I taped my knee, and then taped it some more, and then I spit on the ground and had two shots of amaretto, because I have no more patience for healing, and it is long past time I got up and ran it off before it started hurting me, and jesus did it hurt when I started, taped so tightly that I was using only 1 muscle on my right side, one obviously connected to my middle toe, and so I lifted my skirt and pulled off all the bandages, stuffed them into my pocket and ran it off before it started humiliating me.
I come from a long line of animals skilled in the use of improvised tools, and not more than a few faucets growing up were rendered practical by an adjustable wrench, not more than a few fuses kept their currents flowing by way of a well-placed screwdriver, not more than a few marriages were held together by spit and shine and the threat of Jesus Almighty. But goddamn, the amaretto only lasts two miles, no matter how many proofs you swallow whole, and at the very, very end, I felt like walking.
Walking is good for when you want to slow down the motion blur to an almost recognizable haze in the cold, misty torrent, and look, there on the marble path is a puffball, and there are some salal berries, and there is the ubiquitous madrona bark that reminds me of peeling the crape myrtles back in Texas, wondering if they could feel the pain that brought me the thrill that perhaps she swallowed a fly. I come across a kingfisher, and it flies across the lake. I hear a pileated woodpecker and spy it between the red cedar boughs. I realize that I am merely seeing these creatures, not assigning them any symbolism, and that is new for me, like growth, because I get so bored when things just are. I hate the word 'thing.' I hate the verb 'to be.' It is a hateful thing.
Running uphill presents a lovely pain, one that reminds me of the soreness following recovery. Downhill is another matter entirely, reminding me of when I put up the retaining wall, one of the river rocks fell and took off the index fingernail of my right hand, a cruel injury because it prevented me from pointing at the deformity of others without some taste of poetic justice. I shook my fist for an entire summer.
In October, the frogs are not ready to bury themselves into the loam, nor is it warm enough to do anything but wait for burial. You can walk right up on them in the grass, pick them up and remember all those wive tales about warts. Can a frog give you warts? my son asked once. I suppose if he has warts, I said, and I told this joke to the frog, who by now had gathered enough warmth from my hands to realize there was more pleasant company to be found underground. He jumped and I reminded myself that there is nothing symbolic in mother nature. The mother of necessity picks up her children on time.
The otters were out today, and two took up on the floating dock. I have my camera phone, but leave it in my pocket. Cameras are wonderful for capturing the moment and even more wonderful still for RUINING THE EXPERIENCE.
I find that if I scissor-step, my knee doesn't hurt at all, and I run sideways up the hills, and sideways down. The rain on my lenses prevents me from seeing anyone pointing out how foolish I look, and the ear buds keep me from hearing their laughter. I scare up a pair of mallard drakes, and it doesn't mean anything. I take off my shirt because the rain is going to talk to me whether I consent or not. There is a deer walking through the baseball field and I envy all four of her straightforward knees.
\ sensor
I am thinking of a letter between I and J, and how long after you kiss a girl you become a lost name on the tip of her tongue, how long before she writes you into history that she slips up and dreams about leading you into a room with an hourly rate, drawn like a moth to one of those fake fireplace flames, fluttering like the orange paper blowing above the whirring fan. Drawn to the light, then, and not to the burning. I am wondering if everyone looks so pretty when you are within breathing distance, or if I have that all wrong, since if you back up far enough you can see the entire mountain silhouetted against the glacial flats, and maybe now that she is 1,000 miles away, she can appreciate the enormity of our regret, though not quite large enough to bend the ambient light as it passes between here and the moon. We were interrupted by a not-so-friendly whisper. A well-planned storm never spoils the moment like an unexpected breeze. Now, I think I am her faithless prayer, the kind of wish tossed towards a god you no longer believe.
/ damned lies
I encourage lying among my children because I find it among the most useful of our distinctions from the animal kingdom and these lessons manifest on the mornings I work from home, where I ask over breakfast (PIZZA POCKETS), 'WHAT DID YOU DREAM LAST NIGHT?' In the beginning, the children would try to pass the most painful banalities off on me, as though I cared about a dream where you 'got a bicycle' or 'went to Chuck E. Cheese.'
YOU CALL THAT A DREAM? I would scream. NOW THIS, and here is where I jump upon the kitchen island, remove my shirt and fly head first into the couch, THIS IS A DREAM!
And their landscapes are suddenly richer, and sometimes darker, sinister and yes, painful, they can be that, but they cannot be ordinary or dull or the kind of painful which makes you want to continue on sleeping, how close to your unfulfilled life they compare. They are allowed to dream in black and white, but must also dream in colors, but not the colors of their days. Upon waking, I want them to ask, 'Why is the sky green?' Because it makes surfacing from underwater feel like drowning, it makes flying feel like falling.
"I dreamed I was counting frogs. One, two, three." She crouches onto all fours and starts to hop around the dining room. "I dreamed I was a frog."
"I dreamed a man was chasing me." He steadies the cereal spoon in his hand. "But the ground opened up and swallowed him whole."
They ask me what I dreamed, not yet aware that the teacher is well known for failing his own lessons. But I have a cheat sheet. "I dreamed my spirit reached the end of the universe, where there is a small room containing the souls of all the people I miss. And we shut the door, turned on the lights and danced."
Last night, after working til 11pm, I downed a glass of wine, a couple of sleeping pills, and proceeded to dream about being in a meeting, then returning to my desk to type up the notes, then submitting a report that no one really liked and no one really loved. I dreamed I was working.
I'll be damned if I ever tell them the truth of that.
YOU CALL THAT A DREAM? I would scream. NOW THIS, and here is where I jump upon the kitchen island, remove my shirt and fly head first into the couch, THIS IS A DREAM!
And their landscapes are suddenly richer, and sometimes darker, sinister and yes, painful, they can be that, but they cannot be ordinary or dull or the kind of painful which makes you want to continue on sleeping, how close to your unfulfilled life they compare. They are allowed to dream in black and white, but must also dream in colors, but not the colors of their days. Upon waking, I want them to ask, 'Why is the sky green?' Because it makes surfacing from underwater feel like drowning, it makes flying feel like falling.
"I dreamed I was counting frogs. One, two, three." She crouches onto all fours and starts to hop around the dining room. "I dreamed I was a frog."
"I dreamed a man was chasing me." He steadies the cereal spoon in his hand. "But the ground opened up and swallowed him whole."
They ask me what I dreamed, not yet aware that the teacher is well known for failing his own lessons. But I have a cheat sheet. "I dreamed my spirit reached the end of the universe, where there is a small room containing the souls of all the people I miss. And we shut the door, turned on the lights and danced."
Last night, after working til 11pm, I downed a glass of wine, a couple of sleeping pills, and proceeded to dream about being in a meeting, then returning to my desk to type up the notes, then submitting a report that no one really liked and no one really loved. I dreamed I was working.
I'll be damned if I ever tell them the truth of that.
\ statistics
The other day, I raped a girl. It is regrettable, of course, but all the intelligence I had at the time led me to believe that she wanted me to rape her. Moreover, I happen to know that this girl used to date a guy who raped a friend of mine, and there was no way I was going to let that stand. Still, I can't stop raping her now, even though my reason for doing so was misinformed. Because if I stop raping her and abandon her here in the wilderness, then other, crueler men will come in and rape her even worse. And after they finished raping her, they would follow me home, and I'd be forced to return and rape even more of them. So the rape must continue, because it is the only humane thing to do. Let's not preoccupy ourselves with the past. What's done is done. I raped her under the best of intentions, and many of my friends said I was right to do so. The question we must ask ourselves is, 'Where do we go from here?' Do we return to a situation where all our women are threatened with rape? Or do we rape this girl as humanely and compassionately as possible, so that no further harm comes to her?
/ cut
every year i promise to empty the SWEAR JAR and never curse in front of the children again and then the older one, the one who should be wiser, brings home the fundraiser catalog du jour and i drop my watch into the jar, because i'm out of cash and i need my credit card for peach schnapps. agh.
he tells us that if we can just get our friends to buy $250 worth of peanut butter brittle then he will get to be in the ELITE KIDS CLUB.
i say, BUT WE DO NOT HAVE ANY FRIENDS. MUCH LESS FRIENDS WITH $250.
he tells us that if he gets into the ELITE KIDS CLUB then he will get to ride to school in a limo with the OTHER ELITE KIDS.
i say, I WILL LET YOU DRIVE MY TRUCK FOR $250.
he reminds me that he is only 9 years old.
i say, THAT'S WHY I SAID YOU CAN DRIVE MY TRUCK AND NOT MY CAR.
he tells us that the fundraiser is for a good cause: EDUCATION.
i say, BUT THOSE FUNDRAISERS SEND LESS THAN 25% OF THE MONEY YOU EARN BACK TO THE SCHOOL! WHY DON'T I JUST CUT OUT THE MIDDLEMAN AND GIVE THE SCHOOL $70? IN FACT WHY DON'T I JUST CUT THE MIDDLEMAN? I AM GOING TO CUT SOMEBODY!
he tells me that he doesn't want to look uncool.
i say, Yeah. I know.
