Ode to Old

i don't know what kissing means
but i like it when you kiss me clean
i keep bleeding and i don't know why
falling further through the sky

funny how you say have a good day
and i like your way
pyt
falling free

i forgot why i loved you
why i let you go
but your kinda cute
and i like that you like me
that you dance real goofy
just like me

but it's okay if we don't make out
or have sex or kiss again
you made me laugh without care
and strip bare on a dare
falling falling, falling there

thanks.

Two Haiku

Dimples abounded,
glittering eyes and teeth.
What's so damn funny?

Smiles shared in between
tingling thoughtlessness filling
this void of time and space.

A Perfectly Ripe Pear

After much internal debate, I place the perfectly ripe pear in my work bag with my notebooks, water bottle, and card-pass. I know it bruises easily, but I think it should be able to withstand the easy ride to work, even though it never does. It always ends up marred and hideous, practically pulverized, moistening the inside of my bag and its contents with pulp. But I just keep putting it in there, unprotected, out of spite. It should be able to survive something so benign. I throw the bag over my shoulder and head down the same path to the metro in my soft-brown Steve Madden heels.

Now I remember why I never wear these shoes. My right foot is slightly smaller than my left foot. So the right shoe slips off my heal just a millimeter more than my left, causing my knee-high, thin-wool sock to be pulled down, bit by bit, until its ripples of thin wool are nicely nestled between the ball of my foot and my heal, inside the shoe.

A man stops near me at the intersection, as I hoist my foot on the light pole, and coerce the stupid tan sock back up my right calf, finally giving in to whether it was worth pulling it back up, knowing it would just inch its way back down. The discomfort always triumphs. The glowing red hand blinks out as the white walker signals a go across the street. My man in the pinstriped suit and I set off. Ah, the awkward, side by side, walk with a stranger. It's disconcerting, because it is immediately intimate, no matter how askew you force your stare. Minutes pass, we're still in the same horizontal line. How is this possible? Here he is, in his big, flat, man-shoes, with legs three inches longer than mine, and he's walking at the exact same pace as me? He must be doing it on purpose. He must be wooed by the click, click, click of my sexy half-inchers.

I haven't worn these shoes in forever. I'm only wearing them now, because I saw a woman on the train yesterday wearing the same ones, and she seemed so womanly to me. I wondered why I didn't feel womanly, and I thought, "I should wear those shoes more." I'd been wearing my Dansco's nonstop, forsaking every pair of heels I'd collected over the past year. Right when I'd finished building my collection: brown heels, red heels, black heels, I decided it wasn't worth it, and made every outfit match, as best I could, my big, goofy clogs.

Heels make me feel so vulnerable to the elements: anything could send me tumbling over, tripping over myself, or wavering on my feet. Everyday I watch all the women avoiding the grates in the sidewalk, veering to the right, and I laugh: serves you right! Then I exaggeratedly stomp on each grate, to highlight their foolishness. Now I'm in line with that same rightward stream, blushing.

But maybe that's the point. The shoes make me more sensitive, and so, more womanly. The higher the heel, the more womanly the woman. But I like my clogs. Those clogs make me feel stable in the world: no pebble is gonna throw me out of step. I spent the past fifteen years teaching myself to be less sensitive, after endless teasing by my siblings, marking me the Crybaby. By the time I was a teenager, I'd become cool like all the skater kids, nothing could phase me.

But nobody takes home the cool girl: "one of the guys". I felt like I'd been utterly fooled when I watched each hot, skater guy throw his arm around some bimbo with bubbly tits and an obnoxious laugh. What about the hot chick who can do an Ollie off the half-pipe? No, no one marries the chick who drinks him under the table and shows him up in poker...

I arrive at work and transfer my bag's weight from my back to the desk: the moment of truth. Will the pear be whole, retaining its buoyant skin, or will it be ruined?

In Celebration of my Birth

I hate my birthdays. All they do is give me the excuse to indulge in self-pity.

I always want my birthdays to be fun and full of love, but they invariably disappoint. Everyone at work is emphasizing how terrible it is that I have to work on my birthday. They don't know that if I weren't at work, I'd have to spend the entire day alone. If I didn't come to work, I would not have received a single hug today - an already rare experience.

