#2: What Everyone Knows/What I Know
What everyone knows about him is that God gave him big ears, but perfect teeth. He gets a check in the mail every month just for being Indian. When he drinks too much, he thinks he’s invincible. How once it landed him in the hospital and they took his spleen. How another time it landed him hard on the ground, breaking the collarbone above his pitching arm, and they took his contract with the Cleveland Indians. On the weekends, he gets up early and takes his boat out to the lake to fish. The pick-up truck he bought and fixed up in high school, the one he lifted and painted cherry red, is his pride and joy. His family comes first, his friends a close second. He says very little when he’s sober, is the loudest of the bunch when he’s drunk. He’s cheated on every girlfriend he’s ever had. The nights he was slated to pitch always drew the biggest crowd.
What I know is that he doesn’t say much because he’s too busy watching. How all the things he used to see were whispered in my ear. That the smiles and looks he gives across the room are telling me what you’re talking about and how bored he is listening to you. That when I forget and slam the passenger door of his truck, he isn’t going to yell, but instead just sit there and stare at me until I notice we aren’t going anywhere and realize what I did. How if I don’t look at him and open the door back up and close it softly, it will make him smile and shake his head. That I’m on the list of people he can’t stand to disappoint. How even though he would tease me sometimes, any guy who really hurt me would find his fist in their face. That he married the wrong girl.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Ch. 5: Why You Need to Show and Tell: Dramatizing and Narrating
Note: There are two exercises for this chapter, but I'm only posting the first one today because it took me so long to complete. I'll post the second one tomorrow.
#1: Tell Me a Story
Pure Narration
It was morning, still early, and we were sitting out on the deck around the outdoor fire pit. The two of them sucked on cigarettes, and I, the asthmatic, had to shift and move constantly to avoid inhaling their smoke. I concentrated on my coffee, stared into it and admired the way the white cream swirled across its surface, as the two of them recounted all the drama that took place the night before. I noticed how this time it wasn’t all the outrageous, uncalled for events that were making me so angry. Instead, it was how the women were being so self-righteous. Each was a tragic mess in their own way, always finding themselves in the same exact situations, the only difference being the people involved. Yet, each always acted as if they were the victim—the drama was always happening to them, and they ignored the common denominator of the drama: themselves. They were always perfect, always rational, and their goal became eliminating the people who they considered to be really at fault from their lives. Once that was done, then the focus shifted to reinventing themselves. For one of the women, the reinvention involved the church and God. For the other, yoga, meditation, and the healing power of crystals promised a new and better life. I bit down on my tongue to keep from asking questions that involved words like reality, responsibility, and self-reflection. If I had learned anything in those last 12 hours it was that any form of constructive criticism from my mouth quickly turned me from friend to judgmental bitch… even if my opinion had been asked for, sought out. I looked down at the jeans I’d slept in. My hair and clothes smelled like an ashtray. My tongue was thick with yeast and had the sour aftertaste of too many beers. All I wanted was to go home and shower, crawl into bed with my mom and watch episodes One Tree Hill while stuffing our faces with ice cream and chocolate and whatever splendid meal my dad had planned for dinner that night. I heard one of the women compare our lives to reality tv. They were discussing what it would be like if we all lived in a house together while someone taped our lives—what we might say about each other during our confession interviews. As they laughed over the comments they’d make about me, I added deflecting to the list of words I couldn’t say.
Pure Scene
“They were just sitting there, drinking beers like it was nothing!” Melissa said.
“Maybe it was nothing,” said Susie.
“There was plenty of beer here. They didn’t need to go up to his place to get more.”
“Maybe they didn’t like the kind you bought.”
“Ok, so get it and then come back. Why stay up there and hang out? The party was here.”
“Why don’t you ask them all this?” I said.
“I did, when I walked in and caught them all in the kitchen.”
“Didn’t you say you started screaming at them?” Susie said. “Maybe the screaming distracted them. Maybe now that you aren’t drunk, you should try talking to them again.”
“And then forgive them like you always do and let them do the same thing to you all over again next party,” I said.
“Wow, Jo, that was pretty harsh,” Susie said.
“No, she’s right,” Melissa said. “I need to start taking stock of my friends. I need to eliminate all these toxic people from my life. Nobody out there appreciates me and all that I do for them.”
“Nope, not a single person,” I said.
“You just need to relax,” Susie said. “You’re too worked up. You need to do yoga or come to my hoop class. Have you tried meditation?
“I think I just need to go back to church and focus on God,” Melissa said.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s good that you are working towards change,” Susie said. “I’ve been feeling the same way, lately. Like I need to change. There is just all this bad juju in my life and I just need to find peace.”
“Too bad you gave away your favorite crystal to ol’ red bra,” I said.
“See, you’re mean,” Susie said.
“I like to think of it as being honest,” I said.
“We need our own reality show,” Melissa said. “Wouldn’t that be funny?”
“Oh yeah, a real riot,” I said. “I can see it now… a montage of Melissa sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening to me?’ which then cuts to clips of her making bad choices. Then, her saying, ‘I’m going to change!’ And then more clips of her making bad choices, and again her sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening!’”
“And there will be clips of Susie playing devil’s advocate, then talking shit about you behind your back during her interviews?” Melissa said. “Then you’ll see her go off to meditate because she’s so plagued by all the negative energy caused by her being two-faced.”
“You two are both so mean!”
“And you’re so fake!” Melissa said.
Scene and Narration
“They were just sitting there, drinking beers like it was nothing!” Melissa said.
“Maybe it was nothing,” said Susie.
It was morning, still early, and we were sitting out on the deck around the outdoor fire pit. The two of them sucked on cigarettes, and I, the asthmatic, had to shift and move constantly to avoid inhaling their smoke.
“There was plenty of beer here. They didn’t need to go up to his place to get more.”
“Maybe they didn’t like the kind you bought,” Susie said.
“Ok, so get it and then come back. Why stay up there and hang out? The party was here.”
I concentrated on my coffee, stared into it and admired the way the white cream swirled across its surface, as the two of them tried to figure out all the drama that took place the night before. I bit down on my tongue to keep from asking questions that involved words like reality, responsibility, and self-reflection. Instead I said, “Why don’t you ask them all this?”
“I did, when I walked in and caught them all in the kitchen,” Melissa replied.
“Didn’t you say you started screaming at them?” Susie asked. “Maybe the screaming distracted them. Maybe now that you aren’t drunk, you should try talking to them again.”
For as long as we’d known her, Susie spent more energy trying to make you see the other side of things rather than just taking your side. It’s why I called her “Earth Mother.” Well, that, and she always dressed like she was headed to a peace rally.
“Then after they explain themselves, you can forgive them like you always do and let them do the same thing all over again next party,” I said.
“Wow, Jo, that was pretty harsh,” Susie said.
I looked down at the jeans I’d slept in. My hair and clothes smelled like an ashtray. My tongue was thick with yeast and had the sour aftertaste of too many beers. All I wanted was go home and shower, crawl into bed with my mom and watch episodes of One Tree Hill while stuffing our faces with junk food and whatever splendid meal my dad had planned for dinner that night.
“No, she’s right,” Melissa said. “I need to start taking stock of my friends. I need to eliminate all these toxic people from my life. Nobody out there appreciates me and all that I do for them.”
“Nope, not a single person,” I said.
“You just need to relax,” Susie said. “You’re too worked up. You need to do yoga or come to my hoop class. Have you tried meditation?
“I think I just need to go back to church and focus on God,” Melissa said.
I got up to add another log to the fire— an attempt to hide my rolling eyes. These reunions had become so predictable. Drama, poor me, reinvention.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s good that you are working towards change,” Susie said. “I’ve been feeling the same way, lately. Like I need to change. There is just all this bad juju in my life and I just need to find some peace and balance.”
“Too bad you gave away your favorite crystal to ol’ Red Bra,” I said. Last night had been a theme party—“Naughty or Nice” to celebrate Christmas. Apparently the word naughty implied that clothes were optional. Both women found it rude that I had taken to calling some girl I didn’t know “Red Bra” because of her choice to wear lingerie in 40-degree weather.
“See, you’re mean,” Susie said.
“I like to think of it as being honest,” I said. But not as honest as I wanted to be. Reality, responsibility, self-reflection.
“We need our own reality show,” Melissa said. “Wouldn’t that be funny?”
“Oh yeah, a real riot,” I said. “I can see it now… a montage of you sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening to me?’ which then cuts to clips of you making bad choices. Then, again, saying, ‘I’m going to change!’ And then more clips of you making bad choices, and again sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening!’”
Susie laughed hard and snorted.
“And there will be clips of Susie playing devil’s advocate, then talking shit about you behind your back during her interviews,” Melissa said. “Then you’ll see her go off to meditate because she’s so plagued by all the negative energy caused by her being so two-faced.”
“You two are both mean!”
“And you’re fake!” Melissa said.
And then it was as if they realized that in a couple days I was going back home, to San Diego, and that they would still be living in this small town together, and the focus quickly shifted onto me.
As they came up with clever quips about how my flaws would play out on television, I added deflecting to the list of words I couldn’t say.
#1: Tell Me a Story
Pure Narration
It was morning, still early, and we were sitting out on the deck around the outdoor fire pit. The two of them sucked on cigarettes, and I, the asthmatic, had to shift and move constantly to avoid inhaling their smoke. I concentrated on my coffee, stared into it and admired the way the white cream swirled across its surface, as the two of them recounted all the drama that took place the night before. I noticed how this time it wasn’t all the outrageous, uncalled for events that were making me so angry. Instead, it was how the women were being so self-righteous. Each was a tragic mess in their own way, always finding themselves in the same exact situations, the only difference being the people involved. Yet, each always acted as if they were the victim—the drama was always happening to them, and they ignored the common denominator of the drama: themselves. They were always perfect, always rational, and their goal became eliminating the people who they considered to be really at fault from their lives. Once that was done, then the focus shifted to reinventing themselves. For one of the women, the reinvention involved the church and God. For the other, yoga, meditation, and the healing power of crystals promised a new and better life. I bit down on my tongue to keep from asking questions that involved words like reality, responsibility, and self-reflection. If I had learned anything in those last 12 hours it was that any form of constructive criticism from my mouth quickly turned me from friend to judgmental bitch… even if my opinion had been asked for, sought out. I looked down at the jeans I’d slept in. My hair and clothes smelled like an ashtray. My tongue was thick with yeast and had the sour aftertaste of too many beers. All I wanted was to go home and shower, crawl into bed with my mom and watch episodes One Tree Hill while stuffing our faces with ice cream and chocolate and whatever splendid meal my dad had planned for dinner that night. I heard one of the women compare our lives to reality tv. They were discussing what it would be like if we all lived in a house together while someone taped our lives—what we might say about each other during our confession interviews. As they laughed over the comments they’d make about me, I added deflecting to the list of words I couldn’t say.
Pure Scene
“They were just sitting there, drinking beers like it was nothing!” Melissa said.
“Maybe it was nothing,” said Susie.
“There was plenty of beer here. They didn’t need to go up to his place to get more.”
“Maybe they didn’t like the kind you bought.”
“Ok, so get it and then come back. Why stay up there and hang out? The party was here.”
“Why don’t you ask them all this?” I said.
“I did, when I walked in and caught them all in the kitchen.”
“Didn’t you say you started screaming at them?” Susie said. “Maybe the screaming distracted them. Maybe now that you aren’t drunk, you should try talking to them again.”
“And then forgive them like you always do and let them do the same thing to you all over again next party,” I said.
“Wow, Jo, that was pretty harsh,” Susie said.
“No, she’s right,” Melissa said. “I need to start taking stock of my friends. I need to eliminate all these toxic people from my life. Nobody out there appreciates me and all that I do for them.”