...
The good thing about the Swear Jar is that every year it almost nearly covers the $250 in peanut brittle. Maybe next year we'll switch to votives and perhaps cut down on our heating and electrical costs. Motherfuckers.
he tells us that if we can just get our friends to buy $250 worth of peanut butter brittle then he will get to be in the ELITE KIDS CLUB.
i say, BUT WE DO NOT HAVE ANY FRIENDS. MUCH LESS FRIENDS WITH $250.
he tells us that if he gets into the ELITE KIDS CLUB then he will get to ride to school in a limo with the OTHER ELITE KIDS.
i say, I WILL LET YOU DRIVE MY TRUCK FOR $250.
he reminds me that he is only 9 years old.
i say, THAT'S WHY I SAID YOU CAN DRIVE MY TRUCK AND NOT MY CAR.
he tells us that the fundraiser is for a good cause: EDUCATION.
i say, BUT THOSE FUNDRAISERS SEND LESS THAN 25% OF THE MONEY YOU EARN BACK TO THE SCHOOL! WHY DON'T I JUST CUT OUT THE MIDDLEMAN AND GIVE THE SCHOOL $70? IN FACT WHY DON'T I JUST CUT THE MIDDLEMAN? I AM GOING TO CUT SOMEBODY!
he tells me that he doesn't want to look uncool.
i say, Yeah. I know.
...
The good thing about the Swear Jar is that every year it almost nearly covers the $250 in peanut brittle. Maybe next year we'll switch to votives and perhaps cut down on our heating and electrical costs. Motherfuckers.
\ cut
I am more than happy to see myself cut to size, and don't need to page back very far in the journal to remind myself that it was me that used to do most of the hacking, until I became an unfunny joke at my own expense, and I noticed smoke, looked around, saw that I had lit dozens of tiny fires. I am not putting any of these fires out, they are nearly burnt out anyway, and although it is safest to fight from the black, I am going to light some entirely new blazes, see if I can't just spark a bit of the competitiveness that used to drive me through uncertain days on perpetually losing teams. This is all that used to matter so much, this form and function, and I had a teacher drill schemes into my head, ABAB, AABB, sonnet and rondel. I have scribbled into my journal, first page, courage in your writing. What follows makes hardly a bit of sense, not even in an i-suppose-i-could-see-what-that-MIGHT-represent kind of way, it is gibberish that the monkeys would fail to achieve generations after they had typed out Macbeth.
I loved my house until just recently, when I realized that there are no ghosts, and this palpable deficiency makes it very difficult to write what I know.
Somewhere along the banks of a dark river, a girl slips into the flat stream and turns over and over until she has nearly reached the other side, and the boy she is with thinks there must be two people out there, and with a bottle of wine between his knees, rubs his eyes and laughs about her funny accent and strange yen to break the surface of every body of water they come across. This boy is a ghost.
I loved my house until just recently, when I realized that there are no ghosts, and this palpable deficiency makes it very difficult to write what I know.
Somewhere along the banks of a dark river, a girl slips into the flat stream and turns over and over until she has nearly reached the other side, and the boy she is with thinks there must be two people out there, and with a bottle of wine between his knees, rubs his eyes and laughs about her funny accent and strange yen to break the surface of every body of water they come across. This boy is a ghost.
/ Rose
When I blush the next time we meet, it will have nothing to do with the dream I had last night. Nothing at all. Nope. Very little, if any. DO NOT WEAR YOUR HAIR IN PIG TAILS!!!
ahem
ahem
\ Thorne Creek
Some of these have been in my possession for years, and I cannot help but think, still, as they crash against the iron walls, that the dream of freedom turned out so much better than the truth of freedom. I wonder if this is why I make myself seem so difficult to understand. If I can appear just slightly out of sync, a hair's breadth different from normal, then it becomes so much harder to either latch on or let go. The fewer variables define my constancy, the simpler, the less difficult it will be to prove my own existence independent of others, a few photos here and there. Some letters. I shave off my belongings with Occam's razor, wonder if even my hands are relevant.
I seek simplicity, but crank out complexity. Is this the combination they call complicity? I swear I had nothing to do with it, all these discardings of temporary comforts and understandings. Now that the memories of the past are loaded into a truck, heading down the highway to be buried and mixed with all the damaged goods, I wonder if I will make any attempt at creating new memories, or sit content with re-writing the past, slightly rearranging slight details ever so slightly, diorama figurines chipped of their nail polish stains.
My family once fought over a tin carousel, a toy given to me when I had no discerning taste between trials and leisure. Blood lines were diluted thinner than water, and looking at this antique now, up close, it seems so unappealing. In my hands I would toss it in with the rest of the lost tidings, give it back to those whose vocation is burial. It is very unlike my fondness for strangers, that moment when you can pull up to mere inches from a person's eyes, see how much different she looks within the natural field of your vision. You can momentarily see through the appearance of her, and these are the collectibles I hold, when all the metals and plastics have deteriorated to nothing, I am still patting my breast pocket.
The boy next door has been on a quest for the past three days to cajole the new neighbor's cat to come close enough for a nuzzle. He tosses it bits of bread, and the small cat sniffs, then purrs, rubs against the fir. But every time the boy approaches, the cat darts away, but not so far, and they start again. I cannot remember if it is unusual for a little boy to have this much patience, if this is how they learn, or if this is what they lose, cast off with their light voices and fair skin. I remember the feeling of finally grabbing onto the stray animal, and do not remember all the effort it took to get there, the chase. I have discarded my own, similar memories. Watching this boy, it seems I have discarded the more pleasant memories, the effort lost in the haze of fulfillment. The ends have mystified the means.
When the truck nears its destination, it will come across an exit hardly ever taken, one that we passed on a vacation a very long time ago. I remember it being very hot, nearly a full day since we had crossed the divide into the high, arid plains, so vast that even in the middle of the sparse lodgepole pine forests, you were convinced there was not a scrap of vegetation on the horizon. The bark of those trees was red like garnet, the sagebrush jealous of the tumbleweeds, with at least the hope of escape. The exit led to a mineral spring, and though we were not allowed to drink on these trips, he remembered this from his own collection of trinkets, and he stopped, let us dip our hands in the clear water. Taking a drink, it was like having a mouthful of pennies. He laughed, made us swallow, went on about some lesson from the bible, and god knows why I can never rid myself of these possessions.
The very last box contained a glass full of old coins, and it fell, shattered. I cannot rid myself now of these souvenirs unless I am willing to bleed for it. I can be patient, I suppose, return home and grab an old broom. I can put it off for awhile. I can be patient, and enjoy the long, slow chase. I remember that I have a pair of gloves behind the seat, and wonder if there is an easier solution yet.
I seek simplicity, but crank out complexity. Is this the combination they call complicity? I swear I had nothing to do with it, all these discardings of temporary comforts and understandings. Now that the memories of the past are loaded into a truck, heading down the highway to be buried and mixed with all the damaged goods, I wonder if I will make any attempt at creating new memories, or sit content with re-writing the past, slightly rearranging slight details ever so slightly, diorama figurines chipped of their nail polish stains.
My family once fought over a tin carousel, a toy given to me when I had no discerning taste between trials and leisure. Blood lines were diluted thinner than water, and looking at this antique now, up close, it seems so unappealing. In my hands I would toss it in with the rest of the lost tidings, give it back to those whose vocation is burial. It is very unlike my fondness for strangers, that moment when you can pull up to mere inches from a person's eyes, see how much different she looks within the natural field of your vision. You can momentarily see through the appearance of her, and these are the collectibles I hold, when all the metals and plastics have deteriorated to nothing, I am still patting my breast pocket.
The boy next door has been on a quest for the past three days to cajole the new neighbor's cat to come close enough for a nuzzle. He tosses it bits of bread, and the small cat sniffs, then purrs, rubs against the fir. But every time the boy approaches, the cat darts away, but not so far, and they start again. I cannot remember if it is unusual for a little boy to have this much patience, if this is how they learn, or if this is what they lose, cast off with their light voices and fair skin. I remember the feeling of finally grabbing onto the stray animal, and do not remember all the effort it took to get there, the chase. I have discarded my own, similar memories. Watching this boy, it seems I have discarded the more pleasant memories, the effort lost in the haze of fulfillment. The ends have mystified the means.
