This is not about red and blue; it’s about clarity.
The visualization I had today on my therapist’s brown couch seemed easy enough to dissect. Fear represented in flashing red and blue lights, like a siren, an emergency, something requiring immediate attention, an urgent response. Therapy changes my brain chemistry, she tells me. It changes hers too.
I don’t want to write about this. Aren’t I more creative than this? These simple symbols? Red for anger. Blue for sadness. Black for the nothingness of avoidance. But, then again, why would I want a hard-to-decipher visualization? Don’t I want to get there, to the bottom of this all? Isn’t that the point? What is the point? Is there a point? Does there need to be a point, always need to be a point? Why do I think I need to understand everything? Why can’t I let some things lie on the floor? And why so many questions? Are questions good or maddening? Neither? Both? All of the above?
That’s why it was easy to look at those flowers. They were purely beautiful. Instant joy. It’s not about conflict; it’s about the petals. It’s not about confusion; it’s about stems. It’s not about answers; it’s about roots.
Sometimes you need to rip off band-aids then take yourself out for ice cream. How do we care for all parts of ourselves? How do we care for any? How can compassion and criticism share the same bowl on the table? When we get out of our head, where do we go? Into our bodies? Into the world? Then it’s just our head in our head. It has to be less squishy.
I want to be awake and dreaming. I want absurd images to pass over me, and I want to trust that I’m not crazy. Judgments, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to swirl into the wind, become gentle whooshes in the blue and white soft sky. Just curl off and away. I want to train myself to leave me alone. I don’t need this kind of protection. I need Lady Gaga songs and the mint green creaminess of avocados. I need impromptu rides on the merry-go-round, bowling dates, sesame candies, new jeans, stationary, conversations with my cousin. Clarity. I’m ready for the lights to go up, the fog to be lifted. I’m ready to embark. Or, I guess, I’m ready to continue.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
creatures of the deep
They seemed like they’d been together for decades strictly by the way they moved. A certainty each felt for the other. Age had set in, in the way that it does, not always kindly. Metabolism changes, age spots, sagging skin, creases and folds, thick eye wear, and expensive hearing devices had become a part of their looks now, the types of things to even be chronicled by their granddaughter in her charming drawings that found their home magnetized to the refrigerator door. Pop-Pop would be drawn in blue, giant circular spectacles taking over his ovular face and an even more giant circular belly. Mee-Maw in lavender would sport the glasses too and the chair she found herself bound to now.
She remembered the time her husband and she had gone on vacation to San Francisco, just three years after the chair had become her legs. She remembered going to that seafood restaurant in the Wharf. The one recommended to them by their concierge at the Holiday Inn Express. The one with big window views of the boat-dotted bay. The one with the blue mermaid statue out front. Another legless creature, she had thought, getting by.
She remembered the flush that came to her cheeks for the amount of space that darn wheelchair took up in the crowded restaurant and how the young waiters in their crisp button downs and bowties had to carefully maneuver behind her with their big trays of chowder.
“I want to sit in the chair,” she had whispered to him, and he hadn’t put up a fight. Getting her into it, they both knew, would be some trouble, but he arranged himself behind her, knees bent slightly, holding on at once to the wheelchair and the wooden seat that would stick out less from the table.
She was sure people were watching her, thinking was it really worth it? All this trouble for this woman to abandon her chair for one meal, for no more than two hours, only to have to return to it. But she was determined now, and she could feel her determination rise up, and be caught by the man who she could remember being young with. It was at that moment when she was picturing them as they used to be, long-haired and smooth-skinned that the dining chair came out from under the weight of her. Her body went down too, landing with a decided thud on the restaurant floor.
The silence that came next was broken quickly by a sound simultaneously uttered. The standing-up man and the on-the-floor woman. The old, fat couple with deteriorating bodies let out a wave of hysteria, so certain and clear. Their laughter floated up and flooded the room, tears of delight streamed down their plump cheeks and reminded them of everything worthy of remembering.
She remembered the time her husband and she had gone on vacation to San Francisco, just three years after the chair had become her legs. She remembered going to that seafood restaurant in the Wharf. The one recommended to them by their concierge at the Holiday Inn Express. The one with big window views of the boat-dotted bay. The one with the blue mermaid statue out front. Another legless creature, she had thought, getting by.
She remembered the flush that came to her cheeks for the amount of space that darn wheelchair took up in the crowded restaurant and how the young waiters in their crisp button downs and bowties had to carefully maneuver behind her with their big trays of chowder.
“I want to sit in the chair,” she had whispered to him, and he hadn’t put up a fight. Getting her into it, they both knew, would be some trouble, but he arranged himself behind her, knees bent slightly, holding on at once to the wheelchair and the wooden seat that would stick out less from the table.
She was sure people were watching her, thinking was it really worth it? All this trouble for this woman to abandon her chair for one meal, for no more than two hours, only to have to return to it. But she was determined now, and she could feel her determination rise up, and be caught by the man who she could remember being young with. It was at that moment when she was picturing them as they used to be, long-haired and smooth-skinned that the dining chair came out from under the weight of her. Her body went down too, landing with a decided thud on the restaurant floor.
The silence that came next was broken quickly by a sound simultaneously uttered. The standing-up man and the on-the-floor woman. The old, fat couple with deteriorating bodies let out a wave of hysteria, so certain and clear. Their laughter floated up and flooded the room, tears of delight streamed down their plump cheeks and reminded them of everything worthy of remembering.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
giving thanks
I remember my first encounter with a gay person. I was seven years old, and I was wearing a white blouse with puffy sleeves and plastic cherry red heart buttons down the front tucked into a red skirt with white tights and patent leather Mary Janes. I had picked out the outfit myself and was very pleased. It was Thanksgiving at my rich Aunt Susan’s house. She’s the type of woman who has Thanksgiving catered. Our mashed potatoes lacked the essential lumps of my mother’s homemade ones. At some point during my stay at the kids’ table, some very brown gravy found its way onto my very white shirt, and between the non-lumpy taters and the new stain, all hell kind of broke loose for me.
