what's lost is what remains

my earliest memories of my feet are of my velcro sneakers. they were white and small. and the velcro straps were plastic and baroque: they featured spiderman streaking through the air, his face the most visible part of his person. (on second thought, it was more like whisking; he wasn't actually streaking. needless to say, this image would be somewhat inappropriate for pre-adolescents.) but so one day I came home from school, and they were gone.

it's true: I used to fear touching the ground with bare feet. I remember walking the beach with my family, my parents taking the lead, my brother and I following. they urged me to lose the shoes or to at least discard the socks. I refused. I remember using a towel decorated with sunflowers to cart myself across the sand, as if it was some sort of dogsled propelled forward by my shuffling feet. I remember meeting the rising tide and watching my parents lope through the river in the sand. I remember stopping in front of the water as if waiting for orders, waiting for a cue, waiting.

I remember how my spiderman sneakers barely survived the risen ocean, how they embodied the phrase sopping wet.

they had been delivered to the town dump. I pitched a fit and my parents told me I should cope: trust us, you'll be fine. they were right. but at the time, getting over it wasn't so simple. my spiderman sneakers, the mainstay and treasure of my day-to-day experience, had been doomed to becoming lost forever, to no longer being an extension of that which they had attached themselves to in all their time -- me. and as the saying goes: with time you heal. but you still remember it -- the commotion and the chaos...the tumble...the water in the sand.

mama bear.

today, after sitting through an interesting, albeit pointless, meeting at work and then covering a half-shift before unwittingly signing up to work from home tonight, i came back to silence and an open door. my roommate was doing her homework, her boyfriend fast asleep on her bed. two people were lounging on my bed; one sleeping, one reading, both somehow curled up to accommodate the other in the sharing of my comforter and pillows.

"i love you, but i never see you anymore."

i really am a human fallout shelter.

regarding the a capella group performing approximately 20 feet away from where i'm working

celine dion's that's the way it is is one of my favorites, but it's inspirational only if your lead singer can hold a note.

disquisition on authorial intent

upon walking outside I see a girl descending the stairs. old and made of stone, long black railings trail at the sides. i'm talking about the stairs here, not the girl. (yeah, thank god? right? I mean, if I described the girl as "old and made of stone" then I guess I'd be describing, what, the crypt keeper's prostate? one of medusa's victims? and why, you ask, would long black railings be included in such a description? don't ask, man. don't. ask.)

anyway, flanking the stairs are bushes. most are green but some have flowers. the girl has white headphones in her ears; she's wearing sandals, and she's pirouetting. no, she's actually doing the cha-cha. it's definitely not the robot. or perhaps it's that 70's dance move in which the dancer clasps his hand over his nose and puts his other in the air and kind of waves, and his legs become jelly as he goes down and garners some perverse and absolute pleasure from drowning. oh, the 70's. your sense of irony is lost on me. my bad, dude. sorry. is "dude" an 80's thing? or a late-90's thing? does it matter?

all I know is this: I walk out the door and I see a girl descending the stairs. I think she's dancing. but really, she isn't. she's just trying her best to avoid some whirring, maddening, and relentless buzzing thing. she's really just afraid of bees.

This Is Not A Commentary On Body Dysmorphia, Art In Public Space, Or Living Conditions In New York City. It's Just An Invitation.

It's hard to believe that I've gone the entire year without realizing, and, consequently, without taking advantage of the fact that I can fit comfortably in the cabinet beneath my kitchen sink.
Once I get a doormat, you're more than welcome to come visit me there.

what friends are for, part 2.

sometimes, they'll walk into your room, look at you, say, "your ass looks great in those jeans," and then leave.

they don't want a response (or, at least, they aren't expecting one). they just want you to be aware.

political inaccuracy in plymouth's plantation

the plantation itself is remarkably hilarious. reenactors are split into two camps: pilgrims and native americans. realize that it's the job of these people (actors?) to emulate 17th century personalties with precision (e.g. on the plantation, each word that really has a silent "k" (e.g. knob) must instead be pronounced with a hard "k").

and the native americans just seem really pissed.

it's easy to find a reenactor that's totally pained by his job. you can tell just by the look on his face. and yes, i'm using a masculine tag of possession: "his." this is because the males look most afflicted (not a sexist remark).

once, while traversing the plantation, my friends found one of these emotionally wounded pilgrims. they asked him if he could please demonstrate the proper way to brandish and/or wield a "ka-nife." and much to wampanoag chagrin, they uttered such a request within earshot of the tepees.

