them in flats off to the side.
All day my mother and I dig and plant. We rip up earth that has not been moved for years, pulling out roots as thick as our fingers and the worms that sleep in the cool damp dirt. If this blooms the way I envision it, it will be so pretty she says over and over. The feeling of dirt under my fingernails drives me crazy and blisters begin to rise in protest across my palms. I'd rather be reading a book. I am working side by side with my mother, though, in the clear, warm light and she is happy; this is something after these past months of sadness and turmoil. So I strip down to my underwear to work on my tan and concentrate on how I am finally putting all my reading of Wendell Berry to good, practical, dirty-hands use.
Late in the afternoon, thick grey clouds bunch up over the river. I kneel in the dirt and heap mounds of earth around the thin, green stalks of my tomato plants while my mother puts tools away and sweeps the walkways clean. Already, the stalks are sagging under the weight of their own limbs so I push stakes into ground and tie the vines to them with small bits of floss. The clouds open up and rain, then hail, pour down. The thready tendrils and the thin yellow flesh of the buds wilt and tear under the weight of the water. The force of the rain pushes against the tomato plants, beats them down. I think of my mother's arm in front of me as I cut another piece of string and tie the small, young stalk to the stake. There are things we do, maybe senseless and futile, when we love something and want to see it grow.
She does this often, and I laugh: her futile attempts at thwarting the laws of physics. My oldness, my supposed grown up status. The love behind this gesture, the way that it has not changed through all the years, all the sudden stops and starts on new roads in strange towns.
At the farm I trail her up and down through the rows of plants. As with everything else in her life, she had a precise vision of the way it should look and a plan for how to get it just right. She holds up plants, examines their leaves, makes measurements with her mind's eye and coordinates colors and heights. Two old men, in worn, sagging wranglers and feed company T-shirts follow us around and smoke unfiltered Marlboros. She chats easily with them and they take the plants she selects from her hands and set them in flats off to the side.
All day my mother and I dig and plant. We rip up earth that has not been moved for years, pulling out roots as thick as our fingers and the worms that sleep in the cool damp dirt. If this blooms the way I envision it, it will be so pretty she says over and over. The feeling of dirt under my fingernails drives me crazy and blisters begin to rise in protest across my palms. I'd rather be reading a book. I am working side by side with my mother, though, in the clear, warm light and she is happy; this is something after these past months of sadness and turmoil. So I strip down to my underwear to work on my tan and concentrate on how I am finally putting all my reading of Wendell Berry to good, practical, dirty-hands use.
Late in the afternoon, thick grey clouds bunch up over the river. I kneel in the dirt and heap mounds of earth around the thin, green stalks of my tomato plants while my mother puts tools away and sweeps the walkways clean. Already, the stalks are sagging under the weight of their own limbs so I push stakes into ground and tie the vines to them with small bits of floss. The clouds open up and rain, then hail, pour down. The thready tendrils and the thin yellow flesh of the buds wilt and tear under the weight of the water. The force of the rain pushes against the tomato plants, beats them down. I think of my mother's arm in front of me as I cut another piece of string and tie the small, young stalk to the stake. There are things we do, maybe senseless and futile, when we love something and want to see it grow.
10 May 2006
Bitter Pills
Ezra Pound was a fascist.
Not all adults are mature.
Arthur Miller married Marilyn Monroe.
Virtue is its own reward.
Not all adults are mature.
Arthur Miller married Marilyn Monroe.
Virtue is its own reward.
09 May 2006
make a list
Jobs I'd like to have:
- spy
- governess at a country mansion in Shropshire
- WW I nurse writing letters from dying soldiers to their lovers and mothers
- advice columnist
Things I either nail or fail miserably:
- parallel parking
- leaving phone messages
- pie crust
- giving hair cuts (ask Little Rat)
Words I can't come up:
- the lack of satisfaction that comes with being right is known as ________.
- _________ means that something (say, a book) was so good that you just want to expire right now, to leave life on this high note.
- When we expect the worst but hope for and imagine a miracle we are ____________.
Happiness money can buy:
- colorful mixing bowls
- a pound of bing cherries
- a box of envelopes
- lipstick
Dumb phrases I say to my students:
- Mouths closed, books open
- Being rude is never clever
- Would you like me to discuss this with your parents?
- Perhaps you'd like to rethink your position.
My ideal man is equal parts:
- George Clooney
- George Will
- George Straight
- George Foreman (ha!)