I remember crying in the bathroom as a rotating wheel of my aunt’s snobby, smelly, brooch-wearing friends peeked in at me and my frantic mother who was simultaneously trying to calm me down and rid my bright white of the brownish gray blob on my lapel.
Then, as if from a dream, there appeared in the doorway a handsome man with hair like a prince and shoes as shiny as mine.
“May I?” he asked.
My mother turned to me, and I nodded, transfixed with the man’s soft brown eyes. He dabbed the stain with his club soda then spoke to another man behind him.
“Brian,” he said. “Please could you grab my bag?”
“I’m Mark,” he told me. “And I love your outfit.”
When Brian returned, Mark procured a tiny tube, which, like a magic potion, immediately returned my shirt and me to our former glories.
I spent the rest of the evening with Mark and Brian. They made space for me in between them at the grown-up table for dessert. They sat with me on the couch in the non-football room, and asked me questions about myself. Mark told me he was a hair stylist and Brian was a doctor. He told me, between the two of them, they were prepared for any type of emergency.
I remember crying in the bathroom as a rotating wheel of my aunt’s snobby, smelly, brooch-wearing friends peeked in at me and my frantic mother who was simultaneously trying to calm me down and rid my bright white of the brownish gray blob on my lapel.
Then, as if from a dream, there appeared in the doorway a handsome man with hair like a prince and shoes as shiny as mine.
“May I?” he asked.
My mother turned to me, and I nodded, transfixed with the man’s soft brown eyes. He dabbed the stain with his club soda then spoke to another man behind him.
“Brian,” he said. “Please could you grab my bag?”
“I’m Mark,” he told me. “And I love your outfit.”
When Brian returned, Mark procured a tiny tube, which, like a magic potion, immediately returned my shirt and me to our former glories.
I spent the rest of the evening with Mark and Brian. They made space for me in between them at the grown-up table for dessert. They sat with me on the couch in the non-football room, and asked me questions about myself. Mark told me he was a hair stylist and Brian was a doctor. He told me, between the two of them, they were prepared for any type of emergency.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
three in the car
We’re in the car- the three of us, the original family.
The newbie’s in the car behind us, and he wants to race. He pulls up beside my father’s Accord, and the two men with identical builds and matching smiles meet eyes in playful competition before my brother’s blue Prius whizzes by us and my own chariot follows suit. An unexpected slowdown on the mildly busy road forces my brother to slam on his brakes and my father to force a quick stop behind him nearly rubbing noses with his alerted brake lights, a loud horn from an unrelated vehicle accessorizing the scene.
My mother is furious.
“Do you want to kill us?”
She would give the right-of-way to a worm.
“I was just having a little fun.”
“You’re going to kill us all with your little fun.”
This is the same conversation they’ve had for thirty years. It always ends the same way. The exasperated sighs, eyes rolled to the sun roof, but the tiny twinge of a smile nearly unnoticeable at the corners of their mouths- a smile of familiarity- perhaps of roles played out: the constant jokester being scolded? Or relief? In the tiny glimpses of smile, they speak their language to the other. I watch my father reach over and squeeze my mother’s knee. I watch her pat my father’s hand. I think about us all dying- swirling away in Technicolor. If he killed us all, I think, picturing us three like candy bits in a Cuisinart beater, our colors circling round and round, our toppling into each other, I think that would be alright.
Because for this thing that has to happen to us. Seperately. One at a time so that we have to watch. So that the loss of our three-ness can reverberate off of pictureless walls and pour over us like gravy and smell like freshly fallen petals, well, that seems harder. Natural, maybe, but harder.
The newbie’s in the car behind us, and he wants to race. He pulls up beside my father’s Accord, and the two men with identical builds and matching smiles meet eyes in playful competition before my brother’s blue Prius whizzes by us and my own chariot follows suit. An unexpected slowdown on the mildly busy road forces my brother to slam on his brakes and my father to force a quick stop behind him nearly rubbing noses with his alerted brake lights, a loud horn from an unrelated vehicle accessorizing the scene.
My mother is furious.
“Do you want to kill us?”
She would give the right-of-way to a worm.
“I was just having a little fun.”
“You’re going to kill us all with your little fun.”
This is the same conversation they’ve had for thirty years. It always ends the same way. The exasperated sighs, eyes rolled to the sun roof, but the tiny twinge of a smile nearly unnoticeable at the corners of their mouths- a smile of familiarity- perhaps of roles played out: the constant jokester being scolded? Or relief? In the tiny glimpses of smile, they speak their language to the other. I watch my father reach over and squeeze my mother’s knee. I watch her pat my father’s hand. I think about us all dying- swirling away in Technicolor. If he killed us all, I think, picturing us three like candy bits in a Cuisinart beater, our colors circling round and round, our toppling into each other, I think that would be alright.
Because for this thing that has to happen to us. Seperately. One at a time so that we have to watch. So that the loss of our three-ness can reverberate off of pictureless walls and pour over us like gravy and smell like freshly fallen petals, well, that seems harder. Natural, maybe, but harder.