“Nope, not a single person,” I said.
“You just need to relax,” Susie said. “You’re too worked up. You need to do yoga or come to my hoop class. Have you tried meditation?
“I think I just need to go back to church and focus on God,” Melissa said.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s good that you are working towards change,” Susie said. “I’ve been feeling the same way, lately. Like I need to change. There is just all this bad juju in my life and I just need to find peace.”
“Too bad you gave away your favorite crystal to ol’ red bra,” I said.
“See, you’re mean,” Susie said.
“I like to think of it as being honest,” I said.
“We need our own reality show,” Melissa said. “Wouldn’t that be funny?”
“Oh yeah, a real riot,” I said. “I can see it now… a montage of Melissa sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening to me?’ which then cuts to clips of her making bad choices. Then, her saying, ‘I’m going to change!’ And then more clips of her making bad choices, and again her sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening!’”
“And there will be clips of Susie playing devil’s advocate, then talking shit about you behind your back during her interviews?” Melissa said. “Then you’ll see her go off to meditate because she’s so plagued by all the negative energy caused by her being two-faced.”
“You two are both so mean!”
“And you’re so fake!” Melissa said.
Scene and Narration
“They were just sitting there, drinking beers like it was nothing!” Melissa said.
“Maybe it was nothing,” said Susie.
It was morning, still early, and we were sitting out on the deck around the outdoor fire pit. The two of them sucked on cigarettes, and I, the asthmatic, had to shift and move constantly to avoid inhaling their smoke.
“There was plenty of beer here. They didn’t need to go up to his place to get more.”
“Maybe they didn’t like the kind you bought,” Susie said.
“Ok, so get it and then come back. Why stay up there and hang out? The party was here.”
I concentrated on my coffee, stared into it and admired the way the white cream swirled across its surface, as the two of them tried to figure out all the drama that took place the night before. I bit down on my tongue to keep from asking questions that involved words like reality, responsibility, and self-reflection. Instead I said, “Why don’t you ask them all this?”
“I did, when I walked in and caught them all in the kitchen,” Melissa replied.
“Didn’t you say you started screaming at them?” Susie asked. “Maybe the screaming distracted them. Maybe now that you aren’t drunk, you should try talking to them again.”
For as long as we’d known her, Susie spent more energy trying to make you see the other side of things rather than just taking your side. It’s why I called her “Earth Mother.” Well, that, and she always dressed like she was headed to a peace rally.
“Then after they explain themselves, you can forgive them like you always do and let them do the same thing all over again next party,” I said.
“Wow, Jo, that was pretty harsh,” Susie said.
I looked down at the jeans I’d slept in. My hair and clothes smelled like an ashtray. My tongue was thick with yeast and had the sour aftertaste of too many beers. All I wanted was go home and shower, crawl into bed with my mom and watch episodes of One Tree Hill while stuffing our faces with junk food and whatever splendid meal my dad had planned for dinner that night.
“No, she’s right,” Melissa said. “I need to start taking stock of my friends. I need to eliminate all these toxic people from my life. Nobody out there appreciates me and all that I do for them.”
“Nope, not a single person,” I said.
“You just need to relax,” Susie said. “You’re too worked up. You need to do yoga or come to my hoop class. Have you tried meditation?
“I think I just need to go back to church and focus on God,” Melissa said.
I got up to add another log to the fire— an attempt to hide my rolling eyes. These reunions had become so predictable. Drama, poor me, reinvention.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s good that you are working towards change,” Susie said. “I’ve been feeling the same way, lately. Like I need to change. There is just all this bad juju in my life and I just need to find some peace and balance.”
“Too bad you gave away your favorite crystal to ol’ Red Bra,” I said. Last night had been a theme party—“Naughty or Nice” to celebrate Christmas. Apparently the word naughty implied that clothes were optional. Both women found it rude that I had taken to calling some girl I didn’t know “Red Bra” because of her choice to wear lingerie in 40-degree weather.
“See, you’re mean,” Susie said.
“I like to think of it as being honest,” I said. But not as honest as I wanted to be. Reality, responsibility, self-reflection.
“We need our own reality show,” Melissa said. “Wouldn’t that be funny?”
“Oh yeah, a real riot,” I said. “I can see it now… a montage of you sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening to me?’ which then cuts to clips of you making bad choices. Then, again, saying, ‘I’m going to change!’ And then more clips of you making bad choices, and again sobbing and asking ‘How does this keep happening!’”
Susie laughed hard and snorted.
“And there will be clips of Susie playing devil’s advocate, then talking shit about you behind your back during her interviews,” Melissa said. “Then you’ll see her go off to meditate because she’s so plagued by all the negative energy caused by her being so two-faced.”
“You two are both mean!”
“And you’re fake!” Melissa said.
And then it was as if they realized that in a couple days I was going back home, to San Diego, and that they would still be living in this small town together, and the focus quickly shifted onto me.
As they came up with clever quips about how my flaws would play out on television, I added deflecting to the list of words I couldn’t say.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Ch. 4: The Short Story: Defining and Shaping
#1: False Epiphanies I Have Had
1.) Suddenly I realized… that the only men I want are the ones I can’t have.
2.) I’ll go weeks without dreaming about him, and then suddenly he’s there. He’s in the tree house I’ve climbed up into to escape the crazy man slowly stalking me through the woods—the one who no matter how fast you run is always just a few steps behind you, walking. He’s sitting in a bus stop shelter on the deserted road I’m jogging along. He comes out from around corners or is leaning against buildings, always just out of my reach, always smiling. The wave of shock and excitement over his unexplained presence is the first thing to come, followed always by the same question—“What are you doing here?” I never get an answer. Just that smile, like he knows something really great—something that will be years before I can even begin to understand. But this not knowing doesn’t scare me. When I’m here with him like this, his face so full of answers to questions I haven’t even thought of yet, the only thing I feel is safe. He’s going to hug me now, squeeze me really tight. I’ll feel the warmth of his breath on the top of my head, smell his cologne. I’ll lift my head to kiss his lips, still parted, still smiling. Just as I’m about to tell him that I love him, I wake up.
3.) The next morning, nothing will get done. Because when he comes to me like this, the rest of the day is a loss—it’s spent kicking myself for never telling him how I really feel. Because now he is married. And the one after him was married, too. And the one I almost married is about to marry someone else. And the one I want to marry now never wants to get married. And so it goes. I tell myself I only want men I can’t have… when really I cling to men I can’t have because I’m afraid of being alone. And, hey, look at that! Another epiphany! And so the cycle continues…
#2.) Opportunities Not Taken
I had planned to go north for Spring Break to visit my family, but the closer the time came to having to pack up the car and make the eight hour drive from San Diego, the more I wanted to just stay home. A little over four months had passed since I’d last seen my parents, Christmas at their house. I missed them, they missed me, and I didn’t want there to be hurt feelings. But the weather there predicted thunderstorms and snow all week, while the weather here called for sunshine and temperatures in the low 80s. My roommate would also be out of town, which meant I’d have the house to myself. Tom Cruise slid through my mind in a pair of underwear and black Ray-Bans, urging me to stay home and rock ‘n roll. Nobody says no to Tom Cruise. Instead I said no to make-up, drying my hair, and wearing anything but pajamas. I said no to healthy food and exercise. I said no to laundry and cleaning. I went to the beach and watched the surfers attempt to catch waves and small children attempt to skip rocks across them. I caught up on all the new movies I hadn’t seen. I listened to hours of This American Life while sipping coffee spiked with cinnamon. I wrote, I read, I wrote some more. I watched that new show Glee everyone is talking about, pausing every now and then to belt out the songs I liked myself—to my surprise, I’m pretty good. I drank white wine and danced in my underwear to Beyonce, Lady Gaga, and Ludicrous. Tom Cruise may be the master at sliding across the floor in his calf high white socks, but I can show him a thing or two about “gettin’ low.”
1.) Suddenly I realized… that the only men I want are the ones I can’t have.
2.) I’ll go weeks without dreaming about him, and then suddenly he’s there. He’s in the tree house I’ve climbed up into to escape the crazy man slowly stalking me through the woods—the one who no matter how fast you run is always just a few steps behind you, walking. He’s sitting in a bus stop shelter on the deserted road I’m jogging along. He comes out from around corners or is leaning against buildings, always just out of my reach, always smiling. The wave of shock and excitement over his unexplained presence is the first thing to come, followed always by the same question—“What are you doing here?” I never get an answer. Just that smile, like he knows something really great—something that will be years before I can even begin to understand. But this not knowing doesn’t scare me. When I’m here with him like this, his face so full of answers to questions I haven’t even thought of yet, the only thing I feel is safe. He’s going to hug me now, squeeze me really tight. I’ll feel the warmth of his breath on the top of my head, smell his cologne. I’ll lift my head to kiss his lips, still parted, still smiling. Just as I’m about to tell him that I love him, I wake up.
3.) The next morning, nothing will get done. Because when he comes to me like this, the rest of the day is a loss—it’s spent kicking myself for never telling him how I really feel. Because now he is married. And the one after him was married, too. And the one I almost married is about to marry someone else. And the one I want to marry now never wants to get married. And so it goes. I tell myself I only want men I can’t have… when really I cling to men I can’t have because I’m afraid of being alone. And, hey, look at that! Another epiphany! And so the cycle continues…
#2.) Opportunities Not Taken
I had planned to go north for Spring Break to visit my family, but the closer the time came to having to pack up the car and make the eight hour drive from San Diego, the more I wanted to just stay home. A little over four months had passed since I’d last seen my parents, Christmas at their house. I missed them, they missed me, and I didn’t want there to be hurt feelings. But the weather there predicted thunderstorms and snow all week, while the weather here called for sunshine and temperatures in the low 80s. My roommate would also be out of town, which meant I’d have the house to myself. Tom Cruise slid through my mind in a pair of underwear and black Ray-Bans, urging me to stay home and rock ‘n roll. Nobody says no to Tom Cruise. Instead I said no to make-up, drying my hair, and wearing anything but pajamas. I said no to healthy food and exercise. I said no to laundry and cleaning. I went to the beach and watched the surfers attempt to catch waves and small children attempt to skip rocks across them. I caught up on all the new movies I hadn’t seen. I listened to hours of This American Life while sipping coffee spiked with cinnamon. I wrote, I read, I wrote some more. I watched that new show Glee everyone is talking about, pausing every now and then to belt out the songs I liked myself—to my surprise, I’m pretty good. I drank white wine and danced in my underwear to Beyonce, Lady Gaga, and Ludicrous. Tom Cruise may be the master at sliding across the floor in his calf high white socks, but I can show him a thing or two about “gettin’ low.”
