there's this guy i work with -- "this guy" because it's weird to call him a man, even though that is what he is and he is that, you know?, but he's a little too much of a guy to be a man -- anyway, this guy i work with who, i realized today, smells faintly of stale cigarettes in a way that i have never smelled stale cigarettes before. it's not even, like, an actual cigarette smell that i smelled when he came to my desk to show me illustrations that are "fucking awesome" and needed to be inserted between the correct pages of a manuscript, even though i knew he'd just gone out for a smoke in the half-covered pseudo-wind-tunnel thing we have outside our door.
like cigarettes and snow. and if not snow, then that deep winter chill that accumulates between glass buildings and concrete when the rest of the world is snowed on and new york is just left to exist, always moving, always breathtaking, never beautiful.
i thought, really, that i had really felt alone before. i also thought i was done with that. feeling alone, i mean. (not lonely. alone.) only recently have i become aware of a gnawing pain, in every inch of my body, making me cold and hungry and listless and detached. not sad so much as done. with whatever i have to be done with, i guess. (not life, i don't mean that. i don't know what i mean. just an abstract sense of "thisness" that i really can't define.)
all this is is twelve minutes of silence. that's what it boils down to. (but doesn't it always? isn't that inevitable? am i wrong for being almost relieved instead of surprised or disappointed?)
i wish i had a penguin in a suit.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Friday, December 3, 2010
Spotted.
Yesterday, I helped my mother look for a dress.
("Where'd she lose it?" Ha! Ha! I'm sorry, I disgust myself sometimes.)
I don't wear dresses much these days, but I know enough about them, and enough about my mother, to earn my keep.
(I wasn't getting paid. I don't know what that says about my keep.)
She says I have good taste.
"Yes, well, sometimes," I say.
From across the room, we both see it:
A little peach number, coquettishly rendered in gathered hammered silk.
Absolutely exquisite.
She digs it.
I do too.
But when she examines the back, her face drops, drops like she just found out that Santa Claus and Love and A Cure For The Common Cold, none of them exist.
Because it's the sheerest pale pink organza, on which a handful of crystals has been scattered with the care and expertise of a gambler's toss.
"You can see right through it," she says, crestfallen.
"And?"
"My freckles..."
For those of you who don't know (which should be all of you, and correct me if I'm wrong, here), my mother's back is covered in the most wonderful, wonderful collection of freckles and birthmarks and beauty marks and moles.
Those freckles are the very reason that I thought the dress was perfect.
"...everyone will see them."
"That's exactly why it'll look so beautiful, Mom."
***
I'm at the doctor's office a lot these days.
Like last week, for instance.
I was wearing a dress, for once.
This one was scandalously open in the back, and blue, and made of paper.
Courtesy of the doctor.
I didn't think that we were at the gift-giving stage of our relationship yet, but those in the medical profession tend to move fast, I've heard.
On my back, her hands were small, like mine. Cold, like mine, too.
"Have you ever gotten these freckles checked out?"
"No."
"You should."
"Okay."
"Does skin cancer run in your family?"
"No, but my mom has a bunch of moles like these."
"On her back?"
"Everywhere."
"Ah ha. See a dermatologist."
"Will do."
And she was concerned, because, when she sees freckles, she sees potentially cancerous blemishes.
But when I see them, I see every woman on my mom's side of the family.
I guess you could say that I've got my mother's back.
Oh.
Oh!
Yes. I've got my mother's back.
("Where'd she lose it?" Ha! Ha! I'm sorry, I disgust myself sometimes.)
I don't wear dresses much these days, but I know enough about them, and enough about my mother, to earn my keep.
(I wasn't getting paid. I don't know what that says about my keep.)
She says I have good taste.
"Yes, well, sometimes," I say.
From across the room, we both see it:
A little peach number, coquettishly rendered in gathered hammered silk.
Absolutely exquisite.
She digs it.
I do too.
But when she examines the back, her face drops, drops like she just found out that Santa Claus and Love and A Cure For The Common Cold, none of them exist.
Because it's the sheerest pale pink organza, on which a handful of crystals has been scattered with the care and expertise of a gambler's toss.
"You can see right through it," she says, crestfallen.
"And?"
"My freckles..."
For those of you who don't know (which should be all of you, and correct me if I'm wrong, here), my mother's back is covered in the most wonderful, wonderful collection of freckles and birthmarks and beauty marks and moles.
Those freckles are the very reason that I thought the dress was perfect.
"...everyone will see them."
"That's exactly why it'll look so beautiful, Mom."
***
I'm at the doctor's office a lot these days.
Like last week, for instance.
I was wearing a dress, for once.
This one was scandalously open in the back, and blue, and made of paper.
Courtesy of the doctor.
I didn't think that we were at the gift-giving stage of our relationship yet, but those in the medical profession tend to move fast, I've heard.
On my back, her hands were small, like mine. Cold, like mine, too.
"Have you ever gotten these freckles checked out?"
"No."
"You should."
"Okay."
"Does skin cancer run in your family?"
"No, but my mom has a bunch of moles like these."
"On her back?"
"Everywhere."
"Ah ha. See a dermatologist."
"Will do."
And she was concerned, because, when she sees freckles, she sees potentially cancerous blemishes.
But when I see them, I see every woman on my mom's side of the family.
I guess you could say that I've got my mother's back.
Oh.
Oh!
Yes. I've got my mother's back.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Advent-Age-Us/Advantageous.
First:
I'm not known for having dimples, and yet, I've got one anyway.
Just one, to the left of my smile.
Or to the right, if you're looking at me and doing something to make me smile, I guess.
Second:
On the train, I sat across from someone.
I was about to refer to the rosary she was holding, but that wasn't her - that was the Polish woman who shared a bench with me in the park about a month ago.
This woman was nothing like that woman.
My mix-up, therefore, seems fairly unwarranted.
I probably thought that she was the one with the rosary beads because she was reading a Bible, and sometimes, but not always, the people with Bibles are the same people as the people with rosaries.
(If some people have rosaries, and all people with rosaries have Bibles, then it can be said that...)
Let's say this:
She didn't have a rosary.
Just a Bible.
I mean, she had other things too, I guess, in that bag of hers, or on her person, perhaps, but if we're examining her possessions in the vacuum of religious paraphernalia, let's just say that all she had was a Bible.
(But what do we know? Maybe she had a wallet-size photo of her aunt somewhere in that bag, and her aunt is a nun, or was a nun, at least, before she died. But is that religious paraphernalia, or familial paraphernalia? And so what if she died, she's still a nun, right?)
You know, maybe she wasn't reading it at all.
Maybe she was just looking at it while thinking about what she had had for lunch or what she would be having for dinner or maybe the fact that she needed to buy saran wrap, but her eyes scanned the pages pretty convincingly, so I'll say she was reading.
I reached into my own bag to pull out a book.
I tried to be subtle about it.
I didn't want her to look up.
I didn't want to interrupt her Bible-reading (pseudo or otherwise.)
But she did, prompted, presumably, by the sound of my rummaging.
(I never could keep quiet about some things.)
She smiled at me.
(Shit!)
I smiled back.
(One dimple.)
Then, still smiling, she glanced at the reading material I'd brought.
(I like to think she hoped that it would be a Bible.)
No such luck.
("Lesbian Pulp Fiction Of The 1950s.")
She stopped smiling and returned to her book, and I'm going to call it a book and not "the Bible," just to see how it feels.
(Weird, that's how.)
Trains, it would seem, are really just chapels on tracks.
Third:
Purple, Purple, Pink, Purple. That's how the candles go.
I'm not known for having dimples, and yet, I've got one anyway.
Just one, to the left of my smile.
Or to the right, if you're looking at me and doing something to make me smile, I guess.
Second:
On the train, I sat across from someone.
I was about to refer to the rosary she was holding, but that wasn't her - that was the Polish woman who shared a bench with me in the park about a month ago.
This woman was nothing like that woman.
My mix-up, therefore, seems fairly unwarranted.
I probably thought that she was the one with the rosary beads because she was reading a Bible, and sometimes, but not always, the people with Bibles are the same people as the people with rosaries.
(If some people have rosaries, and all people with rosaries have Bibles, then it can be said that...)
Let's say this:
She didn't have a rosary.
Just a Bible.
I mean, she had other things too, I guess, in that bag of hers, or on her person, perhaps, but if we're examining her possessions in the vacuum of religious paraphernalia, let's just say that all she had was a Bible.
(But what do we know? Maybe she had a wallet-size photo of her aunt somewhere in that bag, and her aunt is a nun, or was a nun, at least, before she died. But is that religious paraphernalia, or familial paraphernalia? And so what if she died, she's still a nun, right?)
You know, maybe she wasn't reading it at all.
Maybe she was just looking at it while thinking about what she had had for lunch or what she would be having for dinner or maybe the fact that she needed to buy saran wrap, but her eyes scanned the pages pretty convincingly, so I'll say she was reading.
I reached into my own bag to pull out a book.
I tried to be subtle about it.
I didn't want her to look up.
I didn't want to interrupt her Bible-reading (pseudo or otherwise.)
But she did, prompted, presumably, by the sound of my rummaging.
(I never could keep quiet about some things.)
She smiled at me.
(Shit!)
I smiled back.
(One dimple.)
Then, still smiling, she glanced at the reading material I'd brought.
(I like to think she hoped that it would be a Bible.)
No such luck.
("Lesbian Pulp Fiction Of The 1950s.")
She stopped smiling and returned to her book, and I'm going to call it a book and not "the Bible," just to see how it feels.
(Weird, that's how.)
Trains, it would seem, are really just chapels on tracks.
Third:
Purple, Purple, Pink, Purple. That's how the candles go.
Monday, November 22, 2010
How We'll Get To Know Each Other.
"That's the best sound," I say, nodding in the direction of Mr. Coffee, as he calls the court to order.
"Mmm-hmm!"
But I've changed my mind.
You don't have to agree with me this time.
Because the coffee is brewing in the kitchen, and you're singing in my shower.
Now, that's the best sound.
***
("Is it raining?")
("I'll check. It's pouring!")
("That's just fine.")
("But how will you get home?")
("Oh! With - ")
(For the record, I've never had to suppress the impulse to recite Shakespeare, mostly because I've never had the impulse to recite Shakespeare. But you looked so sweet and so concerned and so unmistakably lovely that, upon taking your hands in mine, all I could think to say was, "With love's light wings will I o'er-perch these walls...of...uh...rain...")
(They say that you're only permitted to bastardize Shakespeare when you're hopelessly, foolishly, despicably in love.)
(That's not true!)
(That's not what "they" say!)
(That's what I say!)
(What I said!)
(Just now!)
(When I made it up!)
(I'm such a liar.)
(Thank God I'm charming, right?)
"Mmm-hmm!"
But I've changed my mind.
You don't have to agree with me this time.
Because the coffee is brewing in the kitchen, and you're singing in my shower.
Now, that's the best sound.
***
("Is it raining?")
("I'll check. It's pouring!")
("That's just fine.")
("But how will you get home?")
("Oh! With - ")
(For the record, I've never had to suppress the impulse to recite Shakespeare, mostly because I've never had the impulse to recite Shakespeare. But you looked so sweet and so concerned and so unmistakably lovely that, upon taking your hands in mine, all I could think to say was, "With love's light wings will I o'er-perch these walls...of...uh...rain...")