Friday, May 27, 2011
edgar and brandon
Love is this, thought Edgar, touching the curve of his lover’s back. He could see through skin, through bone, through blood. Brandon was more than his blood cells. Edgar had loved him this way for years; that part wasn’t new. He took in the wholeness of Brandon’s stretched out body. He always slept this way: sprawled. So that if Edgar got into bed after him, he would have to slide in sideways and gently move an extended arm draped over Edgar’s side of the bed. He would always keep the arm, always place it on him or around him. Brandon always looked sexy while he was asleep. Edgar remembered other lovers looking boyish or angelic or vaguely like his father while sleeping, but Brandon always looked muscled and soft and honeyed. He always made Edgar feel wide-eyed at his natural beauty. Edgar wondered when it would be that he would look over and see it happening, when he would see a disease take over that place on the bed where Brandon had been. When it would hurt too much to touch him. Or be touched by him. He wondered which image would stay with him after it was all over: the healthy one he’d had for nine years or the impending one, he was both too afraid to picture and obsessed with at the same time. How could he live for today while simultaneously preparing for tomorrow?
Brandon’s body moved rhythmically with his breath, and Edgar watched it. His lean torso rising and falling, the gentle waxing and waning. Edgar thought about everything that made up a person. He thought about quiet things until he, too, fell asleep.
Brandon’s body moved rhythmically with his breath, and Edgar watched it. His lean torso rising and falling, the gentle waxing and waning. Edgar thought about everything that made up a person. He thought about quiet things until he, too, fell asleep.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
so thankful
I am thankful today and everyday for so many things.
All the people in my life who inspire, encourage, challenge, and support me. And those same people who also can really crack me up. Friends, family, and the fine and beautiful line where those labels bleed into one another and the relationship seems to stretch into something not easily described or categorized.
I am also thankful for:
-lists
-scarves
-plane tickets
-sunshine
-hot showers
-Ghiradelli chocolate caramel squares
-songs that are not that funny unless you listen to them with someone else
-the delicate cracking of the spine of a brand new book
-the unexpected
-netflix
-the "ting ting" sound of spoons and coffee cups in the morning
-finding money in the washing machine, crisp and downy fresh
-tiny triumphs
-this day
Happy Thanksgiving 2010!
All the people in my life who inspire, encourage, challenge, and support me. And those same people who also can really crack me up. Friends, family, and the fine and beautiful line where those labels bleed into one another and the relationship seems to stretch into something not easily described or categorized.
I am also thankful for:
-lists
-scarves
-plane tickets
-sunshine
-hot showers
-Ghiradelli chocolate caramel squares
-songs that are not that funny unless you listen to them with someone else
-the delicate cracking of the spine of a brand new book
-the unexpected
-netflix
-the "ting ting" sound of spoons and coffee cups in the morning
-finding money in the washing machine, crisp and downy fresh
-tiny triumphs
-this day
Happy Thanksgiving 2010!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
wings, a story
It was during the discussion over linens that she decided she couldn’t go through with it. The head caterer had folded, unfolded, and refolded napkins three different ways and was now staring plainly at Liz, expecting her to illicit some type of affirmative response, but nothing came. Wavering a little, the red-haired man, dressed perpetually as a penguin, released the neat creases once more with a quick shake and, with his fast fingers began skillfully building some type of three dimensional bird that would perch atop the table like a hairless piece of taxidermy.
“The problem with folding the napkins this way,” he said, fussing with the corners of the birds’ tucked wings, “is the height. You’ll already have the floral arrangements as centerpieces, and you certainly won’t want to upstage them with the napkins. In my experience, simple is best concerning this detail. If you want, we could discuss napkin rings- I have a few very tasteful options I think you might like.”
The fact that Liz had contributed no thoughts to the triple diagonal fold vs. the square-shaped collection of creases didn’t seem to faze the bow-tied man; perhaps he had had success reading brides-to-be in the past, but this particular one didn’t want to be one anymore, and it wasn’t about the flowers, the food, the dress, the dj, the hall, the minister, the in-laws, or even the expense. It wasn’t about the napkins, either, though she couldn’t help but to stare at them, wildly it would seem, her eyes as big as the wingspan on the upright origami-ed non-descript flying thing.
She wanted wings. Even if they wouldn’t take her anywhere. Even if they could get wet and stained and lose their magic, she wanted them, for a little while. Just to touch, to reach her hand around her body, stretch behind her back. Even if she couldn’t see them and would never use them, she just wanted to know they were there.
“The problem with folding the napkins this way,” he said, fussing with the corners of the birds’ tucked wings, “is the height. You’ll already have the floral arrangements as centerpieces, and you certainly won’t want to upstage them with the napkins. In my experience, simple is best concerning this detail. If you want, we could discuss napkin rings- I have a few very tasteful options I think you might like.”
The fact that Liz had contributed no thoughts to the triple diagonal fold vs. the square-shaped collection of creases didn’t seem to faze the bow-tied man; perhaps he had had success reading brides-to-be in the past, but this particular one didn’t want to be one anymore, and it wasn’t about the flowers, the food, the dress, the dj, the hall, the minister, the in-laws, or even the expense. It wasn’t about the napkins, either, though she couldn’t help but to stare at them, wildly it would seem, her eyes as big as the wingspan on the upright origami-ed non-descript flying thing.
She wanted wings. Even if they wouldn’t take her anywhere. Even if they could get wet and stained and lose their magic, she wanted them, for a little while. Just to touch, to reach her hand around her body, stretch behind her back. Even if she couldn’t see them and would never use them, she just wanted to know they were there.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
bar talk, a story
“How many drinks?” Davey asked pointing to the small-framed strawberry-haired and faced guy at the bar holding a Corona.
“No way,” Adam replied. “I’d have to be blacked out.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Davey said. “Two drinks and you’d be all over him like a pig in mud.”
“I’ve already had two drinks,” Adam said.
“Three then,” Davey pushed a beer across the tiny cocktail table. He turned to Hilary. “Have you seen the new cocktail server?” pointing her out amidst the sea of sloshed, singing sweatballs.