I cry when:
- Someone yells at me.
- I think of my parents getting old.
- the smell freshly cut grass hangs in the twilight air
- I'm really, really tired and am helpless and out of laughter.
- spy
- governess at a country mansion in Shropshire
- WW I nurse writing letters from dying soldiers to their lovers and mothers
- advice columnist
Things I either nail or fail miserably:
- parallel parking
- leaving phone messages
- pie crust
- giving hair cuts (ask Little Rat)
Words I can't come up:
- the lack of satisfaction that comes with being right is known as ________.
- _________ means that something (say, a book) was so good that you just want to expire right now, to leave life on this high note.
- When we expect the worst but hope for and imagine a miracle we are ____________.
Happiness money can buy:
- colorful mixing bowls
- a pound of bing cherries
- a box of envelopes
- lipstick
Dumb phrases I say to my students:
- Mouths closed, books open
- Being rude is never clever
- Would you like me to discuss this with your parents?
- Perhaps you'd like to rethink your position.
My ideal man is equal parts:
- George Clooney
- George Will
- George Straight
- George Foreman (ha!)
I cry when:
- Someone yells at me.
- I think of my parents getting old.
- the smell freshly cut grass hangs in the twilight air
- I'm really, really tired and am helpless and out of laughter.
08 May 2006
off the rack
You've given it some thought and have decided that you're ready. You look around your life-- at the holes and the threadbare spots, the places that could stand some accesorizing. You measure and jot down your color and size specifications. You start to imagine how much better things will be. You're ready to do this. You know exactly what you want. What you need.
So one bright Saturday morning (possibly in the spring) you grab your list and your wallet and head for the store. This is going to be great. You hum while you walk across the parking lot.
Once inside the store, your heart begins to beat fast and crazy. So many options everywhere. Bright colors and interesting textures. Beautiful fabrics. You can hardly contain yourself. You start to grab things off the racks, dropping and trampling some in the rush to not miss out on the perfect item. Just the thing you're looking for. You'll know what it is when you see it; you've got your list to guide your search.
As the morning goes on, however, your frustration grows. In your excitement you snatch things up, only to find that everything is a little off. Nothing is as great as what you had imagined for yourself. Some things are okay, but nothing is exactly what you had in mind. You toss things back on shelves, throw them carelessly over racks. You want exactly what you want; you won't settle for less.
At the end of the day you go home, empty-handed, to watch TV alone.
2006 SPRING COLLECTION
H: Ivy League educated, good at sports, faulty memory, attractive, incapable of emotional intimacy, can't cook
I: Color blind , strong work ethic, loves kids, obnoxious laugh, cries a lot, rich, bad teeth,
J: Hilarious, takes great vacations, excessive body hair, shares similar values, jealous, bad kisser
K: Well-respected, nice singing voice, estranged from family, beautiful, prone to depression, terrific gardner
L: Life of the party, messy, problem solver, insecure, gives good presents, high maintenance
M: Good thinker, snores, emotionally stable, smoker, poor dresser, socially awkward, generous, possessive
So one bright Saturday morning (possibly in the spring) you grab your list and your wallet and head for the store. This is going to be great. You hum while you walk across the parking lot.
Once inside the store, your heart begins to beat fast and crazy. So many options everywhere. Bright colors and interesting textures. Beautiful fabrics. You can hardly contain yourself. You start to grab things off the racks, dropping and trampling some in the rush to not miss out on the perfect item. Just the thing you're looking for. You'll know what it is when you see it; you've got your list to guide your search.
As the morning goes on, however, your frustration grows. In your excitement you snatch things up, only to find that everything is a little off. Nothing is as great as what you had imagined for yourself. Some things are okay, but nothing is exactly what you had in mind. You toss things back on shelves, throw them carelessly over racks. You want exactly what you want; you won't settle for less.
At the end of the day you go home, empty-handed, to watch TV alone.