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Ch. 3: Details, Details: The Basic Building Blocks
#1: Harper’s Index on a Personal Level
Number of unread books on my shelf: 24
Number of times I’ve felt a connection with a random stranger: 3
Number of times I’ve acted on it: 0
Number of fortune cookie fortunes I’ve saved: 2
Number of wedding dresses in my closet: 1
Number of times I’ve been married: 0
Average number of minutes after my mom gets upset with my brother that I get a phone call: 1
Chances that when I move I will throw away all my décor and redecorate my new place: 97 percent
Number of times I wash my hands a day: at least 50
Minutes that go by after I see an illness on a medical show before I diagnose myself with the same ailment and begin naming when I’ve experienced all the symptoms: less than 1
Number of short stories I’ve completed writing: 4
Number of short stories I’ve had published: 0
Chances that I’m going to vacuum and mop my floor after you leave if you wore your shoes in my house while you were here: 100 percent
Number of marriages I’ve been responsible for ending: 1
Number of times I’ve been in love: 2
Number of food concoctions I eat that other people would think were weird: 2
Number of times I’ve read Catcher in the Rye: 3
Number of times I’ve read The Great Gatsby: 5
Number of times I’ve seen The Breakfast Club: 10
Number of times I’ve renewed my faith in God: 3
Chances that something will happen that will make me lose trust in God and go back to questioning my faith: 100 percent
Chances I’ll rewrite something that I’m writing by hand if there is even the tinniest mistake or imperfection: 100 percent
Number of times that I usually end up rewriting something I’ve written by hand before I consider it perfect: 3
Number of articles of clothing that still have the tags on it: 5
Number of times I’ll eat leftovers: 1
Chances that I’ll write “your” instead of “you’re” and have to change it: 100 percent
Number of times I check my e-mail a day: 15
Number of people I consider to be my true friends: 3
Number of times I’ve been out of California: 6
Number of times a month I say, “I’ll start working out/eating healthier on Monday”: 4 (once a week)
Number of crosswords I attempt a week: 3
Number of crosswords I finished completely without help (including not Googling a clue): 2
Number of times I usually have to Google a clue on a crossword: 4
Number of glasses of wine I’ll usually have after opening the bottle: 2
Number of songs in my repertoire that I’ll belt into a hairbrush for my best friends’ amusement when he/she has had a bad day: 3
Chances that when I’ve had a bad day you’ll find me dancing and singing in my kitchen with a glass of wine: 100 percent
Bible versus I can recite off the top of my head: 0
Number of movie/t.v. quotes/lines from books I can recite off the top of my head: 10
Number of times I’ve voted for a President since turning 18: 0
Number of times I’ve voted for an American Idol contestant: 3
Number of ex’s: 2
Number of ex’s I’m still friends with: 0
Number of dirty laundry loads that are waiting to be washed in my laundry room right now: 8
Number of showers I take a day: 2
Number of towels I use a day (to take a shower): 4
Number of “celebrities” I’ve met: 4
Number of vacations I’ve been on: 10
Number of vacations I’ve actually come back from feeling relaxed: 0
#2: Render a Tree, Capture a Forest
“Blink and you’ll miss it,” is the line often used when referring to Jamestown, California, as it only stretches for three miles in every direction between the significantly larger neighboring towns. I’ve always found the remark a bit unfair. When I’m passing through, my eyes never seem to stop roaming. In the spring, they roll over hills lush with lime colored grass and bright orange poppies, robbed of their fertility by the paralyzing heat of summer, which leaves everything dry and prickly against bare, tan legs that run down a dirt path to a neighbor’s house to play. They reach up 300 feet to the tops of staggering pines that also shift between green and brittle brown depending on the season, and whose branches bend under the weight of the crisp, white blankets of snow the town sees once every five winters. They see the Mini-Mart where, in the summers, the high school boys fill up their parents’ boats to go fishing or to ride around the pretty, popular girls who sun themselves in faded, dingy bikinis and talk about the boys they’d rather be with. Almost every jacked up Chevy four-by-four— in charcoal gray or white—on the road has a boat on its trailer hitch come summertime. They slow traffic to 30 mph as they make their way to one of the three lakes that lap against various edges of the town. The sun glistens off their stone blue surfaces so intensely you have to slow your car as you go by so as not to drive off the road. What I don’t blink for in fear of missing is the cemetery. Not a single blade of grass grows on the red, dirt hill pimpled with headstones. Like all the pick-up trucks in town, they are either white or gray. The ones with a bit of sparkle in the stone and the ones with the glossy finish tell you whose family had pants with deep pockets. There is nothing about the way the graves are positioned that gives the impression there was a plan to where each hole was dug, as perfect strangers are often just a roll away from being bedmates. Like the town, the space is not big enough to hold the increasing population, and I often wonder how many feuding neighbors are seeing their Hatfield and McCoy melodrama play out in their afterlife. The day my mom brought my grandma’s ashes to be buried in her family’s plot, which sits on the far side of the cemetery, safe, for now, from crowding, the sky, thick with clouds the color of great gray brains, poured. “She doesn’t want to be buried with them,” my mom told me on the phone that night. I closed my eyes and imagined the dry, red dirt turning into thick clay, sweeping everything in the little town away.
Number of unread books on my shelf: 24
Number of times I’ve felt a connection with a random stranger: 3
Number of times I’ve acted on it: 0
Number of fortune cookie fortunes I’ve saved: 2
Number of wedding dresses in my closet: 1
Number of times I’ve been married: 0
Average number of minutes after my mom gets upset with my brother that I get a phone call: 1
Chances that when I move I will throw away all my décor and redecorate my new place: 97 percent
Number of times I wash my hands a day: at least 50
Minutes that go by after I see an illness on a medical show before I diagnose myself with the same ailment and begin naming when I’ve experienced all the symptoms: less than 1
Number of short stories I’ve completed writing: 4
Number of short stories I’ve had published: 0
Chances that I’m going to vacuum and mop my floor after you leave if you wore your shoes in my house while you were here: 100 percent
Number of marriages I’ve been responsible for ending: 1
Number of times I’ve been in love: 2
Number of food concoctions I eat that other people would think were weird: 2
Number of times I’ve read Catcher in the Rye: 3
Number of times I’ve read The Great Gatsby: 5
Number of times I’ve seen The Breakfast Club: 10
Number of times I’ve renewed my faith in God: 3
Chances that something will happen that will make me lose trust in God and go back to questioning my faith: 100 percent
Chances I’ll rewrite something that I’m writing by hand if there is even the tinniest mistake or imperfection: 100 percent
Number of times that I usually end up rewriting something I’ve written by hand before I consider it perfect: 3
Number of articles of clothing that still have the tags on it: 5
Number of times I’ll eat leftovers: 1
Chances that I’ll write “your” instead of “you’re” and have to change it: 100 percent
Number of times I check my e-mail a day: 15
Number of people I consider to be my true friends: 3
Number of times I’ve been out of California: 6
Number of times a month I say, “I’ll start working out/eating healthier on Monday”: 4 (once a week)
Number of crosswords I attempt a week: 3
Number of crosswords I finished completely without help (including not Googling a clue): 2
Number of times I usually have to Google a clue on a crossword: 4
Number of glasses of wine I’ll usually have after opening the bottle: 2
Number of songs in my repertoire that I’ll belt into a hairbrush for my best friends’ amusement when he/she has had a bad day: 3
Chances that when I’ve had a bad day you’ll find me dancing and singing in my kitchen with a glass of wine: 100 percent
Bible versus I can recite off the top of my head: 0
Number of movie/t.v. quotes/lines from books I can recite off the top of my head: 10
Number of times I’ve voted for a President since turning 18: 0
Number of times I’ve voted for an American Idol contestant: 3
Number of ex’s: 2
Number of ex’s I’m still friends with: 0
Number of dirty laundry loads that are waiting to be washed in my laundry room right now: 8
Number of showers I take a day: 2
Number of towels I use a day (to take a shower): 4
Number of “celebrities” I’ve met: 4
Number of vacations I’ve been on: 10
Number of vacations I’ve actually come back from feeling relaxed: 0
#2: Render a Tree, Capture a Forest
“Blink and you’ll miss it,” is the line often used when referring to Jamestown, California, as it only stretches for three miles in every direction between the significantly larger neighboring towns. I’ve always found the remark a bit unfair. When I’m passing through, my eyes never seem to stop roaming. In the spring, they roll over hills lush with lime colored grass and bright orange poppies, robbed of their fertility by the paralyzing heat of summer, which leaves everything dry and prickly against bare, tan legs that run down a dirt path to a neighbor’s house to play. They reach up 300 feet to the tops of staggering pines that also shift between green and brittle brown depending on the season, and whose branches bend under the weight of the crisp, white blankets of snow the town sees once every five winters. They see the Mini-Mart where, in the summers, the high school boys fill up their parents’ boats to go fishing or to ride around the pretty, popular girls who sun themselves in faded, dingy bikinis and talk about the boys they’d rather be with. Almost every jacked up Chevy four-by-four— in charcoal gray or white—on the road has a boat on its trailer hitch come summertime. They slow traffic to 30 mph as they make their way to one of the three lakes that lap against various edges of the town. The sun glistens off their stone blue surfaces so intensely you have to slow your car as you go by so as not to drive off the road. What I don’t blink for in fear of missing is the cemetery. Not a single blade of grass grows on the red, dirt hill pimpled with headstones. Like all the pick-up trucks in town, they are either white or gray. The ones with a bit of sparkle in the stone and the ones with the glossy finish tell you whose family had pants with deep pockets. There is nothing about the way the graves are positioned that gives the impression there was a plan to where each hole was dug, as perfect strangers are often just a roll away from being bedmates. Like the town, the space is not big enough to hold the increasing population, and I often wonder how many feuding neighbors are seeing their Hatfield and McCoy melodrama play out in their afterlife. The day my mom brought my grandma’s ashes to be buried in her family’s plot, which sits on the far side of the cemetery, safe, for now, from crowding, the sky, thick with clouds the color of great gray brains, poured. “She doesn’t want to be buried with them,” my mom told me on the phone that night. I closed my eyes and imagined the dry, red dirt turning into thick clay, sweeping everything in the little town away.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Ch. 2: The Gift of Not Knowing: Writing as Discovery
#1: Things I Was Taught / Things I Was Not Taught
Things my mother taught me
- That on Sundays showering is optional and you can wear your pajamas all day long, eat ice cream for breakfast and chocolate for lunch, and wrap up in a blanket on the couch and watch movies all day (getting up only to go to the bathroom or to get more food)—but on every other day of the week, you must look your absolute best before going out in public.
- How the best time of day is the hour before everyone else in the house gets up, sitting in the dark, the only light coming from the fire in the stove, drinking hot tea.
- How it is necessary to write a list of questions before going to the doctor so that if he tries to rush you through the visit you are prepared, rather than getting frazzled and forgetting what it was you wanted to ask him in the first place.
- That looking straight ahead when you see someone you don’t want to talk to doesn’t magically make you invisible.
- To never fight with your brother because there may come a day when he’s the only family you have.
Things my mother didn’t teach me
- How it’s best to leave the person you are with when the relationship isn’t working rather than being unfaithful.
- That your approach and/or response to a situation should always match your intentions, otherwise your intentions will always be misinterpreted.
- How to raise and care for a dog, and how having a dog can make you a more tolerant person.
- How to be affectionate with another person—to not cringe or shy away at their touch, or how to not get embarrassed or uncomfortable when they attempt to be affectionate with you in public.
- How to cook food with fresh ingredients rather than settling for meals that come out of a can or a box.
#2: I Want to Know Why
I want to know why:
- I freak out about people wearing shoes in the house (because of all the germs they track over my floor), but have no qualms about wearing new clothes I buy from department stores without washing them first.
- Sandwiches always taste better when somebody else makes them for you.
- When you go through a break-up every single song you hear on the radio sums up exactly how you’re feeling.
- Some women get all dolled up to go workout and sweat at the gym.
- The fifteen year old girl standing on the street corner holding a sign that says, “2 months pregnant, please help” thinks whatever money she does make will be even close to enough.
- The smell of cinnamon makes me feel like a kid again.
- I can’t find a single hot dog stand in San Diego.
- The only time I can sit still for long periods of time is when I’m sitting looking at the ocean.
- People who hate interacting with people get customer service jobs.
- My dog can love unconditionally, but I can’t.