“No,” Hilary said, trying to get a look at her, stretching her neck out to see above dancing drunks with their hands raised.
“She’s totally your type,” Davey said while pulling on Hilary’s sweater so it would slug down in the center revealing a bit of cleavage. Hilary readjusted her sweater, tugging the lazy loose fabric up high around her neck again.
“What do you mean she’s my type?” Hilary asked.
“ ‘Cuz she’s straight,” Davey taunted. Adam, unable to help himself, chimed in with a little snicker.
Hilary shoved Davey harder than she meant to sending him barreling into a slew of skin-and-bone hipster kids.
“What the fuck, man,” one yelled. “Watch it!”
“I’m so sorry,” Davey oozed. “We were just guessing what everyone in this group’s favorite sex positions are. We kind of have a friendly bet going, so we were wondering if you’d all mind confirming.
“What did you guess about me?” asked a fake blond with a polka dot dress and screaming red lips.
“Easy,” said Davey. “Backwards cowgirl.”
“No way,” Adam replied. “I’d have to be blacked out.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Davey said. “Two drinks and you’d be all over him like a pig in mud.”
“I’ve already had two drinks,” Adam said.
“Three then,” Davey pushed a beer across the tiny cocktail table. He turned to Hilary. “Have you seen the new cocktail server?” pointing her out amidst the sea of sloshed, singing sweatballs.
“No,” Hilary said, trying to get a look at her, stretching her neck out to see above dancing drunks with their hands raised.
“She’s totally your type,” Davey said while pulling on Hilary’s sweater so it would slug down in the center revealing a bit of cleavage. Hilary readjusted her sweater, tugging the lazy loose fabric up high around her neck again.
“What do you mean she’s my type?” Hilary asked.
“ ‘Cuz she’s straight,” Davey taunted. Adam, unable to help himself, chimed in with a little snicker.
Hilary shoved Davey harder than she meant to sending him barreling into a slew of skin-and-bone hipster kids.
“What the fuck, man,” one yelled. “Watch it!”
“I’m so sorry,” Davey oozed. “We were just guessing what everyone in this group’s favorite sex positions are. We kind of have a friendly bet going, so we were wondering if you’d all mind confirming.
“What did you guess about me?” asked a fake blond with a polka dot dress and screaming red lips.
“Easy,” said Davey. “Backwards cowgirl.”
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
a.m. pep talk
I am up early, up with the sun.
A rare occurrence.
But it feels good. To switch things around.
To beat everyone else out of bed.
To take the first shower.
To welcome the day.
To think about the fact that my day is what I make of it.
I'm going to make it a good one.
I am going to eat breakfast without worrying that I won't make time for it tomorrow.
I am going to tell worry to take a backseat today.
I am going to coast along.
Today, I am greeting possibilities.
I am going to be open and trusting.
I am making myself vulnerable to new happenings.
I am embracing the unknown and accepting challenges.
I am going to be as flexible as a bendy straw and as strong as a superhero.
And compassionate. To others and to myself.
I am going to take full control over my day while relinquishing full control to my day. I don't know how to do both of these things simultaneously, but I am looking forward to finding out.
A rare occurrence.
But it feels good. To switch things around.
To beat everyone else out of bed.
To take the first shower.
To welcome the day.
To think about the fact that my day is what I make of it.
I'm going to make it a good one.
I am going to eat breakfast without worrying that I won't make time for it tomorrow.
I am going to tell worry to take a backseat today.
I am going to coast along.
Today, I am greeting possibilities.
I am going to be open and trusting.
I am making myself vulnerable to new happenings.
I am embracing the unknown and accepting challenges.
I am going to be as flexible as a bendy straw and as strong as a superhero.
And compassionate. To others and to myself.
I am going to take full control over my day while relinquishing full control to my day. I don't know how to do both of these things simultaneously, but I am looking forward to finding out.
Monday, April 5, 2010
the center is closed, a story
We walk from the Timbuk2 store to Market Street passing the tiny park with curly, white dogs.
Will it matter is the question I want to ask him, but instead, “are you hungry?”
“No,” he says. “Are you?”
“No,” I say followed by an obvious grumbling from inside. “Well, a little.”
He smiles at me; his teeth are so white. He tells me it’s because of his toothpaste, but I use the same kind.
We turn the corner and stand in front of the LGBT Center. Closed.
“That’s right,” he says. “It’s MLK Day.”
“Where else can we go?” I think out loud. “Magnet? No, it’s probably closed today too. Where did Alex go to get his test?”
“It was a booth at the Castro Street Fair,” he tells me.
“Oh,” I say. “I guess it would be pretty expensive to go to the hospital.”
“Yeah. It’s ok,” he turns to me. “We’ll go another day.”
“Yeah.” I walk up to the door of The Center. It is black inside. A typed sign informs us that The Center will re-open tomorrow.
“Tomorrow?” I ask. “I can meet you here anytime after 1. We can make a day of it- come here, then go to that new bookstore on Octavia, then come back for the results. Then we can go to Philz, get coffee.”
“School starts tomorrow,” he says.
“Oh. Then when?”
“Soon,” he says. “I’ll go soon.”
We start walking toward BART. He’s telling me about his brother’s wedding. We stop at a corner waiting for the illuminated white male icon to tell us it’s safe to walk. Across the street is Martuni’s.
“Wanna grab a beer?” he says.
“It’s on me,” I say.
“No, I’m buying.”
“You bought last time.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“So?”
I look both ways, then bolt across the multi-lane street, but I’ve always been a slow runner. I see his jet black hair sprint ahead of me, and he is already at the bar ordering my Blue Moon when I make it inside.
Will it matter is the question I want to ask him, but instead, “are you hungry?”
