I have always been very good at tests. My ACT scores landed me 12 grand in scholarships. I averaged over 700 on my GREs. I have NEVER failed a pregnancy test.
And best of all, now I get to add another credential to my repertoire:
I PASSED MY FIRST FIELD SOBRIETY TEST.
I wonder how much it will cost for them to send me my scores? I would have asked the officer at the time but I REALLY HAD TO PEE.
\ There is no such thing as moonlight
I always imagined that if I could untwist the words in my head at the exact moment they were needed I could come across as a goddamned poet, but the thoughts at the time always seem to float to the surface of the stagnant water like ambergris, leaving me no choice but perseveration til I can get home, process the gray clumps to be used as fixatives for perfumatory recollections, various details simultaneously filled in and left out, depending on how I want to relive the memory. Mostly, I just want to relive it.
My conflict is usually trying to decide whether I’m more sorrowful for the words I said or the words I didn’t; in their raw form I imagine my luck runs the way of the horoscope hacks that augur our destinies in the reflections of the moonlight, which is telling because the moonlight is in fact the sunlight. Moonlight doesn’t exist, and all the poems and sonatas need redaction.
Acclimatization must be the evolutionary trait that keeps our race running, because I am sitting here buzzing, not willing to lift a finger for anything other than to draw soul patches on the side, lift it to my bottom lip and wonder aloud what kind of cruel, unkissed bureaucrat came up with the idea to close a park at the exact time it should remain open.
Today, I feel like a giant among wine.
My conflict is usually trying to decide whether I’m more sorrowful for the words I said or the words I didn’t; in their raw form I imagine my luck runs the way of the horoscope hacks that augur our destinies in the reflections of the moonlight, which is telling because the moonlight is in fact the sunlight. Moonlight doesn’t exist, and all the poems and sonatas need redaction.
Acclimatization must be the evolutionary trait that keeps our race running, because I am sitting here buzzing, not willing to lift a finger for anything other than to draw soul patches on the side, lift it to my bottom lip and wonder aloud what kind of cruel, unkissed bureaucrat came up with the idea to close a park at the exact time it should remain open.
Today, I feel like a giant among wine.
three hole punch
I think I am friendly fire, collateral damage and forlorn, all in one, a victim of the policies made to inhibit others, like in third grade, it wasn’t me, it wasn’t me talking, it was Gina Heidelberg, she was looking at me in a way that DEMANDED I TALK OUT OF TURN, and who was it palms against the wall 20 minutes later expecting the worst that a six-hole paddle could offer from Mr. B.? I don’t have to dignify that with a response.
It was me, goddamnit.
The fact that I can remember the name of my third grade girlfriend speaks volumes of picture-book literature, fine, bi- and sometimes even TRI-syllabic words reinforced with rudimentary drawings, and simple rhyme schemes. Bad is to sad as glad is to fad. Happiness is fleeting, that’s what all my lessons were.
Today in a related story, I done killed another editor at Barnes & Noble, a young girl named Lindsay, and it’s too bad, cause we were on the same page. Once, when I needed to check my contract for a CONFLICT O’INTEREST, I wrote:
I'll take a look at my contract, but it's full of words and stuff, and I have what appears to be a half empty bottle of sour apple schnapps in front of me at the moment, leading me to believe I should hold off on heavy reading until at least tomorrow. Maybe even Tuesday.
And she wrote back how she RESPECTED me for even making the attempt, what with the siren-like call of sour apple schnapps within my starboard port.
But today, she was totally, “AH AM NO LONGER GONNA TO BE THERE AFTER FRIDAY.” Which is common editor-speak for saying, “AH AM NO LONGER THERE NOW, REALLY, IF YOU THINK ABOOT IT. I’M GONE. IF YOU REALLY NEED ME, GO AHEAD AND CALL, BUT DO SO WITH THE UNDERSTANDING THAT I WON’T PICK UP. WRITE WHATEVER YOU WANT. YOU CAN EVEN MAKE THE FIRST LETTER OF EACH WORD IN YOUR INTRODUCTION SPELL OUT YOUR DARKEST CONFESSION, FOR WHAT I’M CONCERNED.