I can’t find a single hotdog stand in San Diego. Sure, there is always Costco, but it’s not the same as the one-man-stand outside the bulk items store in my hometown. Ten years ago, when I was a senior in high school, four of us girls would pile into my best friend Shelby’s Christmas tree green mustang—me having automatic shotgun since I was six foot one and had the longest legs. We only had a half hour for lunch, so we’d race down the narrow back roads of downtown, avoiding the bumper to bumper lunch hour traffic on main street and a stop sign or two. AC/DC vibrated the stereo speakers, the other girls singing along because, unlike me, they knew all the words. When we finally reached the parking lot (only 20 minutes left!) our awkward, teenage legs would emerge from the doors before the car was even in park, feet hovering inches above the warm pavement. The man who owned the hot dog stand knew us all by name, his ruddy, red face breaking into a warm smile to reveal two rows of perfectly straight teeth stained yellow from coffee or cigarettes—we couldn't tell which—as we made our way up to the cart. His hair was a mixture of silver and charcoal grays and curled out from a dingy red trucker’s cap, the ends damp and slick from the steam that rose up each time he opened the lid of the bin the hotdogs were in. The white apron tied tightly around his waist looked like a kindergartner’s finger painting with its smears of ketchup, mustard, and relish. “Five regular dogs and five Dr.’s for the pretty college girls,” he’d always say, knowing we were still in high school. The other girls loaded their dogs with onions and relish, while Shelby and I dressed ours simply in a blanket of ketchup, spinning the dog a few times to give it an even coat. The dogs were plump and juicy; the thin skin of their casing making the slightest pop as it broke against your teeth. My favorite part was always the large, seedy bun, and when I was almost at the end I’d push my dog out a little bit so the last bite was always an inch or so of warm bread soggy with ketchup. We’d wash it all down with big gulps of Dr. Pepper, which always resulted in a burping contest on the ride back to school. Jaime’s burps sounded like the ones a newborn baby makes after gorging on its mother’s milk—a simple “eh!” forcing itself out of the throat. Shelby and I always tied for first place, as we’d been trying to out-do each other in the belching arena since the 6th grade when we’d come home after school and stuff ourselves with Hershey kisses and caffeine free Pepsi—staple items in my fridge. Our burps were long and loud, rumbling up from the deepest part of our bellies. We’d break into hysterics each time someone would say that all that was missing was the ripple across our lips like Homer Simpson got each time he let one off. Too soon we were back in the school parking lot (5 minutes left!), this time the doors staying closed long after the engine had been turned off, discussing whether we could afford to miss 5th period. Almost always the answer was no, so we’d suck in our protruding bellies, re-button the tops of our tight fitting jeans and walk slowly to our lockers, the taste of warm processed meat still fresh in our mouths.
Things my mother taught me
- That on Sundays showering is optional and you can wear your pajamas all day long, eat ice cream for breakfast and chocolate for lunch, and wrap up in a blanket on the couch and watch movies all day (getting up only to go to the bathroom or to get more food)—but on every other day of the week, you must look your absolute best before going out in public.
- How the best time of day is the hour before everyone else in the house gets up, sitting in the dark, the only light coming from the fire in the stove, drinking hot tea.
- How it is necessary to write a list of questions before going to the doctor so that if he tries to rush you through the visit you are prepared, rather than getting frazzled and forgetting what it was you wanted to ask him in the first place.
- That looking straight ahead when you see someone you don’t want to talk to doesn’t magically make you invisible.
- To never fight with your brother because there may come a day when he’s the only family you have.
Things my mother didn’t teach me
- How it’s best to leave the person you are with when the relationship isn’t working rather than being unfaithful.
- That your approach and/or response to a situation should always match your intentions, otherwise your intentions will always be misinterpreted.
- How to raise and care for a dog, and how having a dog can make you a more tolerant person.
- How to be affectionate with another person—to not cringe or shy away at their touch, or how to not get embarrassed or uncomfortable when they attempt to be affectionate with you in public.
- How to cook food with fresh ingredients rather than settling for meals that come out of a can or a box.
#2: I Want to Know Why
I want to know why:
- I freak out about people wearing shoes in the house (because of all the germs they track over my floor), but have no qualms about wearing new clothes I buy from department stores without washing them first.
- Sandwiches always taste better when somebody else makes them for you.
- When you go through a break-up every single song you hear on the radio sums up exactly how you’re feeling.
- Some women get all dolled up to go workout and sweat at the gym.
- The fifteen year old girl standing on the street corner holding a sign that says, “2 months pregnant, please help” thinks whatever money she does make will be even close to enough.
- The smell of cinnamon makes me feel like a kid again.
- I can’t find a single hot dog stand in San Diego.
- The only time I can sit still for long periods of time is when I’m sitting looking at the ocean.
- People who hate interacting with people get customer service jobs.
- My dog can love unconditionally, but I can’t.
I can’t find a single hotdog stand in San Diego. Sure, there is always Costco, but it’s not the same as the one-man-stand outside the bulk items store in my hometown. Ten years ago, when I was a senior in high school, four of us girls would pile into my best friend Shelby’s Christmas tree green mustang—me having automatic shotgun since I was six foot one and had the longest legs. We only had a half hour for lunch, so we’d race down the narrow back roads of downtown, avoiding the bumper to bumper lunch hour traffic on main street and a stop sign or two. AC/DC vibrated the stereo speakers, the other girls singing along because, unlike me, they knew all the words. When we finally reached the parking lot (only 20 minutes left!) our awkward, teenage legs would emerge from the doors before the car was even in park, feet hovering inches above the warm pavement. The man who owned the hot dog stand knew us all by name, his ruddy, red face breaking into a warm smile to reveal two rows of perfectly straight teeth stained yellow from coffee or cigarettes—we couldn't tell which—as we made our way up to the cart. His hair was a mixture of silver and charcoal grays and curled out from a dingy red trucker’s cap, the ends damp and slick from the steam that rose up each time he opened the lid of the bin the hotdogs were in. The white apron tied tightly around his waist looked like a kindergartner’s finger painting with its smears of ketchup, mustard, and relish. “Five regular dogs and five Dr.’s for the pretty college girls,” he’d always say, knowing we were still in high school. The other girls loaded their dogs with onions and relish, while Shelby and I dressed ours simply in a blanket of ketchup, spinning the dog a few times to give it an even coat. The dogs were plump and juicy; the thin skin of their casing making the slightest pop as it broke against your teeth. My favorite part was always the large, seedy bun, and when I was almost at the end I’d push my dog out a little bit so the last bite was always an inch or so of warm bread soggy with ketchup. We’d wash it all down with big gulps of Dr. Pepper, which always resulted in a burping contest on the ride back to school. Jaime’s burps sounded like the ones a newborn baby makes after gorging on its mother’s milk—a simple “eh!” forcing itself out of the throat. Shelby and I always tied for first place, as we’d been trying to out-do each other in the belching arena since the 6th grade when we’d come home after school and stuff ourselves with Hershey kisses and caffeine free Pepsi—staple items in my fridge. Our burps were long and loud, rumbling up from the deepest part of our bellies. We’d break into hysterics each time someone would say that all that was missing was the ripple across our lips like Homer Simpson got each time he let one off. Too soon we were back in the school parking lot (5 minutes left!), this time the doors staying closed long after the engine had been turned off, discussing whether we could afford to miss 5th period. Almost always the answer was no, so we’d suck in our protruding bellies, re-button the tops of our tight fitting jeans and walk slowly to our lockers, the taste of warm processed meat still fresh in our mouths.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Ch. 1: What Is This Thing Called Creative Writing?: The Basics
#1: I Don’t Know Why I Remember…
I don’t know why I remember our last night in New York. It was late, almost one in the morning, and we had to be up in a few hours to catch the plane home. But the most incredible storm was going on outside our fifth floor window. The sharp crack of the lightening, like a lion tamer’s whip, and the deep, rumbling thunder that followed less than a second after had us curious. It was the middle of June, and only a week earlier the city had experienced a record high heat wave, so the storm brewing that night came as a bit of a surprise. I got out of bed and threw back the curtain so we could lay there curled up into each other and watch the jagged lines of bright white lightning etch itself upon the night sky, which was burning a deep red—a reflection from the glow of the city. We watched as lights in the building across the way turned on in rapid succession, yellowing the windows, which shortly after were filled with the faces of tenants we’d been spying on all week. There was the woman who worked out on an elliptical machine in a black bra and matching panties, the soft, milky flesh of her belly and backside tremoring a bit with each stride. And there was the man who sat hunched over his computer, typing feverishly while his cat scaled the bookshelves mounted above him on the wall. We watched the storm for a long time, silent and still, the flashes of lightening illuminating our faces as if we were having our portrait taken. At one point, your knees pressing into the backs of mine, your arm draped over me and your hand clasped tightly between my own, I closed my eyes and thanked God for you. Finally, I rolled over onto my back to check if you were still awake. I don’t know what inspired the “Broadway musical” we then found ourselves writing. I don’t know why I remember the tune and lyrics to the “Chicken Burrito Song” and the “Wells Fargo Song,” but not the story line or songs we came up with for what was sure to be a sold out show. I think it was about superheroes. Is that right? Whatever it was, I know belting it out at the top of our lungs had us laughing so hard our guts ached and our eyes watered. How was it we weren’t tired after all the walking and adventure that had taken place over the previous four days? I wonder if some part of our conscious knew that that night would be the last time we’d truly be happy together, and fought to stay awake to experience and enjoy every possible moment of it.
I don’t know why I remember our last night in New York. It was late, almost one in the morning, and we had to be up in a few hours to catch the plane home. But the most incredible storm was going on outside our fifth floor window. The sharp crack of the lightening, like a lion tamer’s whip, and the deep, rumbling thunder that followed less than a second after had us curious. It was the middle of June, and only a week earlier the city had experienced a record high heat wave, so the storm brewing that night came as a bit of a surprise. I got out of bed and threw back the curtain so we could lay there curled up into each other and watch the jagged lines of bright white lightning etch itself upon the night sky, which was burning a deep red—a reflection from the glow of the city. We watched as lights in the building across the way turned on in rapid succession, yellowing the windows, which shortly after were filled with the faces of tenants we’d been spying on all week. There was the woman who worked out on an elliptical machine in a black bra and matching panties, the soft, milky flesh of her belly and backside tremoring a bit with each stride. And there was the man who sat hunched over his computer, typing feverishly while his cat scaled the bookshelves mounted above him on the wall. We watched the storm for a long time, silent and still, the flashes of lightening illuminating our faces as if we were having our portrait taken. At one point, your knees pressing into the backs of mine, your arm draped over me and your hand clasped tightly between my own, I closed my eyes and thanked God for you. Finally, I rolled over onto my back to check if you were still awake. I don’t know what inspired the “Broadway musical” we then found ourselves writing. I don’t know why I remember the tune and lyrics to the “Chicken Burrito Song” and the “Wells Fargo Song,” but not the story line or songs we came up with for what was sure to be a sold out show. I think it was about superheroes. Is that right? Whatever it was, I know belting it out at the top of our lungs had us laughing so hard our guts ached and our eyes watered. How was it we weren’t tired after all the walking and adventure that had taken place over the previous four days? I wonder if some part of our conscious knew that that night would be the last time we’d truly be happy together, and fought to stay awake to experience and enjoy every possible moment of it.
Method and Madness
Recently I took a trip to the Bay Area to attend a teacher recruitment job fair and visit a very good friend. This friend is close to completing her Master's degree in Creative Writing, and, sharing my fondness for Brian Kiteley's writing exercise books, she recommended a text she fell in love with and has often referred back to during the course of her program-- Method and Madness: The Making Of A Story (A Guide to Writing Fiction), by Alice LaPlante.
When I finally do go back to school to get my Master's degree, I plan on applying to the Creative Writing program. Until then, I've decided to use this text not only as a way to live vicariously through my friend, but to teach myself how to write (better) fiction (since I do have a teaching credential and, in my mind, qualify as an instructor).
So, for now, I'm going to press pause on the Brian Kiteley writing exercise experience and post only my responses to the exercises at the end of each chapter of LaPlante's text (I'm sure there won't be much protest, since I don't think there is anyone out there reading this anyway...).