(They say that you're only permitted to bastardize Shakespeare when you're hopelessly, foolishly, despicably in love.)
(That's not true!)
(That's not what "they" say!)
(That's what I say!)
(What I said!)
(Just now!)
(When I made it up!)
(I'm such a liar.)
(Thank God I'm charming, right?)
Sunday, November 21, 2010
sunday morning.
"good morning! you're very beautiful! i love you!"
(even though i will never see you again, i thank you from the bottom of my heart.)
(even though i will never see you again, i thank you from the bottom of my heart.)
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
things i did today.
1. woke up to a landline phone call to a wrong number. went back to sleep.
2. decided my future (again).
3. brushed my teeth.
4. decided to wear a dress.
4a. a new dress.
4b. a dress from which i had to remove the tag, which is always frightening and a process i hate. even though it said "no refunds or exchanges," and even though this dress is from a place i only travel to once a year, and even though i bought it way back in august, removing the tag somehow made it final, a real decision, yes, i will keep you.
4c. put on that dress and realized i am much smaller since i tried it on ~3 months ago.
4d. was frightened of 4c.
5. went to class.
5a. handed in a paper.
5b. watched a movie about riverdance.
6. bought a diet peach snapple.
6a. drank it.
6b. regretted the purchase. it was disgusting.
7. went to another class.
7a. ruined the middle of dracula for a friend.
7b. had the ending of dracula ruined by the professor.
7c. took six pages of notes with a pen that is not the same pen i have taken all my other notes in, which, in addition to learning many things about the ending of dracula i had wanted to find out for myself, perturbed me.
8. rode in an elevator.
9. took a bus.
10. cheated death.
2. decided my future (again).
3. brushed my teeth.
4. decided to wear a dress.
4a. a new dress.
4b. a dress from which i had to remove the tag, which is always frightening and a process i hate. even though it said "no refunds or exchanges," and even though this dress is from a place i only travel to once a year, and even though i bought it way back in august, removing the tag somehow made it final, a real decision, yes, i will keep you.
4c. put on that dress and realized i am much smaller since i tried it on ~3 months ago.
4d. was frightened of 4c.
5. went to class.
5a. handed in a paper.
5b. watched a movie about riverdance.
6. bought a diet peach snapple.
6a. drank it.
6b. regretted the purchase. it was disgusting.
7. went to another class.
7a. ruined the middle of dracula for a friend.
7b. had the ending of dracula ruined by the professor.
7c. took six pages of notes with a pen that is not the same pen i have taken all my other notes in, which, in addition to learning many things about the ending of dracula i had wanted to find out for myself, perturbed me.
8. rode in an elevator.
9. took a bus.
10. cheated death.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
(in which nothing but sadness makes sense.)
"1 July. — His spiders are now becoming as great a nuisance as his flies, and today I told him that he must get rid of them. He looked very sad at this, so I said that he must clear out some of them, at all events."
my heart broke.
this is why i should never read fiction.
my heart broke.
this is why i should never read fiction.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
I haven't a Ken! Leave, off, mice, and say: "Aye, V killed him."
In Which Pied Piper Barbie™ Seeks Revenge Against The Masked Freedom Fighter Responsible For The Death Of Her Boyfriend.
"I Haven't Taken Leave Of My Senses. I've Come To Them."
This morning, I slapped my coffeemaker upside the head.
Don't give me that look.
It was being difficult.
And I wasn't in a childish enough mood to pretend that it was a dragon (as I'll often do when it starts steaming and sputtering, even though we both know that it's just for show, that it's all bark and no bite), but I wasn't in an adult enough mood to admit that, well, gee, maybe it's time for a new coffeemaker.
I've never been very good at taking care of things.
Luckily, I'm quite good at making it look like I'm very good at taking care of things.
But don't you see, when I make those pretty little odds and ends for you and her and him and them, that I'm just distracting all of us (me, mostly) from everything that I'm neglecting?
Tonight, once I'd finished washing the dishes, I finally cleaned the coffee pot.
Thoroughly, I mean.
I took a cloth and gently wiped away the umber stains on the inside of its round little belly, the stains that I've never seen fit to remove in the year or so that I've had it.
"Because I'm the only one who uses it."
"Because they'll just come back next time I make coffee."
"Because it's just a coffee pot."
And I realized that I spend a great deal of time playing house.
When you're young, you practice caring for important things by caring for what you're told are not-so-important things.
You care for a baby doll to practice caring for a baby.
But what about the baby doll?
It's only when you grow up that you realize this, I guess.
That the not-so-important things aren't just stand-ins: that they're important too, and that they deserve care in their own right.
And so it goes: we must care for the supposedly not-so-important in order to practice caring for the important, only to learn that the not-so-important is what we could, and probably will, find important someday.
I've always been "the artist" in our family.
It's never been a title that I've had to defend.
So, tonight, when my sister contacted me and mentioned that she was "trying in vain to draw a picture of Frankie," I didn't think much of it.
Until she showed me what she'd drawn.
And let me tell you:
It's absolutely beautiful.
Don't give me that look.
It was being difficult.
And I wasn't in a childish enough mood to pretend that it was a dragon (as I'll often do when it starts steaming and sputtering, even though we both know that it's just for show, that it's all bark and no bite), but I wasn't in an adult enough mood to admit that, well, gee, maybe it's time for a new coffeemaker.
I've never been very good at taking care of things.
Luckily, I'm quite good at making it look like I'm very good at taking care of things.
But don't you see, when I make those pretty little odds and ends for you and her and him and them, that I'm just distracting all of us (me, mostly) from everything that I'm neglecting?
Tonight, once I'd finished washing the dishes, I finally cleaned the coffee pot.
Thoroughly, I mean.
I took a cloth and gently wiped away the umber stains on the inside of its round little belly, the stains that I've never seen fit to remove in the year or so that I've had it.
"Because I'm the only one who uses it."
"Because they'll just come back next time I make coffee."
"Because it's just a coffee pot."
And I realized that I spend a great deal of time playing house.
When you're young, you practice caring for important things by caring for what you're told are not-so-important things.
You care for a baby doll to practice caring for a baby.
But what about the baby doll?
It's only when you grow up that you realize this, I guess.
That the not-so-important things aren't just stand-ins: that they're important too, and that they deserve care in their own right.
And so it goes: we must care for the supposedly not-so-important in order to practice caring for the important, only to learn that the not-so-important is what we could, and probably will, find important someday.
I've always been "the artist" in our family.
It's never been a title that I've had to defend.
So, tonight, when my sister contacted me and mentioned that she was "trying in vain to draw a picture of Frankie," I didn't think much of it.
Until she showed me what she'd drawn.
And let me tell you:
It's absolutely beautiful.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
In Retrospect, I Didn't Have To Use The Pickaxe.
After I came out of my shell, I turned around to face it.
"What do you know?" said I.
"It's made of chocolate."
"What do you know?" said I.
"It's made of chocolate."
rats live on no evil star.
tonight, the night before halloween, i went to a party.
like, a party. basically one where everyone stands around drinking and yelling and talking about how drunk they are and how they can't hear each other beacuse they're not yelling loud enough. yeah, one of those. but there were costumes involved this time, too, and mine garnered some attention.
i got a shot of manhattan at midnight from a rooftop in brooklyn tonight.
a drunken oopma loompa told me how he "fucking LOVES true blood, man!!!," while the girl who was with him (his willy wonka) also told me how great my waitress outfit was.
this weekend, the empire state building is orange and white, all night. usually the lights go off at 2 am.
a man dressed as che guevara, who i think thought i was cute because of the way he kept looking at me (though i've lost my ability to discern these sorts of things since last december), wanted to know "HOW BUSINESS WAS GOING AT SAM MERLOTTE'S?"
"great!" i said. "it's going. i'm here to serve drinks."
"YEAH? WHO AM I?"
"che!"
(here, he took of his hat, shaking his head.)
"NO, I'M THAT WEREWOLF."
"oh! alcide!"
"YEAH! ALCIDE!!!"
charming.
lesson one, to that kid from med school who was trying to get his friend to dance near me because he probably wanted to talk to me: just talk.
lesson two, to that friend of mine who regret(s)/(ted) not engaging that boy in conversation: eye contact is key.
lesson three, to that other friend of mine who spent the night chatting up a swede who is only in town for a brief amount of time: if it's supposed to happen, and you want it to, it will work. trust yourself. trust each other. trust each moment you can be in his presence, however few there may be.
as usual, i was the designated sober friend, a role which i actually find enjoyable, sometimes. getting a friend who was consciously drunk off of one can of four loko on the l train to manhattan at 2 o'clock on halloween morning was an experience in itself.
as we were waiting for the light to change so we could cross the street, i saw a man with a bright red wig in a lab coat. he was alone. i read the name written in sharpie on his right side, not even processing it before saying, "beaker!"
he turned and looked at me before he hopped backwards a little, the way beaker would.
i smiled, and waved a little.
my childhood is forever changed.
like, a party. basically one where everyone stands around drinking and yelling and talking about how drunk they are and how they can't hear each other beacuse they're not yelling loud enough. yeah, one of those. but there were costumes involved this time, too, and mine garnered some attention.
i got a shot of manhattan at midnight from a rooftop in brooklyn tonight.
a drunken oopma loompa told me how he "fucking LOVES true blood, man!!!," while the girl who was with him (his willy wonka) also told me how great my waitress outfit was.
this weekend, the empire state building is orange and white, all night. usually the lights go off at 2 am.
a man dressed as che guevara, who i think thought i was cute because of the way he kept looking at me (though i've lost my ability to discern these sorts of things since last december), wanted to know "HOW BUSINESS WAS GOING AT SAM MERLOTTE'S?"
"great!" i said. "it's going. i'm here to serve drinks."
"YEAH? WHO AM I?"
"che!"
(here, he took of his hat, shaking his head.)
"NO, I'M THAT WEREWOLF."
"oh! alcide!"
"YEAH! ALCIDE!!!"
charming.
lesson one, to that kid from med school who was trying to get his friend to dance near me because he probably wanted to talk to me: just talk.
lesson two, to that friend of mine who regret(s)/(ted) not engaging that boy in conversation: eye contact is key.
lesson three, to that other friend of mine who spent the night chatting up a swede who is only in town for a brief amount of time: if it's supposed to happen, and you want it to, it will work. trust yourself. trust each other. trust each moment you can be in his presence, however few there may be.
as usual, i was the designated sober friend, a role which i actually find enjoyable, sometimes. getting a friend who was consciously drunk off of one can of four loko on the l train to manhattan at 2 o'clock on halloween morning was an experience in itself.
as we were waiting for the light to change so we could cross the street, i saw a man with a bright red wig in a lab coat. he was alone. i read the name written in sharpie on his right side, not even processing it before saying, "beaker!"
he turned and looked at me before he hopped backwards a little, the way beaker would.
i smiled, and waved a little.
my childhood is forever changed.
Friday, October 29, 2010
performing myself
in high school my teacher showed a movie called tough guise. it was about the face males put on, gender expectations, the whatnot.
everyone in the class laughed at the title, the silliness of the pun, and at the lisp of the movie's narrator.
I went to an all-male high school.
I want a boy to sing beyonce's if I were a boy.
today I started to cry at the end of rocky II, when rocky staggers around the ring, grips the microphone, and says he just wants to say one thing to his wife back home.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I'll Be Buried With A Stake Of Holly Through My Heart.
