/ chorale

Clearly what I need in my life at this moment is a bit more excitement, something like a starring role in an internet hoax, whereby the patrons at Pier 1 or Ikea would whisper, "ISN'T THAT THE GUY WHO IS MISSING???" and I would feel the warm radiation of iPhone snapshots and the stinging sensation as bits of my soul were uploaded to FlickR, and glow in the anticipation of a box full of unrequited messages, "Yes, YES!" I would reply-to-all, "I AM missing! That IS me!" Or it was. I am not supposed to be here. I am missing from where I am supposed to be. I do not know where that somewhere is, other than I am sure it has nicer floors and an ocean view.

Today, we were talking about the ease at which we can rise to the occasion, as long as the occasion is anger, but tenderness and soft, woolen buttons, these are so much more difficult with which to bind us. Why do we always fight afterwards? It is not meant as disapprobation, and the answer seems so obvious. Because it lasts. If there were no anger in the rending of clothes then how could it last?

It seems uniquely appropriate to toast a new couple and catch the eyes of the love of your life through tulips, and see that flash of ire. That is what you are in for later, so you add fire and dash your speech with cliché. “A stranger came up to me the other day, and asked, ‘How do you know when you’ve found the one?’ The ‘one,’ I repeated. There is no finding the one. You have to find the two.”

What is the secret? he insisted. I don’t know. You must be very much in love. Ain’t got nothing to do with it.



There was a choral event the other day and I ran into one of the old firefighters, one I hadn’t seen since I quit the department, and we sat next to each other, and he pointed out his son, a senior, my god. And I remembered that his first wife had died when this graduating senior was just a small boy, and how her affection for him was legendary, and nearly enough to overcome the sorry lot she had drawn, and I wondered if sometimes he thinks he is dreaming, that maybe they were in a car accident and somehow all of this is the reality of his coma induced state, and just maybe he might wake up.

I wonder if he finds himself asleep sitting up in a chair, wonders if perhaps in his coma-induced dreaming his hands carry out the motions of the writing of a letter, and if perhaps some intern has thought to put a pen in those deteriorating fingers, to see what kind of messages he might be sending from the other side, which is almost always the inside.

“What is he going to do?”

“He wants to be a firefighter, believe it or not. He’s going to school in the fall.”

There is such sentimentality in his voice, that I cannot imagine any of this is a dream.

/ running on MT

there is no question, i am tired, the kind of exhaustion you would refer to as world weary, but you always thought that sounded so pretentious, and in any case, no, this has more to do with living than ennui. ain't gonna be no chapbook come out of these trials and tribulations. no lawyering up or plea bargain for that matter. just, damn. i am how old? damn. even if i make it now, look at how old. there is more looking back than ahead, and it is awfully hard on the eyelids.

i have to say, i have been awfully tired of a co-worker telling me how many marathons he runs every saturday, so friday night, i had a couple of glasses of wine, and said to myself and no one in particular, all at once, 'do not stop until mile marker 10.' mile marker 10, of course, being the marker that is exactly 13.1 miles from point A, and therefore, a genuine marathon, unless i break down and hitchhike back home.

my knees are the body parts clearly looking for a new line of work, so i was a bit surprised when it was my ankle that went EXPLOSION at mile 10. and although my foot and tibia did their best impression of an ankle, it just wasn't the same, so whenever i saw humanoid shapes on the trail, i stopped to take photos, so that the racehorce supervisors wouldn't be called to put a misery ending bullet in my heart, which was already broke nonetheless.



why does everything difficult in my life remind me of love? tonight i compared it to a beautiful sickness, one whose symptoms make you long for a relapse, and in this pain there was longing. it is like a night of fighting, and when you crawl into bed when you are sure the other is asleep, and you crawl under the sheets and the wind, and the space between you is almost, but not quite, enough so that the fabric touches the mattress, and just enough so that your fingertips can reach a bit of bare skin, and you try to apologize through touch telepathy.

sometimes the nostalgia is constricting and barely forgivable.




ps thank you karl and dave for saying such cool things @ me. that is entirely cool and growth worthy.

/ Pheasant Shaped Bottles

After shave, sometimes, but cologne, overwhelming spice and alcohol, no. Though, when the heat is overbearing, and the mint mixes with the musk, the tobacco and square dance sweat, yes. It is the confusing bouquet of my uncles, about to hit Texas on the trail, about to get into the kind of trouble they warn you about with a wink.