When the truck nears its destination, it will come across an exit hardly ever taken, one that we passed on a vacation a very long time ago. I remember it being very hot, nearly a full day since we had crossed the divide into the high, arid plains, so vast that even in the middle of the sparse lodgepole pine forests, you were convinced there was not a scrap of vegetation on the horizon. The bark of those trees was red like garnet, the sagebrush jealous of the tumbleweeds, with at least the hope of escape. The exit led to a mineral spring, and though we were not allowed to drink on these trips, he remembered this from his own collection of trinkets, and he stopped, let us dip our hands in the clear water. Taking a drink, it was like having a mouthful of pennies. He laughed, made us swallow, went on about some lesson from the bible, and god knows why I can never rid myself of these possessions.
The very last box contained a glass full of old coins, and it fell, shattered. I cannot rid myself now of these souvenirs unless I am willing to bleed for it. I can be patient, I suppose, return home and grab an old broom. I can put it off for awhile. I can be patient, and enjoy the long, slow chase. I remember that I have a pair of gloves behind the seat, and wonder if there is an easier solution yet.
/ Schedulfreude
Although I don't plan on dying young, I fully intend to get all my living done ahead of schedule. This means that on occasion, I will not always be able to act in accordance with natural laws. Allow me to demonstrate:
It's more than bad. It's tribad.
For some reason, I recall that I said the word 'double fisting' much more than I probably actually did. But I do know that I have never before in my life talked more about sea monkeys than when Jenny convened the September 19th meeting of the TequilaCon Subcommittee on Inappropriations. This is likely because we went to the only restaurant in town that serves 100% genuine Peruvian water. No one told us that the traditional method of drinking said water is to shine a light at the floaties. Not until it was too late.
Vahid seemed a bit distracted, and we thought it was because reservations at a Peruvian bar is not an exact science, but really, he was just having second thoughts about inviting Djustin down to Portland, what with his show curls and angelic voice and personal line of furniture at Ikea, it's not like anyone is going to pay attention to the rest of us has-beens. In fact, Jenny wouldn't even allow Djustin to eat on his own, because you never know where a Peruvian fork has been, so we were forced to spoon- and fork-feed the little angel.
Djustin repays Vahid's kindness by humiliating him in the Grand Prix.
Sibyl probably took the night hardest of all, actually aging an entire year during the course of the festivities. But then she showed me her tattoo and denied that it was sanskrit for SIBYL CAN HAS BRANDON PLZ? and then I took it pretty hard and didn't really recover and took to drinking Genuine Peruvian tequila which is defined as 'the tequila in the bottle closest to your hand.'
Quarter Life Carotene and Beta Man
The receipt told its own stories, such as how originally Sibyl's Traditional Peruvian Birthday Flan was given to us for free, and then charged double when Djustin asked out loud, "IS IT REALLY SIBYL'S BIRTHDAY?" Or maybe Traditional Peruvian Birthday Flan is only free until you take a bite.
I dropped all my loot and discovered no fewer than 10 respawn points in the course of Asia's epic performance of Bust a Move.
And then we went to a karaoke bar and in spite of all my protestations, I agreed to sing and now I can cross that off of page 3 of 100 Things I Will Do Before I Die:
Page 3: 100 Things I Will Do Before I Die
#21 - Write a Novel Approach to Checking for Colon Polyps
#22 - Allow a Friend to Beat Me Up So That He Can Impress a Girl in a Country Western Bar
#23 - Eat a Live Mammal
#24 -Karaoke
#25 - Go To Work Without My Pants On in Order to Increase My Chances for Disability
Unfortunately, I discovered that two of my suspicions are not only true, but very, very, very true:
Confirmed Suspicions
#1 - I am really awful at Karaoke
#2 - I deal with uncomfortable situations by drinking and talking about my genitals
Vahid and Jenny performed an Operetta by Meatloaf , which only seems like an oxymoron, because it is in fact a proxy moron, which is basically a word that takes the place of a moron. Sibyl assured me that Vahid had been practicing.
Jenny knows what she's doing at the mic, and unfortunately, the song did not last for a full three hours, because that meant eventually I would in fact have to sing, and I asked Asia for advice and she said, 'JUST KNOW THAT YOUR VOICE WILL NOT SOUND LIKE YOU THINK IT DOES,' and then I was relieved, because my voice sounded so, so bad and in my reptilian brain I thought A. this must be a good sign and B. FLEE FROM THE HUMANS.
I honestly do not remember many of the details after this, other than two items about scarves, one of which involved me forcing Jenny's head down onto a pinball machine and the other involving returning stolen merchandise to this Tequilacon veteran when I go to St. Louis in November.
Hey, who's got the picture booth photos?
I am fortunate in my friends. Rich beyond my wildest dreams. I made it home safely and slept for a very long time. I remain well ahead of schedule.
It's more than bad. It's tribad.
For some reason, I recall that I said the word 'double fisting' much more than I probably actually did. But I do know that I have never before in my life talked more about sea monkeys than when Jenny convened the September 19th meeting of the TequilaCon Subcommittee on Inappropriations. This is likely because we went to the only restaurant in town that serves 100% genuine Peruvian water. No one told us that the traditional method of drinking said water is to shine a light at the floaties. Not until it was too late.
Vahid seemed a bit distracted, and we thought it was because reservations at a Peruvian bar is not an exact science, but really, he was just having second thoughts about inviting Djustin down to Portland, what with his show curls and angelic voice and personal line of furniture at Ikea, it's not like anyone is going to pay attention to the rest of us has-beens. In fact, Jenny wouldn't even allow Djustin to eat on his own, because you never know where a Peruvian fork has been, so we were forced to spoon- and fork-feed the little angel.
Djustin repays Vahid's kindness by humiliating him in the Grand Prix.
Sibyl probably took the night hardest of all, actually aging an entire year during the course of the festivities. But then she showed me her tattoo and denied that it was sanskrit for SIBYL CAN HAS BRANDON PLZ? and then I took it pretty hard and didn't really recover and took to drinking Genuine Peruvian tequila which is defined as 'the tequila in the bottle closest to your hand.'
Quarter Life Carotene and Beta Man
The receipt told its own stories, such as how originally Sibyl's Traditional Peruvian Birthday Flan was given to us for free, and then charged double when Djustin asked out loud, "IS IT REALLY SIBYL'S BIRTHDAY?" Or maybe Traditional Peruvian Birthday Flan is only free until you take a bite.
I dropped all my loot and discovered no fewer than 10 respawn points in the course of Asia's epic performance of Bust a Move.
And then we went to a karaoke bar and in spite of all my protestations, I agreed to sing and now I can cross that off of page 3 of 100 Things I Will Do Before I Die:
Page 3: 100 Things I Will Do Before I Die
#21 - Write a Novel Approach to Checking for Colon Polyps
#22 - Allow a Friend to Beat Me Up So That He Can Impress a Girl in a Country Western Bar
#23 - Eat a Live Mammal
#24 -
#25 - Go To Work Without My Pants On in Order to Increase My Chances for Disability
Unfortunately, I discovered that two of my suspicions are not only true, but very, very, very true:
Confirmed Suspicions
#1 - I am really awful at Karaoke
#2 - I deal with uncomfortable situations by drinking and talking about my genitals
Vahid and Jenny performed an Operetta by Meatloaf , which only seems like an oxymoron, because it is in fact a proxy moron, which is basically a word that takes the place of a moron. Sibyl assured me that Vahid had been practicing.
Jenny knows what she's doing at the mic, and unfortunately, the song did not last for a full three hours, because that meant eventually I would in fact have to sing, and I asked Asia for advice and she said, 'JUST KNOW THAT YOUR VOICE WILL NOT SOUND LIKE YOU THINK IT DOES,' and then I was relieved, because my voice sounded so, so bad and in my reptilian brain I thought A. this must be a good sign and B. FLEE FROM THE HUMANS.
I honestly do not remember many of the details after this, other than two items about scarves, one of which involved me forcing Jenny's head down onto a pinball machine and the other involving returning stolen merchandise to this Tequilacon veteran when I go to St. Louis in November.
Hey, who's got the picture booth photos?
I am fortunate in my friends. Rich beyond my wildest dreams. I made it home safely and slept for a very long time. I remain well ahead of schedule.
\ Wolf
That was your mom on the phone. She wanted me to tell you that she loves you.
I love you too, mom!
She already hung up. I'll tell her when she gets home. Now go to sleep. I love you.
I love you, too. Tell me a story?
It's late, it will have to be short. Have you heard about the boy who cried wolf?
I think so. What is it about?
It is about someone who says something too often. In the beginning, everyone believe him, but when the words are truest, they call him a liar.
What is it supposed to mean? To only say something when it's true?
Not to say anything too much at all, i think.
Oh.
Good night, now. I love you.
I love you, too.
I love you too, mom!
She already hung up. I'll tell her when she gets home. Now go to sleep. I love you.
I love you, too. Tell me a story?
It's late, it will have to be short. Have you heard about the boy who cried wolf?
I think so. What is it about?