BEST.”
She had asked me an odd question just ere to dumping me, “DO YOU WANT TO MAKE HARDCOPY EDITS, OR DO SO ELECTRONICALLY?”
And I had replied, “YOU MEAN, LIKE WRITE IN THE BOOK? WON’T THAT GET ME LIBRARY DETENTION?”
I would have gladly taken corporal punishment for this one. Because I never grew up past the 4th grade, I think that’s the most profound compliment I could ever pay a girl.
According to school yard rumor, the principal wielded a paddle with NO holes.
According to bathroom rumor, however, he smacked you with it sideways.
Few girls are worth that.
It was me, goddamnit.
The fact that I can remember the name of my third grade girlfriend speaks volumes of picture-book literature, fine, bi- and sometimes even TRI-syllabic words reinforced with rudimentary drawings, and simple rhyme schemes. Bad is to sad as glad is to fad. Happiness is fleeting, that’s what all my lessons were.
Today in a related story, I done killed another editor at Barnes & Noble, a young girl named Lindsay, and it’s too bad, cause we were on the same page. Once, when I needed to check my contract for a CONFLICT O’INTEREST, I wrote:
I'll take a look at my contract, but it's full of words and stuff, and I have what appears to be a half empty bottle of sour apple schnapps in front of me at the moment, leading me to believe I should hold off on heavy reading until at least tomorrow. Maybe even Tuesday.
And she wrote back how she RESPECTED me for even making the attempt, what with the siren-like call of sour apple schnapps within my starboard port.
But today, she was totally, “AH AM NO LONGER GONNA TO BE THERE AFTER FRIDAY.” Which is common editor-speak for saying, “AH AM NO LONGER THERE NOW, REALLY, IF YOU THINK ABOOT IT. I’M GONE. IF YOU REALLY NEED ME, GO AHEAD AND CALL, BUT DO SO WITH THE UNDERSTANDING THAT I WON’T PICK UP. WRITE WHATEVER YOU WANT. YOU CAN EVEN MAKE THE FIRST LETTER OF EACH WORD IN YOUR INTRODUCTION SPELL OUT YOUR DARKEST CONFESSION, FOR WHAT I’M CONCERNED.
BEST.”
She had asked me an odd question just ere to dumping me, “DO YOU WANT TO MAKE HARDCOPY EDITS, OR DO SO ELECTRONICALLY?”
And I had replied, “YOU MEAN, LIKE WRITE IN THE BOOK? WON’T THAT GET ME LIBRARY DETENTION?”
I would have gladly taken corporal punishment for this one. Because I never grew up past the 4th grade, I think that’s the most profound compliment I could ever pay a girl.
According to school yard rumor, the principal wielded a paddle with NO holes.
According to bathroom rumor, however, he smacked you with it sideways.
Few girls are worth that.
i hate big warm blankets, too
i own one coat. i always forget it. all along the drive i think about what's missing, and because the habit hasn't set in, i don't know what it is.
i remember it because i'm remembering a tiny rose vial i found in a burnt out barrel near the train tracks where i grew up. i remember because when i brush the ashes off, the glass is still warm and smells like cedar.
it frustrates me because now i've got no coat, and i know for a fact that when i get home i'm going to turn through every box in the garage looking for that goddamned vial, thinking that there is some purpose there, but knowing, more than anything else, that the bottle isn't anywhere in the house.
all these choices, such beautiful choices.
i'm only out of the car for a few moments and the weather has turned balmy, decidedly uncoatlike, and still it's like i wore it with no shirt, and the wool is chafing my neck like an unfortunate incident. i hate coats. god, i hate them.
in third grade, mrs. armstrong called westley up to the front of the class. she told him to take his coat off. he said no. she forcefully unzipped it, right there in front of us all, 7 and 8 year olds alike. he didn't have a shirt because he was train track poor. she said he had to go home and he cussed at her, and in those days the classes had water fountains and bars of soap built right into the architecture, they did. that they did. god bless em, one and all. i think that little kid probably spent a lot of his dreams running through molasses.