2006 SPRING COLLECTION
H: Ivy League educated, good at sports, faulty memory, attractive, incapable of emotional intimacy, can't cook
I: Color blind , strong work ethic, loves kids, obnoxious laugh, cries a lot, rich, bad teeth,
J: Hilarious, takes great vacations, excessive body hair, shares similar values, jealous, bad kisser
K: Well-respected, nice singing voice, estranged from family, beautiful, prone to depression, terrific gardner
L: Life of the party, messy, problem solver, insecure, gives good presents, high maintenance
M: Good thinker, snores, emotionally stable, smoker, poor dresser, socially awkward, generous, possessive
05 May 2006
cinco de mayo
The small apartment building on Grand Avenue has a courtyard always full of shallow puddles and sour smelling flowers. Dirtball, LD and I live on the groundfloor, with a wide window facing out on the comings and goings of our neighbors. Upstairs in apartment E there is Liz --usually strung out and shrieking for her dog (Diego, chihuahua) to stop yipping. She works at American Apparel; when Creeder and I go in and flip lustfully through the racks, Liz doesn't say hi. One night she comes home at 2 am and has it out with her boyfriend on the steps by my bedroom window. I hear her pleading and sobbing (these words aren't really strong enough for the sounds she's making) and then his truck door slams. What false, flimsy barriers we construct I think as I lay there and listen through the wall to her cry and cry for hours, her life unraveling itself 10 feet from my head.
The people next door in apartment A speak Spanish. Through the screen door you can see beds in the living room and, when we sit down and add, we count 9 adults, 2 little kids on rusty tricycles, and a fat baby girl. In San Diego there are certain conculsions you can draw and we draw them, right or wrong. Most of the adults come home in fast food uniforms. Some nights Manuel and Maria put their baby in the stroller and wheel her out to the alley where they stand and talk and drink Mexican beer.
On a Friday afternoon, someone in apartment A pushes the play button and turns up the volume for the first time. Creeder and I have just come back from the beach and we are lying on the couch, laughing. Walking home we'd seen a ridiculous car --a huge BMW--black and big as a boat--the entire thing covered in neon Louis Vuitton decals (like a purse) including the tinted windows. The song plays once, twice, three times, before we let go of the car and the absurdity of this town and begin speculating on why the song is blaring on "repeat 1". We start making hatchmarks on the back of a Chinese menu. We get to 23 and then leave for a party, the song following us down the block.
They play it over and over again. Again and again and again for almost a month. The courtyard fills with this song and and the music spills through the open windows and dooors, into our heads. Liz screams down the stairs that she's calling the landlord. LD tries to translate the lyrics and Dirtball makes up her own. We live our lives on top of it and the song fades into the background.
The music itself sounds like dancing under red lanterns on a hot night. The man's voice is somehow strong and wistful at once. There are high trumpets in fanfare and guitars. It's almost like a waltz. It is a carnival, a funeral, a picnic under a tree. It sounds like a first kiss and unrequited love. Like longing.
The people next door in apartment A speak Spanish. Through the screen door you can see beds in the living room and, when we sit down and add, we count 9 adults, 2 little kids on rusty tricycles, and a fat baby girl. In San Diego there are certain conculsions you can draw and we draw them, right or wrong. Most of the adults come home in fast food uniforms. Some nights Manuel and Maria put their baby in the stroller and wheel her out to the alley where they stand and talk and drink Mexican beer.
On a Friday afternoon, someone in apartment A pushes the play button and turns up the volume for the first time. Creeder and I have just come back from the beach and we are lying on the couch, laughing. Walking home we'd seen a ridiculous car --a huge BMW--black and big as a boat--the entire thing covered in neon Louis Vuitton decals (like a purse) including the tinted windows. The song plays once, twice, three times, before we let go of the car and the absurdity of this town and begin speculating on why the song is blaring on "repeat 1". We start making hatchmarks on the back of a Chinese menu. We get to 23 and then leave for a party, the song following us down the block.
They play it over and over again. Again and again and again for almost a month. The courtyard fills with this song and and the music spills through the open windows and dooors, into our heads. Liz screams down the stairs that she's calling the landlord. LD tries to translate the lyrics and Dirtball makes up her own. We live our lives on top of it and the song fades into the background.
The music itself sounds like dancing under red lanterns on a hot night. The man's voice is somehow strong and wistful at once. There are high trumpets in fanfare and guitars. It's almost like a waltz. It is a carnival, a funeral, a picnic under a tree. It sounds like a first kiss and unrequited love. Like longing.
One morning Creeder and I are tying our shoes for a run when she looks up and asks when the music stopped. Before I can answer someone knocks on the screen door. It is Graciella from next door. and upclose, I can see that her shirt has the Jack-n-the-box logo on it. She hands me a package delivered to her apartment instead of ours and I say gracias. She stands there, though, looking sheepish before finally saying something about music that I don't quite catch. I nod and smile, two skills perfected during my own foreign childhood. She can tell I don't understand so she smiles and turns to cross the courtyard.