“No,” he says. “Are you?”
“No,” I say followed by an obvious grumbling from inside. “Well, a little.”
He smiles at me; his teeth are so white. He tells me it’s because of his toothpaste, but I use the same kind.
We turn the corner and stand in front of the LGBT Center. Closed.
“That’s right,” he says. “It’s MLK Day.”
“Where else can we go?” I think out loud. “Magnet? No, it’s probably closed today too. Where did Alex go to get his test?”
“It was a booth at the Castro Street Fair,” he tells me.
“Oh,” I say. “I guess it would be pretty expensive to go to the hospital.”
“Yeah. It’s ok,” he turns to me. “We’ll go another day.”
“Yeah.” I walk up to the door of The Center. It is black inside. A typed sign informs us that The Center will re-open tomorrow.
“Tomorrow?” I ask. “I can meet you here anytime after 1. We can make a day of it- come here, then go to that new bookstore on Octavia, then come back for the results. Then we can go to Philz, get coffee.”
“School starts tomorrow,” he says.
“Oh. Then when?”
“Soon,” he says. “I’ll go soon.”
We start walking toward BART. He’s telling me about his brother’s wedding. We stop at a corner waiting for the illuminated white male icon to tell us it’s safe to walk. Across the street is Martuni’s.
“Wanna grab a beer?” he says.
“It’s on me,” I say.
“No, I’m buying.”
“You bought last time.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“So?”
I look both ways, then bolt across the multi-lane street, but I’ve always been a slow runner. I see his jet black hair sprint ahead of me, and he is already at the bar ordering my Blue Moon when I make it inside.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
pirates among us
A man receives a package with no return address. It contains a pirate-style eye patch and a note. A broad smile stretches across his handsome face as he reads the familiar bubbly handwriting of his older sister:
Happy Birthday, Jerkface!
He fingers the plastic eye patch and can easily recall the memory his sibling is referring to with such a gift.
*
The glorious gray base gaining diameter, met with the thin maroon stripe on the starboard side, the sleek black bearings that held the proudly waving sails, the flawlessly crafted deck, plank, and crow’s nest manned by peg-legged fellows with black, dotted stubble and, of course, eye patches. This was the Lego Pirate Ship.
It had taken him weeks, no months, to put it together. He worked diligently on it, examining the depiction on the box to ensure an accurate portrayal, stopping only for meal breaks and putting in a hefty amount of overtime to see it through to its completion. It now sat, prominently displayed on the coffee table, for everyone’s admiration.
The day had showed no signs of a storm; however come lunch-time, the high flying sails suddenly took a nasty spill, bringing down their posts and adjoining parts of the main cabin. The port side was under attack next and was demolished in rude chunks slicing through the interior of the boat. The anchor and gangway became completely detached and remaining intricacies had nothing to hold on to. The ship was going down.
Of course somewhere amid the scene, the pirates were bound to question how their creator could have betrayed them in such a way, but there were no survivors among the wreckage. In fact, the extent of the damage was so severe that not one man aboard made it without decapitation.
His sister stood there in silent horror, frozen in complete bewilderment, witnessing the annihilation. When the ship was all but a single connection between the last remaining gray and black block, his tears came full blast like water from the new shower head. The siblings stood there in the ruins of the boy’s beloved ship while he wailed uncontrollably and she tried to make sense out of his spontaneous outburst.
“Mom!” he shrieked.
“Mom! Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!”
Responding to the panic in his voice, their mother made her way to the scene of the crime.
At first, there may have been a tinge of relief in her expression; neither child was bleeding. But as her eyes averted to the scattered remains of what once was The Great Lego Pirate Ship, her lips curled at the edges and her dime sized eyes became quarters.
“Jessica,” he managed to get out between sobs that would no doubt require the use of his asthma inhaler. “Jessica did it!”
Everything after that was mostly a blur. Initially, his sister couldn’t speak. Finally, she found her voice, but their mother wasn’t hearing it.
“Why would your brother wreck his own pirate ship?”
So that this would happen, she undoubtedly thought but knew better than to say it; the penalty for back-talking would have been much more severe.
While the boy was comforted with stolen treasures: late night TV and ice cream (two scoops), his sister was held captive in her room to think about what she had done.
*
Returning the eye patch to the box it had come in, the man heads to the house to make a call. He dials the number he knows by heart.
“Mom,” he says into the receiver, “Remember when Jessica destroyed my pirate ship…”
Happy Birthday, Jerkface!
He fingers the plastic eye patch and can easily recall the memory his sibling is referring to with such a gift.
*
The glorious gray base gaining diameter, met with the thin maroon stripe on the starboard side, the sleek black bearings that held the proudly waving sails, the flawlessly crafted deck, plank, and crow’s nest manned by peg-legged fellows with black, dotted stubble and, of course, eye patches. This was the Lego Pirate Ship.
It had taken him weeks, no months, to put it together. He worked diligently on it, examining the depiction on the box to ensure an accurate portrayal, stopping only for meal breaks and putting in a hefty amount of overtime to see it through to its completion. It now sat, prominently displayed on the coffee table, for everyone’s admiration.
The day had showed no signs of a storm; however come lunch-time, the high flying sails suddenly took a nasty spill, bringing down their posts and adjoining parts of the main cabin. The port side was under attack next and was demolished in rude chunks slicing through the interior of the boat. The anchor and gangway became completely detached and remaining intricacies had nothing to hold on to. The ship was going down.
Of course somewhere amid the scene, the pirates were bound to question how their creator could have betrayed them in such a way, but there were no survivors among the wreckage. In fact, the extent of the damage was so severe that not one man aboard made it without decapitation.
