contrary to the going wisdom, you CAN IN FACT make the following kind of stuff up, it's just that people would throw rocks if they thought your mind worked that way.
cue the, um, scene:
THIS STORY IS TITLED, MY MOM CALLED ME TODAY ON THE TELEPHONE AND ASKED ME A QUESTION
by
BRANDON OANA (née ROGERS)
'HEY THIS MIGHT SOUND KIND OF GROSS, BUT DO YOU WANT SOME SHOES?'
/thinks to self 'don't ask don't tell don't ask don't tell'
'UM. UMMM. UMMMMMMM.' ugh 'WHAT'S THE STORY?' (i told you not to ask. to not ask. as in do not ask.)
'WELL, YOUR FATHER ATTENDED A FUNERAL AND GOT ALL OF THE DEAD MAN'S SHOES. HE IS TAKING ALL OF THE NINE AND A HALFS, AND WANTS TO KNOW IF YOU WANT THE NINES.'
(i told you not to ask. to not ask. as in why did you ask?)
'UM. I HAVE PLENTY OF SHOES ALREADY, I GUESS.' (fortunately, this is true, because while lying is merely bad, lying to your pre-senile mother is a sin against jesus, mary and the prophets. except judas. if judas hadn't hanged hisself, he'd a probably lied to his mother for 5 shekels.)
'THERE ARE LOTS OF THEM. HIKING SHOES, RUNNING SHOES, WALKING SHOES...' (goes on to list all the types of shoes that exist.)
'I'M GOOD, REALLY.' (notgood)
'HE'S BEEN GETTING A LOT OF SINGING GIGS AT FUNERALS LATELY! HE'S BEEN REALLY EXCITED!'
'YEAH, HUH? UH, I, UH, HOPE THAT PEOPLE KEEP DYING THEN.' (??!?)
'PETE AND BILL HAVE ALREADY ASKED IF HE'D SING AT THEIR FUNERALS!'
'WELL, UH, GREAT. I BET THEY, UH, HAVE LOTS OF NICE SHOES, TOO.' (dibs on the dead man's pillowcases, is what i wish'd i'd said)
\ a poem i started then stopped just as quick
the thrill of the unexpected breeze, is found in memories of pain that now choose to sing, and disappointment in the well-planned storm, rises too quickly, like awkward hands against your back. faith has always been a poor substitute for wonder, and looking up into a sky at the end of a day, i would rather ask, 'Isn't it?,' than answer, 'It is.'
or spend a day with someone who loves the land in ways you have yet to imagine. you see it as vast and unwielding, and she spreads her arms as far they will reach, 'We must protect it.' you say, 'It was here in the beginning, and will be after we've gone.' she says, 'It is fleeting, and fragile. Isn't it?,' and you would eventually agree, 'It is.'
or spend a day with someone who loves the land in ways you have yet to imagine. you see it as vast and unwielding, and she spreads her arms as far they will reach, 'We must protect it.' you say, 'It was here in the beginning, and will be after we've gone.' she says, 'It is fleeting, and fragile. Isn't it?,' and you would eventually agree, 'It is.'
/ cognitive zomgity
you ever dream you are having sex and when you wake up, you find that you ARE INDEED having sex? is there a word to describe that brief phenomenon where your brain is trying to comprehend the situation, connect the unreal with the for reals? is it like when people tell you about time travel, they always warn, 'IF YOU RUN INTO THE YOUNGER VERSION OF YOURSELF IN THE PAST, DO NOT LET THE YOUNGER PERSON SEE YOU!' why aren't you supposed to talk with the younger you, anyway? is it because he'd be disappointed???
but the problem with waking up from a sex dream to actual sex is not disappointment, but rather the funny faces you make as you try to figure out just what in the hell is going on. i would imagine that to a bystander you might seem to be confused, lost, and in some deal of pain, an effect doubled if the bystander is your mother-in-law emerging from a dream in which she is taking a long walk only to wake up and discover she is indeed taking a long walk. i bet that's like identical twins going back into the past and accidentally bumping into their younger selves during that one time when they switched identities in order to play a prank on the principal.
for lack of a better term, i have been referring to the phenomenon of waking from a sex dream into actual real life dreamy sex and the resulting confusion as cognitive zomgity. though, i am eager to find out what the REAL word is rather than go years with my own name, and then realize at an embarrassing moment that scientists already call THAT something, and what they call it is perineum and not chode, which i further embarrassed myself by swearing it was a derivative from the french word for HOT.
i once experienced cognitive zomgity in san jose when a girl i had been thinking about slipped a note underneath my door. the look on my face was a mixture of confusion and HOPE.
i should probably stop fantasizing about hotel staff.
but the problem with waking up from a sex dream to actual sex is not disappointment, but rather the funny faces you make as you try to figure out just what in the hell is going on. i would imagine that to a bystander you might seem to be confused, lost, and in some deal of pain, an effect doubled if the bystander is your mother-in-law emerging from a dream in which she is taking a long walk only to wake up and discover she is indeed taking a long walk. i bet that's like identical twins going back into the past and accidentally bumping into their younger selves during that one time when they switched identities in order to play a prank on the principal.
for lack of a better term, i have been referring to the phenomenon of waking from a sex dream into actual real life dreamy sex and the resulting confusion as cognitive zomgity. though, i am eager to find out what the REAL word is rather than go years with my own name, and then realize at an embarrassing moment that scientists already call THAT something, and what they call it is perineum and not chode, which i further embarrassed myself by swearing it was a derivative from the french word for HOT.
i once experienced cognitive zomgity in san jose when a girl i had been thinking about slipped a note underneath my door. the look on my face was a mixture of confusion and HOPE.
i should probably stop fantasizing about hotel staff.
\ dissonance
some days i experience the fear of not getting cancer, because of the time it gives you to prepare, unlike the usual means to our ends, heart attacks and strokes and steep falls and just plain old forgetting you ever existed, and then vanish into thin air or perhaps in column of smoke and fire, the only evidence a half smoked cigarette and a bit of the bedspread. they teach you in wildland fires to fight from the black, the fire safest from where it began, the spread slow and steady. i almost never fear being killed by septicemia, the tenth leading cause of death nationwide, one that gives you no time to rehearse your final words, change the passwords on your email accounts, say something mean to your mother.
i remember there used to be, or seemed to be, more of those dreadful insurance commercials, the ones that heaped mountains of responsibility upon your already sagging shoulders, and it would take all the fun away from planning out your demise, the one-liners you would write into your obituary, the funny places you would direct your executor to sprinkle bits of your ashes, the bizarre stipulations you would place upon your children if they wanted to see one dime of their meager inheritance.
but for some reason, i don't see the old meaning in familiar sights and sounds, and when i think of walking through the snow, i feel burning, when i ponder my accomplishments, i experience pride, when i look at old photos, it is oddly reminiscent of happiness.
i am in a good place these days, and this has made it impossible to plan for the future.
i remember there used to be, or seemed to be, more of those dreadful insurance commercials, the ones that heaped mountains of responsibility upon your already sagging shoulders, and it would take all the fun away from planning out your demise, the one-liners you would write into your obituary, the funny places you would direct your executor to sprinkle bits of your ashes, the bizarre stipulations you would place upon your children if they wanted to see one dime of their meager inheritance.
but for some reason, i don't see the old meaning in familiar sights and sounds, and when i think of walking through the snow, i feel burning, when i ponder my accomplishments, i experience pride, when i look at old photos, it is oddly reminiscent of happiness.
i am in a good place these days, and this has made it impossible to plan for the future.
/ law of attraction
EARLIER IN THE YEAR I wanted to teach my son about relations between men and women people and other people, and TO MY DETRIMENT I completely neglected the LAW, because if there is one person more concerned than me about the sexual health of my child, it is Uncle Sam, and who better to teach you about your private parts THAN YOUR UNMARRIED UNCLE WHO LIVES IN THAT HOUSE ON THE CORNER WITH ALL THOSE OTHER MEN?
All the diagrams in the world of vulvas and improvised contraceptive devices mean very little if they are not backed up by the full faith and credit of the United States government. Why, just the other day, I read about a 33-year-old woman in Utah who had sexual relations with a 16-year-old boy (apparently UNCLE-less), and lost her job! She obviously didn't know that in the state of Utah, the legal age for getting married is, uh, well, it looks like according to the law in Utah, as long as you have parental/court consent, you can get married as young as 14.
Hmmm. But as many couples know, MARRIAGE =/= (does not equal) SEX. So I guess this is okay. In Utah, you can get married when you are 14. But you cannot have sex until 4 years later. And as everyone knows, 4 years is not very long in the grand scheme of things. After all, as many Kansans will point out, the Earth is at least 2,000 years old.
Still, the law is a fickle mistress, and like many mistresses, goes by different names depending upon her P.O. box. Why, just the other day a woman in Texas was arrested for sex with a 13-year-old boy (although, to be fair, when I lived in Texas, me and my friends referred to any 13-year-old who had sex with his teacher as a MAN). Had she only waited a few more months when he turned 14, the only reason she would have needed to appear in court would have been to sign the marriage license and throw the bouquet at the rest of the soccer team.
I was born in Arkansas, and I must admit even I am ill-prepared to teach the government approved sex curriculum in my native state, as just the other day a woman by the name of Monica Ann Cluck was arrested for having sex with a 17-year-old choir boy (I KNOW! THAT'S WHERE THAT SAYING COMES FROM! HE'S NO CHOIRBOY. HE'S A CHOIRMAN...). Sadly, had Ms. Cluck gone through the necessary, though awkward, legal proceeding of acquiring a parental note from the choirboy's mother, she could have LEGALLY married and consummated her lessons. Relationships between people is all in the details, as they say. iPod with headphone splitter? CHECK. Condom? CHECK. Parental consent with Notary Public? Umm, maybe we should just watch Nick at Nite...
Leaving out the role of the federal government when it comes to sex likely hurt me and my child in other ways, NAMELY OUR CHECKBOOK. Because having worked in the field of higher education all these years, I of allmen people should be fully aware that the government actually PAYS its young people to get married. Really! When you complete the Free Application for Federal Student Aid (FAFSA), you are required to list your parents' assets, which will reduce the amount of financial aid you receive. UNLESS YOU ARE MARRIED. KA-CHING.