It's okay. I know what you're getting at -- where you're trying to go, I want to call after her. Instead I shut the door.
03 May 2006
tomorrow is always fresh with no mistakes
Gilbert Blythe said being smart is better than being pretty.
sunglasses
Some mornings
when I am feeling
particularily leveled
I like to put on sun glasses
and pretend that I am
a movie star
with a life so
sparkling and glamorous
that even the sun
shines in my honor.
when I am feeling
particularily leveled
I like to put on sun glasses
and pretend that I am
a movie star
with a life so
sparkling and glamorous
that even the sun
shines in my honor.
02 May 2006
Poem for May
This perfectly sums it all up.
The Orange
By Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It's new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I'm glad I exist.
The Orange
By Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park
This is peace and contentment. It's new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all my jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I'm glad I exist.
bulgarians
I show my mom the picture I carry around in my notebook. It is of her, very young, holding a baby me, and standing next to my father, who is wearing a powder blue t-shirt that says "JACK". His hair is long and he has a moustache. Apparently, it was okay back then.
Little Rat peers from the back seat. Oh sick... Dad just looks so creepy like that, with that moustache. He looks like he's from Texas. Is he like really a Texican or something?
Little Rat peers from the back seat. Oh sick... Dad just looks so creepy like that, with that moustache. He looks like he's from Texas. Is he like really a Texican or something?
***
You'll be getting some money for graduation, my mom says to A. It would be wise for you to save it to help you get started with your new life.
I know, he answers. I'm planning on using it to buy a white suit.
01 May 2006
the weekend: 3 movements
Dancing Queen
Alan wore a bright red shirt, like me, and said "Don't worry. You can tell everything you need to know about your partner by looking them in the eyes and I've been doing this long enough to know you'll do just fine." He was old, real old, but his grip was firm and sure and boy could he ever spin a girl! When the fiddler stopped, he bowed a little with that old style courtly/country swagger that skipped my whole generation and said "That was lovely. Thank you." He walked away and left me standing there, dizzy and half in love at the end of the first dance.
The long rows of contra dancers ran the length of the whole hall and my friends dotted the crowd --- lowering the average participant age a great deal and significantly upping the style quotient. Throughout the evening I counted 28 sweat bands, 67 pairs of special dancing shoes, and one man, hair cut to look very much like an elf, with a baby strapped to his chest. A quarter of the men were shorter than me, easily, and my fourth partner David (after Will who seemed to be catatonic and set me back a good deal in progress) most likely spends his weekends traveling the Eastern seaboard, going from Renaissance Fair to Renaissance Fair. He was about 6''7 and before he even approached me, I'd pidgeonholed him as a computer programs IT systems analyst "I can really mess with your mainframe" snort snort sort of guy. What the heck, though, right? So, the music starts and I stop thinking about the tye-dyed bandana around his head and simply hang on for dear life. He almost swung me through the stained glass windows two stories up. It was glorious.
Pineapple Queen
While we're painting Mrs. Ford's kitchen, MA asks me me about humor of the absurd and I falter. I'm tired and my brain is still spinning from last night and anyways--I'm trying to concentrate because my mom always points out what an unskilled (putting it nicely) painter I am. My Christmas in April shirt is already covered with freckles of latex. So I don't have a good example for him but the work and conversation continue just the same and the laughter is plentiful and warm.
The house smells like urine and something dead. C and I whisper about this in the kitchen and I make some comment about it being the smell of decaying hope. (These are exactly the sorts of half glib /half poetic statements that fall out of my mouth so easily and make me wish I had a better filter. Balled up papers and plastic bags stuffed into holes in the floor and me and my frivolous self saying ridiculous things). We lean in closer to get a better look, through the grease and grime, at the wallpaper and see that the psychedelic squiggles are really stick figure girls wearing crowns and holding fruit. "I'm so happy to be the lovely, lovely pineapple queen" one girl is saying while the girl with pig tails and a tiara says "Don't you love summer and watermelon. I am the queen." I'm not kidding. So much royalty on four slanted walls.
So the afternoon goes on and we paint and paint and wipe and sweep and talk and laugh and hum a bit, too. I get to know these people a little better. My respect for their knowledge and commitment grows, my affection and thankfulness surge. The fresh white trim makes the rooms seem hopeful. "This is fun" we say to each other.