I remember my disappointment on my fifth birthday. I thought I'd have a great party with all my friends bearing gifts. There would be snacks, games, maybe a clown, like the movies. I remember looking up at my parents, tears starting to back up behind my eyes, as they explained that we'd have to have a family-only party this year, and how they knew I understood, being such a big girl and all. I wouldn't let the tears out, because I was turning five, and kindergartners didn't cry when they're family needed them. I was devastated to find out that turning five didn't mean finally going to kindergarten and being in school like all my brothers and sisters. I was born too late to get in that year.

I remember my disappointment on my eighth birthday. I'd just moved across the country and had almost no friends. But I decided to have a party anyway, with the few friends I did have. I sat in my big empty house all day waiting for someone to show up. I finally gave up when the one guest that did arrive couldn't stay, but just came to drop off a gift.

I spent my entire twelfth birthday silently brooding, because I had to share my "special day" with my cousin Mark's "special day" and everyone's Thanksgiving day. I didn't even get my own cake with the turkey: it had Mark's name on it, too. He was turning nine -- big deal.

My twenty-first birthday was lonely. My on-and-off boyfriend and I were in a break-up phase, but he took me out for a drink anyway. It was not just awkward, but excruciating, because I was madly madly in love with him and he was good at torturing me. He broke up with me right before every major holiday, especially the ones involving gifts -- those and summer breaks. But it was the only outing I could get, as no one else I knew was 21 yet.

birthdays = disappointment and self-pity

12+12=12

Every year for the past twelve years, my mother and oldest sister have celebrated my twelfth birthday. It all started when I visited my sister at college. She ran around behind me, warning all her male friends that I was only twelve and laughed as shivers ran down their spines at the thought of their own thoughts about me. That was the first time I visited Jenn at St. John’s. Every subsequent year I visited her there, she continued to tell her friends that I was twelve. When I protested, she informed me that I’d always be twelve to her.

My mother soon picked up on what she thought was a spectacular joke. I didn’t even mind it so much, but they still got a kick out of continuing the joke. I even enjoyed playing along. My mother put twelve candles on all my birthday cakes, even my “sweet sixteen”. “Can’t break the tradition!” Even now my mother likes to bring the joke up, pushing my hair out of my face, lovingly, “my forever twelve year old girl”. It took me until now to realize all the irony of this running joke.

Mustard Seeds

Mustard seeds, mustard yellow-orange. Orange suns and orange sores. Sore muscles and sore joints. Joined at the hip like marriage and jello. Gelatin in hooves of horses running on a field with hair in the wind. Hair in my teeth, in my mouth -- hairy face -- face of full features filled with faulty fortresses. Fuck. Fuck you. I want to, love you, feel you, touch you, hurt you, feel your steam....

Steaming shit resting comfortably on earthy mounds. My head rests comfortably on my pillow, warm with dog-smell. I cuddle her -- she groans.

Groaning with the endless advance of years upon years upon...

Upon your ears I leave a sign, a signal for your advance and you hesitate. Your hesitation makes me flee, and my flight makes you hesitate. Meditate. Meditate on the falling flowers and wily wind blows and soggy shoes and wilting.

Wilting on your chest, I sigh -- sort of like salty sorrows. Sorrowfully weeping willows salting the breezes, breezing by me as I sit and think. Think of ants on my toothpaste, scratching my teeth -- teeth in my brain, gnawing.

You gnawed on some corn, so unsatisfying. You're unsatisfying, but I like you anyway. 'Cause you're distracting, and I'm distracted. Distracted bumble bees burrow in wood to find a home. Home is where your mother is. Mother is distracted with her home. Home is in the wood of the bumble bees burrowing.

Burrowing into your neck, I can't breathe. Breathing sweat beads and skin particles and soap scum. Scum on my shoes on brick paths and decorated streets, streets where you left me. Leave me in peace. Piece of your shoe left on my porch, decorating my mind with scum-memories and soapy thoughts. Thinking thoughts of thatchers, thatching memories of things that thought thoroughly.

Thoroughly amused. Amused by the mole on your cheek, waggling. Waggle-walking to the convenience store for a popcicle. Cycling panda bears wearing furry neck-pieces -- entertaining. Entertaining you, I lost my feet and stumbled.

I stumbled into you and laughed.

You were always so serious.