His sister stood there in silent horror, frozen in complete bewilderment, witnessing the annihilation. When the ship was all but a single connection between the last remaining gray and black block, his tears came full blast like water from the new shower head. The siblings stood there in the ruins of the boy’s beloved ship while he wailed uncontrollably and she tried to make sense out of his spontaneous outburst.
“Mom!” he shrieked.
“Mom! Mommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm!”
Responding to the panic in his voice, their mother made her way to the scene of the crime.
At first, there may have been a tinge of relief in her expression; neither child was bleeding. But as her eyes averted to the scattered remains of what once was The Great Lego Pirate Ship, her lips curled at the edges and her dime sized eyes became quarters.
“Jessica,” he managed to get out between sobs that would no doubt require the use of his asthma inhaler. “Jessica did it!”
Everything after that was mostly a blur. Initially, his sister couldn’t speak. Finally, she found her voice, but their mother wasn’t hearing it.
“Why would your brother wreck his own pirate ship?”
So that this would happen, she undoubtedly thought but knew better than to say it; the penalty for back-talking would have been much more severe.
While the boy was comforted with stolen treasures: late night TV and ice cream (two scoops), his sister was held captive in her room to think about what she had done.
*
Returning the eye patch to the box it had come in, the man heads to the house to make a call. He dials the number he knows by heart.
“Mom,” he says into the receiver, “Remember when Jessica destroyed my pirate ship…”
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
jamie
The truths I learned as a very young child: putting seashell-shaped soap in the fish tank results in Goldie going to heaven, eating an entire tube of cookie dough results in a heck of a tummy ache, and playing carnival games yields no results except an empty wallet. The first two lessons I learned on my own, but my knowledge of the scam that is carnival games was instilled by my father who told me it was so, and I had no reason to believe otherwise.
I have happy childhood memories of funnel cakes and tilt-a-whirls, of fat fries dipped in malt vinegar and repeated rides on the “The Whip”. My memories; however, do not include playing Rocko’s Ring Toss, Shoot Out the Star, or Plinko. Dad always said they were a waste of money, a con, a rip-off. Like flushing money down the toilet. If you want a toy, he’d say, I’ll buy it for you at the store. And this was perfectly fine by me seeing as how most of the prizes were poorly made with stuffing spewing out of the seams, looking drunk or crazy due to disproportionate eyes or a sloppy embroidered smile. I respected that my father refused to pour his life savings into an inanimate box or be coaxed by some loud-mouthed fast-talking swindler. Besides, the thought of owning a six-foot-tall giant Bugs Bunny kind of freaked me out.
When I first saw Jamie, she was squished against the Plexiglas surrounded by a stuffed blond baby doll with fat cheeks in a pink frilly dress and a brown teddy wearing an argyle sweater, her little gray face, its friendly disposition, calling out to me from her arrangement in the clutter, her row of green felt spikes peeking out the top of the mass of characters.
I stood there peering into the shuffle silently observing my new friend. That’s Jamie, the dinosaur, I informed my dad pointing her out. I knew I couldn’t take her home, that she must remain encased until some other fool came by and emptied his piggy bank into the impossible machine. I accepted that. I just wanted her to meet my dad.
While Dad went off in search of soft-serve, Mom took me to wait in line for the “The Snake”, a kiddie coaster that went round and round and round. After the ride had come to a full and complete stop, I moved with the group of children to the exit gate where my parents stood waving. It was then that Dad pulled out the small gray dinosaur I had seen in the claw machine and presented it to me. Jamie!
I looked up at my dad in amazement. I wondered how many times he’d activated the three pronged silver claw to dig down and scoop up the buried dinosaur. I learned a new truth that day to add to my ongoing understanding of the world: being my father’s daughter results in a pretty good life.
I have happy childhood memories of funnel cakes and tilt-a-whirls, of fat fries dipped in malt vinegar and repeated rides on the “The Whip”. My memories; however, do not include playing Rocko’s Ring Toss, Shoot Out the Star, or Plinko. Dad always said they were a waste of money, a con, a rip-off. Like flushing money down the toilet. If you want a toy, he’d say, I’ll buy it for you at the store. And this was perfectly fine by me seeing as how most of the prizes were poorly made with stuffing spewing out of the seams, looking drunk or crazy due to disproportionate eyes or a sloppy embroidered smile. I respected that my father refused to pour his life savings into an inanimate box or be coaxed by some loud-mouthed fast-talking swindler. Besides, the thought of owning a six-foot-tall giant Bugs Bunny kind of freaked me out.
When I first saw Jamie, she was squished against the Plexiglas surrounded by a stuffed blond baby doll with fat cheeks in a pink frilly dress and a brown teddy wearing an argyle sweater, her little gray face, its friendly disposition, calling out to me from her arrangement in the clutter, her row of green felt spikes peeking out the top of the mass of characters.
I stood there peering into the shuffle silently observing my new friend. That’s Jamie, the dinosaur, I informed my dad pointing her out. I knew I couldn’t take her home, that she must remain encased until some other fool came by and emptied his piggy bank into the impossible machine. I accepted that. I just wanted her to meet my dad.
While Dad went off in search of soft-serve, Mom took me to wait in line for the “The Snake”, a kiddie coaster that went round and round and round. After the ride had come to a full and complete stop, I moved with the group of children to the exit gate where my parents stood waving. It was then that Dad pulled out the small gray dinosaur I had seen in the claw machine and presented it to me. Jamie!
I looked up at my dad in amazement. I wondered how many times he’d activated the three pronged silver claw to dig down and scoop up the buried dinosaur. I learned a new truth that day to add to my ongoing understanding of the world: being my father’s daughter results in a pretty good life.