When it's time for MA and J to take the painter's tape off the wall J says "You know that thing we feared would happen...well, it's come to pass" and we see that the pineapple and watermelon queens are coming off with the tape. I start laughing. And then: suddenly, I have to leave the room because I feel a streak of hysteria coming on, a giant sadness welling up even in moment of joy.
See, the thing is that there are situations (the world of Monty Python) that are funny because of their absurdity--the sheer unlikelihood of their occurrence, the ironic possibilities that form in our detached intellects. And then there is the real world where you find yourself in an absurd situation: painting over decay and pulling pineapple queens off the walls, while floating in a deep deep pool of joy, basking in the incredible love and provision in your own life. Do you laugh or cry in these moments?
Queen of the Warm Smile
for Celeste
Your renewed commitment to
appearing approachable is
quite admirable, I'd say,
knowing as you do, first hand,
the ways that people (boys, mostly, if
we're being frank) take and take
before leaving you to wear
your strapless dress all alone.
If you smile warmly at a stranger
on the bus, and if his shirt
is free from holes-- if his style
gets him through the door at Wonderland--
I hope he notices the way you start to
sing along with the chorus the very first time
you hear a song, how radiant your smile
is in the growing summer light.
Alan wore a bright red shirt, like me, and said "Don't worry. You can tell everything you need to know about your partner by looking them in the eyes and I've been doing this long enough to know you'll do just fine." He was old, real old, but his grip was firm and sure and boy could he ever spin a girl! When the fiddler stopped, he bowed a little with that old style courtly/country swagger that skipped my whole generation and said "That was lovely. Thank you." He walked away and left me standing there, dizzy and half in love at the end of the first dance.
The long rows of contra dancers ran the length of the whole hall and my friends dotted the crowd --- lowering the average participant age a great deal and significantly upping the style quotient. Throughout the evening I counted 28 sweat bands, 67 pairs of special dancing shoes, and one man, hair cut to look very much like an elf, with a baby strapped to his chest. A quarter of the men were shorter than me, easily, and my fourth partner David (after Will who seemed to be catatonic and set me back a good deal in progress) most likely spends his weekends traveling the Eastern seaboard, going from Renaissance Fair to Renaissance Fair. He was about 6''7 and before he even approached me, I'd pidgeonholed him as a computer programs IT systems analyst "I can really mess with your mainframe" snort snort sort of guy. What the heck, though, right? So, the music starts and I stop thinking about the tye-dyed bandana around his head and simply hang on for dear life. He almost swung me through the stained glass windows two stories up. It was glorious.
Pineapple Queen
While we're painting Mrs. Ford's kitchen, MA asks me me about humor of the absurd and I falter. I'm tired and my brain is still spinning from last night and anyways--I'm trying to concentrate because my mom always points out what an unskilled (putting it nicely) painter I am. My Christmas in April shirt is already covered with freckles of latex. So I don't have a good example for him but the work and conversation continue just the same and the laughter is plentiful and warm.
The house smells like urine and something dead. C and I whisper about this in the kitchen and I make some comment about it being the smell of decaying hope. (These are exactly the sorts of half glib /half poetic statements that fall out of my mouth so easily and make me wish I had a better filter. Balled up papers and plastic bags stuffed into holes in the floor and me and my frivolous self saying ridiculous things). We lean in closer to get a better look, through the grease and grime, at the wallpaper and see that the psychedelic squiggles are really stick figure girls wearing crowns and holding fruit. "I'm so happy to be the lovely, lovely pineapple queen" one girl is saying while the girl with pig tails and a tiara says "Don't you love summer and watermelon. I am the queen." I'm not kidding. So much royalty on four slanted walls.
So the afternoon goes on and we paint and paint and wipe and sweep and talk and laugh and hum a bit, too. I get to know these people a little better. My respect for their knowledge and commitment grows, my affection and thankfulness surge. The fresh white trim makes the rooms seem hopeful. "This is fun" we say to each other.
When it's time for MA and J to take the painter's tape off the wall J says "You know that thing we feared would happen...well, it's come to pass" and we see that the pineapple and watermelon queens are coming off with the tape. I start laughing. And then: suddenly, I have to leave the room because I feel a streak of hysteria coming on, a giant sadness welling up even in moment of joy.
See, the thing is that there are situations (the world of Monty Python) that are funny because of their absurdity--the sheer unlikelihood of their occurrence, the ironic possibilities that form in our detached intellects. And then there is the real world where you find yourself in an absurd situation: painting over decay and pulling pineapple queens off the walls, while floating in a deep deep pool of joy, basking in the incredible love and provision in your own life. Do you laugh or cry in these moments?