Wandering

One of my favorite things in life is walking at my own pace. I love to walk right down the middle of a wide corridor or hallway -- not to the right or the left. I like to walk as fast as I can when I have no where to go. I like to walk as slow as possible, right up to the point of stopping. When I walk with people, I purposely drift into them, just to keep it interesting.

Getting Old

I get on and off the trains without looking or listening, somehow reaching my destination, waddling with the morning penguins.

I try to stop myself from drinking enough coffee to make my stomach hurt, but it's a nice way to get my mind off my mind.

It's time for a change of scenery.

I can hear the difference in his voice. It's striking, and I droop a little. I'm too empathetic. I'm more empathetic with his depression than my own. I offer suggestions, trying not to sound like an authority. It sounds something like how it goes in my head. I love when I try to fix other people to avoid fixing myself.

But I'm not even interested anymore. Everything grows old, threatening to take me with it.

This vibrating in my chest is becoming bothersome, nearly a shutter. Soon I'll vibrate myself right out of this town, and into a new scenario to become old. But really, I'm the one that's getting old, and I take everything with me.

Kimchi and Wine

I let the fermented cabbage and grapes dance together in my stomach. I set my glass on the mini Native American carpet and think, that could have been our life together -- meaningful coasters on carefully selected side tables. We would have been good at it, too -- your minimalism combined with my initiative.

But you're doing that with someone else now, and I stopped caring about aesthetics.

You never liked my spontaneity. I just annoyed you when I got hyper and wanted to feast on the world. I'd bounce around you on the bed as you tried to concentrate and block me out. Eventually, you'd look into my grin and sigh, and I'd let my head drop.

You read four or five books at the same time and kept several journals, or whatever they were. You never told me your thoughts. You'd much rather write them down, or read someone else's version of them. I'd watch you scribble away, wondering what you were writing, wondering if you'd ever ask me what I thought.

I remember how lonely I was when I was with you. Funny how I feel less lonely now that I'm alone. Except for your hands. I remember your hands.

Why can't I cover my face when I want to? Why is it so hard to stay hidden? You didn't understand why I'd stretch your wide hand over my whole face, but you let me do it. And you let me hold it there as long as I wanted.

That's why I miss you.

Love Potion #9

Men:

3 parts confidence, 1 part vulnerability

Women:

2 parts timidity, 1 part sexy, with a dash of indifference

Mix well, and let stand.

Thoughts in my head like fucking Le Loup...

I don't feel hollow, though I feel the absence of my stomach, my mind, my heart...

What was I when I was fourteen? A child. But I got it better back then.  I hated myself, but I think I loved myself more than I do now.

It was when friendship meant life. Parents meant love and hatred. Everything was intense. And you were barely distinguishable from your environment.

Now everything is isolating. Isolation. -- No one gets me. I'm all alone. The world is strange and cold. I can't find the warmth and safety. Et cetera, et cetera.

Maybe things haven't changed after all. They just have more consequences now.

In Love

The sky has been layered lately,
rippled.
How intuitive of it.

But it cannot convey the simultaneous stillness
and tumult inside me.
I am erratic and confused
as I sit,
arms holding legs
holding chest,
and wait.

Wait.

What am I waiting for? I can't
remember what I wanted.
Did I want something?
Music, The Microphones, emotion?

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

But wait,
wait.

What used to be
an irritated geyser
becomes soft gurgling curls.
I'm tired.

I'm so tired.

I don't want to give up, but
it's slow and I'm fast.
It's fast and I'm slow.

Something,
I feel something,
intensely.

Nothing,
I find nothing,
consistently.

I hate you, god love you.

Reason #1

I think we should be together because your mouth is wet and mine is dry.

Awoken by a dream at 8:30am

They enter the city by gliding the boat ashore, using the momentum they had gained from the water.  As they skid to a stop, they take in the city.  They find it strange how much it resembles there home, though it's so different.

The mother turns from the steering wheel and looks down into the hull.  There's her baby boy, lying in their waste.  How did they create so much garbage?  It fills the entire boat.  Maybe the boy shouldn't be lying in it, but he can't be moved.  He's too weak, and she needs a plan.  Her husband is out there, right now, trying to find sustenance for them.  She could wait for him, or she could go herself.  She looks at her daughter, at the cheekbones jutting though her matted blonde hair.  Yes, she would go herself.