They would give me a couple of dollars in change, and the local pizza place had those cigarette machines, and you would pull on the knob and get nothing from time to time, but a pack frozen in place between the glass and your happiness. If it was your dad, you would scour the parking lots, the phone booths, construction sites were good for slugs, but you wouldn't come home empty handed.

I am older now than they in these memories, and cannot believe I am denying my son the rawness of this imagery. I am raising a person who will be completely unlike me in all the ways that count, and wonder if he'll be worse for it.

Not better, no. The imagery is fine, looking out the window as I ride between rests.

“Ain't a lot of boys wear berets around here.”

“Ain't from around here.”

“Ball caps, mostly. People might think you're different.”

“Good christ, I hope so.”

/ Pubicles!

I finally have something to keep me from getting bored on the drive home! Plus, the video of me exploding over a bridge is sure to go viral!

/ Be Not Late or Ugly Ever

THIS POST IS SO LONG YOU WILL DIE IF YOU ATTEMPT TO READ IT NOT TO MENTION THE QUALITY

I find it strange how poorly the last 10 years of booze and cigarettes have prepared me for the mental challenge of riding 70 miles, no excuse me, CYCLING, because this is a repetition of mistakes, and physically, I mean what is more grueling than alcoholism? Hair of the dog for the hangover is irish coffee and acetaminophen? What about the hangover you have on top of your hangover? MARRY THE PAIN AND HAVE ITS BABIES. Let's not forget the humiliation. Have you seen the kind of shit cyclists wear?

Still, I proved on Saturday that there is no limit to the respect I have for the likes of Asia and Shari and Sybil. And Matt, too, I guess, but he is a guy, and that kind of pandering will get me nowhere I am interested in going. I am supposed to be going riding next month with Vahid and Sibyl, and I am hoping there is a fence 'cause it's all downhill and I ain't stopping till they stop speaking Spanish.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I didn't go into this with blinders on. I knew absolutely that attempting a 70 mile ride when my longest previous ride was 7.4 was not going to be the same level of personal commitment. I wasn't naive, I gave myself an extra 15 minutes off my normal 7.4 mile pace, and plus I brought an orange. Plus-plus, I understand the importance of weight, so I packed strategically. I only brought one change of clothes. And instead of bringing my laptop, I got by on my PDA with foldable keyboard. I only brought two lenses for my camera. The nintendo ds is about the same weight as my sudoku book so that was a wash. I also saved weight by leaving all my spare tubes, tire repair kit, multipurpose tool and extra water bottle at home. I removed the reflectors, too, because you know, wind resistance.

ALSO-ALSO, I used the internet to map out the route, study the terrain and watch YouTube clips of Breaking Away for inspiration. My study of the terrain produced mixed results, sadly. For instance, the first ten miles were relatively flat and shaded, AS I PLANNED! Don't get me wrong, that particular stretch the first time was a breeze. But when I crossed that very same 10 mile stretch coming back home 6 hours later, it was surprisingly impossible to navigate. Was it because I was going the other direction? Does the barometer drop late in the evening negatively impact air pressure? Could it be that it just seemed harder because of aurora borealis? Good Housekeeping is inconclusive.

On the other hand, I have to give serious credit to my body parts. My legs, for instance, never wanted to stop pedaling. Because every time I took a break they would smite me. It was as if they were screaming, DON'T PUSS OUT NOW OR WE WILL BURRRRN YOU WE ARE READY FOR THIS ARE YOU EVEN ON THE SAME TEAM. And then they would continue to freak out even after I got back on my bike, I guess worried that I might stop again. I did, but only after it was clear they were asleep. It was the motionless done give 'em away. Yup.

ALSO-ALSO-ALSO, sometimes the Seattle-to-Portland 2002 maps do not tell the whole story, especially about how most cars along the route are fairly cool, but motorcyclists are completely and utterly irredeemable, and even though we should be brethren, since our rides are kindred, we are only brethren in the Cain and Abel sense. I get it already, your bike is LOUDER than mine. How about easing off the RPMs, easy rider? I am two tired for this.