It is about someone who says something too often. In the beginning, everyone believe him, but when the words are truest, they call him a liar.
What is it supposed to mean? To only say something when it's true?
Not to say anything too much at all, i think.
Oh.
Good night, now. I love you.
I love you, too.
/ immodest proposal
I can only hope that it won't be too long before some guy has the bright idea of proposing to his lady friend by way of paying a homeless man to write it up on his cardboard sign, since all the other original ideas have been taken. The set up would be the best part, obviously, as the guy drives his unsuspecting bride-to-be (BECAUSE HOW COULD SHE SAY NO AFTER ALL THAT EFFORT?) along the freeway overpass, then says in an obnoxiously loud voice, "YOU MAKE ME WANT TO BE A BETTER MAN. HAND ME THAT LEFT OVER ARBEE'S SO THAT I CAN HELP THIS HOMELESS FELLA." And as she looks over, she will read the proposal, Sharpied onto the cardboard, "WILL YOU MARY ME RHODA," and she will mumble, 'God, poor Rhoda. Her boyfriend is proposing with a homeless dude. That's gonna last.'
And he will say, "Rhonda, you used to be so romantic."
And then the light will come on, and she will squeal with delight, how happy she is, 'cause really, she was just jealous of Rhoda, what with her creative boyfriend who actually wants to marry her. And then all the cars will start honking in celebration, because that's what you do when people are happy, you blare your horn at them until they get going already.
Just in case, I've penned a few possibilities:
'Will you marry me for food?'
'Oh, who am I kidding? I only want money for beer and your hand in marriage.'
'Ninjas killed my family. Need money for karate lessons and your wedding gift.'
I suppose we should also set up a web site where you can type in your message and it will appear on a homeless person's sign. It should be classy.
And he will say, "Rhonda, you used to be so romantic."
And then the light will come on, and she will squeal with delight, how happy she is, 'cause really, she was just jealous of Rhoda, what with her creative boyfriend who actually wants to marry her. And then all the cars will start honking in celebration, because that's what you do when people are happy, you blare your horn at them until they get going already.
Just in case, I've penned a few possibilities:
'Will you marry me for food?'
'Oh, who am I kidding? I only want money for beer and your hand in marriage.'
'Ninjas killed my family. Need money for karate lessons and your wedding gift.'
I suppose we should also set up a web site where you can type in your message and it will appear on a homeless person's sign. It should be classy.
\ gravities
When she was at her weakest, I carried her over to the couch, the earth seeming to have completely loosened its hold, her lightness, causing me to wonder about the way we describe this, 'the gravity of the situation.' Is it that we feel the weight of loss, the graveness of peril? In life, she has been neither larger nor smaller than most, but unique, a drop of water sideways in an eddy, let go from its daily revolutions into the larger current, along weathered walls, denser than its surroundings, yet impelled to the surface, over a peak, only to stop halfway down. She is a snowflake now, set upon the slipstream.
I have done this before, headfirst and headlong, able to pull up and float, or accidentally knock over a cup and catch it before the ground.
You should have let it, she says. The shards bring luck.
I place it on the table, but very near the edge. Hope for it.
I dreamed this. Don't take it from me.
She said to mend the neighbor's fence, that it be like mending our own.
Those were not her words, she says. I hope you will not misrepresent me so when I am in her state.
I won't. I will pray for you.
Don't you dare!
Alex came into the yard, kneeled alongside the new bed I put in next to the shade garden. I could see her hat rise and fall through the window. What are you doing there? She had thinned out the seedlings, they lay in a pile at her feet, already dried and ready to take flight.
I just planted those!
So many flowers with new names now, 'forget me nots' and 'better left unsaids.'
I didn't know! I'm sorry!
What grew instead were weeds. Thistle, mullein and bottlebrush. They took no water, brought in all the pretty, wild birds. You could cut mazes through and through, like little rows of secrets, tall as crape myrtle, bare, crooked arms like snakes shedding their skins, falling, falling, falling to the ground, opalescent veils for the dying milkweed.
I have done this before, headfirst and headlong, able to pull up and float, or accidentally knock over a cup and catch it before the ground.
You should have let it, she says. The shards bring luck.
I place it on the table, but very near the edge. Hope for it.
I dreamed this. Don't take it from me.
She said to mend the neighbor's fence, that it be like mending our own.
Those were not her words, she says. I hope you will not misrepresent me so when I am in her state.
I won't. I will pray for you.
Don't you dare!
Alex came into the yard, kneeled alongside the new bed I put in next to the shade garden. I could see her hat rise and fall through the window. What are you doing there? She had thinned out the seedlings, they lay in a pile at her feet, already dried and ready to take flight.
I just planted those!
So many flowers with new names now, 'forget me nots' and 'better left unsaids.'
I didn't know! I'm sorry!
What grew instead were weeds. Thistle, mullein and bottlebrush. They took no water, brought in all the pretty, wild birds. You could cut mazes through and through, like little rows of secrets, tall as crape myrtle, bare, crooked arms like snakes shedding their skins, falling, falling, falling to the ground, opalescent veils for the dying milkweed.
/ trash
Don't tell 'accidentally sending your plans for Friday night to the entire company-wide message board,' but I have recently fallen in love with 'go on and on and on about how good your celebrity impression is and then bomb so awkwardly that the other person says "Yeah, that was pretty good," while you quickly change the subject to something slightly less subjective, like politics.'
I am in the midst of recovering from a cliche, you see. I grew up with pack rats, and so naturally throw everything away, can't hold on to a single thing. Just last month, I put all my soccer, baseball and high school debate trophies in the trash, as well as my Varsity letters, my typewriter, my computer, my childhood stuffed animals and a stack of books. Can you believe I threw away books? I realize how horrible this makes me, but if I were stranded on a desert isle and the only book I had was a 450 page manual describing all the features of Microsoft Excel 97, I would quickly bury myself in the sand holding a coconut, give my life to a future generation of trees.
In 1991, I bought a cheap plastic bowl, which throughout my bachelor years served no less than 45 functions, most, but not all, of which involved eating and washing. The orange tint descends from the very first box of generic macaroni and 'cheese' I bought to celebrate my freedom from dormitory living. I have had this bowl for 16 years. Key word: HAD. UGH.
There is no doubt that this bowl should have been thrown away years ago. In all likelihood, it should have been thrown away after its first use, a lesson many of us learned when Taco Bell switched from paper to those plastic 40 ounce cups that you could bring in for 25 cent refills if only they hadn't become permanent fixtures in your china cabinet.
Still. STILL. When you throw away something in a communal living arrangement, it is generally good practice to inform the owner of said object that you are about to break his heart.
Who knows? Maybe I would have even agreed to toss it in the trash myself. After all, I was just reading how lions will sometimes abandon their cubs when there is not enough food to go around, or when the babies too closely resemble their REAL father.
I am in the midst of recovering from a cliche, you see. I grew up with pack rats, and so naturally throw everything away, can't hold on to a single thing. Just last month, I put all my soccer, baseball and high school debate trophies in the trash, as well as my Varsity letters, my typewriter, my computer, my childhood stuffed animals and a stack of books. Can you believe I threw away books? I realize how horrible this makes me, but if I were stranded on a desert isle and the only book I had was a 450 page manual describing all the features of Microsoft Excel 97, I would quickly bury myself in the sand holding a coconut, give my life to a future generation of trees.
In 1991, I bought a cheap plastic bowl, which throughout my bachelor years served no less than 45 functions, most, but not all, of which involved eating and washing. The orange tint descends from the very first box of generic macaroni and 'cheese' I bought to celebrate my freedom from dormitory living. I have had this bowl for 16 years. Key word: HAD. UGH.
There is no doubt that this bowl should have been thrown away years ago. In all likelihood, it should have been thrown away after its first use, a lesson many of us learned when Taco Bell switched from paper to those plastic 40 ounce cups that you could bring in for 25 cent refills if only they hadn't become permanent fixtures in your china cabinet.
Still. STILL. When you throw away something in a communal living arrangement, it is generally good practice to inform the owner of said object that you are about to break his heart.
Who knows? Maybe I would have even agreed to toss it in the trash myself. After all, I was just reading how lions will sometimes abandon their cubs when there is not enough food to go around, or when the babies too closely resemble their REAL father.
\ collection
My plan, my great wondrous scheme, involves corrupting the Ebbinghaus Illusion, surround myself with better memories now, so that in casual conversation I might appear more content than I can truthfully claim, so that in my daily rote I might continue my casual mistakes, so that in my later years I might reminisce about some memory that then seems better than it actually was at the time.
I am not one to hold onto every detail, but neither am I likely to give up the worst if it is near to my heart, especially if it is bad for my health, and if I am not rocking quicker in my rocker than the other abandoned grandparents, I will be sore with regret.