i run hot and cold, most days.
i remember it because i'm remembering a tiny rose vial i found in a burnt out barrel near the train tracks where i grew up. i remember because when i brush the ashes off, the glass is still warm and smells like cedar.
it frustrates me because now i've got no coat, and i know for a fact that when i get home i'm going to turn through every box in the garage looking for that goddamned vial, thinking that there is some purpose there, but knowing, more than anything else, that the bottle isn't anywhere in the house.
all these choices, such beautiful choices.
i'm only out of the car for a few moments and the weather has turned balmy, decidedly uncoatlike, and still it's like i wore it with no shirt, and the wool is chafing my neck like an unfortunate incident. i hate coats. god, i hate them.
in third grade, mrs. armstrong called westley up to the front of the class. she told him to take his coat off. he said no. she forcefully unzipped it, right there in front of us all, 7 and 8 year olds alike. he didn't have a shirt because he was train track poor. she said he had to go home and he cussed at her, and in those days the classes had water fountains and bars of soap built right into the architecture, they did. that they did. god bless em, one and all. i think that little kid probably spent a lot of his dreams running through molasses.
i run hot and cold, most days.
blue blue blue
I called yesterday, out of the blue blue blue, and he said, "You know your mother's not home?"
"Yup."
"Sure, come over." The happiness in an old man's voice elicits a pity that goes against everything we know to be right. It scares me, that I might grow soft even to the point of rolling my eyes, forget about it all, maybe even do some bad things myself today and ask for forgiveness on Tuesday, practice my geriatrics.
I left so many strings untied last year, gave myself a great big unwrapped box full of loose ends, deceived myself with a tangled weblog, re-woven. Tried to take up some new habits and old hobbies. My habits are nail-biting, my hobbies are not collecting stamps and coins. It is a small, manageable collection.
I went to pick up a small boat. He had given it away to a neighbor. He pretended that he had forgotten this, said he had beer in the fridge, and we walked around the property, feeding the ducks and goats and geese. He told me about a call he responded to earlier in the day, a 31 year old woman, extremely overweight, had collapsed. He drove the ambulance to the house and started CPR, had the other volunteers take their positions while he hooked up the defibrillator. Analyzed once. No shock advised. Analyzed twice. She's been dead for too long to waste any battery now.
"When I got outside, her son looked at me and said, 'Can you try one more time? She's a good mom.' I didn't know what to say."
Visiting estranged parents is like this. My mom, in Kansas City, called while I was there. I don't want them to be lonely, or to need me, not just yet, not before I'm ready. To make decisions for their twilight. I do everything I can to make my time here short. Don't go to the doctor. Smoke and drink. Fall in love. And still I go to bed early. Wake up and take pictures of the birds.
"What are those?"
"Grosbeaks."
"Do they mate for life?"
"I dunno. Most I ever seen em mate for was three to five minutes."
My hands are so bloodied and scarred in the summer. Between crab pots and fish hooks and crawdad traps and broken bottles and oyster shells and bluebird houses and swimmer's itch and getting drunk and pulling the blackberries up by hand, a spot behind the fence where I sneak away to smoke a cigarette, it's like before, just waiting to get on to the next day. Oh my god, what a big deal I make of all this. And oh my god, what a big deal it really is.
"Did you try again?"
He hands me another beer, and I don't remember his answer, but I know. Of course not. The woman was dead, but a little kid asks you, and you fake it, if you have any human in you at all.
It's just that he never had any human in him all these years, and now, all of a sudden? I don't like it. I don't like it because there's nothing you can do but accept it and offer forgiveness, regardless of the accounting. There ain't no fine I can levy for all that happened before. I accept it now and take the high road, or say 'no' and stumble down the low. Just living's the road to redemption? Throw yourself on your goddamned sword if you're gonna be all noble now, I think. This is a chickenshit way out. Don't tug at my heartstrings 'cause you can no longer throw me through the wall. God. I can't believe I love my dad. I should be smarter than that.