PLUSPLUSPLUS, there is so much roadkill you never see riding in your cars. Most of it is god's wee castaways, and it is hard to pedal through the carnage of these roads. I kept a count, and it was the hardest part of the whole ride. Sparrows and frogs and garter snakes and a California quail that was so lovely in her sleep, and plus everything you see as a driver, dogs and cats, their immunization tags still glittering and up to date.

Road closures are what really do the damage. Okay, so the whole reason for riding on Saturday was because it was the Washington State Congressional District Caucus, and I had been elected a delegate (ALTERNATE) and I figured I couldn't show up in my 40 mpg GAS GUZZLAR and also mock the gas tax holiday, so what the hell. But I knew I would have to be careful time-wise, because democracy is for all but it is not for the late. And as I got to 10 minutes til deadline, I realized that the road to my destination WAS CLOSED FOR REPAIRS.

No worries, I thought while worrying, road closures are really only meant for cars, but as I got to the WARNING DANGER signs, I realized this was no ordinary highway works project. THE ROAD WAS NOT THERE. This doesn't even sound nearly as scary as it was. This road was killed. This road was apocalypse closed. This ground is only good for nightmare children tales. DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE KID WHO WALKED APOCALYPSE ROAD? HE DIDN'T EAT HIS BRUSSELS SPROUTS NEITHER.

I didn't make it!

It is hard to be holier than thou when the doors are closed and locked. It is more like lonelier than thou. BUT! Apparently they were dazzled with my hot green shirt and said, WELL OKAY, I GUESS SINCE YOU ARE SO GOOD LOOKING WE WILL LET YOU COME INSIDE AND TAKE AN ARMPIT SHOWER IN THE MEN'S BATHROOM AFORE THE BIG VOTE. JUST DON'T BE LATE AGAIN OR UGLY EVER.

There is something about being the back up that brings great personal pleasure, but only after you are older and are secure with the size of your reproductive organs, I guess, but I like knowing about myself that from time to time I will be there when absolute strangers need me most.

Still, I decided not to give my little 60 second speech to run for one of the 5 delegate slots to Denver. For one, I was far and away the most tired and least enthusiastic person in the room. Hillary and Obama supporters alike were just flat out devastating in their optimism and awe and inspiration and beauty and volume like the ghosts in the rafters of every high school basketball game ever won in the last 5 minutes here in this tiny high school gymnasium, and also quiet, in the hope that the roads ahead of them will be sidewalks, shaded, unburdened with the souls of wee things lost underfoot, and iced tea and holding hands and all the other longings that filled my pockets when I could take no more, except my leave.

Also, Denver is a lot further than Napavine.

/ I am making fun of ME, just so we're clear.

/ Triage

Marriage. There are so many weddings I would like to attend this year, having never been to a wedding before, eager to see if anyone sneezes during the holding of the peace. I want to follow the bride lines of sight, snap a photo of any suspect beads of sweat. I wish years of happiness to you boys and girls who missed your chance with Ash and Caitlin, people I have known non-Biblically on-line for longer than I have known any of my IRL-friends save two (one of whom is marrying soon, as well, making it so that Alex and I can finally dust off our Michelin guide to post-nuptial bated banter).

I would never wish unbridled happiness to newlyweds, though, and am sure to build up the elbow-caused calluses in my side for it, but that kind of ceaseless bliss is not meant for the faint of heart. But I do hope the valleys are green and unpaved.

I knew a boy who had sex for the first time and said,
“I want to marry you.”
And he heard,
“Silly. We are married.”
And he replied,
“Then I want to marry you all over again.”
And she said,
“Sleep, baby. There’s time.”

Work. There is an adorable twitch underneath my left eye when I am overwhelmed with work, so at this moment the left side of my face is an irresistible blur, while the right carries on stoic and staid. It is that twitch what keeps me from interjecting my conversations with profane suggestions that are well outside the box. Because that twitch alone is damn near enough to get me arrested.

When I am busy with work,
My belly is round.
I am pregnant with possibility.

Babies. Mine are not the best, and I am plenty happy for it.

When I was out,
He would sneak into my room,
Eat oranges on the edge of my bed,
And leave the peels on the ceramic stove.

/ Instead of Posting

/ Fission Accomplished

PRE-SCRIPT : I should probably warn people that I am not really well adjusted at the moment, so what I may be offering for consumption is a veritable quandary. OH MY GOD I KNOW WHAT WILL FIX IT ALL, too, but self-denial also refers to what you do not put into your body, and not just willful ignorance of what comes out, kind of.