Happy writing,
Joleen
When I finally do go back to school to get my Master's degree, I plan on applying to the Creative Writing program. Until then, I've decided to use this text not only as a way to live vicariously through my friend, but to teach myself how to write (better) fiction (since I do have a teaching credential and, in my mind, qualify as an instructor).
So, for now, I'm going to press pause on the Brian Kiteley writing exercise experience and post only my responses to the exercises at the end of each chapter of LaPlante's text (I'm sure there won't be much protest, since I don't think there is anyone out there reading this anyway...).
Happy writing,
Joleen
Monday, March 8, 2010
Tomine Inspired
“I can’t find my socks,” he said. “Why can I never find my socks?”
“Wear a pair of mine,” she said.
“All your socks are pink,” he said.
“So?”
“So, you know how much shit I got from Steve last week when I wore your socks?”
“Why’d you show him?” she said.
“I didn’t show him,” he said. “He dropped his pen during a meeting and when he reached down to get it, he saw them.”
“That’s a shame,” she said.
“Are you taking my socks?”
“Why would I want your socks?” she said. “They aren’t pink.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have time for this. I just won’t wear socks.”
“Pink socks are better than no socks. Only creeps wear no socks.”
“Well then I guess today I’m a creep,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead. “Gotta go.”
Still naked, she went to her bedroom window and looked down from the tiny apartment out onto the street. She imagined him taking the steps to the lobby two at a time, cursing as the hard leather of his dress shoes bit into his heels. She had no doubt he’d have blisters by lunchtime, but still, she didn’t feel any guilt. He could’ve worn the pink socks.
Now he’d be crossing the lobby. Griff, the morning doorman, would give him the traffic report on his way out and suggest which route to take to the office. And now, ah yes, there he was, out the door and walking briskly across the street towards his black BMW.
After he’d driven away, she walked over to the nightstand and pulled out the pair of brown dress socks with white paisley print running up the length of both sides. They had been folded neatly at the bottom of his overnight bag, and she’d taken and hid them while he was showering.
She sat down on the bed, which she had also taken the time to make while he’d been in the shower. Her bare back propped up against several white pillows, she grasped the opening of one sock on both ends and gathered it down to the toe the way one does when fitting a pillowcase. Then, she tucked in her left toes and slowly slid the sock over her foot and up her long, slender calf.
She sat for a minute massaging the foot now encased in soft cotton. She pressed her fingers into the ball and rubbed in small, circular motions towards her heel, continuing up the back of her calf. She smoothed the palms of her hands down her shin, over the top ridge of her foot, and fitted the fingers of one hand between her toes. After a moment, she repeated the measure with the other foot.
Now with both socks on, knees bent, she leaned back into the pillows. She reached up and twisted her hair, black like licorice, into a messy bun. Breasts flopping out to both sides, she moved her feet back and forth across the bed in a little dance. She imagined the socks were grateful for the chance to act silly for a change—a few minutes of freedom from their more serious role as business attire.
“This is what it’s like to be pink,” she said.
She checked the clock. 7:56. In a few minutes she would need to shower, too, and begin getting ready for her own busy day. But for now, she was content to just sit here, his smell and these two ugly socks the only things left of him on her skin.
Later, she’d toss them behind the chair by the window, the one he’d haphazardly thrown his bag on last night before pushing her down on the bed.
“They must have fallen out,” she’d say.
And he’d believe her.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Pain (4 A.M., #83)
Henley scanned the menu, wondering if her date would be offended if she only ordered mashed potatoes.
This morning, he had sent chocolates to her office with a card that read: “A sweet start to your day. Looking forward to tonight, Gabe”
She cracked her tooth on an almond from the first piece she’d tried. Anyone else would have instinctively spit the candy out, but in a panic she’d swallowed it along with a chunk of bottom molar.
Alexa, the perky blonde she shared a cubicle with, was kind enough to call her dentist, but they couldn’t get Henley in until tomorrow morning. She knew she should cancel the date, but spending Valentine’s Day alone seemed more painful than sitting through dinner with a toothache.
So now here she was sharing a booth looking out over the Bay Bridge with a strikingly handsome, extremely interesting man, trying her best to concentrate on the conversation and the company.
“Would either of you care for a glass of wine?” the waiter came by to ask.
Henley could go for a whole bottle, as the two Vicodin she’d popped before leaving the house were already beginning to wear off.
“No, water peas,” she said, avoiding looking over at her date.
“Are you sure?” Gabe said.
“Yes, I’m ine.” The first lie of what she knew would be a long evening.
“I guess water for me then as well.” And now he avoided looking at the waiter, which embarrassed Henley since she was about to make them look even cheaper by only ordering soup.
“No ice peas,” Henley added quickly as the waiter turned to leave. “Tap, neat” she thought she heard him mumble.
“So, how was your day?”
“Ine, hank oo,” she said, keeping the number of words in her response to a minimum. She had to keep her tongue on the right side of her mouth, far away from the hole in her left molar.
Gabe only stared at her, until finally she realized he was waiting for her to ask about his day—and probably for a thank you for the chocolates.
“Ow us ors?”
Gabe just continued to stare.
Maybe she should have ordered wine.
The waiter returned with their waters and asked if they were ready to order.
“Ladies first,” Gabe said.
“Up of oup, peas.”
“Cup of soup to start,” said the waiter. “And for the main course?”
“Um, no, us the oup.”
Now both Gabe and the waiter were starting at her.
“Peas?” she said.
The throbbing was back in full force. She reached for her water and managed a small sip before a steady stream ran down her chin and onto the crotch of her red Calvin Klein dress.
“And for you sir?” the waiter said, still staring at Henley.
“I think we’ll need another minute,” Gabe said.
When the waiter left, Gabe excused himself, saying he needed to use the restroom.
Ten minutes passed before Henley realized he wasn’t coming back.
This morning, he had sent chocolates to her office with a card that read: “A sweet start to your day. Looking forward to tonight, Gabe”
She cracked her tooth on an almond from the first piece she’d tried. Anyone else would have instinctively spit the candy out, but in a panic she’d swallowed it along with a chunk of bottom molar.
Alexa, the perky blonde she shared a cubicle with, was kind enough to call her dentist, but they couldn’t get Henley in until tomorrow morning. She knew she should cancel the date, but spending Valentine’s Day alone seemed more painful than sitting through dinner with a toothache.
So now here she was sharing a booth looking out over the Bay Bridge with a strikingly handsome, extremely interesting man, trying her best to concentrate on the conversation and the company.
“Would either of you care for a glass of wine?” the waiter came by to ask.
Henley could go for a whole bottle, as the two Vicodin she’d popped before leaving the house were already beginning to wear off.
“No, water peas,” she said, avoiding looking over at her date.
“Are you sure?” Gabe said.
“Yes, I’m ine.” The first lie of what she knew would be a long evening.
“I guess water for me then as well.” And now he avoided looking at the waiter, which embarrassed Henley since she was about to make them look even cheaper by only ordering soup.
“No ice peas,” Henley added quickly as the waiter turned to leave. “Tap, neat” she thought she heard him mumble.
“So, how was your day?”
“Ine, hank oo,” she said, keeping the number of words in her response to a minimum. She had to keep her tongue on the right side of her mouth, far away from the hole in her left molar.
Gabe only stared at her, until finally she realized he was waiting for her to ask about his day—and probably for a thank you for the chocolates.
“Ow us ors?”
Gabe just continued to stare.
Maybe she should have ordered wine.
The waiter returned with their waters and asked if they were ready to order.
“Ladies first,” Gabe said.
“Up of oup, peas.”
“Cup of soup to start,” said the waiter. “And for the main course?”
“Um, no, us the oup.”
Now both Gabe and the waiter were starting at her.
“Peas?” she said.
The throbbing was back in full force. She reached for her water and managed a small sip before a steady stream ran down her chin and onto the crotch of her red Calvin Klein dress.
“And for you sir?” the waiter said, still staring at Henley.
“I think we’ll need another minute,” Gabe said.
When the waiter left, Gabe excused himself, saying he needed to use the restroom.
Ten minutes passed before Henley realized he wasn’t coming back.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Alarm Clock Dream (3 A.M., #22)
A bank of clouds purple like a newly formed bruise hovers on the horizon. I am slowed for a moment by their intense beauty. I’ve been running for almost and hour, so lost in thought that only now do I take in my surroundings.
Across the road is a bus shelter. It seems out of place on this deserted stretch of highway. It’s as if someone built it here to say, “Don’t be fooled, life does exist here,”—but still I doubt that it is actually ever used.
Then I notice someone is in fact sitting on its plywood bench. It takes me a minute to determine the sex of this person, as my eyes are first drawn to the dazzling bright white of their smile.
I know whom this smile belongs to before I even take in the rest of the face. It’s a sly smile—the lips pulled back ever so gently across the teeth, the left corner of the mouth turned up just a half-inch higher than the right. I know that if I move my gaze up to the eyes, all will be lost.
I find him in the most unusual places, always wearing this same smile, the one that says, Did you really think you could escape me?
I know how the rest will go before I even begin to move towards him. I wish I could stand right where I am, just staring back as he smiles at me, forever… but I know it’s not up to me.
When I am halfway across the road he rises. I take in all that I can before the inevitable end of this moment—his almond shaped eyes dark as obsidian and his smooth chestnut skin. His ears have always stuck out too far, and now they catch the sun and turn a translucent red as it penetrates through them.
The wave of shock and excitement over his unexplained presence is the first thing to come, followed always by the same question—“What are you doing here?”
I never get an answer.
Just that smile, like he knows something really great—something that will be years before I can even begin to understand. But this not knowing doesn’t scare me. When I’m here with him like this, his face so full of answers to questions I haven’t even thought of yet, the only thing I feel is safe.
He’s going to hug me now. Then everything will get dark. Right before I wake up, he’ll squeeze me really tight.
And now, here I am back in my bed. I glance at the clock. 2 a.m. I won’t be able to fall back asleep for several hours. When he comes to me like this, the rest of the day is a loss.
I walk around in a daze, replaying the dream in my head trying to recapture those feelings I’m filled with at that moment he takes me in his arms. When I am unable to, I start thinking about whether it would be the same if we were to simply run into each other in town.
Because that’s the thing… the man who comes to me in my dreams is not a man I’ve lost to illness or death. Not a man that was ever mine to lose, really. A man I can’t for sure say has ever even shared the feelings I once had for him.
He’s a man who is very much alive and very easy to find. He is a man who used to be my best friend, and, if I ever felt the need, could still call for anything.
And that is why these dreams I have every few months never fail to shake me and leave me with so many questions.
Questions that I never dare to ask, as it seems to be he’s the one with all the answers.
Across the road is a bus shelter. It seems out of place on this deserted stretch of highway. It’s as if someone built it here to say, “Don’t be fooled, life does exist here,”—but still I doubt that it is actually ever used.
Then I notice someone is in fact sitting on its plywood bench. It takes me a minute to determine the sex of this person, as my eyes are first drawn to the dazzling bright white of their smile.
I know whom this smile belongs to before I even take in the rest of the face. It’s a sly smile—the lips pulled back ever so gently across the teeth, the left corner of the mouth turned up just a half-inch higher than the right. I know that if I move my gaze up to the eyes, all will be lost.
I find him in the most unusual places, always wearing this same smile, the one that says, Did you really think you could escape me?
I know how the rest will go before I even begin to move towards him. I wish I could stand right where I am, just staring back as he smiles at me, forever… but I know it’s not up to me.
When I am halfway across the road he rises. I take in all that I can before the inevitable end of this moment—his almond shaped eyes dark as obsidian and his smooth chestnut skin. His ears have always stuck out too far, and now they catch the sun and turn a translucent red as it penetrates through them.