As the mother and daughter walk toward the town,  they look for signs of life along the road.  The girl can barely walk, she's so weak, and the hunger seems to have started in on her brain.  The mother takes her hand and half-drags her.  The walk seems never-ending along the life-less expanse.  The mother is not much stronger than the child, she just has more will-power.  She can convince her body that it's stronger than it really is.

They reach the town, and the contrast of its prosperity against their hunger seems absurd.  There must be food for them somewhere here.  The mother feels the bundle of bills in her pocket and sighs at their uselessness.  They wonder through the streets and find wide smiles and laughter, but no food.  They find people rejoicing, oblivious.  How can there be such happiness, the mother wonders, while we are in such hell?  Soon she loses hope, and her strength is nearly spent.  So, she lets her body wonder back toward the boat that holds her son, daughter in tow.

As they leave the town, the two notice a pasture on the left, with a low wooden fence around it.  They certainly didn't see this on the way in.  They stop to get a look and see with their squinting eyes animals grazing.  Life!  The daughter tugs at her mothers skirt, pointing out the eggs lining the fence.  She picks one up with one little hand, sticking the other one in her shirt.  She pulls out a small white egg to compare to the one from the ground.  The white egg looks plain and fragile next to the sparkling, jeweled egg from the fence, but it hadn't broke all this time.  The girl looks up at her mother, and they both smile.  Perhaps there is hope for them after all!

The two turn from the fence with confidence and head toward the boy they'd left behind.  A figure appears on the left of their path.  The mother turns to see a chocolate colored young man with European features in a chocolate robe, holding a scythe.  She swings around and circles her arms around the chest of her bony child.  The man rolls his eyes at her futile gesture and holds his arms out to them.  The girl's feet lift into the air as the mother screams is despair.  He pulls her little soul out through her little feet, leaving her lifeless body to fall to the ground.  Her mother sobs over the little body, as Death turns toward the boat.  "No!" the mother screams.  "Don't take my son, too!"

Death stops and turns to her with a laugh.  "You're son?  He's been dead for days."

It Rained Last Night

It's funny how rain brings out the stench in everything. Though, everything stinks to me, when I've only had a couple hours of sleep.

Funny, many people think it's best to sacrifice as much sleep as possible, as long as you can keep functioning. But it really makes the world foggy, and my brain fidgety.

I can't tell if I'm depressed or content. Is that bad? Maybe I'm neither, what would that be? Floating in apathy?

I don't know, though. I can tell I'm feeling something, it's just blurry. Disappointment, that much is clear. Somehow the daily disappointments that should be the norm are starting to wear me down.

Autumn

"Am I crushing you?" It's my signature question. It never makes sense. I can smell that it's colder now. I'd need a jacket, if I weren't numb from alcohol. I don't feel ready for fall, even though it's my favorite season. It always makes me heavy. I was just getting in the mood to fall in love, but now the feeling's tinted auburn.

That smell reminds me of school. Sinking down into studies, bundling into your mind. I don't feel ready for my mind. I liked ignoring it for the summer -- mindless bounty and restless nights. I don't want to go into introspection, because I'm afraid of what I might discover. No, I'm afraid of what I won't discover. I've thought so much, I've lost track of where I started. What is all this thinking for, if it doesn't relate to action? My head feels infinite, and I'm always getting lost in it, forgetting why I was thinking in the first place.

"No." He's not sure what to think of my question; it seems out of place to him. It is. But I can't find my thoughts right now. All I know is that I like the closeness. I wish I could have the closeness without the complication, and, right now, I can. So I exhale my heavy thoughts and see if I can see him in the sky.

"You guys ready to go?" I'm shocked by the sudden presence of another person. Time to move. My limbs push through the air like deep water -- I wish I could go for a swim. Close my eyes, empty my lungs, and sink to the bottom. Let go of my muscles, be surrounded, submit. Whoops, better concentrate. He'll think I bumped into him on purpose. Maybe I did. But I feel the intimacy slipping away with my consciousness. I want to hold on a little longer. It wasn't enough. Maybe I do want a little complication. Simplicity is overrated.

A Mother

I look around the tiny cottage and see that every little thing is in its place. There's not too much clutter, and every little piece in each little corner was carefully selected for that spot, all collected from the 60-odd years of her life. Even the place is a perfect fit. How did she find a cottage in the middle of New York anyway? And this picnic table in the kitchen section of the room with one candle and a wooden bowl from Japan full of dark chocolate almonds from the co-op on it. The careful selection and planning isn't abundantly obvious, however. It is so well done, it all looks natural and effortless.