Anyway, I am pretending that it is earlier in the afternoon, on my way home from work. I am in my car, as I am wont to be on my drive home from work, afternoons or otherwise, or you know, when I was a mad drunk, and driving home with the Tacoma Aroma still fresh in my hair.

I am in my car, as I said. It is 4 in the afternoon. I don’t have any props for this scene. Well, I’ve got my camera.

I am in my car.

Up ahead there is a wreck, must be, because all the cars have crawled to a stop and the wind has stopped blowing and it’s impossibly dark outside, but when you roll down the window, it’s unseasonably warm, and you can just feel yourself coming out of sorts.



And when you roll it back up, you see your reflection, how screwed up you are, how many wrecks line the lines in your eyes and the lines in your repertoire and the lines and lines and lines, oh like regrets in single file lines. Elementary school behaved. Crisp uniforms and yellow oversized buttons. No idea what you are in for, kiddies, run!

Traffic picks up, incrementally at first, but as the novelty wears off, exponentially, until you are foot to the floor past 55, just trying to make up time and the tremors are either seismic or sobriety bound. Goddamn! you say. I cannot keep pace with all this traffic, ebb and flow. This modern living, they ain’t kiddin. We work more than our ancestors and by rights that means less than our children, whose own descendants will be sleepin’ on the job, by default.

I don’t remember the last time I tried philosophy.

I remember acknowledging my own existence, saying out loud, I know, I am alive, this is who I am, because I was so tired of forgetting and not thinking, but I cannot remember falling in love and subsequently busting that relationship. I see me. I am smitten with myself. I run when I look the other way. I’m sure there was mad, passionate lovin’ somewhere in between. I might have even called, breathed heavy and hung up, then spent the rest of the night paranoid that the caller was in the house, because Caller ID don’t take into consideration my multitude of personality quirks.



It won’t bother me to die in one of those wrecks, as long as I don’t bleed out regretting my own obscurity, practicing an acceptance speech for an award that someone else worked so much harder to actually earn. Or it will, in some terribly pathetic way, but christ, I got that call that every kid secretly desires, the one where the estranged parent says, I AM SO PROUD, SO, SO PROUD, and I didn’t want it. I turned down pride, of all things. Got plenty of sin, apparently, pallets and pallets of cheap merchandise-like mortality.

And then I turned right around and showered affection on my own clan, and thought, ALL THE ANSWERS, RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF ME. ALL THIS TIME.

Oh, it just isn’t though, and it’s not for a want of desire, because, I know ignorance is bliss, and I am blissfully practiced, I am tellin’ you, but it isn’t about looking at your pretty girl and your growing kids and saying, THAT IS WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT. THAT’S WHAT MADE IT ALL WORTHWHILE.

At least I hope. I mean, I've been wrong about these things before. It's what it's.

/ I Taked Some Pictures

In southeast missouri, where i done growed up, nothin hollers PROVIDER MATERIAL like driving real slow-like down main street with a deer carcass in the bed of your pickup, so metaphorically speaking, that's what i did o'er the weekend. Trotted around the house like I had big game in my trunk, instead of actually puttin' food on the table. That is to say, I gave it one shot, then drove everyone around me mad with blood lust.

There's just no extra effort in me lately, not enough to fill the square footage of my big ideas, anyhow. I am using optical illusions to make it seem as though my potential is cozy and warm. There is only so much you can do with forced perspective, and there are whole parts of the landscape I cannot begin to cover with the outline of my thumb, no matter how close I press it up against my eyeball. If I could just get my projected output to make nice with my actual input, I might just experience peace in my time.

I have had just ONE thing I needed to accomplish since Friday, and I guess the good news is that means I only have ONE thing I need to accomplish before midnight but lord I am easily distracted. My Friday and Saturday did not make the world a better place, and I apologize to the entire Generation of Y, because I know they are not the least bit interested in wish postponement.

Writing in this journal and takin pictures does not count against my time management, though, because it is the one product out of my factory where the public is bound to get its money's worth.

/ Scrubland

In the morning, I woke and she kissed my shoulder, said, 'I want you to know that if you need anything, I am here for you.' The moment came between dreaming, and I was uncertain in asking about it later.