The wave of shock and excitement over his unexplained presence is the first thing to come, followed always by the same question—“What are you doing here?”
I never get an answer.
Just that smile, like he knows something really great—something that will be years before I can even begin to understand. But this not knowing doesn’t scare me. When I’m here with him like this, his face so full of answers to questions I haven’t even thought of yet, the only thing I feel is safe.
He’s going to hug me now. Then everything will get dark. Right before I wake up, he’ll squeeze me really tight.
And now, here I am back in my bed. I glance at the clock. 2 a.m. I won’t be able to fall back asleep for several hours. When he comes to me like this, the rest of the day is a loss.
I walk around in a daze, replaying the dream in my head trying to recapture those feelings I’m filled with at that moment he takes me in his arms. When I am unable to, I start thinking about whether it would be the same if we were to simply run into each other in town.
Because that’s the thing… the man who comes to me in my dreams is not a man I’ve lost to illness or death. Not a man that was ever mine to lose, really. A man I can’t for sure say has ever even shared the feelings I once had for him.
He’s a man who is very much alive and very easy to find. He is a man who used to be my best friend, and, if I ever felt the need, could still call for anything.
And that is why these dreams I have every few months never fail to shake me and leave me with so many questions.
Questions that I never dare to ask, as it seems to be he’s the one with all the answers.
The Royal We (3 A.M., #6)
We found him sitting on the back porch. “You two just let me be,” he said. “I’ve heard enough.”
Paul and Maggie asked if that meant he’d come to a decision.
“I’ll decide when I’m good and ready to decide.”
We exchanged a look that said should we leave it alone for now? Maggie raised an eyebrow that suggested later might be too late.
Paul asked our dad why he was so against the idea. “You said yourself the place and the people seemed nice.”
“Spain and its people are nice too, but it doesn’t mean I want to live there,” he said.
“You’ve never been to Spain, Dad,” Maggie said.
“You don’t know what I did and saw before you were born. I don’t tell you everything.”
We sat down on the steps, one on each side of him. It was a tight squeeze, but he didn’t complain.
“Do you think Mom would want you to stay here like this?” Paul said.
“Like what?”
“Alone. Sick,” said Maggie.
Dad looked up, gestured towards Banks, our seven-year-old beagle patroling the fence line. “I’m not alone.”
“Banks can’t call someone if something happens to you, Dad,” Paul said.
We sat there with him for a long time. His body grew tenser with each passing minute. He didn’t like when we ganged up on him like this. We knew he felt both relief and regret that Shelby, our younger sister, was not here. She was his baby girl, the child that always took his side. But with Mom being gone and his being sick, a part of him knew there was a possibility that this time she wouldn’t.
Shelby didn’t know that we were here, or that moving Dad to a nursing home was an option we were considering. Finals were next week and we decided it would be best not to add to her stress. Last fall, Mom passed right before her finals and she had to repeat the semester.
We glanced at each other behind Dad’s back and exchanged a nod that meant we should give him some time. He hadn’t flat out said no, and his considering the idea seemed like a good sign.
Maggie stood up first, then Paul. “Sleep on it, Dad,” Maggie said. “We’ll talk about it some more in the morning.”
Inside, we shared a bottle of wine.
“What do you think he’ll decide?” Maggie said.
“It’s hard to tell, but it’s clear he’s conflicted. I don’t think he wants to be put there, but I don’t think he wants to be alone here either.”
“Maybe we should have called Shelby.”
“You know what she’ll want to do,” Paul said.
Now that school was going to be out for summer, Shelby would suggest that she come move in with Dad, just until fall semester starts. But we both knew that if we let her, she wouldn’t go back. And we wanted her to have the education we missed out on.
“We’d have three months to warm her up to the idea of Dad going to Glen Oak. And when she sees how sick he is, when she really has to deal with it first hand, we won’t even have to really convince her. She’ll know for herself that it’s best.”
“I think you have our sister confused with someone else,” Paul said. “Remember how guilty she felt for not being around when Mom died? She’s not going to let that happen again with Dad.”
“And Dad won’t let her drop out of school to take care of him. He’d drive himself to the nursing home before it came to that.”
And that’s how we knew that Shelby was what we needed. Shelby, whether she agreed with it or not, was the only thing that would get Dad to go to Glen Oak.
We picked up the phone and dialed.
Paul and Maggie asked if that meant he’d come to a decision.
“I’ll decide when I’m good and ready to decide.”
We exchanged a look that said should we leave it alone for now? Maggie raised an eyebrow that suggested later might be too late.
Paul asked our dad why he was so against the idea. “You said yourself the place and the people seemed nice.”
“Spain and its people are nice too, but it doesn’t mean I want to live there,” he said.
“You’ve never been to Spain, Dad,” Maggie said.
“You don’t know what I did and saw before you were born. I don’t tell you everything.”
We sat down on the steps, one on each side of him. It was a tight squeeze, but he didn’t complain.
“Do you think Mom would want you to stay here like this?” Paul said.
“Like what?”
“Alone. Sick,” said Maggie.
Dad looked up, gestured towards Banks, our seven-year-old beagle patroling the fence line. “I’m not alone.”
“Banks can’t call someone if something happens to you, Dad,” Paul said.
We sat there with him for a long time. His body grew tenser with each passing minute. He didn’t like when we ganged up on him like this. We knew he felt both relief and regret that Shelby, our younger sister, was not here. She was his baby girl, the child that always took his side. But with Mom being gone and his being sick, a part of him knew there was a possibility that this time she wouldn’t.
Shelby didn’t know that we were here, or that moving Dad to a nursing home was an option we were considering. Finals were next week and we decided it would be best not to add to her stress. Last fall, Mom passed right before her finals and she had to repeat the semester.
We glanced at each other behind Dad’s back and exchanged a nod that meant we should give him some time. He hadn’t flat out said no, and his considering the idea seemed like a good sign.
Maggie stood up first, then Paul. “Sleep on it, Dad,” Maggie said. “We’ll talk about it some more in the morning.”
Inside, we shared a bottle of wine.
“What do you think he’ll decide?” Maggie said.
“It’s hard to tell, but it’s clear he’s conflicted. I don’t think he wants to be put there, but I don’t think he wants to be alone here either.”
“Maybe we should have called Shelby.”
“You know what she’ll want to do,” Paul said.
Now that school was going to be out for summer, Shelby would suggest that she come move in with Dad, just until fall semester starts. But we both knew that if we let her, she wouldn’t go back. And we wanted her to have the education we missed out on.
“We’d have three months to warm her up to the idea of Dad going to Glen Oak. And when she sees how sick he is, when she really has to deal with it first hand, we won’t even have to really convince her. She’ll know for herself that it’s best.”
“I think you have our sister confused with someone else,” Paul said. “Remember how guilty she felt for not being around when Mom died? She’s not going to let that happen again with Dad.”
“And Dad won’t let her drop out of school to take care of him. He’d drive himself to the nursing home before it came to that.”
And that’s how we knew that Shelby was what we needed. Shelby, whether she agreed with it or not, was the only thing that would get Dad to go to Glen Oak.
We picked up the phone and dialed.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Translation From the Same Language (4 A.M., #45)
Translated piece: "A Very Short Story", Ernest Hemingway
One cool afternoon in Del Mar, she and some co-workers took their lunch to the park. She sat on a bench looking over the ocean. There were runners on the beach. In no time, they finished their sandwiches. The others went back to the office. She and Gabe could hear their cars starting in the lot. Gabe sat on the grass. He was warm and balmy in the cool air.
Gabe was the office “go for” for two years. It went unnoticed. When she needed coffee or copies, he took care of it; and their co-workers made a sound like the cracking of a whip every time. She kept her eyes focused on her computer when she made her requests. After the office got an espresso machine, she made her own lattes so he wouldn’t have to go down the street. The others brought coffee from home, so this too went unnoticed. No one much cared for Gabe. She didn’t think of him at night as she gathered her things to go home.
After she was promoted to another floor, she rarely saw him. Her new office was bright, and she didn’t have to share. He wanted to date her, but he’d missed his opportunity to ask. To her, he was a stranger. To him, she was his closest friend.
Gabe sent her dozens of e-mails. She marked them as junk, and thirty-four floated in cyberspace unread. He’d told her about his new boss, how much he loathed him, and about the new coffeehouse on 34th Street.
A year later, she was transferred again, this time to the company’s international division in Europe. Gabe applied to be her assistant. There was already one assigned and waiting for her in Europe, but he didn’t want her to forget about him. Gabe wrote up a proposal about why he would be a better fit for the job, pleading for the company to send him instead. It was interpreted as an obsession and classified “sexual harassment.” Gabe was fired. On her doorstep, he banged angrily on the door begging to be allowed in. He wanted the chance to explain, and hoped to kiss her. She felt scared and called the police.
She went to Europe by plane. Gabe went to jail, and later to a mental facility. It was gray and quiet there. Laying in his room with just a bed, he was visited by a petite nurse that resembled the business woman enough he convinced himself it actually was her. He told himself that she had realized her mistake and come back for him. He raped her on the cold, tile floor. He enjoyed every minute of her pain, and he knew that now she would forever and always be his, as he believed he had planted a seed inside that would blossom into a child. They now, of course, would have to be married, and he smiled at the thought of leaving the hospital. He kissed her hard on the mouth, but it was tea and not coffee he tasted on her lips. He realized his mistake. She was not here, and now he wished her dead. He hoped that she’d be attacked and brutally murdered in an alleyway in that beautiful country.
The nurse pressed charges, and he was transferred to the state prison. The business woman continued to advance in her career, bought an extravagant villa, and married her assistant.
One cool afternoon in Del Mar, she and some co-workers took their lunch to the park. She sat on a bench looking over the ocean. There were runners on the beach. In no time, they finished their sandwiches. The others went back to the office. She and Gabe could hear their cars starting in the lot. Gabe sat on the grass. He was warm and balmy in the cool air.
Gabe was the office “go for” for two years. It went unnoticed. When she needed coffee or copies, he took care of it; and their co-workers made a sound like the cracking of a whip every time. She kept her eyes focused on her computer when she made her requests. After the office got an espresso machine, she made her own lattes so he wouldn’t have to go down the street. The others brought coffee from home, so this too went unnoticed. No one much cared for Gabe. She didn’t think of him at night as she gathered her things to go home.
After she was promoted to another floor, she rarely saw him. Her new office was bright, and she didn’t have to share. He wanted to date her, but he’d missed his opportunity to ask. To her, he was a stranger. To him, she was his closest friend.
Gabe sent her dozens of e-mails. She marked them as junk, and thirty-four floated in cyberspace unread. He’d told her about his new boss, how much he loathed him, and about the new coffeehouse on 34th Street.
A year later, she was transferred again, this time to the company’s international division in Europe. Gabe applied to be her assistant. There was already one assigned and waiting for her in Europe, but he didn’t want her to forget about him. Gabe wrote up a proposal about why he would be a better fit for the job, pleading for the company to send him instead. It was interpreted as an obsession and classified “sexual harassment.” Gabe was fired. On her doorstep, he banged angrily on the door begging to be allowed in. He wanted the chance to explain, and hoped to kiss her. She felt scared and called the police.
She went to Europe by plane. Gabe went to jail, and later to a mental facility. It was gray and quiet there. Laying in his room with just a bed, he was visited by a petite nurse that resembled the business woman enough he convinced himself it actually was her. He told himself that she had realized her mistake and come back for him. He raped her on the cold, tile floor. He enjoyed every minute of her pain, and he knew that now she would forever and always be his, as he believed he had planted a seed inside that would blossom into a child. They now, of course, would have to be married, and he smiled at the thought of leaving the hospital. He kissed her hard on the mouth, but it was tea and not coffee he tasted on her lips. He realized his mistake. She was not here, and now he wished her dead. He hoped that she’d be attacked and brutally murdered in an alleyway in that beautiful country.