This is a financial and emotional boon for those of you who make ten million dollars per year and are concerned about the high cost of a college education. SIMPLY SIGN THAT PARENTAL CONSENT FORM AND YOUR NEWLY MARRIED 17-YEAR-OLD WILL HAVE HER ENTIRE SCHOOLING PAID FOR BY YOUR FELLOW TAXPAYERS.
Now I cannot wait until my daughter is a little older, because in many states, the legal age for marriage is actually LOWER for girls than for boys (because as we ALL know, girls are more mature than boys), with parental consent (Arkansas, Mississippi, New Hampshire, Iran). And what proud papa wouldn't be even prouder to look fondly upon his daughter and say, I KNEW YOU WERE MORE RESPONSIBLE THAN YOUR OLDER BROTHER, AND YOUR GOVERNMENT AGREES WITH WHOM? ME! THAT'S RIGHT! ME! HAHAHAHAHAHA! Now go consummate this son of a bitch and deliver your daddy a Pell Grant.
Ugh.
By the way, since we have written laws to govern the minimum age of marital consent, I am now trying to find out what laws govern the minimum age of actually having children, just so I don't miss any more details in my next sex talk.
(ed. note-Apparently, you can legally BE pregnant at any age. In fact, if you happen to get pregnant at 10 years of age, not only are you allowed to legally marry in North Carolina, but you will be well on your way towards a Pell Grant! Yay! It pays to play, player!)
UGH
If only someone had been there to teach ME these subtleties of the law, because I only escaped by virtue of dumb luck. We were engaged when I was 21 and Alex was 18, and the delay was fortunate, because when trying to answer that common interview question about your biggest fault? There is NO real good way to spin statutory rape.
Not without a firm grasp of state and local laws, anyways.
All the diagrams in the world of vulvas and improvised contraceptive devices mean very little if they are not backed up by the full faith and credit of the United States government. Why, just the other day, I read about a 33-year-old woman in Utah who had sexual relations with a 16-year-old boy (apparently UNCLE-less), and lost her job! She obviously didn't know that in the state of Utah, the legal age for getting married is, uh, well, it looks like according to the law in Utah, as long as you have parental/court consent, you can get married as young as 14.
Hmmm. But as many couples know, MARRIAGE =/= (does not equal) SEX. So I guess this is okay. In Utah, you can get married when you are 14. But you cannot have sex until 4 years later. And as everyone knows, 4 years is not very long in the grand scheme of things. After all, as many Kansans will point out, the Earth is at least 2,000 years old.
Still, the law is a fickle mistress, and like many mistresses, goes by different names depending upon her P.O. box. Why, just the other day a woman in Texas was arrested for sex with a 13-year-old boy (although, to be fair, when I lived in Texas, me and my friends referred to any 13-year-old who had sex with his teacher as a MAN). Had she only waited a few more months when he turned 14, the only reason she would have needed to appear in court would have been to sign the marriage license and throw the bouquet at the rest of the soccer team.
I was born in Arkansas, and I must admit even I am ill-prepared to teach the government approved sex curriculum in my native state, as just the other day a woman by the name of Monica Ann Cluck was arrested for having sex with a 17-year-old choir boy (I KNOW! THAT'S WHERE THAT SAYING COMES FROM! HE'S NO CHOIRBOY. HE'S A CHOIRMAN...). Sadly, had Ms. Cluck gone through the necessary, though awkward, legal proceeding of acquiring a parental note from the choirboy's mother, she could have LEGALLY married and consummated her lessons. Relationships between people is all in the details, as they say. iPod with headphone splitter? CHECK. Condom? CHECK. Parental consent with Notary Public? Umm, maybe we should just watch Nick at Nite...
Leaving out the role of the federal government when it comes to sex likely hurt me and my child in other ways, NAMELY OUR CHECKBOOK. Because having worked in the field of higher education all these years, I of all
This is a financial and emotional boon for those of you who make ten million dollars per year and are concerned about the high cost of a college education. SIMPLY SIGN THAT PARENTAL CONSENT FORM AND YOUR NEWLY MARRIED 17-YEAR-OLD WILL HAVE HER ENTIRE SCHOOLING PAID FOR BY YOUR FELLOW TAXPAYERS.
Now I cannot wait until my daughter is a little older, because in many states, the legal age for marriage is actually LOWER for girls than for boys (because as we ALL know, girls are more mature than boys), with parental consent (Arkansas, Mississippi, New Hampshire, Iran). And what proud papa wouldn't be even prouder to look fondly upon his daughter and say, I KNEW YOU WERE MORE RESPONSIBLE THAN YOUR OLDER BROTHER, AND YOUR GOVERNMENT AGREES WITH WHOM? ME! THAT'S RIGHT! ME! HAHAHAHAHAHA! Now go consummate this son of a bitch and deliver your daddy a Pell Grant.
Ugh.
By the way, since we have written laws to govern the minimum age of marital consent, I am now trying to find out what laws govern the minimum age of actually having children, just so I don't miss any more details in my next sex talk.
(ed. note-Apparently, you can legally BE pregnant at any age. In fact, if you happen to get pregnant at 10 years of age, not only are you allowed to legally marry in North Carolina, but you will be well on your way towards a Pell Grant! Yay! It pays to play, player!)
UGH
If only someone had been there to teach ME these subtleties of the law, because I only escaped by virtue of dumb luck. We were engaged when I was 21 and Alex was 18, and the delay was fortunate, because when trying to answer that common interview question about your biggest fault? There is NO real good way to spin statutory rape.
Not without a firm grasp of state and local laws, anyways.
\ tree of tenere
occasionally, i step away from my desk and look outside and think about anything other than what i am working on, imagine i am the last tree in a deserted forest, an acacia cursed with roots run too deep, and the only pleasure i have in this whole, entire existence is the vastness of my thoughts. and then it no longer seems like incarceration, because the distance between two memories is greater than than the distance from here to the moon, how wonderful and maddening the remembrances. i could re-experience my recollections without complaint, make only slight edits to the things i probably wouldn't repeat, but the mistakes i would keep intact, because this shows growth. the imperfections add such richness to our all-too-perfect lives, like scars and eye patches and skeletons and seams.
this same, late summer darkness has comforted me for over thirty years, and i am eager to prove myself wrong about a few long-held truths, strike a few words from my vocabulary, easy answers given when a young mind is confused, i remember hearing always and heaven and family whenever the realities began to creep like desert expanse into the backyard of our early history. I don't know how on earth the sprouts ever returned.
through that back window i am amazed at how difficult it is to find truth in nature, amazed at how easy you can see desperate optimism in the cars driving off into the distance, one of which might eventually crash, drunkenly, into the last tree standing for 300 miles in the middle of a desert, bring an end to some uninterrupted line of reasoning.
what amazes me is the longevity of these seeds. someone asked, once, why not just cut it down and spare it the misery of solitude, proven by the fact that it no longer flowers, and perhaps a young scientist is charged with taking a core sample, finds that in spite of its small size, it is, in reality, hundreds of years old, a diet of scarcity thinning out the rings, which still count as revolutions, nonetheless. And a thousand years from now, the rains might very well return, and a different scientist, in a foreign tongue, might say, I am happy no one cut this flower to the ground, and am amazed I found it at all, in the middle of this deep, lush forest. it is a tenacious creature.
this same, late summer darkness has comforted me for over thirty years, and i am eager to prove myself wrong about a few long-held truths, strike a few words from my vocabulary, easy answers given when a young mind is confused, i remember hearing always and heaven and family whenever the realities began to creep like desert expanse into the backyard of our early history. I don't know how on earth the sprouts ever returned.
through that back window i am amazed at how difficult it is to find truth in nature, amazed at how easy you can see desperate optimism in the cars driving off into the distance, one of which might eventually crash, drunkenly, into the last tree standing for 300 miles in the middle of a desert, bring an end to some uninterrupted line of reasoning.
what amazes me is the longevity of these seeds. someone asked, once, why not just cut it down and spare it the misery of solitude, proven by the fact that it no longer flowers, and perhaps a young scientist is charged with taking a core sample, finds that in spite of its small size, it is, in reality, hundreds of years old, a diet of scarcity thinning out the rings, which still count as revolutions, nonetheless. And a thousand years from now, the rains might very well return, and a different scientist, in a foreign tongue, might say, I am happy no one cut this flower to the ground, and am amazed I found it at all, in the middle of this deep, lush forest. it is a tenacious creature.
/ I Wander
hey, if one of my fantasies was to cross-dress and make out with a girl cross-dressed as a man, would you hold that against me? i mean, it would still be straight, right? 'cause we're both pretending?
no?
meh. in any case, i am absolutely screwed if the people i most often hear discussing heaven are actually IN CHARGE of heaven. good god.
although assuming that heaven has no war and no abortion, then i'm not sure how they'd ever get re-elected...
anyways, lately I am curious about the privacy of our cars, the anonymity well known to drive the most mild mannered of even the Amish to violent displays of rage (Yes, I know about the Amish! I'm referring to the small Amish sect that permits driving, the Pennsylvania Clutch), but more than rage, I am interested in love, which is like rage but comes with flowers. I am wondering how many people conduct long, drawn-out love affairs with merely the eyes reflected in the rearview mirror of the car in front of you. If anyone perhaps follows a car for a while, notices the driver ahead of you meet your glance in her rearview mirror and think, 'SHE LOVES ME and I LOVE HER and I DON'T CARE WHAT ANYONE THINKS OF IT!' then I am interested in your thoughts.
(editor's note: I have never done this. i am just wondering if OTHER people do. I would never do something like this. I wouldn't.)
Okay, so the first thing that drives my curiosity is this, are you more likely to fall in love, marry, make babies with, and eventually divorce (before you arrive at work, obviously) someone who is in FRONT of you, or someone who is BEHIND you?
IN FRONT OF YOU PROS:
1. really, you can only see her eyes, so this is almost entirely an emotional, and therefore PURER relationship
2. because the eyes are the window to the soul, although to be fair, when we are discussing a regular work commute, we are really talking about a REFLECTION of a window to the soul, and as everyone knows, reflections are the OPPOSITE of reality (?)