Friday, March 26, 2010
telltale signs
I’m trying on swimsuits in the Macy’s dressing room. Though not usually the most encouraging of activities for young women with real bodies, I’m feeling pretty fabulous thanks to the adventurous evening I had the night before involving floggers and an open mind.
The sales associate has been helping me with sizes. She’s back now with the suit I want, but in a color I detest.
“Sorry, hon, it’s all we got left. Can I take some of that back for ya?”
I leave the door open as I gather the remaining suits.
As I’m doing so, I guess she seizes the opportunity to check out how well the one I’m still wearing fits. I catch her looking at me in the triple mirrors and turn to face her. Her expression is odd, and I wonder if I have the suit on backwards or if the florescent lights are making my already pale skin appear translucent.
Without hesitation, she blurts, “Girl, your ass is bruised!”
Mortified, I say lamely, “I, ah, must have fallen.”
She gives me a knowing look, mutters something, and walks away.
The sales associate has been helping me with sizes. She’s back now with the suit I want, but in a color I detest.
“Sorry, hon, it’s all we got left. Can I take some of that back for ya?”
I leave the door open as I gather the remaining suits.
As I’m doing so, I guess she seizes the opportunity to check out how well the one I’m still wearing fits. I catch her looking at me in the triple mirrors and turn to face her. Her expression is odd, and I wonder if I have the suit on backwards or if the florescent lights are making my already pale skin appear translucent.
Without hesitation, she blurts, “Girl, your ass is bruised!”
Mortified, I say lamely, “I, ah, must have fallen.”
She gives me a knowing look, mutters something, and walks away.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
eulogy, a story
She sat down at her desk and began writing what was to be her own eulogy. The words flowed out of her like a popped can of soda that had been shaken up, and when she was done, she read over it twice to ensure her tenses were in order- it would be embarrassing if they weren’t. Then she folded it neatly, three vertical lines of fold, and tucked it into the plain white envelope with its blue and white squiggled-for-safety interior. She ran her tongue along the sides and sealed it shut pressing it down and applying some pressure for smoothness. Then she turned it over and stared at the startling white rectangle. What to write? How does one label one’s own eulogy?
She glanced at the clock, as if time were of any factor to her, then peaked out the window, as if the weather were at all relevant. She started memorizing items on the floor and repeating their order to herself, as if she would later be quizzed. Left sleeve of pink hooded sweatshirt atop inside out bleach-stained gray sweatpants over blue sock with those little slip-resistant treads on the bottom next to jeans with the difficult zipper slung over the thin brown belt. None of this mattered. She was just procrastinating, and she hated procrastinating because it made her feel weak.
She closed her eyes so she would not be distracted, but then her ears turned on and began listening to sounds distant and near, actual and otherwise. She heard hums and purrs and constant drones, as well as irregular shifts and changes. It was like a concert of broken quiet all around her, all her own, all for her. She cocked her head forward, bringing her chin to her chest and tried to listen even closer before the rest of her had a chance to ruin that moment for her too.
She glanced at the clock, as if time were of any factor to her, then peaked out the window, as if the weather were at all relevant. She started memorizing items on the floor and repeating their order to herself, as if she would later be quizzed. Left sleeve of pink hooded sweatshirt atop inside out bleach-stained gray sweatpants over blue sock with those little slip-resistant treads on the bottom next to jeans with the difficult zipper slung over the thin brown belt. None of this mattered. She was just procrastinating, and she hated procrastinating because it made her feel weak.
She closed her eyes so she would not be distracted, but then her ears turned on and began listening to sounds distant and near, actual and otherwise. She heard hums and purrs and constant drones, as well as irregular shifts and changes. It was like a concert of broken quiet all around her, all her own, all for her. She cocked her head forward, bringing her chin to her chest and tried to listen even closer before the rest of her had a chance to ruin that moment for her too.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
stumbled, a poem
I stumbled upon red
a tangling of bare legs, of hot breath
a thick-aired silence
a helium balloon
I stumbled upon yellow
a movie I've been wanting to watch
a poem I've been meaning to hear
a memory I've been hoping to retrieve
I stumbled upon green
a child's toy forgotten on a park bench
a spotted dog chasing his own tail
a plant that refuses to grow
I stumbled upon blue
a cloudless sky
a text message canceling dinner plans
an empty bus stop for a moment of solitude
a tangling of bare legs, of hot breath
a thick-aired silence
a helium balloon
I stumbled upon yellow
a movie I've been wanting to watch
a poem I've been meaning to hear
a memory I've been hoping to retrieve
I stumbled upon green
a child's toy forgotten on a park bench
a spotted dog chasing his own tail
a plant that refuses to grow
I stumbled upon blue
a cloudless sky
a text message canceling dinner plans
an empty bus stop for a moment of solitude
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
looking out, a poem
From her apartment
The city looks like sky
The lights like stars
Looking down as if you’re looking up
If you cross your eyes slightly
All shapes vanish
Then you can look for the constellations
Play connect the dots
Find something familiar
And something brand new
The city looks like sky
The lights like stars
Looking down as if you’re looking up
If you cross your eyes slightly
All shapes vanish
Then you can look for the constellations
Play connect the dots
Find something familiar
And something brand new
Sunday, March 21, 2010
grass, a story
She tied knots out of grass, connecting blade after green blade. She wanted to make a dress, but the grass kept breaking. She wanted to make a dress because soon she would not have access to her dresser drawers. Soon her parents would be gone, and with them their money, so she wouldn’t be able to buy anything new. And everything old would have been destroyed in the fire, and the only way, the only possible way, she would be able to stay at her school and not have to move again, and not become part of the system and the state, and not be raised by a foster family with too many kids and too many chores and too many rules and too many mean looks would be to convince everyone: her teachers, her friends, herself that she could take care of herself. She was fine staying in the woods, foraging for food, sleeping on her pale blue Minnie Mouse sweatshirt. It said Orlando, Florida on it. That implied she was traveled. A girl who had been on vacation was a girl taken care of indeed! Her scam at sleepovers was so believable, in fact, that friends’ parents didn’t bother with questions about her home or her lack of socks. Everyone was merely concerned with having a grass garment of their own. She would go into business and make her own money. All of her needs would be met by selling grass dresses and skirts, grass “sweaters” and headbands, pants made from grass and purses. Soon, the whole neighborhood would be wearing grass in place of clothing. Then she would never be caught. Ever. Then, everyone in the town would look the same. Any lingering questions would be swept away with the new phenomenon. She was a visionary. A visionary who couldn’t tie together more than three blades of grass.