Queen of the Warm Smile
for Celeste
Your renewed commitment to
appearing approachable is
quite admirable, I'd say,
knowing as you do, first hand,
the ways that people (boys, mostly, if
we're being frank) take and take
before leaving you to wear
your strapless dress all alone.
If you smile warmly at a stranger
on the bus, and if his shirt
is free from holes-- if his style
gets him through the door at Wonderland--
I hope he notices the way you start to
sing along with the chorus the very first time
you hear a song, how radiant your smile
is in the growing summer light.
28 April 2006
someday
A. has been bugging me all week to come up with something to put in his time capsule. He plans to bury this box tonight and draw a map so that someday--ten years from now-- we can discover something about our today selves.
A. is nothing if not persistent. I say no to him so often that when I can, I try to say yes. Even if stopping and examining my current life is the last thing I want to do during this week that has felt like a decade.
My participation in this activity is an act of faith. I am hanging my hope on lines of longitude...if you follow them far enough into the future, everything ends up okay. He will be okay. I will not lose him and he will not lose us. We will dig up the proof and laugh at our silly former selves.
Remember how I was so crazy and angry? he might ask, when he pulls out a page of notes detailing his daily routine (He is the embodiment of OCD), scrawled in his cramped and anxious handwriting that makes me think of the Unabomber.
Being 18 wasn't easy, was it? I'll shrug. Maybe I'm balancing a baby on my hip. Maybe we just buried our faithful old dog.
I'm looking around my life, trying to figure out what to pick out and place in a box in the ground. Today in class we went over similes and metaphors and when I asked for an example, L. said Ms. S, your eyes are as fresh and green as apples. I'd like to remember that moment and the way it stopped me dead in my tracks--not only for the unexpected compliment, but also for the reminder that both poetry and kindness show up everywhere, all the time, if you're open to it.
A. is nothing if not persistent. I say no to him so often that when I can, I try to say yes. Even if stopping and examining my current life is the last thing I want to do during this week that has felt like a decade.
My participation in this activity is an act of faith. I am hanging my hope on lines of longitude...if you follow them far enough into the future, everything ends up okay. He will be okay. I will not lose him and he will not lose us. We will dig up the proof and laugh at our silly former selves.
Remember how I was so crazy and angry? he might ask, when he pulls out a page of notes detailing his daily routine (He is the embodiment of OCD), scrawled in his cramped and anxious handwriting that makes me think of the Unabomber.
Being 18 wasn't easy, was it? I'll shrug. Maybe I'm balancing a baby on my hip. Maybe we just buried our faithful old dog.
I'm looking around my life, trying to figure out what to pick out and place in a box in the ground. Today in class we went over similes and metaphors and when I asked for an example, L. said Ms. S, your eyes are as fresh and green as apples. I'd like to remember that moment and the way it stopped me dead in my tracks--not only for the unexpected compliment, but also for the reminder that both poetry and kindness show up everywhere, all the time, if you're open to it.
27 April 2006
classroom confessions
When P makes fun of other teachers I can't help but laugh and I'm very bad at remembering to take attendence during Study Hall.
If you were my student and asked me to go to the nurse I would probably let you go, even if you'd already been once this week.
Sometimes I am sarcastic in the face of their genuine confusion and most of us are chewing gum, even though RULES are posted everywhere.
If I had a dollar for everytime someone says "We can't read your writing!" I'd be rich enough to retire young. Or hire someone to keep track of all the papers I lose.
I don't always follow through. I throw pop quizzes that the whole class fails in the trashcan on their way out the door. We get off track and end up talking about surfing, childhood nightmares, my imaginary boyfriend in New Jersey almost every day.
Instead of making B show up for lunch detention, I let him play double or nothing --guaranteeing that he either comes to class prepared tomorrow or next week I will pay for my few moments in the sun this afternoon, trapped in my office with an angry boy and his lunch.
I will make you hand over the note you've just stuffed in your book, but chances are, if it says more than Wassup? I am so bored? Friends 4 Eva! Write me back! I will probably hand it back it so you can find out if your four-day relationship is still going strong or if 5th period will mark yet another tradgedy in your narrow world--the very end of life as you know it.
If you were my student and asked me to go to the nurse I would probably let you go, even if you'd already been once this week.
Sometimes I am sarcastic in the face of their genuine confusion and most of us are chewing gum, even though RULES are posted everywhere.