3. god, i'm already confused
4. most bumper stickers are placed on the REAR bumper, for some reason, so you can pretty much destroy the fantasy when you read something like "W IS FOR WOMEN"
5. or alternately SWOON when you read "W IS FOR WHORE"
BEHIND YOU PROS
1. you can see her entire face, and therefore the love is an equal proportion of emotional and physical, which is important
2. you can drive nearly 15 miles per hour slower than the speed limit, and really check her out
3. you can speed up and escape when she notices that the eye crust should probably have been picked clean at home
4. having the woman behind you is sort of a fetishistic dream come true (i.e. if you hit the brakes, then you just got 'rear-ended' and it's still straight)
5. she can't see you ____ (fill in the blank, 'weep,' 'throb,' 'take photos')
Anyway, it's all just conjecture. No one ever REALLY makes eye contact with the person driving next to them and pretends to have a relationship and babies and a mortgage and gives up his dreams and then reconciles after recovering from a long illness before taking up some arbitrary hobby and wrapping up all those loose ends to attain happily ever after. Nuh uh.
no?
meh. in any case, i am absolutely screwed if the people i most often hear discussing heaven are actually IN CHARGE of heaven. good god.
although assuming that heaven has no war and no abortion, then i'm not sure how they'd ever get re-elected...
anyways, lately I am curious about the privacy of our cars, the anonymity well known to drive the most mild mannered of even the Amish to violent displays of rage (Yes, I know about the Amish! I'm referring to the small Amish sect that permits driving, the Pennsylvania Clutch), but more than rage, I am interested in love, which is like rage but comes with flowers. I am wondering how many people conduct long, drawn-out love affairs with merely the eyes reflected in the rearview mirror of the car in front of you. If anyone perhaps follows a car for a while, notices the driver ahead of you meet your glance in her rearview mirror and think, 'SHE LOVES ME and I LOVE HER and I DON'T CARE WHAT ANYONE THINKS OF IT!' then I am interested in your thoughts.
(editor's note: I have never done this. i am just wondering if OTHER people do. I would never do something like this. I wouldn't.)
Okay, so the first thing that drives my curiosity is this, are you more likely to fall in love, marry, make babies with, and eventually divorce (before you arrive at work, obviously) someone who is in FRONT of you, or someone who is BEHIND you?
IN FRONT OF YOU PROS:
1. really, you can only see her eyes, so this is almost entirely an emotional, and therefore PURER relationship
2. because the eyes are the window to the soul, although to be fair, when we are discussing a regular work commute, we are really talking about a REFLECTION of a window to the soul, and as everyone knows, reflections are the OPPOSITE of reality (?)
3. god, i'm already confused
4. most bumper stickers are placed on the REAR bumper, for some reason, so you can pretty much destroy the fantasy when you read something like "W IS FOR WOMEN"
5. or alternately SWOON when you read "W IS FOR WHORE"
BEHIND YOU PROS
1. you can see her entire face, and therefore the love is an equal proportion of emotional and physical, which is important
2. you can drive nearly 15 miles per hour slower than the speed limit, and really check her out
3. you can speed up and escape when she notices that the eye crust should probably have been picked clean at home
4. having the woman behind you is sort of a fetishistic dream come true (i.e. if you hit the brakes, then you just got 'rear-ended' and it's still straight)
5. she can't see you ____ (fill in the blank, 'weep,' 'throb,' 'take photos')
Anyway, it's all just conjecture. No one ever REALLY makes eye contact with the person driving next to them and pretends to have a relationship and babies and a mortgage and gives up his dreams and then reconciles after recovering from a long illness before taking up some arbitrary hobby and wrapping up all those loose ends to attain happily ever after. Nuh uh.
\ I Wonder
"So, i just wonder, sometimes," I start, and am distracted by a barrette in her hair, "What is that?" I think. It seems like something a child would wear, made of that old plastic that never seemed to last very long, the snap becoming frayed in a matter of days, and you would have to gather up the ends in your finger tips, squeeze them tighter, maybe even draw the mass into your mouth, press it between your teeth before being able to snap it, blindly into place.
"What do you wonder?"
And now I've forgotten, so I look around to make up something new. I always stand on the verge of confession, and sometimes I do, I step into the little room and draw the curtain, look to the mahogany and follow it down to the carpet, though no light reaches quite that far, and it is possible to speak in symbols, describe so clearly what you see that it is almost like truth.
"You remember those gates? Those hand-carved wooden gates?"
She remembers, only because while there are plenty of doors in the world, there is only one kind that I am always talking about. "Mmm-hmm."
"The tops of those gates were dovecotes. I never knew."
I am holding the photo in my head, the span above the entranceway is no mere decoration, but a shelter for pigeons, the holes bordered with stenciled feathers.
You loved them once before, you forgot them, you uncover some hidden truth, you love them more.
Occasionally you realize something new about a prior object of desire, and all the years of adjustment seem to open like doors into a breezeway, and in the courtyard is the promise of some new affair, and your heels click with a rejuvenated vigor upon the cobblestones, and you don't have the presence to question your endurance, how quickly your heart paces, drowning out the volume of your doubts and your regrets.
You have none.
"What do you wonder?"
And now I've forgotten, so I look around to make up something new. I always stand on the verge of confession, and sometimes I do, I step into the little room and draw the curtain, look to the mahogany and follow it down to the carpet, though no light reaches quite that far, and it is possible to speak in symbols, describe so clearly what you see that it is almost like truth.
"You remember those gates? Those hand-carved wooden gates?"
She remembers, only because while there are plenty of doors in the world, there is only one kind that I am always talking about. "Mmm-hmm."
"The tops of those gates were dovecotes. I never knew."
I am holding the photo in my head, the span above the entranceway is no mere decoration, but a shelter for pigeons, the holes bordered with stenciled feathers.
You loved them once before, you forgot them, you uncover some hidden truth, you love them more.
Occasionally you realize something new about a prior object of desire, and all the years of adjustment seem to open like doors into a breezeway, and in the courtyard is the promise of some new affair, and your heels click with a rejuvenated vigor upon the cobblestones, and you don't have the presence to question your endurance, how quickly your heart paces, drowning out the volume of your doubts and your regrets.
You have none.
/ go on standing
my boss sent me an email over the weekend asking if i could help draft a letter to henry louis gates, because if he spoke at our banquet that would be such a coup.
HMMM. A COUP YOU SAY? NO KIDDING.
but, you know, i wanted to say, people like this have speaker agents for a reason. and an eloquent letter ain't gonna land henry louis gates.
you give me $15 grand, and i'll write the perfect letter.
god, how do you even begin? ugh.
i mean, it's not like i'm just going to say, 'sorry, charlie. i ain't wasting no time writing some fantasy request to henry fucking louis fucking gates fucking junior. there ain't no words gonna get him to come speak to our chicken/fish luncheon at the holiday inn. i am sorry, but SORRY.'
so i wrote a letter to henry louis gates, junior, trying my very best to convince him to honor us with his presence because, you know, think of the children.
and so it was a bit awkward today at our annual staff retreat. especially when our boss said, 'OKAY. NOTHING IS OFF THE TABLE. WHATEVER IT IS THAT WILL MAKE YOU MORE PRODUCTIVE, I THINK WE SHOULD PUT IT UP ON THE FLIP CHART.'
and of course she went to the restroom at that very moment, and a co-worker says, "MY BROTHER-IN-LAW HAS A FRIEND WHOSE COUSIN WORKS AT A DOT COM WHERE EVERY FRIDAY THEY HAVE BEER ON TAP.' and the facilitator takes her sharpie and writes 'BEER.'
my boss arrives soon after and looks at me. and i am all, 'HEY, IT WASN'T ME!' and she says, 'SUUURE.'
later, we were talking about pending deadlines, and i said, 'ARTIFICIAL TIMELINES ONLY SERVE TO HELP THE ENEMY OF DEMOCRACY IN IRAQ.'
i thought it was funny, anyway.
ps - she really liked the letter! and here is the secret to me: pay me a compliment and all my principles? OFF THE TABLE.
HMMM. A COUP YOU SAY? NO KIDDING.
but, you know, i wanted to say, people like this have speaker agents for a reason. and an eloquent letter ain't gonna land henry louis gates.
you give me $15 grand, and i'll write the perfect letter.
god, how do you even begin? ugh.
i mean, it's not like i'm just going to say, 'sorry, charlie. i ain't wasting no time writing some fantasy request to henry fucking louis fucking gates fucking junior. there ain't no words gonna get him to come speak to our chicken/fish luncheon at the holiday inn. i am sorry, but SORRY.'
so i wrote a letter to henry louis gates, junior, trying my very best to convince him to honor us with his presence because, you know, think of the children.
and so it was a bit awkward today at our annual staff retreat. especially when our boss said, 'OKAY. NOTHING IS OFF THE TABLE. WHATEVER IT IS THAT WILL MAKE YOU MORE PRODUCTIVE, I THINK WE SHOULD PUT IT UP ON THE FLIP CHART.'
and of course she went to the restroom at that very moment, and a co-worker says, "MY BROTHER-IN-LAW HAS A FRIEND WHOSE COUSIN WORKS AT A DOT COM WHERE EVERY FRIDAY THEY HAVE BEER ON TAP.' and the facilitator takes her sharpie and writes 'BEER.'
my boss arrives soon after and looks at me. and i am all, 'HEY, IT WASN'T ME!' and she says, 'SUUURE.'
later, we were talking about pending deadlines, and i said, 'ARTIFICIAL TIMELINES ONLY SERVE TO HELP THE ENEMY OF DEMOCRACY IN IRAQ.'
i thought it was funny, anyway.
ps - she really liked the letter! and here is the secret to me: pay me a compliment and all my principles? OFF THE TABLE.