I have a few mistakes left in me yet. Got some things I'd like to see. Have no intention of entering the afterlife with any confidence at all.
Occasionally, though, I am awfully proud of myself whenever I do not say out loud what I am thinking, or god forbid send it in a message.
I am not one to hold onto every detail, but neither am I likely to give up the worst if it is near to my heart, especially if it is bad for my health, and if I am not rocking quicker in my rocker than the other abandoned grandparents, I will be sore with regret.
I have a few mistakes left in me yet. Got some things I'd like to see. Have no intention of entering the afterlife with any confidence at all.
Occasionally, though, I am awfully proud of myself whenever I do not say out loud what I am thinking, or god forbid send it in a message.
/ Ms. Spellings, Perhaps?
I am just heartbroken and not sure what to do other than join the PTA so I can set this shit straight. Yesterday, my son asked, the traces of lost innocence still fresh in his eyes, "HAVE YOU EVER HEARD OF FREDDY COUGAR?"
Who?
FREDDY COUGAR. HE'S A CAT THAT ALWAYS HATED HUMANS AND ONCE HE SAW A GIRL READING A BOOK UP IN A TREE AND FREDDY HAD ESCAPED FROM A ZOO WHERE HE NEARLY DIED IN A FIRE AND HE STARTED SCRATCHING HER LEGS AND-
Freddy Cougar?
YEAH, FREDDY COUGAR. THEY TRIED TO KILL HIM BUT WHENEVER YOU GO TO SLEE-
I think you must mean Freddy Kruger.
KRUGER? THAT'S A STUPID NAME FOR A CAT.
and later...
ISABEL TOLD ME ABOUT BLOODY MARY.
Mmmm. Bloody marys...
SHE SAID THAT YOU GO IN THE BATHROOM...
Uh, yeah.
THEN YOU TURN OFF ALL THE LIGHTS...
Right.
YOU FLUSH THE TOILET...
Toilet??
YOU TURN ON THE SINK...
Huh?
YOU TURN AROUND THREE TIMES?
The fuck?
AND THEN SHE APPEARS!
Wrong! What's this business with the toilet? And you didn't even smear water on the mirror! Plus, you have to close your eyes and SAY HER NAME three times!
REALLY?
Tomorrow morning on the bus I want you to march right up to Isabel and tell her how to do it right! And make sure you remind her that it won't work if her parents are home!
I honestly don't know what they're teaching kids anymore.
Who?
FREDDY COUGAR. HE'S A CAT THAT ALWAYS HATED HUMANS AND ONCE HE SAW A GIRL READING A BOOK UP IN A TREE AND FREDDY HAD ESCAPED FROM A ZOO WHERE HE NEARLY DIED IN A FIRE AND HE STARTED SCRATCHING HER LEGS AND-
Freddy Cougar?
YEAH, FREDDY COUGAR. THEY TRIED TO KILL HIM BUT WHENEVER YOU GO TO SLEE-
I think you must mean Freddy Kruger.
KRUGER? THAT'S A STUPID NAME FOR A CAT.
and later...
ISABEL TOLD ME ABOUT BLOODY MARY.
Mmmm. Bloody marys...
SHE SAID THAT YOU GO IN THE BATHROOM...
Uh, yeah.
THEN YOU TURN OFF ALL THE LIGHTS...
Right.
YOU FLUSH THE TOILET...
Toilet??
YOU TURN ON THE SINK...
Huh?
YOU TURN AROUND THREE TIMES?
The fuck?
AND THEN SHE APPEARS!
Wrong! What's this business with the toilet? And you didn't even smear water on the mirror! Plus, you have to close your eyes and SAY HER NAME three times!
REALLY?
Tomorrow morning on the bus I want you to march right up to Isabel and tell her how to do it right! And make sure you remind her that it won't work if her parents are home!
I honestly don't know what they're teaching kids anymore.
\ tastes heavenly
when she gathers her things, piles into the vehicle with the rest of the weary travelers, takes her seat in the very back, i can tell she strains to keep from placing her palm on the glass. the driver moves too quickly, there is no reason to hurry, but still he slams the door, slaps the hood as he trots around the front, jumps into the seat and kicks gravel into the air. so had she mouthed any final thoughts, they would have been obscured by the dust, peppery and fine in the last air between us, and she is gone. i walk inside and think about crawling under the daybed, think about sleeping off the last few days until my ride arrives. i simply lie there, my eyes wide open, unable to focus. i think, because of how they need to pick up another, i might have time to walk to the crossroads, show myself again, and in this urgent new realization scrape my forehead against the bottom springs, lace up my boots and jump off the porch. skip on down the lane.
it is two miles, and i remember how once when i met my aunt, she had me kneel with her and pray for guidance, and said i should always pray, and looked so severe that the intensity of her faith frightened me into believing. and later i tried on my own, tried to remember the words she taught me, until it became nothing more than a list of the things i wanted, had never had, and realized i was just talking to myself.
i used to think it was bizarre to talk to god this way, but i suppose it's fine so long as he doesn't start talking back, because that would be flat out crazy. you can talk to him, or talk about him, you can believe in him, you can even see him in nature, or images of the saints and the virgin, even claim to feel his presence, but sound is our most wicked of senses, because if you listen to him, tell someone you heard his voice, you will be labeled a lunatic. so what i allow myself to hear along the road, instead, while i am running is the last thing she told me, and the sound of her breathing, and i don't need anyone to tell me how crazy i've become. i have seen it, first-hand, have wrapped my hands around it even.
it is two miles, and i remember how once when i met my aunt, she had me kneel with her and pray for guidance, and said i should always pray, and looked so severe that the intensity of her faith frightened me into believing. and later i tried on my own, tried to remember the words she taught me, until it became nothing more than a list of the things i wanted, had never had, and realized i was just talking to myself.
i used to think it was bizarre to talk to god this way, but i suppose it's fine so long as he doesn't start talking back, because that would be flat out crazy. you can talk to him, or talk about him, you can believe in him, you can even see him in nature, or images of the saints and the virgin, even claim to feel his presence, but sound is our most wicked of senses, because if you listen to him, tell someone you heard his voice, you will be labeled a lunatic. so what i allow myself to hear along the road, instead, while i am running is the last thing she told me, and the sound of her breathing, and i don't need anyone to tell me how crazy i've become. i have seen it, first-hand, have wrapped my hands around it even.
/ backhand attack
what is that move called in martial arts movies where you do that highly improbable backhand attack to knock someone out who is coming at you from behind?
BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE I JUST DID THAT TO MY UNHAPPINESS.
why do i say this, you ask? ask dammit
because next week i will be breaking bread with the portland area planning committee of tequilacon international! there will be karaoke and drinking and dancing and self-pleasure and laughter and tears and then i'll probably need to stop for gas and 'me time.' oh, and later, i'll arrive in portland and try to find parking.
it's been a long time since i have seen asia, vahid, jenny, sibyl and eclectic, and it will be longer still for eclectic because she's not coming, which is too bad for the Central Washington constituents, because if you're not at the meeting, you can't correct items on the agenda or add syphilis to the list of excludable invitee characteristics to TequilaConPHILA08. Although, you would have gotten out-voted or shouted down had you even tried, Eclectic!
i'm looking forward to turning this site into my own private record of events that bolster my self-worth, so depending on how my hair looks that night, i might even post topless photos. ironically, i think i look much more mysterious without a top, hardly recognizable at all! (please don't ask me if i've been working out, because that is offensive. instead ask, MY GOD STOP WORKING OUT ALREADY, WHAT ARE THOSE, BLASTOMAS?).
if you want me to tell anyone at the event a secret, please post in the comments below, but make sure it is ambiguously dirty, and also request that i must tell them by whispering it in their ears after 7 shots of watermelon-appletini mix.
i'm not sure where we will be celebrating, but it will likely involve any place that has PBR for $2. which is like eighteen cents in 2005 dollars. ugh.
BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE I JUST DID THAT TO MY UNHAPPINESS.
why do i say this, you ask? ask dammit
because next week i will be breaking bread with the portland area planning committee of tequilacon international! there will be karaoke and drinking and dancing and self-pleasure and laughter and tears and then i'll probably need to stop for gas and 'me time.' oh, and later, i'll arrive in portland and try to find parking.
it's been a long time since i have seen asia, vahid, jenny, sibyl and eclectic, and it will be longer still for eclectic because she's not coming, which is too bad for the Central Washington constituents, because if you're not at the meeting, you can't correct items on the agenda or add syphilis to the list of excludable invitee characteristics to TequilaConPHILA08. Although, you would have gotten out-voted or shouted down had you even tried, Eclectic!
i'm looking forward to turning this site into my own private record of events that bolster my self-worth, so depending on how my hair looks that night, i might even post topless photos. ironically, i think i look much more mysterious without a top, hardly recognizable at all! (please don't ask me if i've been working out, because that is offensive. instead ask, MY GOD STOP WORKING OUT ALREADY, WHAT ARE THOSE, BLASTOMAS?).
if you want me to tell anyone at the event a secret, please post in the comments below, but make sure it is ambiguously dirty, and also request that i must tell them by whispering it in their ears after 7 shots of watermelon-appletini mix.
i'm not sure where we will be celebrating, but it will likely involve any place that has PBR for $2. which is like eighteen cents in 2005 dollars. ugh.