She picks at the edges of the hand-woven potholder on the table, flipping it over and over. "Tell me what you like about school," there's some kind of yearning in the glance at her son, but she offers me one as well, for politeness's sake. I smile back and let her get the answer from the person she's actually interested in. She could never see a single flaw in him; she agrees with all of his opinions and ideas. She acts as if she is madly in love with him. "Do you like your tutors?" She pours us both more wine. "Well, you never know, maybe he has something going on at home," her motherly instinct wants to deny all that's negative in the world and hold it far from her sweet child. But he takes it as an attack; she's taking his side. "You're right, honey, I'm so sorry. I have such a bad habit of making excuses for everyone..." She looks at me. I stare at her face, trying to see her genetic make-up. This child of hers could hurl insults at her all day long, all his life for that matter, in a pathetic tantrum and her love for him wouldn't even flinch.

With more strain in her face, trying to give me the same kind of attention, she asks me something. I take it as a sweet gesture, but, knowing I could never withstand that kind of love, I mumble the question away. I just want to observe her more, so I offer a subject for them to continue on. She bums a cigarette from him. I find it sort of adorable, the way she adores him. She's even willing to give herself cancer in order to feel closer to him.

Looking at them, I feel an envy swell up in my chest. I bum a cigarette from him as well and start to pull at the strings of the potholder.

An Addendum

And what is it with men and marriage anyway? They laugh and scoff at women because they supposedly spend their entire lives thinking about marriage. Then, when the thought suddenly strikes their dull minds, they marry the very next woman they come across. Just like that. I mean, really, it is just ridiculous.

It's All Just Politics

I am growing more and more annoyed at the Georgian-Russian conflict, the news coverage of it in America, and especially the Georgian President, Mikheil Saakashvili. Mr. Saakashvili, in my opinion, looks like an utter fool, standing in front of his people, begging the United States to come and have his war with Russia for him. The United States, however, would be the bigger fool if it listened.

What the American news networks like to sidestep in their discussions of this conflict is that Georgia instigated it by entering South Ossetia. The Georgian-South Ossetian dispute has been going on since before the 1920's. South Ossetia declared independence in 1990, though Georgia has not recognized it as independent. South Ossetia happens to be an ally of Russia, North Ossetia lying therein; Georgia happens to be an ally of the US.

Does this remind you of anything? Kosovo perchance? Kosovo declares independence from Serbia, and, of course, Serbia does not recognize it. The US supports Kosovo's independence, because they support the goals of the US.

Say, ten to fifteen years from now, Serbia decides to send its troops into Kosovo. Do you think the US would not respond to this? Especially if Kosovo were located on the United States border? Then suppose Serbia cries to the rest of the world that they've been invaded and are totally outraged. Who would laugh in their face?

Don't get me wrong. I understand and recognize that Russia has over-reacted, and that now they have indeed invaded Georgia proper. I also see that they are telling bold-face lie after bold-face lie to the press about their whereabouts and intentions. So, let's blame them for that. Why confuse the facts and not put blame where blame is due? Mr. Saakashvili made a huge miscalculation regarding the capabilities of the United States military forces at this time. Russia takes this opportunity to flaunt its shit.

CNN asks me, "Is Russia trying to take over the world?" Perhaps. But no more than the United States is. Russia is doing everything the United States would do. The only difference is that we live in the United States, and they live in Russia. We all want the money and the oil and the power equally. It's only weak posturing by the United States and Georgia to pretend there is anything more to this conflict.



Addendum: I later founnd out that it is not quite so clear that Georgia actually started the war; it was much more complicated and Russia was a lot to blame for it. But I still think the news coverage of the entire ordeal was confusing and lacking the depth that the situation required. I also still believe it is usually a matter of alliance, rather than objective morality when it comes to these kinds of conflicts.

Satisfied

I have a hundred loves and no love at all.

The man on the train looking at me though his paper. The clerk at the store, who now recognizes me; his hip son, who works without smiling. The men at work who smile when they see me, and the ones who don't.

Goofy men and serious men. Big boys and skinny boys. Quiet ones; rebellious ones. The ones with long hair and the ones with no hair. Intellectuals and jocks, geeks and musicians.