\ after me
i have the strangest headache today, all moonlit flashes in the bright of day. it is raining, and still the lights, as though clouds an artificial construct, wholly incapable of shadow, spirit and holy ghost. there are always three people in these moments, you, the person you left, and the one to whom you are running. i have been all three, in just the last year alone.
it hurts, but is the best kind, you have fissures solid and stronger because of the break, and the pain is a dull ache, not a pressing concern, this will make me faster and if i could wound myself in this manner, i would, make my entire body into one quicker than possible scar. tense and ready to spring, or fall.
i think of people who call you by the name of another, of numbers dialed unintentionally, 'oh, i thought i was calling someone else!' 'who?' 'oh.' i think, even untimelier, unspoken, unconsidered thoughts. these are sweeter mistakes, still, because in the dark, hair stroked and warm skin can belong to any character from your favorite story, even daydreams created entirely in your head, your fingers upon the steel of the handlebar, and a few buildings pass by, and what is that? the lucky lab? ah, i remember now. we met up after work, once, and we were swimming in the conversation, and i know that look, it is so funny to not name your storm when the rain is falling all about you, but, yes. these are the rules. and your phone rings, and my god, why would you answer it? was this not the time of our life? and how he arrived so quickly, i don't know, or maybe it wasn't so quick after all.
oh yes, that is what it is like. like watching the object of your affection kiss the object of her affection.
as you are walking home, to your car, you turn around. sometimes she meets your glance. sometimes she does not.
it hurts, but is the best kind, you have fissures solid and stronger because of the break, and the pain is a dull ache, not a pressing concern, this will make me faster and if i could wound myself in this manner, i would, make my entire body into one quicker than possible scar. tense and ready to spring, or fall.
i think of people who call you by the name of another, of numbers dialed unintentionally, 'oh, i thought i was calling someone else!' 'who?' 'oh.' i think, even untimelier, unspoken, unconsidered thoughts. these are sweeter mistakes, still, because in the dark, hair stroked and warm skin can belong to any character from your favorite story, even daydreams created entirely in your head, your fingers upon the steel of the handlebar, and a few buildings pass by, and what is that? the lucky lab? ah, i remember now. we met up after work, once, and we were swimming in the conversation, and i know that look, it is so funny to not name your storm when the rain is falling all about you, but, yes. these are the rules. and your phone rings, and my god, why would you answer it? was this not the time of our life? and how he arrived so quickly, i don't know, or maybe it wasn't so quick after all.
oh yes, that is what it is like. like watching the object of your affection kiss the object of her affection.
as you are walking home, to your car, you turn around. sometimes she meets your glance. sometimes she does not.
/ Letter
Arthur Green
Carthage Middle School
21986 Cole Road
Carthage, NY 13619
Dear Mr. Green,
First off, you are probably retired, or may have even passed on, your crusty soul floating up even beyond the cirrus clouds due to its much lower density, much as your Earth Science lectures consistently hugged the linoleum, their density challenging the very foundation of the school building itself. You should have been the helium in my balloon of self-esteem, and yet you somehow left me deflated with a steady stream of negative particles and C minuses. Moreover, much as we once referred to a molecule as a compound atom, sulfur as brimstone, I am unsure if your name was, in fact, Arthur Green, though I can see your face in my mind. You were a wee, pasty man, the one teacher I could look square in the eyes. I was what? Twelve years old? It was difficult for both of us, Mr. G.
Still, I have a complaint, and it is this: you ruined for me what should have been my absolute favorite subject! I realize we intersected at a time when my classmates were still trying to fit developing breasts into pre-tweener clothing never meant to contain anything more pronounced than a bicycle scar, but we are talking volcanoes and fossils and clouds and minerals! I mean, come on, this is softball material, innit? I can imagine your spirit looking over my shoulder on any given workday, shedding an earnest tear as I conduct web searches for aquifers and moraines, fumaroles and lahars.
But you can bottle your pride, Mr. G., because these pursuits are those of an amateur. On our first day of class, you told us the tale of the Yeah-but, an imaginary pet that apparently each of us kept hidden in our Trapper Keepers, to release whenever a distraction was needed at homework time. An unlicensed animal.
You carried the analogy so very far that for awhile, we were convinced that such a creature did exist, that you kept the skeletons of these animals hidden underneath the bizarre cabinet with the sink, upon which you set your thermos. I tell you this, every one of us now knows the recipe for Irish coffee.
"Leave your Yeah-buts at home," you said.
We did, Mr. G. You know what else we left at home? Our burgeoning love of earth science. You were like the first girl we ever kissed, the one who chipped your front tooth and told all her friends that you smelled like Funyuns.
Carthage Middle School
21986 Cole Road
Carthage, NY 13619
Dear Mr. Green,
First off, you are probably retired, or may have even passed on, your crusty soul floating up even beyond the cirrus clouds due to its much lower density, much as your Earth Science lectures consistently hugged the linoleum, their density challenging the very foundation of the school building itself. You should have been the helium in my balloon of self-esteem, and yet you somehow left me deflated with a steady stream of negative particles and C minuses. Moreover, much as we once referred to a molecule as a compound atom, sulfur as brimstone, I am unsure if your name was, in fact, Arthur Green, though I can see your face in my mind. You were a wee, pasty man, the one teacher I could look square in the eyes. I was what? Twelve years old? It was difficult for both of us, Mr. G.
Still, I have a complaint, and it is this: you ruined for me what should have been my absolute favorite subject! I realize we intersected at a time when my classmates were still trying to fit developing breasts into pre-tweener clothing never meant to contain anything more pronounced than a bicycle scar, but we are talking volcanoes and fossils and clouds and minerals! I mean, come on, this is softball material, innit? I can imagine your spirit looking over my shoulder on any given workday, shedding an earnest tear as I conduct web searches for aquifers and moraines, fumaroles and lahars.
But you can bottle your pride, Mr. G., because these pursuits are those of an amateur. On our first day of class, you told us the tale of the Yeah-but, an imaginary pet that apparently each of us kept hidden in our Trapper Keepers, to release whenever a distraction was needed at homework time. An unlicensed animal.
You carried the analogy so very far that for awhile, we were convinced that such a creature did exist, that you kept the skeletons of these animals hidden underneath the bizarre cabinet with the sink, upon which you set your thermos. I tell you this, every one of us now knows the recipe for Irish coffee.
"Leave your Yeah-buts at home," you said.
We did, Mr. G. You know what else we left at home? Our burgeoning love of earth science. You were like the first girl we ever kissed, the one who chipped your front tooth and told all her friends that you smelled like Funyuns.
\ Cont.
You make me question how I would prefer to re-experience this life, given another chance. Would I enter childhood with the consciousness of an adulthood sewn roughly to my skin? Find some reinvigorating awareness in the least consequential of activity? Smile at the opportunity to build a fort out of stacks of insulation at a construction site? Once, we did this, sneaked into the lot next door where they were building a grocery store, stacked the paper-wrapped fiberglass bundles into houses, when the light grew dim, climbed on top and wondered at satellites trailing overhead. Each of us were raw and red when we took our baths that night, scratching our skin until it was thick with the footprint of callousness.
Or would I enter into maturity with the naive eyes of a childhood malnourished of attention? I would part my lips for that first kiss afraid of the touch, too frightened to share my displeasure, and then, realizing I was on the precipice of some grand and wondrous depth, dive into that very darkness which consumes, like a soft and heavy cloud, the few remaining sunny days of youth, the last moments before I realized normal is anything but.
More than anything, you make me question my decisions, make me aware that I rolled like a marble bound to gravity, that I curved away from the hills, that I bounced off of every solid object, that I slowed down when crossing rough terrain, when what would have been best would have been to defy earth and science at every turn. I would have dropped all my alkali metals into the lake, would have looked directly into every eclipse, would have crashed through the barriers you erected.
Once you placed a bit of potassium into a cup of water, and then lithium. And with each reaction, you mentioned that there were rarer elements that were more explosive still, until you reached the rarest, which utterly destroyed both the experiment and the experimenter. But you were wrong in that the rarest element is not one found in the earth's crust, but in the mind's eye, one I imagine both of us share in gradually decomposing amounts, and this element is regret. Not regret with conditions, which is more common than salt, but doubtless regret, the regret that even at your most stubborn you admit to holding within your realm of responsibility. Because often I have thought, "I wish I had not said or done what was said and done," but seldom have I realized the fault was entirely my own. Instead, my regret was borne of a fear of consequence. I wish I hadn't uttered those words because the violent reactions were not worth the trouble. Almost never have I admitted that the words were like caesium, and they were best left unsaid, and yet, said they were.
I cannot blame these disasters on ignorance, because every one of us remembers that teacher who knowingly created fire and explosion, the glint in his eye before he mixed the incompatible elements together, you remember that look, you can see the girl he loved and the extent to the madness it caused, the desperation he felt, the desire to deconstruct our histories, the fire that burned scars into his ability to blend among the populace, the science that warped our reasoning so, some kind of religion and vengeful deity, demanding sacrifice and damning nonconformity. It is why his Word is well known to be a proper noun, it is why his authority remains unquestioned. You fear the science teacher because you know he understands the composition of loss, and understands equally the formula for destruction. You are aware that it is entirely within his power to remove that key from around his neck, approach the one cabinet housed in dust and cobweb, the glass door that seems to have never been opened, a few tiny vials inside, you know that within the ether something lurks that is rarer still, that it is within his power to uncork those bottles, release the elements therein.
Generations of students have felt the coldness of the stools upon which you sit, realized that science was a field best left for those with nothing left to fear.
Or would I enter into maturity with the naive eyes of a childhood malnourished of attention? I would part my lips for that first kiss afraid of the touch, too frightened to share my displeasure, and then, realizing I was on the precipice of some grand and wondrous depth, dive into that very darkness which consumes, like a soft and heavy cloud, the few remaining sunny days of youth, the last moments before I realized normal is anything but.
More than anything, you make me question my decisions, make me aware that I rolled like a marble bound to gravity, that I curved away from the hills, that I bounced off of every solid object, that I slowed down when crossing rough terrain, when what would have been best would have been to defy earth and science at every turn. I would have dropped all my alkali metals into the lake, would have looked directly into every eclipse, would have crashed through the barriers you erected.
Once you placed a bit of potassium into a cup of water, and then lithium. And with each reaction, you mentioned that there were rarer elements that were more explosive still, until you reached the rarest, which utterly destroyed both the experiment and the experimenter. But you were wrong in that the rarest element is not one found in the earth's crust, but in the mind's eye, one I imagine both of us share in gradually decomposing amounts, and this element is regret. Not regret with conditions, which is more common than salt, but doubtless regret, the regret that even at your most stubborn you admit to holding within your realm of responsibility. Because often I have thought, "I wish I had not said or done what was said and done," but seldom have I realized the fault was entirely my own. Instead, my regret was borne of a fear of consequence. I wish I hadn't uttered those words because the violent reactions were not worth the trouble. Almost never have I admitted that the words were like caesium, and they were best left unsaid, and yet, said they were.