\ they found it
i adore those who laugh at their own bombed jokes. sometimes i practice on my own, telling stories that no one could possibly find funny. humor is not the same as affection, in this way, in that people sometimes say, 'i guess you and i don't share the same sense of humor,' and it's true, sometimes we laugh at what others find horrid, and sometimes others laugh, and we ask why, and they tell us, and we cringe. but affection, comforting the weak in their greater moment of weakness, while not universal, somehow still brings the world to an understandable scale.
i suppose i cannot begrudge the affection, because she once chose to sleep in the car, and there were times i thought of cracking the window and whispering encouragement, or even tying all the fairy tales in my head together, climbing down the knots along the outside wall. they didn't cut the grass in those old stories, and roads were lined with trees hiding bandits, so few willing to give to the poor. all the ways we deal with unfortunate truths involve fantasy. why did my dog have to die? you ask, and she tightens her lips, says, he's not dead, he's running in the fields of heaven. will i? no, the corners white, no. but all the people who hurt us, you ask, and no, no, darling, floods were sent, washed away all the evils. really? he gave to the poor? and he slayed the dragon. he revived the dead. he shared the gift of fire with man. he sacrificed his son. he dressed as a wolf. he hid in a lamp. he rode upon the frog's back. he turned the water into wine. he threw beans, found slippers, rose again.
he came to me when i was young, told me i was beautiful, i followed him and washed his hair, and we walked through all the trials together, and he was taken from me, but you came in his place, and that was why it was all worth it, the back seat of this car, the promise of a future and we'll eat honey, drink milk, maybe even move far away from where we can hear, pack up the animals and start over.
i suppose i cannot begrudge the affection, because she once chose to sleep in the car, and there were times i thought of cracking the window and whispering encouragement, or even tying all the fairy tales in my head together, climbing down the knots along the outside wall. they didn't cut the grass in those old stories, and roads were lined with trees hiding bandits, so few willing to give to the poor. all the ways we deal with unfortunate truths involve fantasy. why did my dog have to die? you ask, and she tightens her lips, says, he's not dead, he's running in the fields of heaven. will i? no, the corners white, no. but all the people who hurt us, you ask, and no, no, darling, floods were sent, washed away all the evils. really? he gave to the poor? and he slayed the dragon. he revived the dead. he shared the gift of fire with man. he sacrificed his son. he dressed as a wolf. he hid in a lamp. he rode upon the frog's back. he turned the water into wine. he threw beans, found slippers, rose again.
he came to me when i was young, told me i was beautiful, i followed him and washed his hair, and we walked through all the trials together, and he was taken from me, but you came in his place, and that was why it was all worth it, the back seat of this car, the promise of a future and we'll eat honey, drink milk, maybe even move far away from where we can hear, pack up the animals and start over.
/ i'm your lobster
Formulas I have taken advantage of in sidehand conversations this weekend:
"X called. It wants Y back.”
"In your X, Y-ing your Z."
"My name is X. You killed my Y. Prepare to Z."
"X requests the pleasure of your Y."
"Money can't buy X."
"What?"
"You know, money is not the most important Y in the world."
"Did you turn down that gig?"
"The most important thing is that we have our Z."
"But that was like $14 grand!"
"It is always darkest before the Y."
"You spent the whole weekend playing Castlevania!"
"Uh, warrior needs Z badly."
"If by Z, you mean fresh sheets for the couch!"
But..but...I'm your Y!
"Soon to be X!"
"X called. It wants Y back.”
"In your X, Y-ing your Z."
"My name is X. You killed my Y. Prepare to Z."
"X requests the pleasure of your Y."
"Money can't buy X."
"What?"
"You know, money is not the most important Y in the world."
"Did you turn down that gig?"
"The most important thing is that we have our Z."
"But that was like $14 grand!"
"It is always darkest before the Y."
"You spent the whole weekend playing Castlevania!"
"Uh, warrior needs Z badly."
"If by Z, you mean fresh sheets for the couch!"
But..but...I'm your Y!
"Soon to be X!"
\ soon to be older
I enjoy how she starts so many conversations, "There was an incident, a few years back." I have my camera with me today. I am guessing that there are maybe 400 individual items on my desk, but none deserving immemorialization. None would qualify as incidents. Or maybe I am unaccustomed to embellishing the story behind the object. She would focus on the dried fig, and I would tell her, "It was the first fruit that tree produced. It was still green, but I was sure it would die, or get taken by a jay, so I picked it." I split it open with my pocket knife, brought it to work, laid it out on top of a book, next to the phone. It has been there for over two years now. I sometimes wondered why it didn't grow mold, or why the hundreds of seeds remained rooted to the walls. Its skin has become as solid as a piece of rawhide. That's it. That's the whole story.
You have had a fig rotting on your desk for two years, and you can't come up with an incident for yourself? she might say. Didn't your mother used to tell you stories about throwing figs at the neighbor girls growing up? Throwing figs that had wasps in them, for spite?
Yes, I think to myself, but this was a story she embellished. Fig wasps aren't really like mud daubers or yellowjackets, you can barely see them. Most people don't even know they're eating them.
But that's what I mean. In the way she told it, the fig she threw had a great big queen hornet inside, and when it struck the rich child thumbing her nose and sticking out her tongue, the fruit blew up all over her chest, staining that pretty white chiffon and the stinger put a welt on that girl's eye that forced her into reading glasses, the only person in that whole generation with worse than 20/15 vision.
That would have been quite an incident.
It was.
I didn't happen that way.
It did.
In fact, I think there might have been two wasps inside that fig. The other'n got into her underpants, and that's why she's gone through three husbands in 8 years.
Mm-hmm.
Don't deny yourself a bit of vengeance with some misguided sense of historical integrity, she might say.
You said that, not me.
I did.
There was an incident, a few days back. A co-worker walked in, picked up the dried fig on my desk, asked me about it.
You have had a fig rotting on your desk for two years, and you can't come up with an incident for yourself? she might say. Didn't your mother used to tell you stories about throwing figs at the neighbor girls growing up? Throwing figs that had wasps in them, for spite?
Yes, I think to myself, but this was a story she embellished. Fig wasps aren't really like mud daubers or yellowjackets, you can barely see them. Most people don't even know they're eating them.
But that's what I mean. In the way she told it, the fig she threw had a great big queen hornet inside, and when it struck the rich child thumbing her nose and sticking out her tongue, the fruit blew up all over her chest, staining that pretty white chiffon and the stinger put a welt on that girl's eye that forced her into reading glasses, the only person in that whole generation with worse than 20/15 vision.
That would have been quite an incident.
It was.
I didn't happen that way.
It did.
In fact, I think there might have been two wasps inside that fig. The other'n got into her underpants, and that's why she's gone through three husbands in 8 years.
Mm-hmm.
Don't deny yourself a bit of vengeance with some misguided sense of historical integrity, she might say.
You said that, not me.
I did.
There was an incident, a few days back. A co-worker walked in, picked up the dried fig on my desk, asked me about it.
/ the thing about lo--
i am editing this post, since i used some unfortunate visuals and this site is not supposed to have anything remotely related to imagery, and already my eyes burn from the memory of those bad, naughty, dirty picto-words.
that said, i was reading this site and i thought, 'HMMMM. DEAR GOD, I AM RUINING ANY HOPE MY CHILDREN MIGHT HAVE OF A FUTURE.' at any given moment, the most pressing concern that either my son or daughter must face is which parent to turn against the other in a renewed quest to obtain that elusive (nintendo game/cheese pizza/new parent).
they are going to be soooo boring when they are older.
for this reason, i am pretty sure my next business idea will be called 'POOR CAMP.' it will be a place you can send your children to experience poverty, abuse, neglect, embarrassment and the loss of your favorite pet. it will all be highly structured, of course, and no kid will be pushed beyond his/her emotional/ physical/ spiritual limits, but these thresholds are actually much higher than you think. it is not a discipline camp, per se, because there will be no purpose for these activities other than to give your children interesting stories to tell later on in life.
sample monday activities might involve
7am - wake up from your sleeping mat in the pantry, pour yourself a bowl of corn flakes and water, toss a loaf of bread out in the yard to feed your 7 dogs, 12 cats and one possum that your mom's ex-boyfriend left behind.
730 - rifle through your mom's purse (it will be partially hidden in the bushes in the front yard) for whatever change and cigarettes that might help you score lunch.