So the next time you ask me, "What's your favorite book, Katie?" do us both a favor and don't let me get away with serving you my go-to routine, you know, the:
"(sharp inhale) Oh, (knowing laugh) there are just so (chin rub) many, I mean, you know, books..."
Because that's just bad vaudeville, and not even the sort of bad vaudeville that's so bad that it's good, just bad, bad, vaudeville, through and through.
And because I can tell you what my favorite book is, even though it's taken me this long to come to terms with the fact that, holy hell, I am capable of making decisions once in a while.
It's A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens.
(I feel so much better now.)
"(sharp inhale) Oh, (knowing laugh) there are just so (chin rub) many, I mean, you know, books..."
Because that's just bad vaudeville, and not even the sort of bad vaudeville that's so bad that it's good, just bad, bad, vaudeville, through and through.
And because I can tell you what my favorite book is, even though it's taken me this long to come to terms with the fact that, holy hell, I am capable of making decisions once in a while.
It's A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens.
(I feel so much better now.)
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
it's getting hard to be someone but it all works out
actually not that big of a beatles fan, but that feels right.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Daddy, When I Grow Up, I Want to be A Martyr
That way, I could die with dignity. Let’s see: I could always willingly accept death, somehow, in my efforts to defend an endangered species, or to advance thinking in the field of Sub-Saharan-African gastronomy, or while filming a documentary about stingrays (RIP, Steve). See, I’m trying to dream up something unique here, something new; I’m trying to really think about this. I mean, I could do the religion thing, but that just seems overdone, overworked, almost cliché. Besides, I would never be able to live up the hype of being a saint.
I could die for my fellow nihilists, but I don’t think they’d really care.
I could die for my longstanding support of homeopathy and herbal remedies, but I rather not have to suffer in the onset of something excruciating.
I could die for “FREEDOMMMMMMMM,” but that’s been done in movies.
I could die for my country, but I don’t think it would really care.
Hey! Wait! I could always die for science! I could donate by body to research, or my organs to people who need them, just like you, dad, just like it says on your driver’s license! But oh, right, I’m not old enough to drive.
There has to be something out there, something special, an opportunity for me to make my mark in the history of martyrdom. Will they write books about me? Erect a statue in my hometown? Interview the wife and two children I’ll leave behind? Maybe my family will be interviewed by all the talk shows; hopefully they’ll make it onto the ten-o-clock news.
I could die of old age, but that’s not really martyrdom, is it? I guess I can settle for being a stockbroker, or an insurance agent, or even a lawyer. Really, what’s the difference?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
fear.
"don't get that master's. don't bother. it'll be a waste of your money and time."
"and, with your resume right now, you really won't need it."
(i know i've been whining about how much i want to be self-sufficient, but hearing this completely threw me off.
does this mean i'm ready to be a real person?)
(help.)
(please.)
"and, with your resume right now, you really won't need it."
(i know i've been whining about how much i want to be self-sufficient, but hearing this completely threw me off.
does this mean i'm ready to be a real person?)
(help.)
(please.)
Monday, October 18, 2010
a stranger in a stranger land
william powers gives voice:
http://therumpus.net/2010/04/all-we-read-is-freaks/?full=yes
Sunday, October 17, 2010
These Are Ordinary Times.
Yesterday, I bought a new candle. It's burning in my kitchen this very minute. I'm worried that I should be watching it. Maybe I should invest in a baby monitor. But that's not important right now (though I imagine that it will quickly become very important when the building burns down and I'm the one to blame). What's important right now is the following conversation. The context is entirely up to you.
"Oh, this is soft. What is it? Cotton?"
"No, it's merino wool."
"Oh, cashmere?"
"No, merino wool."
"It's a nice sweater."
"They're on sale right now. You should get a few."
"I should."
"And this style comes in every color imaginable."
"Really?"
"Charcoal gray, light gray, black..."
"Wow!"
YOU DIDN'T NAME ANY ACTUAL COLORS.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
THOSE ARE SHADES.
A PORTION OF A GRADATION FROM WHITE TO BLACK.
OR POSSIBLY FROM BLACK TO WHITE.
EVERY COLOR IMAGINABLE?
EVERY COLOR IMAGINABLE.
I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T KNOW THAT YOU WERE RAISED BY PANDAS, PENGUINS, AND ZEBRAS; ON THE WORDS OF PRINTED NEWSPAPERS; AT THE BEGINNING OF THE WIZARD OF OZ.
I'M SORRY. I SHOULD BE MORE TOLERANT.
I can appreciate the charcoal grays, the light grays, and the blacks.
They're essential for any respectable closet.
Right now, I should be intoxicated with the scent of my new candle, but I'm wasting its precious wick because you've given me no choice but to write about your affliction.
Saddle up my high horse once more.
It's time to ride into the sunset.
And I won't return until I've shown you what it means to know every color imaginable.
"Oh, this is soft. What is it? Cotton?"
"No, it's merino wool."
"Oh, cashmere?"
"No, merino wool."
"It's a nice sweater."
"They're on sale right now. You should get a few."
"I should."
"And this style comes in every color imaginable."
"Really?"
"Charcoal gray, light gray, black..."
"Wow!"
YOU DIDN'T NAME ANY ACTUAL COLORS.
DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
THOSE ARE SHADES.
A PORTION OF A GRADATION FROM WHITE TO BLACK.
OR POSSIBLY FROM BLACK TO WHITE.
EVERY COLOR IMAGINABLE?
EVERY COLOR IMAGINABLE.
I'M SORRY, I DIDN'T KNOW THAT YOU WERE RAISED BY PANDAS, PENGUINS, AND ZEBRAS; ON THE WORDS OF PRINTED NEWSPAPERS; AT THE BEGINNING OF THE WIZARD OF OZ.
I'M SORRY. I SHOULD BE MORE TOLERANT.
I can appreciate the charcoal grays, the light grays, and the blacks.
They're essential for any respectable closet.
Right now, I should be intoxicated with the scent of my new candle, but I'm wasting its precious wick because you've given me no choice but to write about your affliction.
Saddle up my high horse once more.
It's time to ride into the sunset.
And I won't return until I've shown you what it means to know every color imaginable.
Good Oh-Mans, Or: A Prayer To St. Anthony Of Padua, Patron Saint Of Lost Things.
You should know that I've had this conversation more than once.
"My grandmother interpreted dreams."
"WHOA, that's so -"
"Not for a living."
"Oh."
"She was a seamstress. Dream interpretation was just a hobby."
She did it over breakfast.
***
About my grandmother.
My mom's mother, rather. I've never been able to refer to her as "Grandma," probably because she died before I was born, so we never met. My mom says that we'd have gotten along swimmingly. She says this a lot.
Every time, I ask: "Why?"
And every time, my mom responds: "She hated wearing shoes."
Which isn't to say that I hate wearing shoes, although that, too, is true.
But it's the principle of the thing.
She ensured that my mom had a new, hand-sewn dress for every school dance.
(It would be waiting for her on the mantle [or was it the kitchen table?] the day of.)
She smoked like her life depended on it.
So, as is often the case with the things on which our lives depend, it killed her.
She indulged in sweets, even when (especially when) she became diabetic.
Some might say that she did herself in.
(Maybe that's why we'd have gotten along swimmingly.)
(But here's the difference: she didn't take care of herself, but she, at least, made sure that she enjoyed every minute of it.)
***
The knack for dream interpretation skipped a generation. I enjoy the practice, but my mom abstains from it. I got her a book on the subject. It was a birthday gift. I usually put a lot of thought into gifts. I usually start making them weeks in advance. But this year, for whatever reason, for what-every reason, I had to resort to giving her a last minute find of a petite (like my mother), unassuming (unlike my mother) volume on the significance of various symbols in dreams.
It felt like such a cop-out.
It felt like the way that most people give gifts.
"Here, let me show you how much I pretend to care about you and how well I pretend to know you by exploiting the one tidbit of information about your life that I remember, and we never have to talk about how I don't know anything else about you, okay?"
I was certain that she'd see right through it, that she'd wonder where the handmade flipbook or the sculpture or the short story about her was.
But she didn't.
She loved it.
"You remembered," she said.
Was she tearing up?
Oh my God, she was tearing up.
"Remembered what?" I asked.
But she didn't have to answer. So she didn't.
This isn't the first time that we've talked about my mom's birthday.
But it's different, isn't it?
***
Last night's dream involved an award-winning dissertation (the product of my mind [by that, I mean that I wrote it, but even if I hadn't written it, even if it was, perhaps, published by an arch-nemesis of mine, it would still technically be the product of my mind, right, because it was my dream, right?]) about the romanticization of cannibalism. I don't remember it in much detail, but I remember that it was a bang-up piece of work. I wish that I could recreate it now. But why bother? It's like dreaming that you can fly, and then trying to fly the next day, and then, inevitably, failing. Flying and writing a near-perfect 250-plus page paper are pretty much the same, on the scale of impossibility, even when you've seen that you're capable of such things in dreams.
Especially when you've seen that you're capable of such things in dreams.
Additional, potentially significant dream elements:
- A circus train filled with bales of hay.
- A funeral.
- Mountains made of sugar.
***
My mom lost a bracelet a few days back.
She lost it somewhere in a town that's a handful of towns away from ours.
(From hers? I mean, because, I don't really live there anymore. I don't really live there much anymore, I mean. I don't do much living there anymore, I mean.)
She told me about it, over the phone, as I was reading some Buddhist literature.
As such, all I could hear in her voice was "Attachment! Attachment!"
"I wouldn't mind, but it's [here, she specified which bracelet it was, which isn't all that relevant to you, I suppose. Then again, is any of this relevant to you? Probably not.]"
Call me crazy, mom, but I'm pretty sure that you would have minded anyway, regardless.
"I'm sure you'll find it," I said half-heartedly, distracted by words like bodhicitta and samsara.
"Do you really think so?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know. I've looked everywhere."
"Have you looked to nature?" (That was me being an asshole.)
"Very funny, Katie."
"..."
"...am I on speaker phone?"
"..."
A few hours later, my mom called again.
"I found my bracelet!"
"What?"
"I found it!"
"Where was it?" I asked, fully expecting it to have been in her handbag, or her pocket, or the car this whole time.
"It was in a pile of leaves in the town park!"
"...what?"
"Thanks for the inspiration, Katie. Thank you so much."
"You're...welcome."
Look to nature.
Jesus Christ.
I'm a fool.
I'm a scoundrel.
I'm the luckiest person you know.
Amen.
"My grandmother interpreted dreams."
"WHOA, that's so -"
"Not for a living."
"Oh."
"She was a seamstress. Dream interpretation was just a hobby."
She did it over breakfast.
***
About my grandmother.
My mom's mother, rather. I've never been able to refer to her as "Grandma," probably because she died before I was born, so we never met. My mom says that we'd have gotten along swimmingly. She says this a lot.
Every time, I ask: "Why?"
And every time, my mom responds: "She hated wearing shoes."
Which isn't to say that I hate wearing shoes, although that, too, is true.
But it's the principle of the thing.
She ensured that my mom had a new, hand-sewn dress for every school dance.
(It would be waiting for her on the mantle [or was it the kitchen table?] the day of.)