I cannot blame these disasters on ignorance, because every one of us remembers that teacher who knowingly created fire and explosion, the glint in his eye before he mixed the incompatible elements together, you remember that look, you can see the girl he loved and the extent to the madness it caused, the desperation he felt, the desire to deconstruct our histories, the fire that burned scars into his ability to blend among the populace, the science that warped our reasoning so, some kind of religion and vengeful deity, demanding sacrifice and damning nonconformity. It is why his Word is well known to be a proper noun, it is why his authority remains unquestioned. You fear the science teacher because you know he understands the composition of loss, and understands equally the formula for destruction. You are aware that it is entirely within his power to remove that key from around his neck, approach the one cabinet housed in dust and cobweb, the glass door that seems to have never been opened, a few tiny vials inside, you know that within the ether something lurks that is rarer still, that it is within his power to uncork those bottles, release the elements therein.
Generations of students have felt the coldness of the stools upon which you sit, realized that science was a field best left for those with nothing left to fear.
\ glide
once, when i was very young, i remember playing with two little girls from across the street, neither of whom spoke anything but spanish, and they would come over to talk with my grandmother, to deliver, in trade, some paper bag full of tamales or cilantro or cassette tapes with Ronnie Milsap. and in an act of childish cruelty, one of those early tests when you figure out on your own what is right and what is wrong, i rolled up a ball of dirt, back in the garden where my grandmother would bury potato quarters, and pretended to stuff it into my mouth, watched the younger girl expectantly, and dropped the hidden mudball from my hand when she ate her own. she immediately burst into tears and ran home, and for days i expected trouble, and wandered the house quietly and hidden, the only RSVP to a guilty party. i learned very early on that if you did something wrong, a useful alternative to confession was minimization.
later, we played with buttercups, each of us plucking and sniffing the blossoms close enough to our faces so that our noses were dusted with pollen. we would bite the petals, or pretend to, and sometimes it is impossible to believe that so many of these flowers were poisonous, as all my field guides now assure, for surely none of us would have survived into our very old age. along our sunday walk, the path's side is crowded with poison hemlock and st. john's wort, the one, perhaps, the very cure for the other.
later, we played with buttercups, each of us plucking and sniffing the blossoms close enough to our faces so that our noses were dusted with pollen. we would bite the petals, or pretend to, and sometimes it is impossible to believe that so many of these flowers were poisonous, as all my field guides now assure, for surely none of us would have survived into our very old age. along our sunday walk, the path's side is crowded with poison hemlock and st. john's wort, the one, perhaps, the very cure for the other.
/ work ethic
The big news at the water cooler was that apparently one of our co-workers has discovered the world wide internet and OMGOMGOMG has a WEB SITE. The bigger news is that apparently he is using company equipment to operate his side business, AS THE WEB SITE CLEARLY SHOWS. The biggest news is that apparently my co-workers don't like him.
I have always tried to minimize my employment presence with my world wide internet persona, but based on the kinds of things I have written, most of you can probably guess that I make my living as a male escort (seriously, has anyone talked more about herpes than me in the last three years? and all that Journey business? plus going on and on and on about my children, wasn't that obviously a diversion?). So I can't really assume a holier-than-thou attitude when it comes to abuse of public* property, now can I? (*Okay, so it's a state-run escort business).
Plus, I really like the guy.
But just so's you don't get your preconceptions about public male escort workers reinforced, I should point out that I do have an ethical standard, and it is this: no matter how much we may dislike society's rules, the rules need to be followed until they are changed in a democratic process, UNLESS I like you, and then you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want, JUST AS LONG as you don't expect me to have your back when you get busted, 'cause I'll be there among the rest of the pitchfork-and-torch-bearing townspeople when you are uncovered for the lousy ruffian you are.
I believe this to be the most sophisticated moral code possible because it allows me to balance my profound respect for standards with a critical approach to judging each case by its individual merits, all while allowing me and my friends to have a bunch of sex-for-pay on the side using publicly-owned property to build our clientele.
My other ethical standard is this: IF YOU DO NOT LAUGH AT MY JOKES, YOU ARE MORALLY OBLIGATED TO TAKE YOUR WARES ELSEWHERE.
Sales Rep - "So, have you instituted any time management workshops for your students?"
Me (giggling) - "Um, no, we've been swamped and just can't seem to work it into the schedule." (giggling)
Sales Rep - "That's fine, this is actually a common response, and we can help you implement an effective plan. Okay, so have you instituted any procrastination workshops for your students?"
Me (giggling louder) - "Um, no, we've meant to but we keep putting it off." (giggling really loudly)
Sales Rep - "That's perfectly understandable. We can help you implement this as well. Okay, so have you developed a workshop to help students manage their personal finances?"
Me (completely given up) - "We wanted to, but didn't have any room in our budget." (sighs)
Sales Rep - "Not to worry, we have over 15 years experience---"
At this point in the conference call, the telephone cord was mysteriously yanked from the wall and my ethical standards were upheld.
I have always tried to minimize my employment presence with my world wide internet persona, but based on the kinds of things I have written, most of you can probably guess that I make my living as a male escort (seriously, has anyone talked more about herpes than me in the last three years? and all that Journey business? plus going on and on and on about my children, wasn't that obviously a diversion?). So I can't really assume a holier-than-thou attitude when it comes to abuse of public* property, now can I? (*Okay, so it's a state-run escort business).
Plus, I really like the guy.
But just so's you don't get your preconceptions about public male escort workers reinforced, I should point out that I do have an ethical standard, and it is this: no matter how much we may dislike society's rules, the rules need to be followed until they are changed in a democratic process, UNLESS I like you, and then you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want, JUST AS LONG as you don't expect me to have your back when you get busted, 'cause I'll be there among the rest of the pitchfork-and-torch-bearing townspeople when you are uncovered for the lousy ruffian you are.
I believe this to be the most sophisticated moral code possible because it allows me to balance my profound respect for standards with a critical approach to judging each case by its individual merits, all while allowing me and my friends to have a bunch of sex-for-pay on the side using publicly-owned property to build our clientele.
My other ethical standard is this: IF YOU DO NOT LAUGH AT MY JOKES, YOU ARE MORALLY OBLIGATED TO TAKE YOUR WARES ELSEWHERE.
Sales Rep - "So, have you instituted any time management workshops for your students?"
Me (giggling) - "Um, no, we've been swamped and just can't seem to work it into the schedule." (giggling)
Sales Rep - "That's fine, this is actually a common response, and we can help you implement an effective plan. Okay, so have you instituted any procrastination workshops for your students?"
Me (giggling louder) - "Um, no, we've meant to but we keep putting it off." (giggling really loudly)
Sales Rep - "That's perfectly understandable. We can help you implement this as well. Okay, so have you developed a workshop to help students manage their personal finances?"
Me (completely given up) - "We wanted to, but didn't have any room in our budget." (sighs)
Sales Rep - "Not to worry, we have over 15 years experience---"
At this point in the conference call, the telephone cord was mysteriously yanked from the wall and my ethical standards were upheld.
\ larkspur
the knapweed opened up today, yawning at the dawn of its infestation, probably bored with how easy it's been to wipe out the bitterroot and larkspur, the latter not so concerned due to its self-loathing habit of sickening anything it touches. the two natives go on about their business in the face of the pending supernovae, jealous only that they won't see the sun slow down the relentless invader, but not kill it, they know, because even now scientists have concluded there ain't no life on mars, only on account of the knapweed done wiped it out, its seeds blown along the solar winds, stuck to the bootheels of some astronaut on a leisurely spacewalk. the rest of the universe now has to prepare for their pretty white flowers and unretractable tap roots. flora non grata.
i check my own boots afore entering the tool shed, not willing to let my concrete foundation crack under the pressure, looking for the tackle box, the opening day coming on. i dried out all the lures last year, but the treble hooks are all rusted still, bored with nothing to do, adhering to enough ambient water to oxidize their complaints for all the world to care. i have a little coin for luck in one of the compartments, a hungarian forint. i'm gonna drop it in the lake this year, see if it drives the fish to the surface afeared of its off-centeredness.
i got these currencies for a girl i knew, and she knew me, too. she got herself a local boy to make eyes with, i tell myself because i fought with her over politics, and the best revenge for when someone questions your geopolitical beliefs is to ride around on someone else's back in her new cowboy boots at a party thrown on your behalf. i kept running into them down in the courtyard without even trying, and each time she'd dismount and project her aura between her and him, like that space between your lungs and chest cavity, that whenever they come into contact it's what the old people used to call a stitch, and these days they say pleurisy. it was painful then, and it's still painful now, in spite of the name change.
and back upstairs everyone kept asking me what was the matter, and i said, 'what the hell does everyone keep asking me that for?' and i went to the bathroom to see if there was some question mark on my face, but nothing i could see. still they kept asking, and i consciously listened to my words and the sound of my voice to see if it was markedly different from before, but couldn't tell. and someone asked me, 'what's wrong?' and i realized it must be the heaviness of the words coming out of my mouth, bearing the weight of their own gravity, disrupting positive magnetic fields, so i spoke more lightly than ever before, tried to breathe my sentences out squeaky high like helium, until they stopped asking their silly, probing questions. ain't nothin wrong, i whispered at the end of the night when no one was around.
she didn't really like him, i said, but truth is she didn't really like me either, so pointing this out during another political argument amounted to nothing more than a pyrrhic defeat. i lost the battle and still lost the war. she kicked some dirt into my eyes on the way out, put some space between us.
i check my own boots afore entering the tool shed, not willing to let my concrete foundation crack under the pressure, looking for the tackle box, the opening day coming on. i dried out all the lures last year, but the treble hooks are all rusted still, bored with nothing to do, adhering to enough ambient water to oxidize their complaints for all the world to care. i have a little coin for luck in one of the compartments, a hungarian forint. i'm gonna drop it in the lake this year, see if it drives the fish to the surface afeared of its off-centeredness.
i got these currencies for a girl i knew, and she knew me, too. she got herself a local boy to make eyes with, i tell myself because i fought with her over politics, and the best revenge for when someone questions your geopolitical beliefs is to ride around on someone else's back in her new cowboy boots at a party thrown on your behalf. i kept running into them down in the courtyard without even trying, and each time she'd dismount and project her aura between her and him, like that space between your lungs and chest cavity, that whenever they come into contact it's what the old people used to call a stitch, and these days they say pleurisy. it was painful then, and it's still painful now, in spite of the name change.
and back upstairs everyone kept asking me what was the matter, and i said, 'what the hell does everyone keep asking me that for?' and i went to the bathroom to see if there was some question mark on my face, but nothing i could see. still they kept asking, and i consciously listened to my words and the sound of my voice to see if it was markedly different from before, but couldn't tell. and someone asked me, 'what's wrong?' and i realized it must be the heaviness of the words coming out of my mouth, bearing the weight of their own gravity, disrupting positive magnetic fields, so i spoke more lightly than ever before, tried to breathe my sentences out squeaky high like helium, until they stopped asking their silly, probing questions. ain't nothin wrong, i whispered at the end of the night when no one was around.
she didn't really like him, i said, but truth is she didn't really like me either, so pointing this out during another political argument amounted to nothing more than a pyrrhic defeat. i lost the battle and still lost the war. she kicked some dirt into my eyes on the way out, put some space between us.