Glasses and beards and button up shirts. Their hands, their mouths, their shoulders.

When they let me go ahead of them. When they can't stop looking at me, even when they try.

I stand close to the men on the train and breathe them in.

Then I go home, and I feel...

Glass

I can hear their laughing on the other side of the glass. Yes, I feel envy, but also disdain. But I brush both feelings off and scan myself for deeper thoughts. I can write about my feelings all day long. It's feeling them that gets me.

Hard Blood

The hardened blood runs thick through all our veins, but it is most striking in the women of the family. My father has three sisters, Alex, Sam, and Rea. As reflected in the shortened versions of their birth-names that they go by, they are proud of the hardness in their blood.

My Aunt Alex is the most straight forward of the three, seemingly given the largest dose of hard blood. This is a woman who was shocked to hear that I'd made it to the age of twenty-four without ever being sexually assaulted; she was almost offended. She avoids one-on-one time with family members, though she likes their general presence. She only feels comfortable discussing things that are killing us and the hopelessness of the world.

At my family reunion, I obtained several wounds from drunken wrestling with my male cousins. I spent the rest of the week flaunting these wounds, bragging that, no, those boys never did get that damned float from me! I got some strange looks; someone even suggested that I was suicidal, a point I did not care to dispute. Only my Aunt Alex gave me the response I was seeking.

"They may have kicked the shit out of me" (I point at my black eye and fat lip), "but I won!" Aunt Alex's eyes flicker at this boast. "That's my girl!" she says with pride. I immediately feel the irony of my own statement, but my Aunt Alex is thrilled, and I smile.

My Aunt Rea's hardness is more covert. She is a devout worshiper of Jesus Christ, a motherly figure himself. The religion she advocates encourages love, but in classic hard-blood manner, she emphasizes the inevitable end of life:

Aunt Alex's grandson, Isaac, grabs a sand bucket to dip into the pool, and Aunt Rea's son Jude helps him gather water into it. Issac holds the bucket over his head, grinning at Jude, and overturns it. The grin doesn't leave his face for a moment as the water flattens his hair and darkens his clothes. He sees that this pleases Jude, so he goes in for another. Again he tips the bucket onto his own head. All of us at the pool enjoy this show immensely, so he continues the act until we lose interest. Seeing our growing boredom after four or five times, he looks at the floor of the pool for fresh ideas. Suddenly, he hurtles himself straight at Jude, and Jude just barely catches him in the water. They laugh hysterically. Isaac gets out for another go, and Jude is ready. They go at it like this for a while, and the scene draws a bit of a crowd. We all laugh along with them.

"Someone ought to teach him." my Aunt Rea interjects. "One of these days he's going to do that when no one is around. He needs to learn to be afraid." She's subtle, but affective. I notice Jude's smile shrink with Isaac's next jump.

"How old is he?" I object.

"Three," she turns to me with a grimacing smile; she likes a challenge.

"Hmm" I respond.

She loves it. "Don't you think he should be afraid?"

"At three?" I counter. She lets her eyes grill me. "Someone should be watching him." I offer.

"Ha!" She's visibly tickled. "No, he needs to learn. There won't always be someone there to watch him, and what if he does it then?"

"Well, why won't there be? He's only three. Someone should be watching him all the time at that age."

This is so obviously absurd to my aunt that she can barely respond. I look over at Jude, and he is no longer having fun catching Isaac, who remains in blissful oblivion. Uncomfortable with the argument, Jude passes Issac to his brother, Job, who takes up the cross and scolds the ecstatic child for being so reckless. I consider this the loss of the argument and merely smile at my aunt.

"What's he doing now?" Isaac's mother wonders up and projects to the pool.

"He's been jumping into the pool, and I was just saying that he may do it when no one is around to catch him. I was explaining how he needs to learn to be afraid...."

"Yeah! Let 'im drown!" she screams obnoxiously, as if she were drunk. "Put the fear in 'im! Job! Let 'im go! Let 'im drown!" I imagine maniacal laughter after her exhortations. All the while Issac is smiling bigger than his mouth will let him and giggling to no end in Job's arms.

"I was telling Ingrid here that he should be scared." My Aunt Rea won't let me off without a little more fun.