If you cannot tell how much I love this place by listening to me, then I am no good for words. But I can't believe you can't see it. I tape the top of the styrofoam cooler and carry it with me into the water, where it rises until my feet lose contact with the lake bed. She doesn't answer, because she is remembering a near drowning as a child, and concentrates on staying afloat. When her chin dips, she involuntarily reaches for the cooler, but we are nearly to the other side, where the beach is protected from livestock, and the occasional passing truck.

She turns her back, takes off her shirt, wrings out tea-colored water. I found this spot working in college, pushing irrigation wheels through the ruddy fields. I carried an old .223, because they would pay me for every coyote shot, more than what I was making in an entire day. I only ever shot one time, hitting the dirt in front of it by a good 15 feet. I walked up over the hill, saw it disappear again into a grove of trees.

I don't know if it was an abandoned tank or a part of the creek cut off years ago, but it was the size of a small park lake, and way out in the middle was a little island. He told me it was technically state forest land, but no one ever came out because it was so hard to get to, surrounded mostly by private farmland. Even when the county put a summer road in, I never saw anyone out there.

Anyway, one day at school, there was this accident in shop, some kid got waylaid by a broken drill bit. It was no one's fault but shoddy equipment, and the shard that got him had to travel through safety glasses to even get to the meat of the poor guy, but good christ it was all over. And it was too much, the yelling and the panic of the adults, the sirens and kids coming out of language arts and home ec. alike, mindless of the commands to get back to their seats, because they were the half-hearted orders of teachers who had filled these halls with small town sons and daughters, nieces and nephews of their own. I slipped away to civics and caught her by the elbow as she came out the door. We drove off to go swimming.

It's only recently I got to thinking about this, probably because I was out past that park running not long ago. It got discovered by some reporter at the Times. They have a section just on hiking public lands. You see a few cars out there now. More so now that some of that private farmland was developed into residential neighborhoods, pieces of paradise before gas prices got so high. You hear a few complaints about farm kids shooting their guns. That's what they do.

It was with one of those shots that I started remembering that coyote. I dreamed for a week that the roof in our house was full of water and leaking through every fixture, god knows why.

I am not sure where she went after college.

You have got me mixed up again. I never suggested you leave. I know how much you like it here.

She will stay for as long as I ask, and it's the kind of information you try to keep hidden from yourself, so as not to either take it for granted or take it for a long walk through the winding woods, right after emptying your pockets of bread crumbs.

I hide my own secrets so poorly from myself, though, it's a constant issue. I have a file marked Names, it's passwords and old addresses, mostly, but occasionally I will find something even more vital, like, 'She can't stand coriander,' or 'L-shaped scar, left shoulder blade, gentle.'

She puts her shirt back on and ties her hair up behind her head, doesn't let me see the least bit of her face, save a hint of her nose and chin, like that old drawing of the young lady and the old woman, but her shoulders make the whole illusion impossible to hold.

When you are this young, you rarely say anything you'd want to remember, so the memories are mostly images, maybe a random sensation, especially pain, rolling over onto a sharp blade of slate, but we were luckier than most. I wonder if I knew going in it was temporary.

It's the vividness of my memories, not some nostalgic longing, that disorients me into the suspicion that out the backdoor it's 80 degrees and 800 miles away. There's a lot to hate about that seeming clarity, when the words from those exchanges no longer match up so well with current sentiment.

She kissed me when I needed it, in the evening when she came in, other shoulder this time, true to her word.

/ Barkless Friday

The sound I hate most working home on Friday, the cerebral cortex of the week if that old 10% brain myth is true, is the neighbor looking for her dog, who she has anthropomorphically named Gabriel. The first time it happened, I was convinced a curious toddler had scaled his safety gate, and was wandering the side streets trying to pick out the trench coated stranger who most closely resembled Clifford the Big Red Dog. And the increasing panic in her voice seemed far too maternally urgent for a Basenji, the African Barkless which in hindsight was such a poor choice of pet for both she and her home-bound neighbors.

All the best science fiction stories have an android that can be deactivated by simply pressing a button somewhere above the hairline on the backside of the head. For me, that button can be activated by making me wait for a telephone call. I am absolutely worthless today and in dire need of a tune up.