/ handbasket
well this is sad, but i want to have a drink today, because i feel like if i don't then that means i am admitting to bein' an alcoholic, you know how alcoholics are all like, "CAN'T HAVE EVEN ONE. NOT ONE. I'M AN ALCOHOLIC, AIN'T I TELL YOU?" all protecting their mouths from a single drop of booze, like a straight edge born again protectin' against losing that second virginity. i forget which color bracelet means head in the men's toilet, 'cause for some people that shit don't count, and god i wish there was an equivalent for alcoholics. zima, maybe? not spitting out the mouthwash??? you should always spit.
but if i have one drink and don't go bat shit crazy, then maybe, JUST MAYBE, i am NOT an alcoholic. i mean, it's going on 6 dry days and i don't even have the shakes, so i must be overachieving here, settin' unrealistic expectations for the children. haven't smoked since july 22nd, and i never even WANTED to give that up. i'll be thumping bibles afore too long, cross myself every time i say JESUSGODDAMNCHRIST, which is pretty goddamned frequent. in fact, the best part about tristan turning 9 this year was that i have no compunction about cursing in front of him. and naya's too young to understand. these are the goddamned golden years of our youths.
so without my old hobbies, i am filling up my time with being obsessed over running, taking photos of my growing collection of running shoes, oiling myself up with vaseline, sticking waterproof bandaids to my nipples and figuring out what to do with the kids when i'm babysitting. thank god for child locks on these new cars! (Oh, now don’t look at me like that, I realize how many children die due to overheating, locked in cars, I’m no monster. Clearly, I would park the car in the garage and leave it running so that they could enjoy the AC.)
giving up my vices has made it both possible and easier to run, and having given up smoking and booze and blasphemy can only mean one thing: instead of dying old and crusty with a faulty liver and a huge doctor bill, i will now die young and healthy, hit by a greenhouse gas producing SUV. just know it.
which is why, even though i have bought a camelbak and three flavors of sports gel and the world's most awesome media player with a 1 gb microSD (downloaded Moby Dick from LibriVox, I did), i am holding off on buying that heart rate monitor, 'fraid it might laugh at me. or whistle ominously. make a little unhappy emoticon and produce no sound whatsoever, which would cause me to run too hard early in the race.
i ran a mile today.
the only thing left to do is the marathon.
you can do anything you set your behind into.
but if i have one drink and don't go bat shit crazy, then maybe, JUST MAYBE, i am NOT an alcoholic. i mean, it's going on 6 dry days and i don't even have the shakes, so i must be overachieving here, settin' unrealistic expectations for the children. haven't smoked since july 22nd, and i never even WANTED to give that up. i'll be thumping bibles afore too long, cross myself every time i say JESUSGODDAMNCHRIST, which is pretty goddamned frequent. in fact, the best part about tristan turning 9 this year was that i have no compunction about cursing in front of him. and naya's too young to understand. these are the goddamned golden years of our youths.
so without my old hobbies, i am filling up my time with being obsessed over running, taking photos of my growing collection of running shoes, oiling myself up with vaseline, sticking waterproof bandaids to my nipples and figuring out what to do with the kids when i'm babysitting. thank god for child locks on these new cars! (Oh, now don’t look at me like that, I realize how many children die due to overheating, locked in cars, I’m no monster. Clearly, I would park the car in the garage and leave it running so that they could enjoy the AC.)
giving up my vices has made it both possible and easier to run, and having given up smoking and booze and blasphemy can only mean one thing: instead of dying old and crusty with a faulty liver and a huge doctor bill, i will now die young and healthy, hit by a greenhouse gas producing SUV. just know it.
which is why, even though i have bought a camelbak and three flavors of sports gel and the world's most awesome media player with a 1 gb microSD (downloaded Moby Dick from LibriVox, I did), i am holding off on buying that heart rate monitor, 'fraid it might laugh at me. or whistle ominously. make a little unhappy emoticon and produce no sound whatsoever, which would cause me to run too hard early in the race.
i ran a mile today.
the only thing left to do is the marathon.
you can do anything you set your behind into.
\ touch-me-not
i can see the spark of some future mythology in the understory, when you slow down enough to wonder what might be following you, and you stop to listen to the bursting of the scotch broom seed pods. i was told once that if you looked close enough, you could see a tiny blue flame with each explosion, some wicked offshoot of burning bush and touch-me-not, but, no, this whole side of the mountains would be pitch and tar by now.
i am drawn more and more to supernatural fixes to even my easiest of sprung leaks, the least of whom is not bending over me in this folklore i'm recreating at this very moment, mother fig, reaching over me to strangle me in an act of unbridled love that i want nothing to do with, because the magic is being corrupted. i can no longer believe in self-fulfilling prophecy, as she has been telling me about her pending doom for the last 30 years. Some people live the shortest of lives and others die damn near forever.
i try to tell her, no, it's fine, you're fine, we're fine. i try to apologize with my eyes for shuddering when she touches my arm, my fingers like seed pods, all tension and nothing but wide open space beyond, germ bearing winds. i think, it's not your fault. i am a destroyer of maternal affection, and i've discriminating taste. can't even stand myself. don't fret, you poor thing.
alex scolds me, because every girl knows you should avoid boys on both ends of the extreme with their mothers. you should avoid touching the ones that love their mothers TOO much, and shield your eyes from the ones that don't love theirs at all.
i wonder who i'll hate when all the usuals give up on me once and for all. better add that to my list.
after prometheus was freed, he was given a ring that would tie him to the mountain eternally, keeping his bond with the will of the gods, but as was in his Nature, he cast this oath aside, and caught in the West, turned into a weed that represented all the extremes of hatred and beauty of his love for his clay mankind. each year the pretty flowers prometheus bore rent the stomachs of the cattle hollow, and his seed pods would burst into flame, scorching the plain, but allowing the regeneration of the camas bulbs, upon which the natives depended to survive the cold of winter. in this manner, the people were kept from removing from the ground the very thing they hated most, their dependence on prometheus profound and miserable.
i am drawn more and more to supernatural fixes to even my easiest of sprung leaks, the least of whom is not bending over me in this folklore i'm recreating at this very moment, mother fig, reaching over me to strangle me in an act of unbridled love that i want nothing to do with, because the magic is being corrupted. i can no longer believe in self-fulfilling prophecy, as she has been telling me about her pending doom for the last 30 years. Some people live the shortest of lives and others die damn near forever.
i try to tell her, no, it's fine, you're fine, we're fine. i try to apologize with my eyes for shuddering when she touches my arm, my fingers like seed pods, all tension and nothing but wide open space beyond, germ bearing winds. i think, it's not your fault. i am a destroyer of maternal affection, and i've discriminating taste. can't even stand myself. don't fret, you poor thing.
alex scolds me, because every girl knows you should avoid boys on both ends of the extreme with their mothers. you should avoid touching the ones that love their mothers TOO much, and shield your eyes from the ones that don't love theirs at all.
i wonder who i'll hate when all the usuals give up on me once and for all. better add that to my list.
after prometheus was freed, he was given a ring that would tie him to the mountain eternally, keeping his bond with the will of the gods, but as was in his Nature, he cast this oath aside, and caught in the West, turned into a weed that represented all the extremes of hatred and beauty of his love for his clay mankind. each year the pretty flowers prometheus bore rent the stomachs of the cattle hollow, and his seed pods would burst into flame, scorching the plain, but allowing the regeneration of the camas bulbs, upon which the natives depended to survive the cold of winter. in this manner, the people were kept from removing from the ground the very thing they hated most, their dependence on prometheus profound and miserable.
/ have found what looking for
My Google search trail today
/ eating for endurance running
/ perishability of canned salmon
/ safe storage temperatures canned goods
/ average temperature car trunk summer
/ signs symptoms food poisoning
/ e coli odor taste
/ onset botulism hours
/ cooking temperature destroy salmonella
/ meat thermometer jokes
/ weight loss vomiting diet
/ fartlek sessions
/ eating for endurance running
/ perishability of canned salmon
/ safe storage temperatures canned goods
/ average temperature car trunk summer
/ signs symptoms food poisoning
/ e coli odor taste
/ onset botulism hours
/ cooking temperature destroy salmonella
/ meat thermometer jokes
/ weight loss vomiting diet
/ fartlek sessions
\ lapis lazuli
I pulled the first plum from the tree today, knew it was green, spit it out, satisfied with the halting progress of summer, closer to its end than its beginning, still with some things left to do.
So I ran.
I finished at mile 13 point ONE, along the Western Chehalis Trail. The markers are bluebird boxes. The only obstacles the occasional hazelnut husk, thorny and wispy with the work of Stellers Jays, and, coincidence of coincidence, I return to the tiny hamlet of Rainier at 7:20, and after a few minutes see Alex drive by on her way home from work.
I call and she pulls in. What is all the white stuff? she asks, kissing me firmly on the lips and hold it, hold it, hold it, now somehow closer back to the beginning, still with much to do. I don't know, I say.
I remember the week before, after my run I kept looking in the kitchen, in the bathroom for a spilled bottle of household cleaner, the air heavy with ammonia. It was me. And in the car I could see the whiteness more clearly, and I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger, and it was like a powder, and it was salt, like the table salt we used in Romania, not of grains but of dust, and powerful in small pinches, and I was elemental, all my minerals from years of lapidation burdened by their enclosure.