8am - walk one and a half-miles to the bus stop conveniently located in front of a mock halfway house/soup kitchen.
10am - get sent to the principal's office for wearing the same outfit you wore all five days last week in class.
11am - ...
um, i would go on, but this is starting not to be as funny as i thought it would be. ugh. i didn't even get to the last day where you come home pregnant with a forged GED before i realized i'm not sure if i really want to meet the kind of venture capitalist who would underwrite this sort of thing.
i think boring is underrated.
ps - the post below is loosely based on a comment i wrote but then deleted from here.
that said, i was reading this site and i thought, 'HMMMM. DEAR GOD, I AM RUINING ANY HOPE MY CHILDREN MIGHT HAVE OF A FUTURE.' at any given moment, the most pressing concern that either my son or daughter must face is which parent to turn against the other in a renewed quest to obtain that elusive (nintendo game/cheese pizza/new parent).
they are going to be soooo boring when they are older.
for this reason, i am pretty sure my next business idea will be called 'POOR CAMP.' it will be a place you can send your children to experience poverty, abuse, neglect, embarrassment and the loss of your favorite pet. it will all be highly structured, of course, and no kid will be pushed beyond his/her emotional/ physical/ spiritual limits, but these thresholds are actually much higher than you think. it is not a discipline camp, per se, because there will be no purpose for these activities other than to give your children interesting stories to tell later on in life.
sample monday activities might involve
7am - wake up from your sleeping mat in the pantry, pour yourself a bowl of corn flakes and water, toss a loaf of bread out in the yard to feed your 7 dogs, 12 cats and one possum that your mom's ex-boyfriend left behind.
730 - rifle through your mom's purse (it will be partially hidden in the bushes in the front yard) for whatever change and cigarettes that might help you score lunch.
8am - walk one and a half-miles to the bus stop conveniently located in front of a mock halfway house/soup kitchen.
10am - get sent to the principal's office for wearing the same outfit you wore all five days last week in class.
11am - ...
um, i would go on, but this is starting not to be as funny as i thought it would be. ugh. i didn't even get to the last day where you come home pregnant with a forged GED before i realized i'm not sure if i really want to meet the kind of venture capitalist who would underwrite this sort of thing.
i think boring is underrated.
ps - the post below is loosely based on a comment i wrote but then deleted from here.
\ lessons learnt
The man at the podium delivers one of the oldest lessons from our childhood and as the audience applauds I realize why I do not belong. A co-worker notices my hands firmly unmoved from the table. "Something you don't agree with?" Eyes roll all around. I never agree, am stunned when others do. I want to say to them, no, that's not true, it's mythology. It's not even good mythology. I will tell my son when he comes home from school, answer his question, "Do you know that if you drop a frog in boiling water, it will jump out, but if you put a frog in cold water and gradually heat it to boiling, it will stay there and die?"
Our slippery slope. "No, I do not know this. I think you have it backwards."
"But if you drop a frog in boiling water, you don't think it will jump out?"
"If you drop a frog in boiling water, it will die. It will stretch out its arms and legs in a final act of suffering and surprise, and it will stay there until you remove it like a lobster."
"But if you put it in cold water and gradually heat-"
Imagine you are taken from your home, locked into a room with no exit. There are people as well as animals who have not lifted a hand in defense when the final moment came even as it was spotted miles away. Instead I might say, "Put the frog in a pot next to a pond, next to his home, give him a reason to jump, a place to go. When you begin to heat the water, he will not stay. We've done this, you know. What captured animal has ever remained calmly in our possession, except those we killed or tamed?"
"He's not talking about frogs. He's talking about people." I might say. Yes, this is what I'll say.
On the first day you meet someone, you might overwhelm them with all the degrees of your life til now, and it will have everything to do with the sudden heat, but some of them will not run away. Or you might offer a bit of your shoulder and only warm to them over days and years, and in spite of the cold, some will choose to stay. Once, I turned up the heat slowly, and allowed it to cool, what was the frog supposed to do? I went cold then hot then tepid, left home and worried that the oven was on, returned to a room full of loved ones. Sometimes I jump from the water, lick my wounds, jump right back into the very same pot.
Sometimes I am reluctant to leave, even when the cold reminds me of the ever steepening angle of autumn's sun, that we will not return to the warmth to which we were accustomed, nor to the heat that loosened us from our skin, caused our blood to sing in perfect pitch, until we have slowed, the water still, in the distance you can see that those who have left are no longer running, are far enough to walk, lesson plans on the horizon, indistinguishable as mythology.
Our slippery slope. "No, I do not know this. I think you have it backwards."
"But if you drop a frog in boiling water, you don't think it will jump out?"
"If you drop a frog in boiling water, it will die. It will stretch out its arms and legs in a final act of suffering and surprise, and it will stay there until you remove it like a lobster."
"But if you put it in cold water and gradually heat-"
Imagine you are taken from your home, locked into a room with no exit. There are people as well as animals who have not lifted a hand in defense when the final moment came even as it was spotted miles away. Instead I might say, "Put the frog in a pot next to a pond, next to his home, give him a reason to jump, a place to go. When you begin to heat the water, he will not stay. We've done this, you know. What captured animal has ever remained calmly in our possession, except those we killed or tamed?"
"He's not talking about frogs. He's talking about people." I might say. Yes, this is what I'll say.
On the first day you meet someone, you might overwhelm them with all the degrees of your life til now, and it will have everything to do with the sudden heat, but some of them will not run away. Or you might offer a bit of your shoulder and only warm to them over days and years, and in spite of the cold, some will choose to stay. Once, I turned up the heat slowly, and allowed it to cool, what was the frog supposed to do? I went cold then hot then tepid, left home and worried that the oven was on, returned to a room full of loved ones. Sometimes I jump from the water, lick my wounds, jump right back into the very same pot.
Sometimes I am reluctant to leave, even when the cold reminds me of the ever steepening angle of autumn's sun, that we will not return to the warmth to which we were accustomed, nor to the heat that loosened us from our skin, caused our blood to sing in perfect pitch, until we have slowed, the water still, in the distance you can see that those who have left are no longer running, are far enough to walk, lesson plans on the horizon, indistinguishable as mythology.
/ She Asks
She asks me why I never take aspirin, because as many know, I experience blinding headaches whenever in the presence of sunlight, pretty girls or walls, and taking a page from the absolute honesty movement, I say, "I like the way I look with my head in my hands. Broody and mysterious. Like I'm hiding something. Is it a secret missive? A carnal sin? A fatal diagnosis?"
"You never go to the doctor. So it must be one of the first two."
It is Sunday, so I go into some recollection of a memory, and I remember that my headaches started around the time my mother re-married, which would have been 1982, and that is the year everyone stopped taking aspirin, because the Tylenol was really cyanide. In 1983, we were all cranky. And the media claimed that the new tamper-proof bottles were the silver lining of the whole thing. But even without the new triple sealed, child-proof lids, people started eating aspirin again, because they were like, 'Fuck it. At least I won't die with a headache.'
"People should be tamper-proof."
"I don't see the fun in that. Every fifth one is poisonous. That's the thrill."
"Where did you disappear to?"
Maybe I should have lied. I don't take aspirin because of the liver damage. Or I don't take aspirin because I enjoy the flashing lights and sense of absolution. Or I can't bear to swallow anything larger than a regret. Something vague and poetic, but really, honestly just a load of horse shit.
"Sorry. I just couldn't hang around anymore."
I had escaped earlier from a going-away party for my mother-in-law, hosted at my parents' house, and realized that the reason I find lying so useful is because I can imagine the truth, as it might sound coming from my mouth, and it makes me laugh out loud, which then forces me to either explain why, or pretend I was coughing, sneezing or hallucinating.
The truths, as they presented themselves to me, would have involved me saying the following:
You're right. I don't love you. I am uncomfortable around you and the reason I am here is because I mistakingly followed a sense of moral obligation to your doorstep and am now too lazy to move away.
Chappaquiddick? Are you still relying on Chappaquiddick to make your point, you fascist son of a bitch? Jesus fucking Christ, you could have at least used McGreevey in your argument, you goddamned Nazi. Take your Lyme's disease meds and tell me why you killed my dog.
I don't like you. I can barely remember your name. You keep looking at my wife and that offends me, because she is way out of your league. If you were attractive, I wouldn't even care. Why are all of my parents' friends so goddamned ugly, anyway?
Remember that time you kissed me? Ha! I bet you don't talk much about that at home.
You're a lousy piece of shit. And I hate telling you this, because I feel so sorry for you.
My god, the truth is evil.
When I sneaked away, I filled the cheapest glass I could find with scotch. When she asked if I had been drinking, I said, "No. Not at all. It must be the onset of diabetes. Be a dear and make me a sandwich."