"No, Ingrid, he needs to know! If no one is there to catch him, that's it! He's dead!" Why is she yelling like that? So excitedly. My Aunt Rea just smiles triumphantly at me out of the side of her face, but I don't respond. I force a smile at the ground and steal a glance at Jude. He's out of the pool now.

Several years ago, I would have told them how much their envy corrupts them. They can't be carefree and happy, so they want to rob their offspring of it, the sooner the better. I would have happily dug my heals into their chests to carve out the word 'lazy'. Why watch the children and spend time with them? They're going to die anyway, and we should make sure they remember it. Let's make them as miserable as we are!

I'm older now, though. It wouldn't change anyone to rant like that. I no longer fight with authority to get my aggression out. Now, I am my own authority; I fight with myself. Besides, I don't claim to know how to raise children. Let them have their ways, and me, mine.

My Aunt Sam displays the hard blood in the most complicated way of all. To me, she was always Pepsi and cigarettes, that and a blue station wagon with a German Sheppard in the back. She always seemed to be on the outskirts of everything, watching. Everyone jumped around the poker table, screaming at the one scooping up the money; she'd be outside, smoking a cigarette, staring into the dark. She was the wallflower, cleaning up after everyone, looking after the forgotten, staying up the latest and waking up the earliest. If anyone ever cared to look her way, she wouldn't stand for even a glimpse of pity from them. She didn't want recognition; she'd rather be ignored.

Aunt Sam was always my favorite.

I throw my arms around her behind the chair. She puts a hand on the one under her chin. "You always were my favorite," she tells me, outright, in front of Jude and my Uncle Hugo. I smile in surprise. "Yes, you turned out well, certainly the most beautiful." I look around nervously, are my cousins or sisters around? Jude glances up at me, and I blush.

"Well, thanks, Aunt Sam." I give her a squeeze. I want to tell her she's my favorite, too, but I don't want to offend my Uncle Hugo or anyone he might tell. In a family of talkers, I can't believe she'd said it so openly, as if she didn't care if the whole family were standing there. Though I'm more than flattered, I find the whole thing quite strange. She gives my arm a rub, and I let her go. It didn't seem like a confession. It didn't feel like she was fawning on me. It was as if she were merely stating a fact, and there was something melancholic about it. This is the only interaction I have with my Aunt Sam the entire week.

Orange Death

"See that color there? No, no, the orange, there. I love that color. I think that's my new favorite color. Yes, it's official. My new favorite color is orange."

There it is. Now there is no trace of darkness in me. I let it sink below the surface with the sun. But where is it hiding? Where is the darkness if I don't put it through my lip, my tongue, my eyebrow? Where is it if not in my clothes and my hair? Where does the darkness go if I don't put it on my back and ankles? Now it's trapped inside me. How do I get it out? Drown it in liquor. Pick fights with people bigger than me. Swim out too far. Stand close to the edge of the platform as the train goes by. Hang over the edge of the boat. Suffocate it with food, or starve it. Over-indulge it or make it suffer. Hate the world, hate the hungry, hate the powerful, hate myself. The darkness is me, and whatever I do with it, I do with myself.

"That's right, Fredrick, you're going to die!"

Whoops. I let my death wish slip out. Keep it under the surface, Inger, where people like it. They don't want to see it. Fredrick doesn't have to. I challenge myself by challenging him. Yes, you will die someday. Maybe by a boating accident, maybe a meteor, or a car accident, or cancer. Tip-toeing around death doesn't prevent it. You fear it, because you secretly want it. So maybe if I perch it on my chest, it will be my friend? Its weight makes it hard to breathe. The dark storm inside won't calm. Pressure outside against pressure inside. I feel it leaking out of my eyes and out of my mouth. I feel it in my fingers. I smell it everywhere. Death, it wispers, death. The only way to live is to live alongside death. Death on your couch, watching tv, in your bed, dreaming, on your dinner table, eating, in your child's face, smiling, and as the wings on which your prayers fly to god. My fear is my comfort. I rest assured knowing that there is rest, assuredly.

Alter Ego

She stands close to the edge, so it feels like the train is going to hit her when it buzzes by. The wind feels nice. It's her city-version of going out too far in the ocean. She has a death wish, constantly challenging her life wish.