She smoked like her life depended on it.
So, as is often the case with the things on which our lives depend, it killed her.
She indulged in sweets, even when (especially when) she became diabetic.
Some might say that she did herself in.
(Maybe that's why we'd have gotten along swimmingly.)
(But here's the difference: she didn't take care of herself, but she, at least, made sure that she enjoyed every minute of it.)
***
The knack for dream interpretation skipped a generation. I enjoy the practice, but my mom abstains from it. I got her a book on the subject. It was a birthday gift. I usually put a lot of thought into gifts. I usually start making them weeks in advance. But this year, for whatever reason, for what-every reason, I had to resort to giving her a last minute find of a petite (like my mother), unassuming (unlike my mother) volume on the significance of various symbols in dreams.
It felt like such a cop-out.
It felt like the way that most people give gifts.
"Here, let me show you how much I pretend to care about you and how well I pretend to know you by exploiting the one tidbit of information about your life that I remember, and we never have to talk about how I don't know anything else about you, okay?"
I was certain that she'd see right through it, that she'd wonder where the handmade flipbook or the sculpture or the short story about her was.
But she didn't.
She loved it.
"You remembered," she said.
Was she tearing up?
Oh my God, she was tearing up.
"Remembered what?" I asked.
But she didn't have to answer. So she didn't.
This isn't the first time that we've talked about my mom's birthday.
But it's different, isn't it?
***
Last night's dream involved an award-winning dissertation (the product of my mind [by that, I mean that I wrote it, but even if I hadn't written it, even if it was, perhaps, published by an arch-nemesis of mine, it would still technically be the product of my mind, right, because it was my dream, right?]) about the romanticization of cannibalism. I don't remember it in much detail, but I remember that it was a bang-up piece of work. I wish that I could recreate it now. But why bother? It's like dreaming that you can fly, and then trying to fly the next day, and then, inevitably, failing. Flying and writing a near-perfect 250-plus page paper are pretty much the same, on the scale of impossibility, even when you've seen that you're capable of such things in dreams.
Especially when you've seen that you're capable of such things in dreams.
Additional, potentially significant dream elements:
- A circus train filled with bales of hay.
- A funeral.
- Mountains made of sugar.
***
My mom lost a bracelet a few days back.
She lost it somewhere in a town that's a handful of towns away from ours.
(From hers? I mean, because, I don't really live there anymore. I don't really live there much anymore, I mean. I don't do much living there anymore, I mean.)
She told me about it, over the phone, as I was reading some Buddhist literature.
As such, all I could hear in her voice was "Attachment! Attachment!"
"I wouldn't mind, but it's [here, she specified which bracelet it was, which isn't all that relevant to you, I suppose. Then again, is any of this relevant to you? Probably not.]"
Call me crazy, mom, but I'm pretty sure that you would have minded anyway, regardless.
"I'm sure you'll find it," I said half-heartedly, distracted by words like bodhicitta and samsara.
"Do you really think so?"
"Yeah."
"I don't know. I've looked everywhere."
"Have you looked to nature?" (That was me being an asshole.)
"Very funny, Katie."
"..."
"...am I on speaker phone?"
"..."
A few hours later, my mom called again.
"I found my bracelet!"
"What?"
"I found it!"
"Where was it?" I asked, fully expecting it to have been in her handbag, or her pocket, or the car this whole time.
"It was in a pile of leaves in the town park!"
"...what?"
"Thanks for the inspiration, Katie. Thank you so much."
"You're...welcome."
Look to nature.
Jesus Christ.
I'm a fool.
I'm a scoundrel.
I'm the luckiest person you know.
Amen.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
It's A Straight Line, But Who's Counting?
Point A:
In last night's dream, I was taking a shower with Barack Obama.
This means that I was wet (obviously) and unclothed (obviously) in the presence of the current President of the United States.
He didn't look a whole lot like Barack Obama, but it was him.
He was standing behind me, and he was caressing my back.
Maybe that particular aspect of the dream was triggered by that memory, that memory that made both of us sad ("But I can't be sad, because I'm the one who ended it," you said, right?), that memory of those times when I'd do the dishes and you'd come up behind me and hold me around my waist and kiss my neck.
(For a distraction, you're very attractive.)
And I wish that I'd have responded every time by tossing dish duties to the wind, you know, maybe I'd have spun around and thrown my arms around your neck and thanked you for reminding me that there's more to life than a sink full of dirty plates. But most of the time, if I recall correctly, most of the time, I'd tell you to stop, because I didn't like it when you held my waist, not after we'd eaten dinner and I felt sick (but really, just fat).
In case you were wondering, Barack Obama uses Dove body wash.
That's what I saw, at least.
I think that I was a man. In the dream, I mean.
Does that make Barack Obama gay?
Maybe.
But this morning, the more I considered it ("it" being "being a man"), the more I realized that it was an impossibility.
I can't be a man.
I'm far too used to buttoning my shirts with the buttons on the left.
Point B:
My mom wanted to buy me a pair of pants today.
She became less enthusiastic about it when she saw that I was back down to a zero.
"I'm such a zero," I thought to myself, "in so many ways."
(It's really more like two ways, but I was inclined toward the hyperbolic, at the time.)
She bought me the pants anyway, even though neither of us really wanted it to happen.
They're nice pants.
"Are you making progress, at least?"
I didn't lie when I said yes.
I am making progress.
I never said that I was making it in the right direction.
Did you know that they sell double zeros nowadays?
In last night's dream, I was taking a shower with Barack Obama.
This means that I was wet (obviously) and unclothed (obviously) in the presence of the current President of the United States.
He didn't look a whole lot like Barack Obama, but it was him.
He was standing behind me, and he was caressing my back.
Maybe that particular aspect of the dream was triggered by that memory, that memory that made both of us sad ("But I can't be sad, because I'm the one who ended it," you said, right?), that memory of those times when I'd do the dishes and you'd come up behind me and hold me around my waist and kiss my neck.
(For a distraction, you're very attractive.)
And I wish that I'd have responded every time by tossing dish duties to the wind, you know, maybe I'd have spun around and thrown my arms around your neck and thanked you for reminding me that there's more to life than a sink full of dirty plates. But most of the time, if I recall correctly, most of the time, I'd tell you to stop, because I didn't like it when you held my waist, not after we'd eaten dinner and I felt sick (but really, just fat).
In case you were wondering, Barack Obama uses Dove body wash.
That's what I saw, at least.
I think that I was a man. In the dream, I mean.
Does that make Barack Obama gay?
Maybe.
But this morning, the more I considered it ("it" being "being a man"), the more I realized that it was an impossibility.
I can't be a man.
I'm far too used to buttoning my shirts with the buttons on the left.
Point B:
My mom wanted to buy me a pair of pants today.
She became less enthusiastic about it when she saw that I was back down to a zero.
"I'm such a zero," I thought to myself, "in so many ways."
(It's really more like two ways, but I was inclined toward the hyperbolic, at the time.)
She bought me the pants anyway, even though neither of us really wanted it to happen.
They're nice pants.
"Are you making progress, at least?"
I didn't lie when I said yes.
I am making progress.
I never said that I was making it in the right direction.
Did you know that they sell double zeros nowadays?
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
my watch has stopped and i am a blubbering fool.
the air in grand central station tastes like the air inside a shopping mall. i have never noticed this before. maybe something changes when you're trying not to burst into tears for the 97th time. maybe wherever you go gets that mall-scent.
i almost went home today. i was tempted by the track postings and the tickets i know i have with me to just hop on a train, go home, and say, "hello, family, i really need to be away from everything right now, will you let me sleep in my bed?" instead, i took the 6 back down to my other house, which, for the past few days, finally felt like a home.
that was about 7:45 this evening. 12 hours earlier, i almost hopped a train to montreal. (okay, by "almost" i mean it was there and i wanted to.) i was tempted by the thought of prolonging this — whatever this is (is this how people are supposed to feel all the time? is this what i'm missing out on? or is this just reserved for a special few who understand what it means to walk and breathe and think in sync?) — and forgetting that i have other things i supposedly should be doing.
instead, i stood next to a stainless steel trash can in a corner and wept for ten minutes.
and now i am weeping because i'm sentimental and corny as fuck. i just don't understand why all i have left is a shirt and a heartbeat to remind me of what i don't have. and i don't understand why, for a nineteen-year-old girl who is living so much life every day, the universe has decided that i operate much better when i feel so empty and hopelessly alone.
Monday, October 11, 2010
I'm A Liar By Nature, An Asshole By Trade, And A Professor By Design.
There they were, clad in forest green flannel shirts and black skinny jeans.
They're too _____ to pretend that they dress alike by accident.
Too Young: Not like my parents, who, when standing in the kitchen, found themselves faced with the sudden realization that they were wearing matching outfits.
Too Superficial: Not like you two, who, when standing in a different kitchen, found yourselves doing the same.
("It's only because he picked out my shirt!" A likely story. Embrace your status as soul mates and we'll both forget it ever happened.)
There they were, slim-hipped hipster douchebags, in all of their matchy-matchy finery.
Birds of a highly ironic feather, poring over the extensive condom selection in Duane Reade.
It only took a moment for me to register my disgust.
But it took less than a moment to register my disgust at my disgust.
Why do I care? I thought.
Who am I to be disdainful? I thought.
When did I turn into such an asshole? I thought.
Is it because I, a self-proclaimed NOTAHIPSTER, don't have much reason to find myself in the condom aisle these days (and not just because, A. I have an unopened box in my underwear drawer, and B. When you're a woman sleeping with a woman, you don't need a condom!), and maybe, just maybe, I'm bitter?
And now I remember the instant that I laughed at them.
And it wasn't when I first caught sight of the identical getups.
And it wasn't when they started cooing over the condoms.
It was when they held hands.
And smiled.
And looked genuinely happy.
If you think I'm charming, I guess I've done something right.
(And by "right," I must mean "clever.")
But I don't deserve affection from any of you.
So please, let me tend to my work.
I've got a stable, and it's filled with high horses.
When my shift's over, I'll come back for you, if you'll have me.
But for now, all I really need is a shovel.
They're too _____ to pretend that they dress alike by accident.
Too Young: Not like my parents, who, when standing in the kitchen, found themselves faced with the sudden realization that they were wearing matching outfits.
Too Superficial: Not like you two, who, when standing in a different kitchen, found yourselves doing the same.
("It's only because he picked out my shirt!" A likely story. Embrace your status as soul mates and we'll both forget it ever happened.)
There they were, slim-hipped hipster douchebags, in all of their matchy-matchy finery.
Birds of a highly ironic feather, poring over the extensive condom selection in Duane Reade.
It only took a moment for me to register my disgust.
But it took less than a moment to register my disgust at my disgust.
Why do I care? I thought.
Who am I to be disdainful? I thought.
When did I turn into such an asshole? I thought.
Is it because I, a self-proclaimed NOTAHIPSTER, don't have much reason to find myself in the condom aisle these days (and not just because, A. I have an unopened box in my underwear drawer, and B. When you're a woman sleeping with a woman, you don't need a condom!), and maybe, just maybe, I'm bitter?
And now I remember the instant that I laughed at them.
And it wasn't when I first caught sight of the identical getups.
And it wasn't when they started cooing over the condoms.
It was when they held hands.
And smiled.
And looked genuinely happy.