The post it notes on my screen bear the following important messages: “DO NOT LOSE THE PHONE” “WASH YOUR HANDS” “FLOSS BEFORE TAKING A NAP”

I made three girls cry yesterday. Not even close to my personal best.

/ DEAR DAIRY: JUST STOP IT

Dear Diary, please stop asking me to write things you KNOW I am not supposed to be writin’ about, that is no way to delve into my psyche. Start small, you know, ask me about my day (NOT THIS ONE THOUGH. ASK ME ABOUT TOMORROW AT THE END OF THAT DAY. FOR NOW JUST BUGGER OFF.)

Tomorrow I will write about random interactions with people who could not be more different. Or is it could be more different? I can’t remember the rule of I couldn’t care less/I could care less…

One. We had some booths. With swag. And we asked an assistant to man the booth, and as the President would be by, TO PLEASE NOT WEAR THE TRUCKER CAP. He pulled off the hat, and, oh, god, don’t you hate turning into a monster when the sun is otherwise shining? Because there is a reason he wears a hat, and that reason is a sad tale of illness and injury, and, fuck, really, we do not like to be unkind. And we say, ‘God, you know, just don’t mind us. We are insensitive, except when it comes to our own feelings, and then we more than make up for the apathy shown to others. Please wear the hat.’ But being as how he is so polite (I HATE HIM) he buys a brand new hat with money the government surely had to lend him, and when the President walked by, he bit that last bit of vainful pride hard, and set the hat on the table, turned to shake the President’s hand, and GODDAMNIT SOME PUNK MISTOOK HIS HAT FOR SWAG.

Later, I said, "Look, don’t worry. This will be a funny story. He will look back on this day and laugh."

She said, and I really wish I were joking, “HE JUST FOUND OUT HIS WIFE HAS CANCER.”

* * *

I hung out with a math whiz today and we talked about the books we’ve published and pre-presentation rituals and all the babies we’ve made (HIS WERE MADE WITH A DIFFERENT INDIVIDUAL, WE JUST MET) and then he impressed me with some pretty good understanding about financial aid, and so I thought I would impress him with Don’s sum-of-consecutive-integers puzzle, but before I even said PERIOD, he was all like, 1024. As I tweeted earlier, I saved face by teaching him to set the radio clock in the van, which was an hour behind, but 12 minutes ahead, and I did so condescendingly. And then I told him about a great idea for an invention I have which involves an alarm clock that is randomly off every single morning, to cater to those of us who set our clocks ahead by 10 minutes or so (45 minutes) but eventually catch on to the fact that we just set our clocks ahead 10 minutes or so.

“So you would have a clock that is randomly some minutes ahead…?”

“OR BEHIND,” I interjected. “Every now and then the clock has got to be behind, so that you remember why you are doing this in the first place.”

I am all about rememberin your roots.

Later on he squared a 5 digit number randomly offered by the audience IN HIS HEAD and that is putting a severe strain on our friendship, because he is obviously bringing more to the table.

* * *


“Whatcha lookin for?”

There is a trail around our lake that is surprisingly barren of people, save a few older gentlepersons, and while the women will politely nod, the men will not so lightly prod. They have been around this trail, have seen the California transplants wither like crook in a Chinook, and they know a thing or two about what you think you know, too.

“Morels.”

“Little late in the year.”

“Had a bit of a cold spell. No harm in seein’.”

“No harm in wastin’ time, I reckon.”

I think about the morel in my pocket, one I just found up the trail a bit, but it was only one. It is like half an argument when you can’t remember why you’re fightin’ in the first place.

“My grandfather always said I was like a blister, never showed up til all the work was done.”

“That sounds about right!” he laughed and walked on.

My grandfather never said that, as far as I know.

/ tuck

Every now and then I stop along the trail and run roughshod through the grass, when you can feel the most eyes upon you, and flush the wild animals from their hiding spots. I am honing my pre-sapien skills, and could take the little eggs, I suppose, but pictures are just fine for now, because I am married to Whole Foods and ain't no need to flirt with the fat of the land.

This is the same law of natural selection I am so eager to skirt, 'cause I am about to re-affirm my oaths to my career, and am wondering if I will still be allowed to flirt with life, run roughshod through that part of the trail clearly marked NO TRESPASSIN' VI-O-LATORS WILL BE PERSECUTED.