Weeks now, every day I take my kids to the lake and we walk in up to our knees, I feel like it's the closest I got them to religion, and am barely tempted to dunk their little heads beneath and praise the lord, but I didn't bring the beach towels again. I don't want to fill their little minds with inconsistent beliefs. I made them in my image. I don't want them to ever feel perfect.
"What did you say to him, then?"
He hands me another beer. "Did Tristan have a good time today?"
"He did. He loves the water. I had to lie to him just to get him to get out."
"What did you say to him?"
God, what do I tell him?
"Yup."
"Sure, come over." The happiness in an old man's voice elicits a pity that goes against everything we know to be right. It scares me, that I might grow soft even to the point of rolling my eyes, forget about it all, maybe even do some bad things myself today and ask for forgiveness on Tuesday, practice my geriatrics.
I left so many strings untied last year, gave myself a great big unwrapped box full of loose ends, deceived myself with a tangled weblog, re-woven. Tried to take up some new habits and old hobbies. My habits are nail-biting, my hobbies are not collecting stamps and coins. It is a small, manageable collection.
I went to pick up a small boat. He had given it away to a neighbor. He pretended that he had forgotten this, said he had beer in the fridge, and we walked around the property, feeding the ducks and goats and geese. He told me about a call he responded to earlier in the day, a 31 year old woman, extremely overweight, had collapsed. He drove the ambulance to the house and started CPR, had the other volunteers take their positions while he hooked up the defibrillator. Analyzed once. No shock advised. Analyzed twice. She's been dead for too long to waste any battery now.
"When I got outside, her son looked at me and said, 'Can you try one more time? She's a good mom.' I didn't know what to say."
Visiting estranged parents is like this. My mom, in Kansas City, called while I was there. I don't want them to be lonely, or to need me, not just yet, not before I'm ready. To make decisions for their twilight. I do everything I can to make my time here short. Don't go to the doctor. Smoke and drink. Fall in love. And still I go to bed early. Wake up and take pictures of the birds.
"What are those?"
"Grosbeaks."
"Do they mate for life?"
"I dunno. Most I ever seen em mate for was three to five minutes."
My hands are so bloodied and scarred in the summer. Between crab pots and fish hooks and crawdad traps and broken bottles and oyster shells and bluebird houses and swimmer's itch and getting drunk and pulling the blackberries up by hand, a spot behind the fence where I sneak away to smoke a cigarette, it's like before, just waiting to get on to the next day. Oh my god, what a big deal I make of all this. And oh my god, what a big deal it really is.
"Did you try again?"
He hands me another beer, and I don't remember his answer, but I know. Of course not. The woman was dead, but a little kid asks you, and you fake it, if you have any human in you at all.
It's just that he never had any human in him all these years, and now, all of a sudden? I don't like it. I don't like it because there's nothing you can do but accept it and offer forgiveness, regardless of the accounting. There ain't no fine I can levy for all that happened before. I accept it now and take the high road, or say 'no' and stumble down the low. Just living's the road to redemption? Throw yourself on your goddamned sword if you're gonna be all noble now, I think. This is a chickenshit way out. Don't tug at my heartstrings 'cause you can no longer throw me through the wall. God. I can't believe I love my dad. I should be smarter than that.
Weeks now, every day I take my kids to the lake and we walk in up to our knees, I feel like it's the closest I got them to religion, and am barely tempted to dunk their little heads beneath and praise the lord, but I didn't bring the beach towels again. I don't want to fill their little minds with inconsistent beliefs. I made them in my image. I don't want them to ever feel perfect.
"What did you say to him, then?"
He hands me another beer. "Did Tristan have a good time today?"
"He did. He loves the water. I had to lie to him just to get him to get out."
"What did you say to him?"
God, what do I tell him?
Penny
I buy a 75 cent menthol cigarette, handing her a dollar bill, but as she begins to return to me a quarter, I wave my hand, saying, 'No thanks, I'm afraid of change.'
once more
i really liked that boy. we would drink and smoke and talk about girls and fishing and golf. he got stung by a bee today. they found him dead in his car, on his way to the hospital.
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