If you think I'm charming, I guess I've done something right.
(And by "right," I must mean "clever.")
But I don't deserve affection from any of you.
So please, let me tend to my work.
I've got a stable, and it's filled with high horses.
When my shift's over, I'll come back for you, if you'll have me.
But for now, all I really need is a shovel.
Friday, October 8, 2010
daily occurrences.
i became very emotionally attached to a little boy on the subway today. he said he missed his mom once she left to pick something up at her office, and he refused to chew an apple chunk, and giggled when his father tried to make him put the rest of the apple slice in his mouth but then opted to do the same thing as his son. he — the son — also had two transformer toys. and his dad was wearing his dinosaur backpack.
(i heard you ringing, but i didn't answer because i was wet and naked, and for that i apologize.)
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Action Figures Of Speech.
"I understand the value of a button-down shirt," I thought, as I checked my reflection in the window of Kmart.
I was sharing the window with another woman.
2010 Holiday Barbie.
According to my research, she's been on sale since June.
My research was the result of my attempt to ensure that "2010 Holiday Barbie" is her correct name.
(It is.)
Her latest review (she has several, already), is titled:
"Never lets you down!"
I should invest in more button-down shirts.
I was sharing the window with another woman.
2010 Holiday Barbie.
According to my research, she's been on sale since June.
My research was the result of my attempt to ensure that "2010 Holiday Barbie" is her correct name.
(It is.)
Her latest review (she has several, already), is titled:
"Never lets you down!"
I should invest in more button-down shirts.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
I'll Have The Idiot Savant, Hold The Savant, Please?
What I'm saying: "I don't understand people who use recipes."
What I'm saying: "I'm so fucking great, and those morons who rely on recipes are wasting my precious time and my precious space on this planet. You know how I roll? I just walk into any kitchen like I own the place, put on a blindfold, pick out some ingredients, do some crazy shit, and BANG, amazing meal, done. Don't thank me yet, though. Because whenever I clean the dishes, I inadvertently discover the cure for a major disease. Now, who wants some fucking brilliant carnival squash with a maple-glazed winter grain salad and a side of NO MORE AIDS?!?!"
My ego never shuts up these days.
He's the reason why I don't:
Like recipes.
Check the weather.
Use instruction manuals.
But I've got this picture, you know, this picture in my head, and I think I've been imagining it since I was seven years-old.
(Seven is the age of reason, according to the Catholic Church.)
It's me, and I'm forty-five years-old, and I'm alone, and I'm crouching over a busted Kenmore washing machine, and I'm in tears because I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and I've never felt so impotent in my entire life, or maybe just since the last time I tried to fix something, anything, really.
And then I wonder which scenario is worse:
The one in which I'm despairing because I've thrown the instruction manual away.
Or the one in which it's sitting on the counter, but I'm too damn proud to reach for it.
What I'm saying: "I'm so fucking great, and those morons who rely on recipes are wasting my precious time and my precious space on this planet. You know how I roll? I just walk into any kitchen like I own the place, put on a blindfold, pick out some ingredients, do some crazy shit, and BANG, amazing meal, done. Don't thank me yet, though. Because whenever I clean the dishes, I inadvertently discover the cure for a major disease. Now, who wants some fucking brilliant carnival squash with a maple-glazed winter grain salad and a side of NO MORE AIDS?!?!"
My ego never shuts up these days.
He's the reason why I don't:
Like recipes.
Check the weather.
Use instruction manuals.
But I've got this picture, you know, this picture in my head, and I think I've been imagining it since I was seven years-old.
(Seven is the age of reason, according to the Catholic Church.)
It's me, and I'm forty-five years-old, and I'm alone, and I'm crouching over a busted Kenmore washing machine, and I'm in tears because I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and I've never felt so impotent in my entire life, or maybe just since the last time I tried to fix something, anything, really.
And then I wonder which scenario is worse:
The one in which I'm despairing because I've thrown the instruction manual away.
Or the one in which it's sitting on the counter, but I'm too damn proud to reach for it.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Which Nobody Can Deny.
"When I die, I want - "
Woah woah woah.
Hold the phone, mom.
Let's talk about the fact that we're celebrating your birthday, and you just said the words "When I die."
She kept talking, of course, because I didn't actually interrupt her.
That being said, I didn't necessarily keep listening, though I did hear something about how she's been thinking, something about wanting to be cremated, something about ashes over the Sound.
Today is her actual birthday. I won't tell you how old she is, because it's not right to reveal your mother's age, not unless you have a death wish.
I don't have a death wish.
And even if I did, it's not my birthday, which means that I'm not the one blowing out the candles, which means that I don't get to make a wish. Not even a death wish.
"I figure I'm entering the final third of my life," my mom said, before she got to that whole "When I die" deal. I wanted to protest, "How do you know you haven't already entered the final third of your life? How do you know that you'll live that long? Or maybe you haven't even reached the halfway point!"
I did protest, a little bit. It was more of a sit-in than a rally.
My dad doesn't drink that often. At least he doesn't do it around me.
But he had something or other. Probably other.
And he's usually pretty talkative, and he usually rubs the bony part of my shoulder, but something about the way he talked and shoulder-rubbed in the midst of this conversation led me to believe that he wasn't entirely himself.
"You know, Katie, over the summer, mom said something to me. And she got very philosophical -
(At this point, my mother raised her eyebrows, as if to say, "It's unusual for me to be philosophical?" To which I my dad and I might say, "Yeah, it is.")
- and do you know what she said? She said, 'David, when I die, I want to be cremated and have my ashes spread over the Sound. And if you live longer than I do -
(At this point, the three of us reached the consensus that this was improbable, but not impossible.)
- then I want you to scatter them. And if you don't outlive me...well...' And then, do you know what I said? I said, 'Stephie, you have two daughters who can do it if I can't.' And do you know what she said to me?"
(At this point, she took over.)
"I said, 'I want Katie to do it.'"
And it felt like the Earth opened up, or like I've been dead for years and just realized it now, or like I was in the middle of a movie (not watching one, in one, the scene being shot as we spoke), or like I was the butt of a practical joke (haha butt!), or like I suddenly understood everything that's ever happened and is happening and will happen.
And it felt fucking weird.
And I was looking straight ahead, partly because I didn't think that any of it was actually real, but mostly because, by this point, both of them were rubbing the bony parts of my shoulders (my dad on the left, my mom on the right) and smiling and saying "You'll do it, won't you, Katie?"
And then my mom started laughing. Hard.
"David, after the week she's had, can you believe we're telling her all of this? What timing! After all that she's been through! And we're talking about death!"
You don't have to know what I've been through this week.
I don't have a problem talking about it. It's just not what I want to talk about right now. Here's what I want to talk about:
I never heard my mom say the words "When I die" until last night.
It's a subject that has always been smothered in euphemism.
The eventual and inevitable death of my parents has little in common with, let's say, my sexual orientation, or, let's say, the fact that my mom is the only remaining Catholic in our family. Unless we're actually discussing any of those things, in which case it is safe to say that those three topics are treated the exact same way, marinated in a saccharine glaze of delicate language for which I've lost a taste over the years. That being said, to hear her actually speak of her own death with such bluntness was refreshing, startling, and terrifying.
"I don't think I've ever heard you say that, at least not in front of me, mom."
"Say what?"
"'When I die.'"
"I probably haven't."
"And maybe it was for my sake, and Jessica's, you know, like you didn't want us to hear about it, right?"
"Well - "
"But it was also for your own sake, right?"
(I was ninety-nine percent sure that I'd only thought that last comment, but, as far as I know, my mom isn't telepathic - yet - so I guess I spoke it aloud.)
"Yes. It was."
"Oh."
I don't think I'll ever know if I need my parents more than they need me or if it's the other way around. I don't think I'm supposed to know, and I don't think it's even possible to know. Our need for people, and our need for them in all of their various capacities, is, like everything else, subject to constant change, permanent impermanence.
"Katie?"
"Yeah, mom?"
"I don't know what's going to happen, but I do know that I don't want to go out of this world as a typical person."
"Why wait until then to be atypical?"
"You're right. Katie?"
"Yeah?"
"I swear, if you don't see to it that [I really don't remember what she said here], I'll come back to haunt you."
"You already haunt me, mom, and you're not even dead yet."
And then my mom started laughing. Hard.
Woah woah woah.
Hold the phone, mom.
Let's talk about the fact that we're celebrating your birthday, and you just said the words "When I die."
She kept talking, of course, because I didn't actually interrupt her.
That being said, I didn't necessarily keep listening, though I did hear something about how she's been thinking, something about wanting to be cremated, something about ashes over the Sound.
Today is her actual birthday. I won't tell you how old she is, because it's not right to reveal your mother's age, not unless you have a death wish.
I don't have a death wish.
And even if I did, it's not my birthday, which means that I'm not the one blowing out the candles, which means that I don't get to make a wish. Not even a death wish.
"I figure I'm entering the final third of my life," my mom said, before she got to that whole "When I die" deal. I wanted to protest, "How do you know you haven't already entered the final third of your life? How do you know that you'll live that long? Or maybe you haven't even reached the halfway point!"
I did protest, a little bit. It was more of a sit-in than a rally.
My dad doesn't drink that often. At least he doesn't do it around me.
But he had something or other. Probably other.
And he's usually pretty talkative, and he usually rubs the bony part of my shoulder, but something about the way he talked and shoulder-rubbed in the midst of this conversation led me to believe that he wasn't entirely himself.
"You know, Katie, over the summer, mom said something to me. And she got very philosophical -
(At this point, my mother raised her eyebrows, as if to say, "It's unusual for me to be philosophical?" To which I my dad and I might say, "Yeah, it is.")
- and do you know what she said? She said, 'David, when I die, I want to be cremated and have my ashes spread over the Sound. And if you live longer than I do -
(At this point, the three of us reached the consensus that this was improbable, but not impossible.)
- then I want you to scatter them. And if you don't outlive me...well...' And then, do you know what I said? I said, 'Stephie, you have two daughters who can do it if I can't.' And do you know what she said to me?"
(At this point, she took over.)
"I said, 'I want Katie to do it.'"
And it felt like the Earth opened up, or like I've been dead for years and just realized it now, or like I was in the middle of a movie (not watching one, in one, the scene being shot as we spoke), or like I was the butt of a practical joke (haha butt!), or like I suddenly understood everything that's ever happened and is happening and will happen.
And it felt fucking weird.
And I was looking straight ahead, partly because I didn't think that any of it was actually real, but mostly because, by this point, both of them were rubbing the bony parts of my shoulders (my dad on the left, my mom on the right) and smiling and saying "You'll do it, won't you, Katie?"
And then my mom started laughing. Hard.
"David, after the week she's had, can you believe we're telling her all of this? What timing! After all that she's been through! And we're talking about death!"
You don't have to know what I've been through this week.
I don't have a problem talking about it. It's just not what I want to talk about right now. Here's what I want to talk about:
I never heard my mom say the words "When I die" until last night.
It's a subject that has always been smothered in euphemism.
The eventual and inevitable death of my parents has little in common with, let's say, my sexual orientation, or, let's say, the fact that my mom is the only remaining Catholic in our family. Unless we're actually discussing any of those things, in which case it is safe to say that those three topics are treated the exact same way, marinated in a saccharine glaze of delicate language for which I've lost a taste over the years. That being said, to hear her actually speak of her own death with such bluntness was refreshing, startling, and terrifying.