Friday, March 19, 2010
upswing
I walked home without my coat on, watched three friends fool around with a guitar on the their front steps, heard laughter, saw skin.
I took the longest route home even though the strap of my bag, holding my shed-off sleeves and more than my share of library books, was digging into my shoulder. Now, I have put the bag down, surveyed the indentation, and want to go back out and explore the summer-seeming night.
Weather this mild is so infrequent, especially for it to have lasted into the night. The good sun was kind enough to leave lingering warmth as she gathered herself to settle in. The air feels nostalgic and carefree, sweet smells of honeysuckle waft over to me, an energy of contentment swoops me up: excitement and relief. It feels good to sweat, to be outside, to walk and be blanketed by that made-especially-for-me temperature. I am lubricated by perfection.
It reminds me of growing up, of east coast evenings, all the sounds and aspirations. Friendly and familiar, this night cradles me. It removes worry and negativity. It produces hope in abundance. I gladly take what I am offered.
I took the longest route home even though the strap of my bag, holding my shed-off sleeves and more than my share of library books, was digging into my shoulder. Now, I have put the bag down, surveyed the indentation, and want to go back out and explore the summer-seeming night.
Weather this mild is so infrequent, especially for it to have lasted into the night. The good sun was kind enough to leave lingering warmth as she gathered herself to settle in. The air feels nostalgic and carefree, sweet smells of honeysuckle waft over to me, an energy of contentment swoops me up: excitement and relief. It feels good to sweat, to be outside, to walk and be blanketed by that made-especially-for-me temperature. I am lubricated by perfection.
It reminds me of growing up, of east coast evenings, all the sounds and aspirations. Friendly and familiar, this night cradles me. It removes worry and negativity. It produces hope in abundance. I gladly take what I am offered.
Monday, March 15, 2010
remembering, a story
Do you remember that night that we were eating pistachio gelato on the bench outside your apartment because it was too beautiful to be inside and how you theorized that our having found one another and being together fulfilled a long anticipated prophecy as if we were characters in a C.S. Lewis book?
Do you remember how much you liked when I wore that white v-neck with the splashy flowers on it and how you always complimented me with your eyes?
Do you remember how you used to tell me that my vagina tastes like honey? And how you would lay your head on my stomach as I would massage your scalp and how your tiny curls would fall like snow onto my bare chest?
Do you remember when we drove to Stockton to go thrifting and the car broke down and we had to be towed all the way back to San Francisco and how the tow truck driver told us about how he used to be a medic in the army before he became an auto mechanic before he drove tow trucks and how he said that putting cars back together is a lot like putting people back together?
Do you remember that strawberry and nutella crepe we shared the day we found out your mother was leaving your father?
Do you remember the peacock that was stalking us at the zoo after you gave it a piece of your rice cake?
Do you remember kissing by the Sutro Baths while tourists were snapping photos and how you made that comment about us not being able to shake the paparazzi?
Do you remember when we dogsat for your friends on Castro Street in that seafoam green Victorian and how we rented the entire series of Mary Tyler Moore from the library and we wore hats- yours thin blue and white stripes like a conductor, mine a deep purple baseball hat we found at Crossroads that said Hawaii in big block letters- so we could flip them up each time the theme song played?
Do you remember when your pen leaked all over my dress and how I cried into your arms at the Laundromat because it didn’t all come out in the wash?
Do you remember how much you liked when I wore that white v-neck with the splashy flowers on it and how you always complimented me with your eyes?
Do you remember how you used to tell me that my vagina tastes like honey? And how you would lay your head on my stomach as I would massage your scalp and how your tiny curls would fall like snow onto my bare chest?
Do you remember when we drove to Stockton to go thrifting and the car broke down and we had to be towed all the way back to San Francisco and how the tow truck driver told us about how he used to be a medic in the army before he became an auto mechanic before he drove tow trucks and how he said that putting cars back together is a lot like putting people back together?
Do you remember that strawberry and nutella crepe we shared the day we found out your mother was leaving your father?
Do you remember the peacock that was stalking us at the zoo after you gave it a piece of your rice cake?
Do you remember kissing by the Sutro Baths while tourists were snapping photos and how you made that comment about us not being able to shake the paparazzi?
Do you remember when we dogsat for your friends on Castro Street in that seafoam green Victorian and how we rented the entire series of Mary Tyler Moore from the library and we wore hats- yours thin blue and white stripes like a conductor, mine a deep purple baseball hat we found at Crossroads that said Hawaii in big block letters- so we could flip them up each time the theme song played?
Do you remember when your pen leaked all over my dress and how I cried into your arms at the Laundromat because it didn’t all come out in the wash?
Sunday, March 14, 2010
five more minutes, a poem
Outside of the sleeping bag
Over my head
You
Formulaic
Getting ready
Off to hunt
But I want to gather
You
In my arms
Over my head
You
Formulaic
Getting ready
Off to hunt
But I want to gather
You
In my arms
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