And I want to move, my feet still are, in fact, as she drives off, muscle memory, and whereas before I longed for large spaces and acres of land, now I only want to teach my children the value of very small places, and I will move into a tiny craftsman, and we will decorate it with wee tapestries, and shot glasses for beakers. We will nurture Herb Robert and persicaria and other microscopic flowers scorned as weeds and trampled underfoot by big, big strangers, look within and speak in quiet voices. The miles ahead of me and the things still left to do and clearing my head of this lifetime collection of pretty rocks is all the space I need.
So I ran.
I finished at mile 13 point ONE, along the Western Chehalis Trail. The markers are bluebird boxes. The only obstacles the occasional hazelnut husk, thorny and wispy with the work of Stellers Jays, and, coincidence of coincidence, I return to the tiny hamlet of Rainier at 7:20, and after a few minutes see Alex drive by on her way home from work.
I call and she pulls in. What is all the white stuff? she asks, kissing me firmly on the lips and hold it, hold it, hold it, now somehow closer back to the beginning, still with much to do. I don't know, I say.
I remember the week before, after my run I kept looking in the kitchen, in the bathroom for a spilled bottle of household cleaner, the air heavy with ammonia. It was me. And in the car I could see the whiteness more clearly, and I rubbed it between my thumb and forefinger, and it was like a powder, and it was salt, like the table salt we used in Romania, not of grains but of dust, and powerful in small pinches, and I was elemental, all my minerals from years of lapidation burdened by their enclosure.
And I want to move, my feet still are, in fact, as she drives off, muscle memory, and whereas before I longed for large spaces and acres of land, now I only want to teach my children the value of very small places, and I will move into a tiny craftsman, and we will decorate it with wee tapestries, and shot glasses for beakers. We will nurture Herb Robert and persicaria and other microscopic flowers scorned as weeds and trampled underfoot by big, big strangers, look within and speak in quiet voices. The miles ahead of me and the things still left to do and clearing my head of this lifetime collection of pretty rocks is all the space I need.
/ Smoke
In the middle of anguish and hopelessness, such a moment as to throw you back on your heels and laugh at the senselessness of it all, when she crawls across the kitchen and in her loudest voice yelps like a puppy, rolls over onto her back and wags an imaginary tail. We are going to need more moments like these, not to get through, but to catalogue for a future stroll, look back on times I know we will desperately miss. You will never be as happy as you were in the past, and long for it.
I am trying to smile and am being met with the stubborness of the muscles in my face. I will not drink. I will not. I can't.
For some reason, I am overcome by the impossible urge to eat hot dogs. There is one left in the fridge, the one we bought as our first major appliance, years ago in Kansas. Are we READY for appliances? we thought. Should we go out for dinner? Who buys the card? Do we play in the box afterwards? Which end is UP?
I don't know anymore, what with the lack of signage on her face, on my own.
I am turning into that other person I always seem to read about. I take it as no small consolation that I do not derive any pleasure from that other person's struggle. I turn my head away from wrecks, as a general rule. I am frightened these days of mirrors. I have a house full of them.
There are homes along the drive covered in rooftops. Buried underneath years of tar and paper you might find what was once a mobile home, but which is now firmly planted two feet into the ground, weighted down by repairs masquerading as new beginnings, and to stand atop one of these structures and tear away at the surface is to understand how wholly unprepared we are to separate from each other, even as the belongings burn away inside.
Twice already, we have tried in the last month alone, and it is maddening to think that even if we could or wanted to, it would be an exercise in futility, trying to read a map prepared by the ship's poet, beware the curves of Gibraltar, know when to love well enough alone. "I changed my mind," she says. "I couldn't stop thinking that one day you might be a famous writer, and then I'd be bitter and angry."
I had to blink twice, the gloriousness of her response. I wanted to reach through the phone and hold her, fold her into a pocket square and whisper reassurances to my lapel until we get this right. She makes me laugh at the unseemliest of times, at improprieties too dolorous to name.
I am trying to smile and am being met with the stubborness of the muscles in my face. I will not drink. I will not. I can't.
For some reason, I am overcome by the impossible urge to eat hot dogs. There is one left in the fridge, the one we bought as our first major appliance, years ago in Kansas. Are we READY for appliances? we thought. Should we go out for dinner? Who buys the card? Do we play in the box afterwards? Which end is UP?
I don't know anymore, what with the lack of signage on her face, on my own.
I am turning into that other person I always seem to read about. I take it as no small consolation that I do not derive any pleasure from that other person's struggle. I turn my head away from wrecks, as a general rule. I am frightened these days of mirrors. I have a house full of them.
There are homes along the drive covered in rooftops. Buried underneath years of tar and paper you might find what was once a mobile home, but which is now firmly planted two feet into the ground, weighted down by repairs masquerading as new beginnings, and to stand atop one of these structures and tear away at the surface is to understand how wholly unprepared we are to separate from each other, even as the belongings burn away inside.
Twice already, we have tried in the last month alone, and it is maddening to think that even if we could or wanted to, it would be an exercise in futility, trying to read a map prepared by the ship's poet, beware the curves of Gibraltar, know when to love well enough alone. "I changed my mind," she says. "I couldn't stop thinking that one day you might be a famous writer, and then I'd be bitter and angry."
I had to blink twice, the gloriousness of her response. I wanted to reach through the phone and hold her, fold her into a pocket square and whisper reassurances to my lapel until we get this right. She makes me laugh at the unseemliest of times, at improprieties too dolorous to name.
\ Bedrock
This, I think, looking at the Jack of Hearts in my right hand, is what it means to stare at the remnants of your former house. And to realize, I observe, pocketing that card as gently as I can, that there were so many inside, depending on you not to let it fall. Squeezing my left hand, I remember, I used to wake up, muster all of my energy to make a fist, feeling not an ounce of strength. This air is so stagnant, it seems, it feels like I have no choice but to pull down the sails, wrap myself up in them, dare the wind to return. The phone rings, I can read the number, but it is a call dialed too quickly, and we have to force the conversation from there on out. Again, I say the wrong thing, backtrack from my words, distance myself from their abrasiveness, try to buttress the upright cards remaining. I could never forgive myself, she answers, if I left you now and then you became a famous writer. I'd be bitter and angry the rest of my life. In the middle of anguish and hopelessness, I find myself back on my heels, laughing at the senselessness of it all, the rigor of the exercise. She calls again, and this, I think, is going to be a day and a night of back and forth, of unsatisfying rests in between uninterrupted fits of sleep. My craft upon these waters is utterly destroyed, at my hands, and somehow, still, pieced back together in a way that is salt- if not sea-worthy. Poor planning, and a taste for misdirection, is what has stalled the gale, too far from shore to swim, too close not to practice the jump. Soon, she says, we will wake from even this, to hands without the early morning strength needed to grasp the oars. We will be saved, not by our own hands, but by our early morning weakness, dragged on into evening.
/ running edits
I am reliving '03, hip deep in codes and regulations, trying to save some stranger a few bucks on the dream of a higher education. The edits and revisions to the book I wrote on financial aid have yielded new tips and unwelcome secrets, such as how leaving your state of residence blank on the FAFSA could SAVE YOU BIG and how lying about your parent's age could LOSE YOU LOTS and how reading between the lines could reveal that THE AUTHOR WAS A BIT FUCKED UP, MUCH?
As always, I have already missed my first deadline, but as I told Chris once, every editor I've ever worked with KNOWS I DON'T EVEN START WRITING UNTIL THE DAY AFTER THE DEADLINE, DON'T THEY? I am not asking them to fire me, but they should know by now to take an alarm clock approach to my work schedule: set that timeline a good 15 minutes ahead of what time it actually is, let me have a few swipes at the snooze button. You'll get your productivity. All in good time.
I've already burned through two editors again, and I haven't even submitted anything, because I just know that I am the type of writer that publishing houses stick their rookies on, learn those lessons so that they can reach grizzled good and early. I am impossible and charming. You love me for ME but hate me for WHAT I AM. I even warned this last one that I would be the death of her and big clumps of her pretty blonde hair, and she said, 'OH YOU. YOU ARE TOO FUNNY TO CAUSE ME ANY GRIEF.' She lasted a week.
BE ON YOUR TOES, I bet they have written in my file. THIS ONE HAS ISSUES THAT PLUNGE MUCH DEEPER THAN SECTION 682.211(i) OF THE HIGHER EDUCATION RECONCILIATION ACT OF 2005.
FOR EXAMPLE
(Lines that I recommended in my financial aid book, and their edited results):
SUBMITTED TEXT #1:
"Financial aid is based on need, so the needier you are, the better off you'll be. Hey, that reminds me of a joke. How is financial aid different from my college girlfriend? If you guessed 'Financial Aid is not a cold heartless bitch,' you probably already heard it at one of my high school workshops."
EDITED TO READ:
"Financial aid is based on need, so the needier you are, the better off you'll be. Sounds like the perfect formula for an unhealthy relationship."
P.3 'THE PROCESS'
SUBMITTED TEXT #2:
"You know, the other day, I was on a business trip and I stopped in this really cool looking bar, and it was just full of dudes, but the drinks were REALLY strong and made me a little dizzy, and there was this one cute guy who kept telling me how pretty my eyes were. GOD, TMI, MUCH? Sorry, I don't know where I was going with that."
EDITED TO READ:
"If you're curious about what college life outside your state is like, or if you always wanted to take a few courses in an obscure subject not offered at your in-state college, the National Student Exchange might be the thing for you."
P. 97 'THE STATE SYSTEM'
SUBMITTED TEXT #3:
"OH MY GOD WHY WILL SHE NOT RETURN MY cALLS.!!? fuckk. AGH!"
EDITED TO READ:
"Remember that financial aid administrators are just like people (well, practically indistinguishable, anyway). They are subject to the same fits of anger and happiness as anyone else."
P.160 'THE SECRETS'
I hate to break this to you people, but the only thing that keeps you from the TRUTH is underpaid editors trying to work their way up the publishing food chain.
As always, I have already missed my first deadline, but as I told Chris once, every editor I've ever worked with KNOWS I DON'T EVEN START WRITING UNTIL THE DAY AFTER THE DEADLINE, DON'T THEY? I am not asking them to fire me, but they should know by now to take an alarm clock approach to my work schedule: set that timeline a good 15 minutes ahead of what time it actually is, let me have a few swipes at the snooze button. You'll get your productivity. All in good time.