If I had a dollar for everytime someone says "We can't read your writing!" I'd be rich enough to retire young. Or hire someone to keep track of all the papers I lose.
I don't always follow through. I throw pop quizzes that the whole class fails in the trashcan on their way out the door. We get off track and end up talking about surfing, childhood nightmares, my imaginary boyfriend in New Jersey almost every day.
Instead of making B show up for lunch detention, I let him play double or nothing --guaranteeing that he either comes to class prepared tomorrow or next week I will pay for my few moments in the sun this afternoon, trapped in my office with an angry boy and his lunch.
I will make you hand over the note you've just stuffed in your book, but chances are, if it says more than Wassup? I am so bored? Friends 4 Eva! Write me back! I will probably hand it back it so you can find out if your four-day relationship is still going strong or if 5th period will mark yet another tradgedy in your narrow world--the very end of life as you know it.
this much I do remember
By Billy Collins
It was after dinner.
You were talking to me across the table
about something or other,
a greyhound you had seen that day
or a song you liked,
and I was looking past you
over your bare shoulder
at the three oranges lying
on the kitchen counter
next to the small electric bean grinder,
which was also orange,
and the orange and white cruets for vinegar and oil.
All of which converged into a random still life,
so fastened together by the hasp of color,
and so fixed behind the animated
foreground of your talking and smiling,
gesturing and pouring wine,
and the camber of you shoulders
that I could feel it being painted within me,
brushed on the wall of my skull,
while the tone of your voice
lifted and fell in its flight
,and the three oranges remained fixed on the counter
the way that stars are said to be fixed in the universe.
Then all of the moments of the past
began to line up behind that moment
and all of the moments to come
assembled in front of it in a long row,
giving me reason to believe
that this was a moment I had rescued
from millions that rush out of sight
into a darkness behind the eyes.
Even after I have forgotten what year it is,
my middle name, and the meaning of money,
I will still carry in my pocket
the small coin of that moment,
minted in the kingdom
that we pace through every day.
It was after dinner.
You were talking to me across the table
about something or other,
a greyhound you had seen that day
or a song you liked,
and I was looking past you
over your bare shoulder
at the three oranges lying
on the kitchen counter
next to the small electric bean grinder,
which was also orange,
and the orange and white cruets for vinegar and oil.
All of which converged into a random still life,
so fastened together by the hasp of color,
and so fixed behind the animated
foreground of your talking and smiling,
gesturing and pouring wine,
and the camber of you shoulders
that I could feel it being painted within me,
brushed on the wall of my skull,
while the tone of your voice
lifted and fell in its flight
,and the three oranges remained fixed on the counter
the way that stars are said to be fixed in the universe.
Then all of the moments of the past
began to line up behind that moment
and all of the moments to come
assembled in front of it in a long row,
giving me reason to believe
that this was a moment I had rescued
from millions that rush out of sight
into a darkness behind the eyes.
Even after I have forgotten what year it is,
my middle name, and the meaning of money,
I will still carry in my pocket
the small coin of that moment,
minted in the kingdom
that we pace through every day.
26 April 2006
handle with care
Little Rat finds a flashlight and walks me to my small house on dark nights when there is no moon. Brothers have to take care of sisters he says, and then pats me on the back real hard and fast and calls me "Kathy" because he knows both those things drive me up the wall.
I tell myself and others that I am just fine but my body is registering high anxiety on a cellular level. Isn't it funny how something intangible, existing only in the air and moments between us, can affect you right down to the marrow, literally. I've developed a twitch. I can't sleep.
There was a package waiting for me yesterday--filled with good things from G. who is exquisite, impeccable. The best part was Jenny Lewis's cover of Handle with Care. I suggest you listen to this song if you're not already humming it to yourself while waiting for the elevator.
4 boys have asked me to the 8th grade dance. They are tall and short, shy and funny, 2 B's, a C and a D. If only I could find the perfect dress.
Norman the cow stood in the rain and bellowed all night. This morning the hair on his flat head stood straight up like a mowhawk. On my way to school I rolled down the window and reminded him that it's going to be okay.
All the irises are open. The whole world is purple and green and delicate.
I tell myself and others that I am just fine but my body is registering high anxiety on a cellular level. Isn't it funny how something intangible, existing only in the air and moments between us, can affect you right down to the marrow, literally. I've developed a twitch. I can't sleep.