Oh, what I wouldn't give right now for a bad influence with a heart full of god, but I seem to burn through my vicarious proxies, who used to come up like cheatgrass from a wildfire, but we are turning old growth. I am down to my last unhealthy relationship, taking slow, easy tokes; it is like a glowing ember upon my tongue. Goddamn, it rains, it pours.

What I am telling myself is that I may need a little help letting go. So if you are standing on the ledge, and I ask you to stomp on those fingers, please don't try to talk me out of it, because we have been down that slow, easy road. My one underqualification all this time has been my youth, but I am tellin you I've got a plan for that.

I didn't live enough way back when, and I admit to stealing a few of those eggs, with no regard for the empty nests or mother hens. I have watched enough landings to know when to tuck and when to roll. I will nail that landing with flying colors.

/ TequilaKAHNNNN!

Some days I am supremely grateful for the flashes of cowardice that blind me from locating my phone, unfortunately set to vibrate, and fortunately unfortunately set to OFF, because hearing the words WHY AREN’T YOU HERE??? is such a heavy weight to carry when you are already trying to outrun the gun. Oh, Jenny, 8675309 would not have been a good time call.

But WHY AREN’T YOU HERE??? seemed to be exactly what I needed to hear, because I have been smiling ear to ear on a weekend when I predicted no such forecast, and thank the baby jesus for twitter and flickr and statcounter and voicemail. Thank mother nature, too, for endless miles of trails that allow me to put expensive shoes on all this running I have in me.



Mostly, thanks to all your boys who kept your bread buttered and your event smooth. Not being there is to appreciate what it is to be there. It is a rare gift to enjoy friends defacing your head from thousands of miles away.

photos courtesy of the indomitable jenny of runjenrun and tequilacon fame.

/ No means not now not never

- You must know that I would get a secret thrill if you ever asked me to identify random birds and trees.

- Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry! I will from now on!

- No. It wouldn’t be the same now.

* * *


- Hey, guess what name I am thinking of!

- No.

- Oh, come on! Guess!

- No.

- Come ooonnnnn, guess!

- There are like a million names. No.

- I’ll give you a hint: J

- Jay?

- No. I’ll give you another hint: J-A

- Jay?

- Noooo! J-A-M

- Jam?

- Gawwwd!

* * *


- Maybe you should try asking, 'HAVE YOU EVER FELT _x_ WAY BEFORE?'

- No.

- Why not?

- Because no one can possibly ever know how I feel.

- OMG that is EXACTLY how I feel! How are you so intuitive like that?

- I said no.

/ Creeps

i really should be a professional job interviewee, because regardless of my actual success, i am awfully entertaining. i sincerely enjoy the sort of professional/casual banter where you balance I AM SUPREMELY PROFESSIONAL AND QUALIFIED with YOU WOULD ENJOY HAVING A DRINK WITH ME AFTER WORK.

the part i enjoy the most, though, is the part where the someone who was recruited against her will begins the post-interview tour, so that you can fall in love with the place where you will never set foot again. i even said as much (MY ONLY REAL SLIP UP OF THE DAY) and somehow got through the awkward silence, and then somehow really got on well with my erstwhile host. i am purposefully misusing the word erstwhile, because i like the way it sounds in this sentence.

in my head, the word i used most often was fetching.

and then for some reason in the middle of a conversation it felt as though a bug had gotten into my shirt, a moth or spider, and it tickled all the way down to my belly and i squirmed and tried to carry on the conversation, and when she looked a way, i smashed the spot where i thought it was, but felt nothing and realized that it was probably a brain tumor. i have always prided myself on knowing that when the imaginary bugs started crawling, i would recognize them as imaginary immediately, no matter how annoying the realism. i would simply say, 'they're not real. they are only real in your tumor infested brain.'

unless someone points at an insect on my face and asks OH MY GOD HOW COME YOU ARE NOT SCREAMING? i will maintain my calm.

hey, you know the best thing about a new job? the new people, the pay raise, the bigger office??? NOPE. the best part about a new job is ALL THE SHIT DUE LAST WEEK AT YOUR OLD ONE.

i am both ecstatic and ex-static today, having finally resolved to sell my soul to someone who will not love me back. the dream died hard, and i am fresh out of reincarnation. i am lacking for intimate touch this week, but making up for it in creepy crawlies and firm handshakes.