You Don't Know, Jack.

Few things are more thrilling than the prospect of rekindling a severely botched friendship.
Few things are more frightening than the prospect of further botching a severely botched friendship.
Few things are more than no things at all.

above all, context and subtext.

example a: you're beautiful.

(it's flattering; i'm embarrassed; i giggle.)

example b: beautiful and a genius. what a perfect combination.

(it's sardonic; i'm cold; i've never felt more violated in my life.)

There Was A Beach Wedding Going On, Too, Which Was Funny And A Little Bit Sad.

Yesterday, we ran, screaming, into the Atlantic Ocean.
(Here and now, running into an ocean isn't a metaphor for anything.)
And none of us cared if our swimsuits were falling off, or if we hadn't done laundry in two weeks, or if we were in love with too many people.
Because, even though we were freezing and a little bit broken, we couldn't stop laughing.
I hear that's a symptom of hypothermia.
But it's also a symptom of being entirely alive.

anatomy

I should tell you about my mother, father, my brother — my aging springer spaniel. I should tell you about my house, my neighborhood, the old tree that used to stand in my neighbor’s backyard but was later replaced by a swimming pool, a patio, a flag pole with two flags: one irish and one american. I should tell you about my brown eyes, my brown hair, my high waist and my small feet. I should tell you my age, my race, my hometown, my name. I should tell you my favorite meal, my favorite snack, my weight. I should tell you what size bed I sleep in — twin, full, king, or queen — would that help you to understand? would that give you an idea of who I am? the texture of my bedroom walls, the make of my kitchen cabinets, the doorframes, the picture that hangs above the banister, would you like to know? I should tell you if I listen to music, or collect baseball cards, or if I used to collect baseball cards, or if I consult the thesaurus when I need another word for fracture. I should tell you what I store in my garage, in the attic, what brand of hand soap I prefer. I should tell you how often I clean the dishes, how often I replace vacuum filters, how often I drink coffee. I should tell you how often I exhaust jars of peanut butter. I should tell you how many lampshades I own, how many times a day I brush my teeth, how many times I nap in a week. I should tell you how often I clean the top of my refrigerator, if I prefer collared shirts or crewnecks — my prayer technique. I should tell you how long it takes for me to finish showering, the rate at which I eat. I should tell you how it sounds — my feet against the tile floors in the kitchen, the ceramic in the bathroom, the wooden beams of my back porch, old and cracked, weathered, and painted a shade of gray.

a critique of my apocalyptic driveway

my doctor said the approach should be cautious. meditative. slow. for the first week, go to the garage. open the basement door and face the gray mazda. do not imagine it as staring straight back at you. pretend it's asleep. get comfortable with the idea of opening the driver's side door. get comfortable with the idea of sitting in the driver's side seat. pull the seatbelt over your shoulder. pretend to work the pedals. pretend to shift gears. put your hands on the steering wheel and peer through the windshield, back at the basement door. pretend it's a horizon, a highway, the driveway. hit the directionals; feel in control, in control of something more than the wheel, more than the dashboard, more than the backseat, the trunk.

by the second week you should back the car out of the garage into the driveway. once there, shift into park. unbuckle and open the driver's side door. step out onto the driveway. walk to to the driveway's end, onto the street. notice the slope, the cracks in the pavement, the roadside dandelions. imagine yourself driving here, further, further, still further.

it's not that you're afraid of driving. okay, well, maybe you're afraid of driving. but maybe there's some reason. maybe you're afraid to move in a vehicle that's not your own body because your body is exactly what you're not yet comfortable with, rather, the thing that controls your body. speak to this thing at night. converse. get to know it. make peace. repeat.

by the third week...well, you'll figure it out.

and what's more.

sometimes the best thing to do is turn on some joão gilberto and mindlessly work yourself to death.

on femininity.

i like dresses and frilly things. i also like to be a girl (it's kind of nice, i mean generally, except when you have to deal with other teenage girls - or a lot of other girls in general. not all the time, mind you, but sometimes. maybe.). i can tend to be rather moody (though this might be because i'm a cancer), and i cry sometimes. sometimes i wear heels just for fun. i collect everything and attach sentimental value to the weirdest things ever. i can also make my room look pretty and smell nice and be homey. i keep my hair long and braid it and part it on one side. sometimes i paint my nails. i wear rings (though i don't wear much other jewelry, except for the two rings i never take off and the occasional necklace. [i have very "dainty" wrists, so trying to wear bracelets makes me look like an absolute idiot.]). i have a thing for order, but not too much order; for occasional chaos, so long as it has a focus. i obsess over the smallest things about myself. i prefer to hear men sing. i like to do the dishes and clean and organize (sometimes). i love how i look in an apron.