The nurse pressed charges, and he was transferred to the state prison. The business woman continued to advance in her career, bought an extravagant villa, and married her assistant.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The Bunny Planet (3 A.M., #81)
The smell of damp, rotten leaves permeates the evening air as another storm swells in the distance. The hammock is twisted between two oaks standing tall and naked in a corner at the far end of the back yard. Dark, muddy pools of water from yesterday’s rain look like a series of stepping stones leading out from the back porch where I am standing, across the expanse of sodden lawn to what was once my safe haven.
Now, the dark, slick branches of the trees look like thousands of burnt hands reaching toward heaven in a desperate attempt to be saved from purgatory. I close my eyes and try to remember the magnificent yellow and green hues of the leaves that dress them in the spring and summer—but all I can see is a thick, gray blanket interrupted by small bursts of crimson timed to the throbbing of my head.
I feel like the hammock looks—the threads, now thick and heavy with water, wound tight. They will soon become rotten, brittle, and ready to give at the slightest touch. It will have to be tossed out, as it can no longer hold anyone safely.
The air is icy and sharp against my skin, and I know I should go in and pull a sweater over my thin nightgown. But I stay, because soon enough my flesh will go numb and I won’t feel the pain at all.
I can no longer remember what brought me out here, so I scan the yard for movement and listen for unfamiliar sounds. Suddenly, I am very tired. I move forward, and it begins to feel as if I’m underwater. It takes every last bit of strength I have to propel myself forward, down the steps, and out onto the steeped lawn.
That is when I see him. He trots out from behind the primordial oaks, the shine of his yellow coat forcing me to finally take notice of what has been illuminating this previously dismal scene—the light of a brilliant, full moon.
I look down at my body, my skin radiant in its phosphorescence. It is then that I feel a cold nose in my palm. My hand brushes up over his head and down the long line of his back, the tip of his tail the last thing I feel between my fingers as he moves by. I am surprised by how dry and warm his body feels despite the damp blanket of air enshrouding us.
I turn to follow him, but he is already gone. It isn’t the closed door of the house that keeps me from being foolish enough to believe he is inside. I know he is gone, and that he has been gone for some time.
He rests at the foot of the lopsided oak, the one he favored lying under as I gently rocked in the hammock with a book or magazine.
When I see him like this, I know he is here to remind me to let go—not just of him, but all the things that are twisting themselves around my insides and causing tiny explosions behind my eyes.
The storm has reached my yard, it’s belly breaking open to release a bitter downpour of biting rain. I look up and let it splash down on my face. My lips break open into a smile that reveals teeth as white as the argent moon. I strip the thin nightgown from my body and begin to leap from one muddy puddle to the next, following the path they make to the two stoic oaks—the protectors of all that was ever important.
Now, the dark, slick branches of the trees look like thousands of burnt hands reaching toward heaven in a desperate attempt to be saved from purgatory. I close my eyes and try to remember the magnificent yellow and green hues of the leaves that dress them in the spring and summer—but all I can see is a thick, gray blanket interrupted by small bursts of crimson timed to the throbbing of my head.
I feel like the hammock looks—the threads, now thick and heavy with water, wound tight. They will soon become rotten, brittle, and ready to give at the slightest touch. It will have to be tossed out, as it can no longer hold anyone safely.
The air is icy and sharp against my skin, and I know I should go in and pull a sweater over my thin nightgown. But I stay, because soon enough my flesh will go numb and I won’t feel the pain at all.
I can no longer remember what brought me out here, so I scan the yard for movement and listen for unfamiliar sounds. Suddenly, I am very tired. I move forward, and it begins to feel as if I’m underwater. It takes every last bit of strength I have to propel myself forward, down the steps, and out onto the steeped lawn.
That is when I see him. He trots out from behind the primordial oaks, the shine of his yellow coat forcing me to finally take notice of what has been illuminating this previously dismal scene—the light of a brilliant, full moon.
I look down at my body, my skin radiant in its phosphorescence. It is then that I feel a cold nose in my palm. My hand brushes up over his head and down the long line of his back, the tip of his tail the last thing I feel between my fingers as he moves by. I am surprised by how dry and warm his body feels despite the damp blanket of air enshrouding us.
I turn to follow him, but he is already gone. It isn’t the closed door of the house that keeps me from being foolish enough to believe he is inside. I know he is gone, and that he has been gone for some time.
He rests at the foot of the lopsided oak, the one he favored lying under as I gently rocked in the hammock with a book or magazine.
When I see him like this, I know he is here to remind me to let go—not just of him, but all the things that are twisting themselves around my insides and causing tiny explosions behind my eyes.
The storm has reached my yard, it’s belly breaking open to release a bitter downpour of biting rain. I look up and let it splash down on my face. My lips break open into a smile that reveals teeth as white as the argent moon. I strip the thin nightgown from my body and begin to leap from one muddy puddle to the next, following the path they make to the two stoic oaks—the protectors of all that was ever important.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Sisters (4 A.M., #169)
Becky’s lungs burned. Before they’d seen the accident, she’d been running hard and fast down the sidewalk, desperate to escape her home, her mother, and especially June.
The two had ambushed her in the kitchen while she’d been making her breakfast—whole wheat English muffin with cream cheese and boysenberry jam. There was a seed from her first— and only—bite still stuck between two of her bottom teeth. Standing there on the corner, watching as the EMTs covered the bodies of the four boys who didn’t survive the crash, she attempted to free the seed with her tongue.
June stood a few feet away, and Becky could feel her eyes burning into her neck—a heat so intense she tilted her head and pressed her shoulder up against her ear. She wrapped her long, insect arms around her body—the first hug she’d received in years.
June called her “grasshopper.” She’d be ok with it if she believed the name was meant to describe her awkward teenage limbs and jumpy demeanor, but Becky knew it was because all June saw her as was a pesky insect she’d like to squash.
“You aren’t wearing shoes,” June now said, her voice thick with distaste.
Becky looked down at her bare feet. Both of her big toes were stubbed at the ends, the blood making tiny pools on the cold cement, and she could feel something sharp digging into her left heal.
“Looks that way,” she replied softly.
A police officer came jogging over. “Ladies, if you’ll just hold tight we’ll get someone over here to take a statement from you both.” When he noticed Becky’s bare feet, he added, “And an EMT to take care of those cuts.”
“She’s fine,” June told the officer. “She does it all the time, don’t you Becky?”
Becky knew June wasn’t referring to her bleeding toes, and she uncrossed her arms to pull the long sleeves of her nightshirt down tighter (she was still in her pajamas), clenching the wadded ends into her fists.
June and her mother had come into the kitchen to inform Becky they’d be taking her to a psychiatric facility for observation. Her stay would be indefinite, and she would need to eat, shower, and pack quickly because they had a baby shower to get to later that afternoon.
Lock Becky up in a padded room…check! Becky thought, imitating the way her mother crossed things off her to do list, never giving them a second thought.
June had hung back a little, hovering behind her mother just inside the kitchen’s archway. While Sharon’s face attempted to display concern, June’s wore a sneer and Becky thought for a minute she saw a twinkle in her eye.
Becky watched as one of the dead boys was being lifted onto a gurney and loaded into the back of an ambulance. She silently wished that she were the one in the body bag. If only she’d come to the corner a few seconds earlier, she might have been. She could tell June knew this too, and was just as disappointed that Becky hadn’t been fast enough.
“We’re definitely going to miss the shower now,” June sighed. “But don’t worry, there is still plenty of time to get you to the asylum.”
Becky didn’t have to look at June to know she was smiling. She blinked back the hot, salty tears that were beginning to form in her eyes. For a moment she wondered why she had been so focused on hurting herself rather than hurting June. If she’d run out of the house and down the street a minute, rather than seconds, earlier it could have been June’s soft, round body smeared across the asphalt.
Just like a squished jelly doughnut, Becky thought, and caught herself before laughing out loud.
It wouldn’t take much thought or effort on Becky’s part to retaliate when June made one of her nasty, awful comments. What stopped her was that part of her—a very small part—felt sorry for June.
June and Becky didn’t have the same father. June’s was much older than Becky’s 46-year-old dad, David was. He was also much larger, sweatier, and smelled like wet baloney. He didn’t come around much—and contributed nothing financially—but when he did, all Becky could do was stare and wonder how in the world her mother could ever find herself in bed with a man like that. Money would have explained it, but he’d never had any.
“He wasn’t like this when we were dating,” was all her mother would ever say on the subject.
June got her looks—and gland problems—from her dad, and therefore became the recipient of all their mother’s attention. It was like Sharon knew how hard June was going to have it with girls and boys alike, and so made her life at home as easy as possible. Becky, on the other hand, could always do better according to her mother.
But even with all of their mother’s love and attention, June still despised her little sister and wanted her gone.
“It’s not going to change things the way you think it will,” Becky whispered.
“What was that, grasshopper?”
Becky took a deep breath, straightened and squared her shoulders, then looked her fat sister square in the eye hoping June could feel the same heat she had moments ago been searing into Becky’s neck.
“I said it’s not going to change things the way you think—the way you hope—it will. You are still going to be fat and sweaty with a deadbeat dad and mom as your only friend!”
June’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack. But before she could say or do anything, the police officer returned.
“Ok ladies, we are ready to take your statements. Who wants to go first?”
The two had ambushed her in the kitchen while she’d been making her breakfast—whole wheat English muffin with cream cheese and boysenberry jam. There was a seed from her first— and only—bite still stuck between two of her bottom teeth. Standing there on the corner, watching as the EMTs covered the bodies of the four boys who didn’t survive the crash, she attempted to free the seed with her tongue.
June stood a few feet away, and Becky could feel her eyes burning into her neck—a heat so intense she tilted her head and pressed her shoulder up against her ear. She wrapped her long, insect arms around her body—the first hug she’d received in years.
June called her “grasshopper.” She’d be ok with it if she believed the name was meant to describe her awkward teenage limbs and jumpy demeanor, but Becky knew it was because all June saw her as was a pesky insect she’d like to squash.
“You aren’t wearing shoes,” June now said, her voice thick with distaste.
Becky looked down at her bare feet. Both of her big toes were stubbed at the ends, the blood making tiny pools on the cold cement, and she could feel something sharp digging into her left heal.
“Looks that way,” she replied softly.
A police officer came jogging over. “Ladies, if you’ll just hold tight we’ll get someone over here to take a statement from you both.” When he noticed Becky’s bare feet, he added, “And an EMT to take care of those cuts.”
“She’s fine,” June told the officer. “She does it all the time, don’t you Becky?”
Becky knew June wasn’t referring to her bleeding toes, and she uncrossed her arms to pull the long sleeves of her nightshirt down tighter (she was still in her pajamas), clenching the wadded ends into her fists.
June and her mother had come into the kitchen to inform Becky they’d be taking her to a psychiatric facility for observation. Her stay would be indefinite, and she would need to eat, shower, and pack quickly because they had a baby shower to get to later that afternoon.
Lock Becky up in a padded room…check! Becky thought, imitating the way her mother crossed things off her to do list, never giving them a second thought.
June had hung back a little, hovering behind her mother just inside the kitchen’s archway. While Sharon’s face attempted to display concern, June’s wore a sneer and Becky thought for a minute she saw a twinkle in her eye.
Becky watched as one of the dead boys was being lifted onto a gurney and loaded into the back of an ambulance. She silently wished that she were the one in the body bag. If only she’d come to the corner a few seconds earlier, she might have been. She could tell June knew this too, and was just as disappointed that Becky hadn’t been fast enough.
“We’re definitely going to miss the shower now,” June sighed. “But don’t worry, there is still plenty of time to get you to the asylum.”