There was a package waiting for me yesterday--filled with good things from G. who is exquisite, impeccable. The best part was Jenny Lewis's cover of Handle with Care. I suggest you listen to this song if you're not already humming it to yourself while waiting for the elevator.
4 boys have asked me to the 8th grade dance. They are tall and short, shy and funny, 2 B's, a C and a D. If only I could find the perfect dress.
Norman the cow stood in the rain and bellowed all night. This morning the hair on his flat head stood straight up like a mowhawk. On my way to school I rolled down the window and reminded him that it's going to be okay.
All the irises are open. The whole world is purple and green and delicate.
24 April 2006
important distinction
She stops to tie her running shoe by the wide ditch. Crouched down, she can not see the large, black dog (she is bad with breeds) flying through the field, headed straight for her back. An arrow and a target. A date with destiny in the bottom of a ditch.
In the next instant there is a man standing over her. And he is gorgeous (no, seriously--he looks like George Clooney) and smiling as he pulls her up by her sweaty elbow. I'm sorry Miss. I hope Buck here didn't do any permanent damage. (no, seriously--these are the exact words that come out of his mouth).
Now, you tell me: is there truth in fiction? Does life imitate art (always poorly) or is it the other way around?
Does he invite her in, pick the gravel from her palms and bandage her scraped knee? Does he offer a glass of wine to go along with their witty banter? Do they live happily ever after--you know the drill--as they would in a romance novel (or even some place as filled with cliches as say...San Diego)?
In the next instant there is a man standing over her. And he is gorgeous (no, seriously--he looks like George Clooney) and smiling as he pulls her up by her sweaty elbow. I'm sorry Miss. I hope Buck here didn't do any permanent damage. (no, seriously--these are the exact words that come out of his mouth).
Now, you tell me: is there truth in fiction? Does life imitate art (always poorly) or is it the other way around?
Does he invite her in, pick the gravel from her palms and bandage her scraped knee? Does he offer a glass of wine to go along with their witty banter? Do they live happily ever after--you know the drill--as they would in a romance novel (or even some place as filled with cliches as say...San Diego)?
or
Does she give a cheery No problem (even as he is turning around and walking away from her, his big black dog bounding along beside him), wipe Old Buck's drool from her face, and wince along the next two miles , trying to convince herself that her tailbone is not broken the whole way home.
alphabetical order
Allergies: full blown.
Busywork, corporal punishment, military school...I'm starting to believe in their value.
Can't find my journal and am starting to panic.
Diet coke.
Everything is funny when you're this tired.
Fire drill first period. Pretended that the thick fog was actually smoke.
G. is wearing red today. I am wearing pink. This is not usual.
Hey Jude.
It sounded different inside my own head.
Just kidding!
Kathryn! Get ahold of yourself.
Little Rat is looking for some good pick-up lines. Got any?
Midsummer Night's Dream is a nightmare.
Now what?
Over me? When were you under me?
Passing notes in class isn't much different from emailing your best friend all day, is it?
Q without U = error. Let Q = you; let U = me.
Remember when...?
Sheets of interesting postage stamps make me happy.
Teach us to care and not to care; teach us to sit still. - ts eliot
Useless information - I wish I could delete it from my brain.
Violet & Eva play on the shore while their mothers drink lemonade & gin and remember.
What's the point of this assignment Ms. Smizzle?
Xenon - one molecule or so in every 20 million molecules of air
Yes. Just say Yes.
Zip your lips.
Busywork, corporal punishment, military school...I'm starting to believe in their value.
Can't find my journal and am starting to panic.
Diet coke.
Everything is funny when you're this tired.
Fire drill first period. Pretended that the thick fog was actually smoke.
G. is wearing red today. I am wearing pink. This is not usual.
Hey Jude.
It sounded different inside my own head.
Just kidding!
Kathryn! Get ahold of yourself.
Little Rat is looking for some good pick-up lines. Got any?
Midsummer Night's Dream is a nightmare.
Now what?
Over me? When were you under me?
Passing notes in class isn't much different from emailing your best friend all day, is it?
Q without U = error. Let Q = you; let U = me.
Remember when...?
Sheets of interesting postage stamps make me happy.
Teach us to care and not to care; teach us to sit still. - ts eliot
Useless information - I wish I could delete it from my brain.
Violet & Eva play on the shore while their mothers drink lemonade & gin and remember.
What's the point of this assignment Ms. Smizzle?
Xenon - one molecule or so in every 20 million molecules of air
Yes. Just say Yes.
Zip your lips.
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