i'm a girl; more than that, i'm a girl. perhaps i am the embodiment of stereotypes from the 50s (or the 30s) that it seems everyone has tried to eliminate. oh well. i'm a throwback, and i'm old-fashioned. i wear skirts. and, apparently, i am one of the very few who can still tame and ride the unicorns.

there's a lot to get done when you're me.

sometimes, being me, i'm obligated to do things. they include,

- breathing
- eating
- sleeping
- work (maybe. school and otherwise.)
- sing for people (if i do, i like you probably more than i should.)
- let people cry to me (though sometimes, they tell me, they feel stupid since i never cry to them like they do for me. i cry in corners, i tell them, don't worry about it. being a receptacle for all that shit you need to vomit up about your life is totally what i'm here for. i do my best to take it and turn it into something beautiful. i wish my own problems were as easily removed.)
- wear cute things (because i'm "cute", according to others, and i have a reputation to keep up. i mean, i guess.)
- love people (some of them.)
- hate people (some of them.)
- be "that kid" (i realize that i become "that kid" when i look like a hipster in places that aren't new york city. i'm also supposed to represent new york city wherever i go, i suppose. [which is difficult, since anyone could be new york city.])
- keep my hair long (or else grandma will kill me if i cut it.)
- read books (well. well. maybe. this should happen more often than it does.)
- know everything (i try.)
- be photogenic (see the 7th item. these two go together often.)
- cram out strange and, ultimately, obligatory blog posts before midnight (this has been one of them.)

The Real Reason I Rarely Read Fiction These Days:

I'm afraid I'll never want to come home.

For The Record, It's A Sort Of Tug, A Sort Of Flip, Behind My Belly Button And A Bit To The Left.

There's this feeling I get when I find myself without toilet paper in a public bathroom stall.
It's the same feeling I get when I think I'm in love.

Thus, whenever I think I'm in love, I'm forced to ask myself:
A.) Am I in a public bathroom?
B.) Is there toilet paper?

If A is "Yes" and B is "No," I don't think I'm in love.
(I just need toilet paper.)
If A is "Yes" and B is "Yes," I don't think I'm in love.
(I don't need toilet paper, or for that matter, love, anyway.)
If A is "No" and B is "No," I think I'm in love.
(I guess so.)
If A is "No" and B is "Yes," I think I'm in love.
(But don't ask me how all of this toilet paper got here.)

"So Does Nikola Tesla, While We're At It, But Thanks To Alternating Current, He Turns Me Off Just As Easily," Or: "I Should Add 'Puns' To This List."

Things That Turn Me On, List Of:

- Saltwater, Scent of.
- Bare shoulder blades, Sight of.
- Accordians/Fiddles/Tenors, Sound of.
- Figs, Taste of.
- Sweat, Feel of.
- Fire, Chariots of.

and you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?

here's the scene: i'm currently sitting in a room. this room has a large computer. the computer is white. i'm sitting in a swivel chair. there are four walls. all white. there's also a window. there's a whiteboard and a tackboard on the wall behind me. the door is painted a shade of blue.

the purpose: i've volunteered. i'm participating in a psychology experiment. well...okay, fine. you caught me. not really volunteering. I collect 15 dollars at the experiment's end. this may or may not render me pathetic.

the procedure: so far i've filled a vial with (my) saliva and watched a video clip ofdead poets society.

questions left unanswered: what the fuck.

"a" is for apple, "s" is for sadism

i'm saddened by those who eat apples even when the stickers are still glued to the skin; they're missing the small things. i'm also saddened by my fleeting youth. I guess i'm sad a lot. you might as well call me sadistic. wait. that's not what that means.

what friends are for.

sometimes they attempt to read your palm in the laundry room (though months later you find you have to do it yourself from a 10-or-25¢ HOW TO READ PALMS manual [more on that later {and by later i mean eventually}]).

sometimes they draw pictures of you feeding pigeons and accidentally give you chicken pox on your left shoulder. (sometimes, these same friends also draw chicken pox-style polka dots on your shirt at work. you then become the only employee with chicken pox-afflicted letters on her back.)