Becky didn’t have to look at June to know she was smiling. She blinked back the hot, salty tears that were beginning to form in her eyes. For a moment she wondered why she had been so focused on hurting herself rather than hurting June. If she’d run out of the house and down the street a minute, rather than seconds, earlier it could have been June’s soft, round body smeared across the asphalt.
Just like a squished jelly doughnut, Becky thought, and caught herself before laughing out loud.
It wouldn’t take much thought or effort on Becky’s part to retaliate when June made one of her nasty, awful comments. What stopped her was that part of her—a very small part—felt sorry for June.
June and Becky didn’t have the same father. June’s was much older than Becky’s 46-year-old dad, David was. He was also much larger, sweatier, and smelled like wet baloney. He didn’t come around much—and contributed nothing financially—but when he did, all Becky could do was stare and wonder how in the world her mother could ever find herself in bed with a man like that. Money would have explained it, but he’d never had any.
“He wasn’t like this when we were dating,” was all her mother would ever say on the subject.
June got her looks—and gland problems—from her dad, and therefore became the recipient of all their mother’s attention. It was like Sharon knew how hard June was going to have it with girls and boys alike, and so made her life at home as easy as possible. Becky, on the other hand, could always do better according to her mother.
But even with all of their mother’s love and attention, June still despised her little sister and wanted her gone.
“It’s not going to change things the way you think it will,” Becky whispered.
“What was that, grasshopper?”
Becky took a deep breath, straightened and squared her shoulders, then looked her fat sister square in the eye hoping June could feel the same heat she had moments ago been searing into Becky’s neck.
“I said it’s not going to change things the way you think—the way you hope—it will. You are still going to be fat and sweaty with a deadbeat dad and mom as your only friend!”
June’s eyes widened and her jaw went slack. But before she could say or do anything, the police officer returned.
“Ok ladies, we are ready to take your statements. Who wants to go first?”
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Friendship (3 A.M., #32)
Everyone thought that Zoey and Bryne were the best of friends… even Bryne. But in actuality, Zoey did not care all that much for Bryne and kept her close only because she reminded Zoey of all she never wanted to become.
They met in college through their then boyfriends, now husbands. The boys, who were real and true best friends since middle school, set up the whole “double-date” scenario that becomes obligatory once you know the women in your life are there to stay and must therefore fit into your little circle of friends, and, of course, family.
Zoey had thought Bryne was nice enough, but picked up in her right away a need for female guidance that comes from a very obvious lack of self-confidence.
There was no lack of confidence on Zoey’s part. She lived life in a way that screamed to the world, “If God had a sister, I would be it!” She was a self-proclaimed “people person,” without a single doubt that she knew what a person would think, say, or do before they even did, regardless of how long she’d known them. It was just a feeling she got, and most were not surprised—but at times extremely irritated—to find that her predictions were very often right.
She always knew when Bryne was going to call and what the reason for the call would be. And she knew that all the advice she’d spend giving during the two hours Bryne would keep her on the phone would just go in one ear and out the other—especially if the advice wasn’t what Bryne wanted to hear. When this was the case, the two wouldn’t speak for three days.
And it happened quite often, because Zoey never said what Bryne wanted to hear. If ever asked her opinion on a matter, by anyone, Zoey gave just that, her opinion—without a spoonful of sugar, but rather a nice big handful of salt rubbed hard into the festering wound. It was the only way a person was really going to learn… in her opinion.
Zoey knew that there were many people out there who had their own opinions about the way she did things, but she hardly cared. All she had to do was make a mental list of all she had accomplished, which often added up to a hell of a lot more than those passing judgement on her could account for. And the main difference, as Zoey saw it, was that she had never asked any of them for their opinion in the first place. It was other people that she was constantly finding on her doorstep asking for hers.
“If they really don’t want to know, then it’s very simple—don’t ask,” she rationalized to her husband, mother, and sister—all who thought that, at times, she could be a bit too harsh.
But Zoey knew Bryne, despite sometimes getting angry at her for her direct approach, didn’t regard her as harsh. Bryne thought Zoey was powerful—a modern day Joan of Arc who’d continue to scream the truth as she saw it despite her body slowly burning on a stake.
While flattering, it actually made Zoey a little sad to have this woman place so much value and belief in her rather than in her own self.
Tonight Bryne was calling because she’d “finally had it” with her husband’s “job.”
Bryne’s husband, Travis, was a lawyer. A non-practicing one, which meant he had his law degree and had passed the BAR exam, but chose instead to sell a family recipe BBQ rub and the marijuana he grew in their garage.
If Zoey were in Bryne’s position, the marijuana would be her main issue. Zoey stayed far away from drugs and alcohol and would not permit any man she was with to use such substances, even recreationally, because in her mind they made a person extremely unmotivated and useless to society.
Travis, who’d been smoking pot since high school, self-diagnosed himself with anxiety disorder and talked his doctor into issuing him a medical marijuana license. The license permitted the growth of one plant in the home, but since Travis didn’t really have an interest in being a lawyer anymore, he had harvested twenty plants so he could distribute and make money to pay the living expenses his rich parents weren’t already footing the bill for.
What made Bryne so angry wasn’t how baked her husband was getting every day, or that what he was doing was illegal. Bryne’s problem was that she didn’t like having to get up and go to work everyday while he sat at home with their dog watching t.v. and playing on the computer. Bryne also didn’t like having to come home and clean up his messes and then cook him dinner. Zoey sensed that if things were the other way around and she was the one getting to stay home while he went to work, there wouldn’t be an issue.
“I’m really tired of hearing you complain about this all the time, Bryne,” Zoey said, cutting her off in the middle of her rant. “My advice is to leave him or send him to rehab—but I know you won’t do either because you never take my advice. You just want me to sit here and listen to the same drama over and over again in hopes that one day I will say what it is you want to hear, which I’m not ever going to do by the way. And never once do you ask, ‘How are things with you, Zo? Is there anything you’d like to get off your chest?’”
It didn’t bother Zoey that no one ever took an interest in the goings on of her life— because to be blissfully unaware of her good and bad days is what allowed the people in her life to function. Anything good that happened in her life only made them jealous, and anything bad only made them scared that it if it could happen to her—this Wonder Woman they’d made her out to be in their minds—it could happen to them.
But Zoey was far from perfect, and though she wished she had a friend in her life she could share all her joys and concerns with, she knew that “friendship” really didn’t exist. That was obvious by her relationship with Bryne. A “friend” was merely a person you had in your life you could use to make something of yourself—and when they were no longer of use to you, you dumped them and went out and found yourself a new one.
Zoey had Jesse, her husband, who, she guessed, was kind of the same—only sex was involved. And Zoey really liked sex. She also liked children, and a friend couldn’t give you those.
So Zoey made a conscious decision not to be as invested in the people in her life that were so invested in her. She said and did what she wanted, and didn’t care who commented on, judged, or approved of it. She’d always done things her way, and her way had resulted in her having a pretty nice life.
A lot nicer than Bryne’s, to say the least.
They met in college through their then boyfriends, now husbands. The boys, who were real and true best friends since middle school, set up the whole “double-date” scenario that becomes obligatory once you know the women in your life are there to stay and must therefore fit into your little circle of friends, and, of course, family.
Zoey had thought Bryne was nice enough, but picked up in her right away a need for female guidance that comes from a very obvious lack of self-confidence.
There was no lack of confidence on Zoey’s part. She lived life in a way that screamed to the world, “If God had a sister, I would be it!” She was a self-proclaimed “people person,” without a single doubt that she knew what a person would think, say, or do before they even did, regardless of how long she’d known them. It was just a feeling she got, and most were not surprised—but at times extremely irritated—to find that her predictions were very often right.
She always knew when Bryne was going to call and what the reason for the call would be. And she knew that all the advice she’d spend giving during the two hours Bryne would keep her on the phone would just go in one ear and out the other—especially if the advice wasn’t what Bryne wanted to hear. When this was the case, the two wouldn’t speak for three days.
And it happened quite often, because Zoey never said what Bryne wanted to hear. If ever asked her opinion on a matter, by anyone, Zoey gave just that, her opinion—without a spoonful of sugar, but rather a nice big handful of salt rubbed hard into the festering wound. It was the only way a person was really going to learn… in her opinion.
Zoey knew that there were many people out there who had their own opinions about the way she did things, but she hardly cared. All she had to do was make a mental list of all she had accomplished, which often added up to a hell of a lot more than those passing judgement on her could account for. And the main difference, as Zoey saw it, was that she had never asked any of them for their opinion in the first place. It was other people that she was constantly finding on her doorstep asking for hers.
“If they really don’t want to know, then it’s very simple—don’t ask,” she rationalized to her husband, mother, and sister—all who thought that, at times, she could be a bit too harsh.
But Zoey knew Bryne, despite sometimes getting angry at her for her direct approach, didn’t regard her as harsh. Bryne thought Zoey was powerful—a modern day Joan of Arc who’d continue to scream the truth as she saw it despite her body slowly burning on a stake.
While flattering, it actually made Zoey a little sad to have this woman place so much value and belief in her rather than in her own self.
Tonight Bryne was calling because she’d “finally had it” with her husband’s “job.”
Bryne’s husband, Travis, was a lawyer. A non-practicing one, which meant he had his law degree and had passed the BAR exam, but chose instead to sell a family recipe BBQ rub and the marijuana he grew in their garage.
If Zoey were in Bryne’s position, the marijuana would be her main issue. Zoey stayed far away from drugs and alcohol and would not permit any man she was with to use such substances, even recreationally, because in her mind they made a person extremely unmotivated and useless to society.
Travis, who’d been smoking pot since high school, self-diagnosed himself with anxiety disorder and talked his doctor into issuing him a medical marijuana license. The license permitted the growth of one plant in the home, but since Travis didn’t really have an interest in being a lawyer anymore, he had harvested twenty plants so he could distribute and make money to pay the living expenses his rich parents weren’t already footing the bill for.
What made Bryne so angry wasn’t how baked her husband was getting every day, or that what he was doing was illegal. Bryne’s problem was that she didn’t like having to get up and go to work everyday while he sat at home with their dog watching t.v. and playing on the computer. Bryne also didn’t like having to come home and clean up his messes and then cook him dinner. Zoey sensed that if things were the other way around and she was the one getting to stay home while he went to work, there wouldn’t be an issue.
“I’m really tired of hearing you complain about this all the time, Bryne,” Zoey said, cutting her off in the middle of her rant. “My advice is to leave him or send him to rehab—but I know you won’t do either because you never take my advice. You just want me to sit here and listen to the same drama over and over again in hopes that one day I will say what it is you want to hear, which I’m not ever going to do by the way. And never once do you ask, ‘How are things with you, Zo? Is there anything you’d like to get off your chest?’”
It didn’t bother Zoey that no one ever took an interest in the goings on of her life— because to be blissfully unaware of her good and bad days is what allowed the people in her life to function. Anything good that happened in her life only made them jealous, and anything bad only made them scared that it if it could happen to her—this Wonder Woman they’d made her out to be in their minds—it could happen to them.
But Zoey was far from perfect, and though she wished she had a friend in her life she could share all her joys and concerns with, she knew that “friendship” really didn’t exist. That was obvious by her relationship with Bryne. A “friend” was merely a person you had in your life you could use to make something of yourself—and when they were no longer of use to you, you dumped them and went out and found yourself a new one.
Zoey had Jesse, her husband, who, she guessed, was kind of the same—only sex was involved. And Zoey really liked sex. She also liked children, and a friend couldn’t give you those.
So Zoey made a conscious decision not to be as invested in the people in her life that were so invested in her. She said and did what she wanted, and didn’t care who commented on, judged, or approved of it. She’d always done things her way, and her way had resulted in her having a pretty nice life.
A lot nicer than Bryne’s, to say the least.
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