I've already burned through two editors again, and I haven't even submitted anything, because I just know that I am the type of writer that publishing houses stick their rookies on, learn those lessons so that they can reach grizzled good and early. I am impossible and charming. You love me for ME but hate me for WHAT I AM. I even warned this last one that I would be the death of her and big clumps of her pretty blonde hair, and she said, 'OH YOU. YOU ARE TOO FUNNY TO CAUSE ME ANY GRIEF.' She lasted a week.
BE ON YOUR TOES, I bet they have written in my file. THIS ONE HAS ISSUES THAT PLUNGE MUCH DEEPER THAN SECTION 682.211(i) OF THE HIGHER EDUCATION RECONCILIATION ACT OF 2005.
FOR EXAMPLE
(Lines that I recommended in my financial aid book, and their edited results):
SUBMITTED TEXT #1:
"Financial aid is based on need, so the needier you are, the better off you'll be. Hey, that reminds me of a joke. How is financial aid different from my college girlfriend? If you guessed 'Financial Aid is not a cold heartless bitch,' you probably already heard it at one of my high school workshops."
EDITED TO READ:
"Financial aid is based on need, so the needier you are, the better off you'll be. Sounds like the perfect formula for an unhealthy relationship."
P.3 'THE PROCESS'
SUBMITTED TEXT #2:
"You know, the other day, I was on a business trip and I stopped in this really cool looking bar, and it was just full of dudes, but the drinks were REALLY strong and made me a little dizzy, and there was this one cute guy who kept telling me how pretty my eyes were. GOD, TMI, MUCH? Sorry, I don't know where I was going with that."
EDITED TO READ:
"If you're curious about what college life outside your state is like, or if you always wanted to take a few courses in an obscure subject not offered at your in-state college, the National Student Exchange might be the thing for you."
P. 97 'THE STATE SYSTEM'
SUBMITTED TEXT #3:
"OH MY GOD WHY WILL SHE NOT RETURN MY cALLS.!!? fuckk. AGH!"
EDITED TO READ:
"Remember that financial aid administrators are just like people (well, practically indistinguishable, anyway). They are subject to the same fits of anger and happiness as anyone else."
P.160 'THE SECRETS'
I hate to break this to you people, but the only thing that keeps you from the TRUTH is underpaid editors trying to work their way up the publishing food chain.
/ further. faster. goatsier.
I exercise due diligence during the leadership team retreat, because I am still seen as the YOUNG LAD of the bunch, and I don't do anything to dissuade this notion, because it gets me off the hook. Instead of official reprimands in my HR file, I get disapproving looks and admonishments of "I AM SO DISAPPOINTED IN YOU, BRANDON." To which I answer, "I am so sorry for being late, but do you know how hard it is to find dress shoes with velcro straps?" And they melt. They just melt, tousle my hair and at these moments I sometimes remember sitting in the backseat going through the bank's drive-thru window, the teller would always drop a lollipop in with the receipt.
SO WE ARE GOING TO WORK ON MISSION AND VISIONING STATEMENTS. WE'LL BE AT THIS FOR AWHILE, SO PLEASE DON'T EAT ALL THE CANDY AT ONCE.
Everyone looks at me. I am ready for it. I've already got a pile of wrappers on my notebook, and have smeared chocolate onto my upper lip and nose. I shrug my shoulders, guiltily. And they melt. They just melt.
I am coasting through this, imagining my most recent daytime fantasy, which for some reason involves me running my morning route along the lake, being attacked by a mountain lion and drowning the beast with my bare hands, carrying it up the street, readying for my interview on local TV. "REALLY, ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT WAS WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF A SMALL CHILD HAD BEEN WALKING BY? I ONLY DID WHAT ANY PERSON WOULD DO. I REJECT THE TERM HERO. IN MY MIND, TEACHERS ARE THE REAL HEROES."
But idyll is shattered, when someone says, "OUR STATEMENT NEEDS TO BE HIP. WE NEED TO CONNECT TO GEN X." "NO! GEN Y!" "OOOH, YES, BRANDON KNOWS THEM! TELL US HOW TO CONNECT, BRANDON!"
And I am totally like, you know, whatever. So I say, tongue in cheek, "HOW ABOUT 'COLLEGE 2.0?'"
And I am just waiting for them to get the joke, because it's not really all that clever, it would be saying something like, 'AT OUR COLLEGE, CAN IS THE NEW CAN'T,' so you know, not funny, but it would be funny for them. I'm assuming.
"THAT IS WONDERFUL!"
"BRILLIANT!"
"OOH! WE ARE GOING TO BE THE BEST GROUP!"
And I am like, "What?"
And they are like, "GIVE US SOME MORE IDEAS!"
And I do not know if they understand or if they are pulling my chain, and it's confusing, and my gut reaction is to smear chocolate on my face and say in a squeaky voice, 'I HAVE TO MAKE POTTY,' but they look soooo serious.
So I say, "AT OUR COLLEGE, CAN IS THE NEW CAN'T?"
"TERRIFIC!"
"YOU ARE KILLING US WITH YOUR IDEAS!"
"MORE!"
"Um. Okay. Well, how about, 'WASHINGTON GOT EDU?'"
They are orgasmic.
"Edgier!" someone says, and I offer, "COLLEGE! ZOMG!"
"DON'T STOP, BRANDON!"
"CROMULENCE IN EDUCATION."
"THOU HATH SMOTE ME WITH THINE BRILLIANCE!"
"DO SOMETHING RELATED TO MYSPACE!"
"YES, ALL THE GEN XERS ARE MYSPACING!" ("GEN YERS!" someone corrects.)
"Um, how about, 'MI SPACE ES SU SPACE.'"
"QUE BUENO!"
"Wait, what if we want to make them feel like we appreciate everyone for his or her own unique personality?"
"Oh. How about, 'WE WELCOME ALL YOUR MULTIPLE PERSONALITIES.'"
I think one of the participants actually passed out after this one.
"WHAT IF WE WANT TO INSPIRE THEM?"
"INSPIRE U."
"Oooh! That IS inspiring!" ("It even has INSPIRE in the motto!")
"How do we get more kids to stop dropping out?"
"CTRL + ALT + COMPLETE."
"How do we increase our gender diversity?"
"YOU'VE GOT MALES."
"HOW CAN WE BE CUTER?"
"IN UR SCHOOLZ LEARNIN UR CHILDRENZ"
"What?"
"I CAN HAS COLLEGE?"
"I don't get that one."
"YOU'RE THE MAN NOW DOG."
"You're kind of going over our heads now, Brandon."
"FURTHER. FASTER. GOATSIER."
LOL
SO WE ARE GOING TO WORK ON MISSION AND VISIONING STATEMENTS. WE'LL BE AT THIS FOR AWHILE, SO PLEASE DON'T EAT ALL THE CANDY AT ONCE.
Everyone looks at me. I am ready for it. I've already got a pile of wrappers on my notebook, and have smeared chocolate onto my upper lip and nose. I shrug my shoulders, guiltily. And they melt. They just melt.
I am coasting through this, imagining my most recent daytime fantasy, which for some reason involves me running my morning route along the lake, being attacked by a mountain lion and drowning the beast with my bare hands, carrying it up the street, readying for my interview on local TV. "REALLY, ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT WAS WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF A SMALL CHILD HAD BEEN WALKING BY? I ONLY DID WHAT ANY PERSON WOULD DO. I REJECT THE TERM HERO. IN MY MIND, TEACHERS ARE THE REAL HEROES."
But idyll is shattered, when someone says, "OUR STATEMENT NEEDS TO BE HIP. WE NEED TO CONNECT TO GEN X." "NO! GEN Y!" "OOOH, YES, BRANDON KNOWS THEM! TELL US HOW TO CONNECT, BRANDON!"
And I am totally like, you know, whatever. So I say, tongue in cheek, "HOW ABOUT 'COLLEGE 2.0?'"
And I am just waiting for them to get the joke, because it's not really all that clever, it would be saying something like, 'AT OUR COLLEGE, CAN IS THE NEW CAN'T,' so you know, not funny, but it would be funny for them. I'm assuming.
"THAT IS WONDERFUL!"
"BRILLIANT!"
"OOH! WE ARE GOING TO BE THE BEST GROUP!"
And I am like, "What?"
And they are like, "GIVE US SOME MORE IDEAS!"
And I do not know if they understand or if they are pulling my chain, and it's confusing, and my gut reaction is to smear chocolate on my face and say in a squeaky voice, 'I HAVE TO MAKE POTTY,' but they look soooo serious.
So I say, "AT OUR COLLEGE, CAN IS THE NEW CAN'T?"
"TERRIFIC!"
"YOU ARE KILLING US WITH YOUR IDEAS!"
"MORE!"
"Um. Okay. Well, how about, 'WASHINGTON GOT EDU?'"
They are orgasmic.
"Edgier!" someone says, and I offer, "COLLEGE! ZOMG!"
"DON'T STOP, BRANDON!"
"CROMULENCE IN EDUCATION."
"THOU HATH SMOTE ME WITH THINE BRILLIANCE!"
"DO SOMETHING RELATED TO MYSPACE!"
"YES, ALL THE GEN XERS ARE MYSPACING!" ("GEN YERS!" someone corrects.)
"Um, how about, 'MI SPACE ES SU SPACE.'"
"QUE BUENO!"
"Wait, what if we want to make them feel like we appreciate everyone for his or her own unique personality?"
"Oh. How about, 'WE WELCOME ALL YOUR MULTIPLE PERSONALITIES.'"
I think one of the participants actually passed out after this one.
"WHAT IF WE WANT TO INSPIRE THEM?"
"INSPIRE U."
"Oooh! That IS inspiring!" ("It even has INSPIRE in the motto!")
"How do we get more kids to stop dropping out?"
"CTRL + ALT + COMPLETE."
"How do we increase our gender diversity?"
"YOU'VE GOT MALES."
"HOW CAN WE BE CUTER?"
"IN UR SCHOOLZ LEARNIN UR CHILDRENZ"
"What?"
"I CAN HAS COLLEGE?"
"I don't get that one."
"YOU'RE THE MAN NOW DOG."
"You're kind of going over our heads now, Brandon."
"FURTHER. FASTER. GOATSIER."
LOL
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