"I don't think I've ever heard you say that, at least not in front of me, mom."
"Say what?"
"'When I die.'"
"I probably haven't."
"And maybe it was for my sake, and Jessica's, you know, like you didn't want us to hear about it, right?"
"Well - "
"But it was also for your own sake, right?"
(I was ninety-nine percent sure that I'd only thought that last comment, but, as far as I know, my mom isn't telepathic - yet - so I guess I spoke it aloud.)
"Yes. It was."
"Oh."
I don't think I'll ever know if I need my parents more than they need me or if it's the other way around. I don't think I'm supposed to know, and I don't think it's even possible to know. Our need for people, and our need for them in all of their various capacities, is, like everything else, subject to constant change, permanent impermanence.
"Katie?"
"Yeah, mom?"
"I don't know what's going to happen, but I do know that I don't want to go out of this world as a typical person."
"Why wait until then to be atypical?"
"You're right. Katie?"
"Yeah?"
"I swear, if you don't see to it that [I really don't remember what she said here], I'll come back to haunt you."
"You already haunt me, mom, and you're not even dead yet."
And then my mom started laughing. Hard.
Friday, October 1, 2010
killers
through the crackle and thrum of the baby monitor, my father heard the noise of swarming. a throng of bees had funneled through the ceiling; they stung me in my crib, my brother too. (my mother says she cannot describe how sick she was with terror.) the bees came in through a hole in the ceiling, a ceiling that was otherwise smooth, untarnished and unblemished, painted a shade of white. Above the ceiling was the attic, an unkempt and humid space. it is where our holiday decorations went for storage, where forgotten keepsakes collected dust, where one bare light bulb hung from the rafters, and from that a silver pull cord that directed the filament to either burn incandescent or remain unlit. I do not know how the bees worked their way through the ceiling and into my room; I do knot know if they had been in the attic for any span of time or if their invasion was spontaneous; I do not know why the bees descended at night, a time they reserve for light sleep. but I think this attack is the reason for my fear of any insect with a stinger.
my grandmother is on oxygen. this after a trip to the hospital, another ambulance, a visit from her nurse. when I speak to her on the phone she takes a sharp breath on every eight syllable. her dog, mojo, does not bark.
the day after the bees, my parents called a fumigator to the house. he came by himself in shorts and a shirt. all he had with him was a can of spray, not even a protective mask. that man was a killer, my mother said.
my earliest memory of my grandmother is of her crackly voice.
yes, my father said, he was.
Nothing New Under The Sun.
Last night, it was raining. It's raining now, too, but we're talking about last night, and it was raining then.
I walked in, and I began to cook.
I soaked wild rice for thirty minutes and simmered it for forty-five, I chopped shallots and asparagus and broccolini and miniature heirloom tomatoes* and tofu and prepared a pepper-apricot glaze, I boiled, I roasted, I sautéed, and then, when it was over, when all was said and done but none was eaten, I did the dishes.
And that's when I realized that I was still wearing my raincoat.
When I was in middle school and high school, I'd do the same thing.
Granted, I'd be watching my mom cook rather than doing the cooking myself (I might have cooked, you know, if she had let me, but she didn't, so it's no use thinking about it), but I never, ever took my coat** off.
Until she'd say, "Katie, take your damn coat off."
And even then, I wouldn't.
She'd have to say it a few more times, and we'd have to sit down for dinner, perhaps, before I complied.
I had no reason to keep my coat on. But I didn't have much of a reason to take it off, either. I suppose that's why it stayed on.
Sometimes, and by "sometimes" I mean "since last night," I wonder if it all means something, if I was reluctant to shed my outerwear because I don't like to stay in one place for too long, or because I don't like to be at home, or because I do like to be at home, I just don't feel at home most of the time, or because I don't like to settle, or because I don't like to commit.
Someone once said something about how anthropologists are homeless or something.***
But that's neither here nor there.
(No, really, it's neither here nor there, because you know those homeless anthropologists, they're always moving around, never stopping here nor there.)
(That, friends, is an example of a joke that isn't very funny.)
But then, there's this:
When I was in middle school and high school, and the temperature began to drop, my mom wouldn't let me out of the house if I wasn't wearing a coat.
Sometimes I'd wear it outside and take it off as soon as I was out of her sight.
Sometimes I'd carry it and promise her that I would put it on later.
Sometimes I'd just leave it in the coat closet. (Such brazenness!)
But she wasn't born yesterday, under a rock, with the wool over her eyes.
"Katie, put your damn coat on," she'd say.
When I see her now, which, as of late, has been more often than usual, she still asks me if I have "enough" winter coats.
"Enough? What, like, one?"
And she repeats: "Enough."
Which to me, always sounds like: "Too much."
Man oh man, would you believe that I just thought about making some godawfulreference to monogamy?
And then (it gets better), that I considered bringing this whole discussion full circle by going back to the Resistance To Taking Off One's Coat = Anthropologist Syndrome/A Fear Of Commitment equation?
What do I look like, a professor?
If I clocked you in the head right now and knocked you out, would you mind?
It's nothing personal.
I just want to make you see some stars:
*There was this one miniature heirloom tomato, and, my God, I wish you could have seen it. It was far too large to be miniature, but I didn't want to say anything, you know, to give it a complex. But it was perfect. It was hideous. It was marvelous. It was grotesque. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
**Jacket?
*** Claude Lévi-Strauss (in his book Triste Tropiques) on the anthropologist's predicament: "Never will he feel himself to be 'at home' anywhere. He will always be, psychologically speaking, an amputated man" (Lévi-Strauss, trans. John Russell 58).
I walked in, and I began to cook.
I soaked wild rice for thirty minutes and simmered it for forty-five, I chopped shallots and asparagus and broccolini and miniature heirloom tomatoes* and tofu and prepared a pepper-apricot glaze, I boiled, I roasted, I sautéed, and then, when it was over, when all was said and done but none was eaten, I did the dishes.
And that's when I realized that I was still wearing my raincoat.
When I was in middle school and high school, I'd do the same thing.
Granted, I'd be watching my mom cook rather than doing the cooking myself (I might have cooked, you know, if she had let me, but she didn't, so it's no use thinking about it), but I never, ever took my coat** off.
Until she'd say, "Katie, take your damn coat off."
And even then, I wouldn't.
She'd have to say it a few more times, and we'd have to sit down for dinner, perhaps, before I complied.
I had no reason to keep my coat on. But I didn't have much of a reason to take it off, either. I suppose that's why it stayed on.
Sometimes, and by "sometimes" I mean "since last night," I wonder if it all means something, if I was reluctant to shed my outerwear because I don't like to stay in one place for too long, or because I don't like to be at home, or because I do like to be at home, I just don't feel at home most of the time, or because I don't like to settle, or because I don't like to commit.
Someone once said something about how anthropologists are homeless or something.***
But that's neither here nor there.
(No, really, it's neither here nor there, because you know those homeless anthropologists, they're always moving around, never stopping here nor there.)
(That, friends, is an example of a joke that isn't very funny.)
But then, there's this:
When I was in middle school and high school, and the temperature began to drop, my mom wouldn't let me out of the house if I wasn't wearing a coat.
Sometimes I'd wear it outside and take it off as soon as I was out of her sight.
Sometimes I'd carry it and promise her that I would put it on later.
Sometimes I'd just leave it in the coat closet. (Such brazenness!)
But she wasn't born yesterday, under a rock, with the wool over her eyes.
"Katie, put your damn coat on," she'd say.
When I see her now, which, as of late, has been more often than usual, she still asks me if I have "enough" winter coats.
"Enough? What, like, one?"
And she repeats: "Enough."
Which to me, always sounds like: "Too much."
Man oh man, would you believe that I just thought about making some godawfulreference to monogamy?
And then (it gets better), that I considered bringing this whole discussion full circle by going back to the Resistance To Taking Off One's Coat = Anthropologist Syndrome/A Fear Of Commitment equation?
What do I look like, a professor?
If I clocked you in the head right now and knocked you out, would you mind?
It's nothing personal.
I just want to make you see some stars:
*There was this one miniature heirloom tomato, and, my God, I wish you could have seen it. It was far too large to be miniature, but I didn't want to say anything, you know, to give it a complex. But it was perfect. It was hideous. It was marvelous. It was grotesque. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
**Jacket?
*** Claude Lévi-Strauss (in his book Triste Tropiques) on the anthropologist's predicament: "Never will he feel himself to be 'at home' anywhere. He will always be, psychologically speaking, an amputated man" (Lévi-Strauss, trans. John Russell 58).
Saturday, September 25, 2010
It's Because I Wear Glasses And A Furrowed Brow, Isn't It?
"Spare some change, miss?"
I don't know what I want to do with my life.
"She gonna be a scientist."
Oh!
"God bless."
Oh.
I don't know what I want to do with my life.
"She gonna be a scientist."
Oh!
"God bless."
Oh.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
signs of the time
- the display of the clock
- feeling (group or personal)
- position of sun
- position of moon
- position of head (e.g. on a pillow, on a swivel, etc.)
- position of shadow
- position of your right elbow (think about it)
- amount of money in wallet
- amount of money you just dropped on the ground
- how badly you want to drop to the ground and never get back up
- how badly you have to pee
Sunday, September 5, 2010
oh, what a shame, a subway ride was never meant to last.
call it an overly-romantic notion that has never died out, but whenever i have reason pass manhattan apartment buildings at dusk or in the early part of night, i can't help but fantasize. the just-barely-dark is the best time to examine the lives of others: their choices in living room décor, what sort of lighting they prefer, etc.
what i mean is i fantasize about what my apartment and day-to-day life will be like when i'm older. this has been a long-standing fantasy of mine — in fact, i remember looking at apartments and thinking of my own life when i was seven years old (on a sidenote, i was a very dramatic only child and have been a hopeless romantic since i first understood what romance is) — but now, looking back, i realize that it is so much closer than i ever wanted. my fantasies always start with something like, "in 20 years...," (which evolved into "in 10 years..." and, tonight, i realize that this fantasy of mine is less than 5 years away) and wind up with fantastical ideas of how happy i'll be.
except, not really. it's more of a melancholy chaos.
as i walked home today, i spotted an apartment — well, okay, a dorm room in an apartment building — that had chinese lanterns hanging from its ceiling. who knows how or why (i certainly don't pretend to understand how my own mind works), but i launched into a great imagined future, where i will be young and beautiful and have a job i at least enjoy and live in a nice place i've made my own and can't wait to come home to every night. i'll call up the best friend i've ever had and say, "let's go out tonight," or — even better! — "stop by my place before you go home; i feel like cooking dinner," and by this time i'll understand what julia child's talking about when she tells me i can cook like her, and my lamp-lit apartment will smell of lovely things, and ring with laughter and faint jazz as we discuss how we hate the rest of the world and love obscure writings about the cynicism the rest of the world should adopt.
i'm not here to learn how to read books or edit things; yes, that's what this is all about, but it's really not. i'm here to learn that no matter how fantastical i allow my dreams to become, i will not make them come true. i'm here to understand that, in five years, i will come home, alone, overlook the cookbooks that are gathering dust, turn on the stove and reach for the box of kraft macaroni and cheese. again.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
We Must Be In A Lecture Hall, Because These Are Just Projections.