sometimes they cook you things (read: noodles, chicken, and roast pork buns) and make you tea when you're too lazy to do it yourself.

sometimes they introduce you to new worlds about vampires in various formats and even burn you dvd copies of them (which come in handy when your father suddenly decides he wants to watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer [and then, twenty minutes later, denies that he made this request]).

sometimes they may introduce you to other people (RULES: people with seussian rhyming names, not so great. people who are remarkably like your [buffy-watching] father, pretty sweet).

or, sometimes, they're there to offer you insightful comments, such as,

"are you getting tinier? your boobs look smaller. not that i have reason to stare at your boobs, but i just happened to look, and i saw them, and they're not as big as they were. i mean, maybe they are and you just look smaller. not that i notice your boobs or pay particular attention to them, but, fuck it, i did, yes, fine, i looked at your boobs and noticed that something's different about them. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT TRUE FRIENDS DO."

(i thank them all.)

Sooner Or Later, The Government Will Find It, And See Fit To Exploit Its Natural (I Hear They Have A Lot Of Ore There) Resources.

I've been thinking, and we both know how dangerous that is, but, no-really-hold-on-hear-me-out, I've been thinking.
I've been thinking a lot about this other world.
Which isn't to say that I've been living in this other world, although we both know how easy it is to find yourself living in what you've been thinking about lately.
In fact, I can't live there.
Which isn't to say that I haven't tried.
I have tried. Really. And failed.
(Really.)
I suppose that it wouldn't be nearly as much fun to live there, I suppose, considering that we can never observe the worlds we inhabit from an objective outsider's view when we are, in fact, subjective insiders, I suppose.
Which isn't to say that it's fun to observe this other world, or rather to observe its inhabitants.
It isn't.
It's downright disturbing, and I'm hesitant to discuss it with anyone, because everyone already thinks I'm crazy (the good kind) and I'm not sure that I'd like it if they began to think that I'm crazy (the bad kind).
But hey, opinions and shit, man, right, man, shit, who cares, it's a big world, right?
Sure, sure, it's a big world (or a small one, depending on the worldview to which you subscribe), and everyone's different, everyone's unique, everyone's special, blah blah blah but NO, these people, these people from this other world have these auras from this other world that you don't even KNOW, man. You don't even know.
Yet.
But when you do know (because you will know, after you see your first one), you'll begin to see more of them.
One clutching a box of shredded wheat in Chelsea.
One buying a block of gouda (that you know he will be eating, in its entirety, alone at home tonight) at Trader Joe's.
One paying in exact coin change for two dozen cans of cat food and a single powdered donut hole.
One holding a bouquet of flowers behind his back.
You'll get better at understanding who lives in this other world and who doesn't.
Which isn't to say that you will learn to expect it.
Because you won't.
Which isn't to say that coming upon one of them will feel entirely unfamiliar.
Because it won't.
It's more, to take a page out of Freud's book (if we can find manage to find a page with notes that aren't obscured by drawings of penises), shall we say, uncanny.
Like finding those two dollars you always keep in the pocket of your jeans. (Just in case.)
Because each time that you find them, you can't remember what it feels like to forget that they're there - you can't believe that you forget that they're there. But you do. Forget. Which makes it even sweeter when you find those two dollars the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that.
But sadder, too.
Because you're beginning to realize that you never manage to remember.

restlessness and vague desire

sometimes it happens. it's no coincidence that, on occasion, everyone feels this way. it's also no coincidence that doughnuts and sausages are so savory, yet so synonymous with heart attacks. cruel irony, you tyrant, you siren. I hate you. I love you. you wench, you demon, you saint. you're lucky you're so delicious.

Once Every Ten Years, I Spend Two Minutes And Seven Seconds On Sentimentality.

"Our glasses..." I began.
"...they're spooning," he said.

(Reason #47 Why It's Nice To Date Another Myopic Loser: Nerd Naps.)

my yellow in this case is not so mellow, in fact i'm trying to say, it's frightened like me

jimi hendrix was good. he still is; I get why his reputation is so mighty. I just can't get into his stuff. I try though, I swear. I try. it's not that he's inaccessible. it's just...I can't become immersed; I can't become submerged in his particular holy waters. if artists are supposed to meet their audience halfway, then I, for whatever reason, find myself reaching too far. it's not your fault, jimi, I swear. I wish I could let you melt my face as much as you'd like to. when it comes to my heart, I guess, neil young and bob dylan already have it stolen.