"You never go to the doctor. So it must be one of the first two."
It is Sunday, so I go into some recollection of a memory, and I remember that my headaches started around the time my mother re-married, which would have been 1982, and that is the year everyone stopped taking aspirin, because the Tylenol was really cyanide. In 1983, we were all cranky. And the media claimed that the new tamper-proof bottles were the silver lining of the whole thing. But even without the new triple sealed, child-proof lids, people started eating aspirin again, because they were like, 'Fuck it. At least I won't die with a headache.'
"People should be tamper-proof."
"I don't see the fun in that. Every fifth one is poisonous. That's the thrill."
"Where did you disappear to?"
Maybe I should have lied. I don't take aspirin because of the liver damage. Or I don't take aspirin because I enjoy the flashing lights and sense of absolution. Or I can't bear to swallow anything larger than a regret. Something vague and poetic, but really, honestly just a load of horse shit.
"Sorry. I just couldn't hang around anymore."
I had escaped earlier from a going-away party for my mother-in-law, hosted at my parents' house, and realized that the reason I find lying so useful is because I can imagine the truth, as it might sound coming from my mouth, and it makes me laugh out loud, which then forces me to either explain why, or pretend I was coughing, sneezing or hallucinating.
The truths, as they presented themselves to me, would have involved me saying the following:
You're right. I don't love you. I am uncomfortable around you and the reason I am here is because I mistakingly followed a sense of moral obligation to your doorstep and am now too lazy to move away.
Chappaquiddick? Are you still relying on Chappaquiddick to make your point, you fascist son of a bitch? Jesus fucking Christ, you could have at least used McGreevey in your argument, you goddamned Nazi. Take your Lyme's disease meds and tell me why you killed my dog.
I don't like you. I can barely remember your name. You keep looking at my wife and that offends me, because she is way out of your league. If you were attractive, I wouldn't even care. Why are all of my parents' friends so goddamned ugly, anyway?
Remember that time you kissed me? Ha! I bet you don't talk much about that at home.
You're a lousy piece of shit. And I hate telling you this, because I feel so sorry for you.
My god, the truth is evil.
When I sneaked away, I filled the cheapest glass I could find with scotch. When she asked if I had been drinking, I said, "No. Not at all. It must be the onset of diabetes. Be a dear and make me a sandwich."
\ youthful pride
I am the proud owner of an impractical sense of fear. I am petrified of hurting people, and even more petrified of doing what it takes not to hurt them, so the math wins out eventually. Bad karma all around.
After I got home on Sunday, she asked me what was eating at me.
"Ohhhh, nothing."
"Okay, I'm glad yo---"
"WELL, IF YOU MUST KNOW..."
And then I went into a long aside, starting with 1982, listing all my complaints, naming all the injustices, pointing at the pictures on the wall and generally emoting my way back into her good graces. Secretly, I harbor the belief that she adores me when I suffer, and so we feed on each other eternally, like an Ouroboros, which is a reference I have used in every one of my 20 blogs and each time I had to look up the correct spelling, by typing into google "ETNERAL SWALLOWING DRAGON." Yes, I wrote 'etneral.'
This may sound contradictory, but if I realllly like you, I will do one of two things: ask you endless questions because if you keep talking I can pretend I am listening and not staring at the sharpness of your profile and the highlights in your hair and the length of your fingers, or, prate on and on and on about my first job as a paperboy, back in 1984, when I worked because I wanted a bike, but now I realize I worked because I wanted to stay away from home, and maybe I worked because I wanted to be kidnapped, since no matter what you say about an abductor, at least you can say that out of all the kids in the world, HE CHOSE YOU. That is so sick, so, yeah, it was because I wanted a bike.
We moved, I continue, but that didn't keep me from getting another job, and soon I was bagging groceries at the commissary, and when you were real good, the manager would let you bag in the express lane because you never had to cart the bags out to the car, and you could simply gather your tip right there at the checkout stand, and even though the tips were smaller, MY GOD THE ECONOMICS OF TIME REALLY HIT HOME. I could turn 5 $1 tricks in the time it took another poor fool to pull a single $2 job. We were worse than cheap hookers, because at least hookers get to have sex, and when you are 12 years old, sex is nearly as alluring as a new bicycle. And maybe that's why they refer to old age as the second childhood. I dunno.
When I get started like this, she sends the kids to their rooms, and she just listens, and it is her best quality that I don't mention and/or stare at, because the quiet ones still need to get some things off their chests, but it takes awhile. And it is like a flood, and there are messes to be made and cleaned up, and the sleep is so resoundingly peaceful. One day I want to spend an entire year in solitude and silence, just so I'll know how good I have it.
After I got home on Sunday, she asked me what was eating at me.
"Ohhhh, nothing."
"Okay, I'm glad yo---"
"WELL, IF YOU MUST KNOW..."
And then I went into a long aside, starting with 1982, listing all my complaints, naming all the injustices, pointing at the pictures on the wall and generally emoting my way back into her good graces. Secretly, I harbor the belief that she adores me when I suffer, and so we feed on each other eternally, like an Ouroboros, which is a reference I have used in every one of my 20 blogs and each time I had to look up the correct spelling, by typing into google "ETNERAL SWALLOWING DRAGON." Yes, I wrote 'etneral.'
This may sound contradictory, but if I realllly like you, I will do one of two things: ask you endless questions because if you keep talking I can pretend I am listening and not staring at the sharpness of your profile and the highlights in your hair and the length of your fingers, or, prate on and on and on about my first job as a paperboy, back in 1984, when I worked because I wanted a bike, but now I realize I worked because I wanted to stay away from home, and maybe I worked because I wanted to be kidnapped, since no matter what you say about an abductor, at least you can say that out of all the kids in the world, HE CHOSE YOU. That is so sick, so, yeah, it was because I wanted a bike.
We moved, I continue, but that didn't keep me from getting another job, and soon I was bagging groceries at the commissary, and when you were real good, the manager would let you bag in the express lane because you never had to cart the bags out to the car, and you could simply gather your tip right there at the checkout stand, and even though the tips were smaller, MY GOD THE ECONOMICS OF TIME REALLY HIT HOME. I could turn 5 $1 tricks in the time it took another poor fool to pull a single $2 job. We were worse than cheap hookers, because at least hookers get to have sex, and when you are 12 years old, sex is nearly as alluring as a new bicycle. And maybe that's why they refer to old age as the second childhood. I dunno.
When I get started like this, she sends the kids to their rooms, and she just listens, and it is her best quality that I don't mention and/or stare at, because the quiet ones still need to get some things off their chests, but it takes awhile. And it is like a flood, and there are messes to be made and cleaned up, and the sleep is so resoundingly peaceful. One day I want to spend an entire year in solitude and silence, just so I'll know how good I have it.
/ missed connxns
you - Your IP swore southwest, but your series of brief, disinterested visits screamed new england charm and reticence. Did you warm to me when you reached my April archives, the chill air between us slowly disappearing like the market share of your weapon of choice? Or is it that Netscape reminds you of simpler times, when we were not so separated into right clicks and left, but were only one button removed? May I interest you in a return visit? I promise not to judge you by your length.
me - Trying to impress by casually switching to Opera when I noticed your OS, but tongue tied and slow, I could not enable my script in time. I lingered in your September, when you didn't seem to be crowded by so much Cialis spam. Is that my cue? Skype me, if your protocol allows.
me - Trying to impress by casually switching to Opera when I noticed your OS, but tongue tied and slow, I could not enable my script in time. I lingered in your September, when you didn't seem to be crowded by so much Cialis spam. Is that my cue? Skype me, if your protocol allows.
\ closed facilities
there used to be a wildlife preserve near my childhood home called texas safari, and occasionally a new boyfriend would impress upon our mother his facile ways with children by throwing us into the back seat of his maverick or hornet or duster. the guy who eventually won out, though, had a tiny two-seater. he did cave later on, picked up a big cargo van, folded out a couple metal chairs for us so we didn't have to ride on the floor.
in the park, there was this particularly harrowing curve, and at the bottom of the hill a junked out car was prominently noted with signs to slow down, and even with the ostriches stabbing you in the face through your open car window and the exotic africanized goats, chickens and sheep carrying god knows what intestinal parasite, this ill-fated jalopy was far and away the most exciting aspect of texas safari.
they later turned the whole thing into a hunting preserve, more than likely due to the plummeting divorce rates of the 1990s.
in the park, there was this particularly harrowing curve, and at the bottom of the hill a junked out car was prominently noted with signs to slow down, and even with the ostriches stabbing you in the face through your open car window and the exotic africanized goats, chickens and sheep carrying god knows what intestinal parasite, this ill-fated jalopy was far and away the most exciting aspect of texas safari.
they later turned the whole thing into a hunting preserve, more than likely due to the plummeting divorce rates of the 1990s.
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