I.) I can't say, "If there's one thing I love," because it simply isn't true, but I can't say, "When there's one thing I love," either, because at any given point in time I am simultaneously loving multiple things, which is to say, "When there's one thing I love," is equivalent to: "Never."
II.) Anyways: when I observe stupid behavior in public, I like to think to myself, "Man, that person looks so fucking dumb." But, in most cases, said stupid behavior is something I know fully well that I do too. Just not at that moment. Like running in place when you're stopped at a crosswalk because you don't want to lose your momentum, your drive, your will to go all the way to the Seaport and back. There was this woman doing that, you know, bobbing up and down, like a buoy, or maybe a wild turkey on crack, at the corner of 13th and A, and I thought, "Jesus, she looks stupid." Which was when I realized I was going to Hell. Because, even after I thought, "Hey, you know, I do that too," I still laughed at her, convincing myself that there's no way I could look that dumb because A. I'm just that cool, or B. I must look so dumb that I look cool, or C. No one really gives a shit about me and my crosswalk rituals. Maybe I'm the only living asshole in New York.
III.) Well, I've got this weird feeling in me, and let's not talk about where it is, because it's not even a matter of where, and if we say "where" it'll just make me worried about babies. But, oh, child, here's the down-low if we're gonna go down, throw down, get down, can ya dig it? You don't tell me how to love my body. You don't take off my clothes unless I give you the go-ahead. And there's no way that I'm going to feel paranoid about what you think of my paranoia. We're almost the same, when it comes down to it. We're over-thinkers through and through. And the truth is, most of the time, I'm just trying to convince myself that I don't look dumb when I run in place.
II.) Anyways: when I observe stupid behavior in public, I like to think to myself, "Man, that person looks so fucking dumb." But, in most cases, said stupid behavior is something I know fully well that I do too. Just not at that moment. Like running in place when you're stopped at a crosswalk because you don't want to lose your momentum, your drive, your will to go all the way to the Seaport and back. There was this woman doing that, you know, bobbing up and down, like a buoy, or maybe a wild turkey on crack, at the corner of 13th and A, and I thought, "Jesus, she looks stupid." Which was when I realized I was going to Hell. Because, even after I thought, "Hey, you know, I do that too," I still laughed at her, convincing myself that there's no way I could look that dumb because A. I'm just that cool, or B. I must look so dumb that I look cool, or C. No one really gives a shit about me and my crosswalk rituals. Maybe I'm the only living asshole in New York.
III.) Well, I've got this weird feeling in me, and let's not talk about where it is, because it's not even a matter of where, and if we say "where" it'll just make me worried about babies. But, oh, child, here's the down-low if we're gonna go down, throw down, get down, can ya dig it? You don't tell me how to love my body. You don't take off my clothes unless I give you the go-ahead. And there's no way that I'm going to feel paranoid about what you think of my paranoia. We're almost the same, when it comes down to it. We're over-thinkers through and through. And the truth is, most of the time, I'm just trying to convince myself that I don't look dumb when I run in place.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
I Took My Nose Out Back, And Shot It Like Ol' Factor.
I speak like I write, which is to say, vaguely.
Which is actually to say, not vaguely at all. In fact, there's so much description and manipulation of language that it's practically the opposite of vague. It's downright specific, specific to the point of such great specificity that it's vague.
But this isn't really about that.
(Well, what would you expect? We should always assume that this is about this and that is about that. That/this is how it works. But don't get me started on it. Shh.)
It's about how I speak like I write, which is to say, I use a lot of commas.
It's confusing, supposedly. I use commas to break up sentences in ways so dastardly that you'd think I'd have divided by zero. I'll use them to create pre-pre-preambles and disclaimers spoken so far in advance that, by the time I get to whatever it is that I'm disclaiming, you'll have forgotten when and where I began.
I don't have time to give you examples.
No one has time for commas these days, anyways.
And I'm sure that my examples would contain a lot of them.
Here's what I actually wanted to talk about:
I've always wanted to have a signature scent, because I dress plainly and simply and I like to think that I'm the sort of lady you might associate with that understated elegance, that elegance that says, "I don't need very much makeup or jewelry, but thank you for the offer, 79th suitor I've had this week," and that elegance seems to be accompanied by a scent, you know, the sort of scent left in an elegant woman's wake. Because you know those women, don't you? You see them on the street and can't believe how elegant they are, and how it looks like they don't even try because, really, they don't, they're too busy doing elegant things like ___________________. And you're wrong if you think that you can get rid of those women easily. Because it isn't your mind or your heart where they'll be stuck for all eternity: it's your nose. Long after you've managed to rid yourself of the sight of them, the scent of them will continue to mill about your sinus region, and you'll wonder why everythingeverythingeverything smells like Guerlain Samsara, like Chanel No. 5, like Bulgari Eau Parfumée au Thé Vert.
And, if you're lucky, you'll sneeze.
If you're even luckier, you'll have had a tissue handy.
Because it will be filled the most elegant snot you've ever seen.
The nose is funny like that.
Like when I was running and could have sworn that I smelled blood but maybe it was only because I was listening to Jimi Hendrix and well I have some very predatory urges I guess.
Elegant women probably don't run.
And they probably don't listen to Jimi Hendrix.
And they probably don't smell blood.
There simply isn't enough room to do all that when you're trapped in someone's nose.
Which is actually to say, not vaguely at all. In fact, there's so much description and manipulation of language that it's practically the opposite of vague. It's downright specific, specific to the point of such great specificity that it's vague.
But this isn't really about that.
(Well, what would you expect? We should always assume that this is about this and that is about that. That/this is how it works. But don't get me started on it. Shh.)
It's about how I speak like I write, which is to say, I use a lot of commas.
It's confusing, supposedly. I use commas to break up sentences in ways so dastardly that you'd think I'd have divided by zero. I'll use them to create pre-pre-preambles and disclaimers spoken so far in advance that, by the time I get to whatever it is that I'm disclaiming, you'll have forgotten when and where I began.
I don't have time to give you examples.
No one has time for commas these days, anyways.
And I'm sure that my examples would contain a lot of them.
Here's what I actually wanted to talk about:
I've always wanted to have a signature scent, because I dress plainly and simply and I like to think that I'm the sort of lady you might associate with that understated elegance, that elegance that says, "I don't need very much makeup or jewelry, but thank you for the offer, 79th suitor I've had this week," and that elegance seems to be accompanied by a scent, you know, the sort of scent left in an elegant woman's wake. Because you know those women, don't you? You see them on the street and can't believe how elegant they are, and how it looks like they don't even try because, really, they don't, they're too busy doing elegant things like ___________________. And you're wrong if you think that you can get rid of those women easily. Because it isn't your mind or your heart where they'll be stuck for all eternity: it's your nose. Long after you've managed to rid yourself of the sight of them, the scent of them will continue to mill about your sinus region, and you'll wonder why everythingeverythingeverything smells like Guerlain Samsara, like Chanel No. 5, like Bulgari Eau Parfumée au Thé Vert.
And, if you're lucky, you'll sneeze.
If you're even luckier, you'll have had a tissue handy.
Because it will be filled the most elegant snot you've ever seen.
The nose is funny like that.
Like when I was running and could have sworn that I smelled blood but maybe it was only because I was listening to Jimi Hendrix and well I have some very predatory urges I guess.
Elegant women probably don't run.
And they probably don't listen to Jimi Hendrix.
And they probably don't smell blood.
There simply isn't enough room to do all that when you're trapped in someone's nose.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Here's To Wit, Charm, And Grace (Kelly, Who Starred Opposite Cary Grant, But Not In This**).
"What's your train of thought?"
"The Southwest Chief. What's yours?"
"It's more of a stream."
"Oh."
"A stream of consciousness."
**I said Southwest Chief because of him. Because of North by Northwest, I mean. But you should know that it was actually the 20th Century Limited that he and Eva Marie Saint took. Have I mentioned that you've always reminded me of her? Probably not. Probably not, because it isn't that you really remind me of her, it's that I'd like to encounter you, by chance, on the 20th Century Limited, and, before I learn that you're a no-good-double-crossing-vixen, seduce you, or let you seduce me, or maybe both. It's like I was saying, you know, how trains are romantic, but so are airplanes and cars and ships and bicycles. Transportation is romantic, let's just say. And I don't know if it's because of where you're going or how you're getting there or who you're going to see or who you're going with. But it's romantic, let's just say.
Here's to hoping that my tracks cross a stream sometime.
"The Southwest Chief. What's yours?"
"It's more of a stream."
"Oh."
"A stream of consciousness."
**I said Southwest Chief because of him. Because of North by Northwest, I mean. But you should know that it was actually the 20th Century Limited that he and Eva Marie Saint took. Have I mentioned that you've always reminded me of her? Probably not. Probably not, because it isn't that you really remind me of her, it's that I'd like to encounter you, by chance, on the 20th Century Limited, and, before I learn that you're a no-good-double-crossing-vixen, seduce you, or let you seduce me, or maybe both. It's like I was saying, you know, how trains are romantic, but so are airplanes and cars and ships and bicycles. Transportation is romantic, let's just say. And I don't know if it's because of where you're going or how you're getting there or who you're going to see or who you're going with. But it's romantic, let's just say.
Here's to hoping that my tracks cross a stream sometime.
But, Right Now, You're Popping Blisters On Your Feet, And I'm The One To Blame. Or: "Sorry For Making You Walk Barefoot When We Went Home."
Sometimes, when I'm in a bad mood --
"Now that's the beginning of a comedy act," you interrupt.
Which is something I guess you'd say.
It's weird writing this after I just told it to you.
It's even weirder that I'm writing this while watching you do pull-ups on that stupid pull-up bar that I pretend to hate but won't tell you that I actually hate because I know you're fond of it and no way no how am I going to juice your dream like they did on the 5:30 AM infomercials for those power juicers I used to watch when I used to do pull-ups when I was in high school but you didn't know that did you?
Surprise!
Anyway.
Sometimes, when I'm in a bad mood, I like to think back to our freshman year together, when you, in a fit of indignant rage, wrote the most aggressive passive-aggressive note I've seen to date, directed towards "the sick fuck" who was responsible for smearing poop on your bath towel.
You were convinced that it was one of your suitemates.
I don't think I've ever seen you so angry.
And that's why it makes me laugh.
I also laugh because I was convinced that you, by some washroom oversight, some happy accident, some hilarious trick of the universe that was that bathroom, were the one responsible for that stain.
"That's what I fear," you interrupted.
Now, that's the beginning of a comedy act.
"Now that's the beginning of a comedy act," you interrupt.
Which is something I guess you'd say.
It's weird writing this after I just told it to you.
It's even weirder that I'm writing this while watching you do pull-ups on that stupid pull-up bar that I pretend to hate but won't tell you that I actually hate because I know you're fond of it and no way no how am I going to juice your dream like they did on the 5:30 AM infomercials for those power juicers I used to watch when I used to do pull-ups when I was in high school but you didn't know that did you?
Surprise!
Anyway.
Sometimes, when I'm in a bad mood, I like to think back to our freshman year together, when you, in a fit of indignant rage, wrote the most aggressive passive-aggressive note I've seen to date, directed towards "the sick fuck" who was responsible for smearing poop on your bath towel.
You were convinced that it was one of your suitemates.
I don't think I've ever seen you so angry.
And that's why it makes me laugh.
I also laugh because I was convinced that you, by some washroom oversight, some happy accident, some hilarious trick of the universe that was that bathroom, were the one responsible for that stain.
"That's what I fear," you interrupted.
Now, that's the beginning of a comedy act.
Monday, July 26, 2010
dishwashing
My coworker, a busboy of four years, has left to pursue a plumbing job in a town some thirty miles away. The remnants of a meal and a broken pipe; one is another seen through a foggy mirror; both incidents require a certain level of competence, a fine amount of dexterity, a lack of contempt for grit and detritus. There is also an inherent impulse to clean, repair, tinker.
In saying his goodbyes, my coworker saved his most heartfelt for last: the utility man (dishwasher being too harsh of a title). A hard-working man, he puts in twelve hours of labor a day, every day, in the hopes of accruing enough money for his family. They wait for him in Brazil as he waits to reenter their sanctity. He is a father to children my age; he is a husband; he lives alone in an apartment and self-prescribes three hours of sleep per night. A balding man, he is as proud of his potbelly as he is of his craft, of his language, of his cheer. When the departing busboy shakes this man’s hand goodbye, I do not think there is total comprehension. The boundary of language obscures meanings. While we have a few words to share (Pepsi, water,help), much is lost in the wash; much is still adrift.
My mother once told me about her childhood pet, a collie named Barney. The neighbors loved Barney; they thought ahead to prepare extra food for him, or they left their scraps for him to enjoy. When he was older and in the throes of decline, Barney broke from my mother’s hold and fled to the woods. He wanted to die alone. It was as if he knew he was dying, and breaking free from a tether, an embrace, was part of the experience.
So maybe it is true that dogs are codependent, but when it is their time to die, they welcome the opportunity for escape. If this was not true of Barney, then perhaps he made for the woods to wrestle with oblivion, to look up and see light shimmering through leaves, the rusty bark of trees, the expanse of dirt and underbrush, this despite the looming quietus.
My coworker was good at his work. He understood that the aim of bussing a table is to make a ghost of the customer: the breaking of bread an act of the past, the drinking of the wine now a memory. Thank you, hope to see you soon followed by Here you are, enjoy. A new goodbye followed by a newer hello, a table for two reseated again and again.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I looked for myself
on the rainy highway, there was a woman with an umbrella. she wore a dark coat, heels, and brown hair that fell to her shoulders. though the rain was falling hard, and though cars and trucks buzzed by her with haste, she did not appear disgruntled or even flustered. the manner of her gait implied purpose, credence, stop-time.
"look at that," my father said, arching his head sideways and pointing at the woman through the windshield. "she's in the bad stuff." the bad stuff was this: the other side of the guardrail: the weeds, the dirt, the roadside trash.
under my thumb by the rolling stones played on the radio and my father held up his own thumb so that it blocked the woman's figure from view. my father's actions surprised me. (how could a man bop to the radio, pad the wheel with one hand, and drive on a rapid-paced highway in what is now torrential rain?) a car in the passing lane kicked up a mixture of mist and exhaust. the sound of its acceleration mimicked white noise that moves toward the distance, toward oblivion; it became softer, was fleeting, and then another motorist passed, resurrecting the crackle and thrum.
"uh huh," I said. I wondered if perhaps the woman was walking to her vehicle somewhere up the road, if she had just come from reporting her car's breakdown or failure, if walking was her hallowed mode of transportation. or perhaps she was never there at all. I looked in the side mirrors of our nissan as we sped forward, expecting to see her head bowed, one of her arms outstretched as if she was recently struck blind, her unfurled umbrella.
all I saw was myself.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Well, My Nose Is Dripping, But Maybe It's Not The Flu At All, Maybe It's Just You, Making Me Melt.
We never made it to the planetarium that Thursday afternoon, but, the other night, when we were lying on my floor in our underwear, because it was too hot to sleep on the top bunk, you turned to me and said, "Isn't this nice?"
So I looked up at the ceiling, and I thought:
"Well, how did all of these stars get here?"
Which was quickly followed by:
"Where did the ceiling go?"
And then:
"How about the roof?"
And then:
"Jesus, how the hell can it be so hot in here if there's no roof on this building?"
And then you coughed, so I turned to you, and, wouldn't you know it, by the time I'd turned back to face what I had come to know as the open night sky, I was staring at a ceiling.
But you were right.
It was nice.
Yours,
The Professor
So I looked up at the ceiling, and I thought:
"Well, how did all of these stars get here?"
Which was quickly followed by:
"Where did the ceiling go?"
And then:
"How about the roof?"
And then:
"Jesus, how the hell can it be so hot in here if there's no roof on this building?"
And then you coughed, so I turned to you, and, wouldn't you know it, by the time I'd turned back to face what I had come to know as the open night sky, I was staring at a ceiling.
But you were right.
It was nice.
Yours,
The Professor
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
the art of the matter
someone once told me art is anything that is accused of being racist or sexist and in reality is neither of those. my father says art is the man who sings bridge over troubled water. and still others say it is what makes you (the viewer, the recipient, the guest) feel like you belong here, like you are not alone. but when I think of that eternal question (what is art?), I remember a poster I once saw; it claimed art is food. it is no coincidence, then, that an artichoke is entirely edible, even its heart and bracts. so make no mistake: art is an offering of life, of loneliness and companionship, of song and silence, as these are the shapes of the heart. go ahead and feast.
Friday, July 2, 2010
blind faith
my passed neighbor, the craftsman, struck his face in an accident that involved a hammer and wood; it left him blind. now, the son of this man constructs a bird feeder with his hands (the subtle purpose of craftsmanship, of alignment). when he hits the wood, he is either saying hello or goodbye, I am here or where have you gone?, running backward or moving forward, but always for his father.
dropping like lies
the first time I ate at a chinese food buffet I got sick. really sick. the first time I stood on top of a skyscraper I wondered what it would feel like to jump. the first time I lied I remember when my mother said if you lie, your tongue will turn black. I remember my mouth feeling like tar. I remember feeling sick. really sick. I could never jump.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
and nightmarish reality.
anyone who knows anything about me knows i'm overly sentimental, which often results in tears. particularly on trains surrounded by businessmen (let's not even talk about my experience with dubliners on the 5:04).
on today's 4:42, i tried to call my father to respond to his voicemail to let him know that i knew that mom knew that the two of us (dad and i) wouldn't be on the same train. who knows what was going on with his cell phone, because it rang and rang and didn't even offer the option of leaving a voicemail, so i called his office again and sat through the boring medical disclaimer and explanation of what he does (if this is an emergency, call...). while i listened to the message, however, i could feel my eyes well up. god knows i'll never forget the way my father's voice sounds, but there will come a point where i will no longer be able to hear that rush, that intake of breath between clauses and sentences that familiarity has caused me to ignore in daily conversation. it's the simplest sign of life, the exasperated breaths between frustrated sentences, the quiet sounds of inhalation and exhalation on the other end of the phone when two people have momentarily run out of things to say. but there's comfort in those noises, those reminders that yes, i'm still here, i'm still with you, you can hear me breathe, part of you is keeping me alive.
my greatest fear is being utterly alone — it plagued my sleepless nights during high school and the first half of this first year of college; i couldn't fathom what would become of me when the only people who loved me unconditionally would be gone. the thought of being permanently without my parents still frightens me, but less so, so that it's slightly bearable and hardly keeps me up at night anymore. still, i know a day will come when i will wake up and my heartbeat will be supported by my breathing alone, and i will be breathing alone, without a source of comfort, without someone whose slow breaths and quiet heartbeat will be there to reassure me i'm here, i'm here, i'm here. and i wonder how god could be so cruel.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
psychic nightmares.
i tend to pride myself on my ability to remember my dreams. it's a rare skill, so i'm told, so i embrace as much of it as i can. sometimes i remember to write them down, usually in a little notebook i've kept around since late 04/early 05 full of early-teenage-girl ramblings, nonsensical daydreams, minute-by-minute crushes, and eventual goals. i'm forced to handle it with care, since the first 35 or so pages are completely separated from the binding, but i haven't lost any as of yet. now i use it to calculate how much out-of-pocket money i'll need to pay when splitting purchases between gift cards, or to plan class schedules and write out call numbers, or to make little lists of books (authors, really) i'm asked to buy.
but that's irrelevant. i was talking about dreams. anyway.
i'm also a little (okay, maybe very) superstitious, and — yes, i mean this, and yes, i'm crazy — i believe i'm a touch psychic. i'm not surprised that i sound psychotic when i write this out. but really, i mean it. maybe i remember my dreams so i recognize when they're turned into reality. recognizing things i've already dreamt of is a much different feeling than déjà vu is — the latter is very heady, like my mind has separated itself from my body and i only have a few seconds to figure out why i've done all of this before. recognizing my dreams is less like watching a scene from an old movie i should know and more like wondering why i didn't make the connection between my dream and reality in the first place. i'm trying to articulate how it feels in a way that would make the most sense, but i'm rambling, and i figure it's nonsensical, so i'll just leave it at the idea that i'm crazy and have magical powers to see into the future. i wish it was more exciting than recognizing building façades and mundane conversations. whatever.
i suppose that's why i can be afraid of my dreams. my nightmares aren't exotic — i can't remember them ever being so — but they're so vastly steeped in potential reality that i can't shake them out of my mind once i wake up. i worry mostly that segments of them are portents of what is to come. but they're really run-of-the-mill things when you get down to them; frightening, but never life-threatening.
recently, there was the early morning hallucination of three men in my room, one deep, harsh voice telling the others she's asleep, the feeling of clumsy, forceful hands sneaking themselves between the covers to grab a hold of my right hip and inner thigh, the terror at trying to scream and finding myself unable to, the cold rush of adrenaline as i woke up to realize i had only been dreaming.
a few days ago, i became trapped in that world of half-sleep (when you know things aren't real but you can't help dreaming them anyway) only to be subjected to images of bodies, touching and caressing each other against walls, on streetcorners, by stairwells, anywhere familiar enough to make be believe their reality.
and then there was the old man, restored to senses, back from the dead, dressed in a navy suit and sitting in his favorite chair. i took one look at him and burst into tears.
"how did he look?"
"fine. normal."
"did he say anything?"
"no."
"did he look at you?"
"no."
"did he say that the end was near?"
"no."
"did he give you the winning lottery numbers?"
"no."
"oh. well. are you sure he didn't say anything?"
it is this last dream — ironically, the least "frightening" of the nightmares — that frightened me the most. perhaps, i thought, it was because the strange way the details of the dream are so imprinted in my mind (i can tell you exactly what dress i was wearing, how many buttons of it were done up, how the bow in the back was a little off-center because i always tend to favor the right). perhaps i didn't know how to deal with my grandfather being back from the dead, silently sitting in the corner of the apartment as if nothing had ever happened, as if he had been kept up-to-date with my life, as if whatever celebration i was at in my grandparents' apartment was nothing out of the ordinary. perhaps because i could sense that in his silence, something was wrong. naturally, i assumed the fault was mine, and what could grandpa be mad at me for from the grave?
and then, all at once, it hit me: he wasn't angry, but overwhelmingly sad. i burst into tears in front of him because he didn't speak. and he didn't speak because i can no longer hear nor remember the sound of his voice.
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