That's what she shares with him. He likes that she looks death in the face. He likes that she craves it. But it's her cowardice that keeps her alive. And he likes that, too. She's reckless, but vulnerable. And she likes it that someone is watching. It's a new sensation -- someone else seeing. Exhilarating.

They are unified, silently. Words are obsolete. After all, they share the same thoughts, why would they need to speak? Even if they don't, who cares? The thoughts don't even matter. Being matters. They share that, purely, undisguised. They don't have to muddle it with words and thoughts and muck. Not only do they accept each other, but, more importantly, they also accept themselves through each other.

She misses herself through him. The self that throws caution to the wind. The self that doesn't care about anything but adventure. She misses feeling cool and confident, open and unabashed. She misses sharing the silence with someone. The silence is still there, the someone isn't. She goes back inside herself. She could be herself with him, but not when she's alone. She looks ugly through her own eyes, plain and boring. She looked better through his eyes, strange and interesting.

Once he's gone, she easily slips back into self-loathing, stripped of that filter. All she sees now are flaws. She is a coward. She is a fake. And her life? Empty.

Ode to Jenny Lewis

I'd rather be lonely

"Come with me."

I'd rather be free

"Where?"

I'm as sure

"New York?"

as the moon

"To live where?"

rolls around

"You're mother's house?"

the sea

But I like watching you undress

"Stay here"

And I think we're at our best

"Annapolis?"

By the flicker

"D.C."

by the light

"No."

of the TV set

"Why not?"

Cause I can't remember why I hated you

"Because."

Can't remember why I still do

"I just can't."

But I'm as sure as the moon rolls around you

"Okay."

That I could be happy

"Okay?"

happy

"Okay."

Oh, so happy

"So, now what?"

happy, Oh, so happy

"So, now..."

so happy

"...now we say goodbye."

They warn you about killers and thieves in night

I worry about cancer and living right

But my mama never warned me about my own

Destructive appetite

Or the pitfalls of control

How it locks you in your grave

Looking for someone to be saved under my restraint

So I could be happy, happy

Oh so happy, happy

Oh so happy, happy

So happy, so happy

"Ocean breathes salty, won't you carry it in, in your head, in your mouth, in your soul."

The young bartender either is impressed by me, or thinks it's cute that I'm trying to act macho. I honestly don't care what his smirk means, I just want this bourbon to make my tooth ache go away. I keep pointlessly glancing at the shiny pink face of my watch, knowing that not even a minute passes between each glance. I'm not even looking at the watch hands, just how the pink is somehow also blue. It's the same way I keep glancing back at the gate. I don't even know how I would tell if people started to board the plane.

I'm impressed with myself at how quickly I finish the first one, so I order another straight up from the smirking surfer kid. I just want to be back on the surface of the ocean, floating in the dark. I tried it by myself, and it was too scary for some reason. Knowing Jude was near by made it easier. He helped contain the infinitude. Even then I kept popping my head over the metallic surface to make sure he was still there. I felt less like a coward when I caught him doing the same.

I didn't even recognize him after how many years? I was so happy to see Fredrick, I hardly had time to feel awkward about the stranger sitting near me.

"Hey Inger, do you know who that is?" I had just begun to feel his presence, so I turn my head fourty-five degrees to get a look. His face is in clear view, and as I study the lines, I scan my memory: immediate past, important figures. Who could this be? Not even a guess or a vague idea comes to me, even as I think further into the past.

"Hhm mm."

"It's Jude!"

Jude, who? I wonder. I don't remember anyone named Jude. I knew I'd be seeing several relatives that I wouldn't recognize, but not even his name rings a bell. He sort of blushes under my scrutinizing eyes. I still can't get it. "Your cousin!" There is a delay, and then "Max, Jude, and Job."

I had remembered Max. Max was my age. Max went to Iraq. Everyone talked about Max, how he'd grown up. It didn't occur to me, I suppose, that his little brothers would grow along with him. Back then, three and five years was a lifetime. So now that I am faced with a stranger that is about my age, I don't even think of Max's brothers. Job was still a baby the last time I saw them. He looked even stranger than Jude when I saw him. It wasn't until the second trip that I started to make out their baby faces in their grown-up ones.

That was the last trip, though. That was the trip full of strangers that it turned out I loved. It amazed me how quickly they felt like family again. It amazed me how easily everyone forgot about politics and religion and lifestyles and just accepted each other as family. I used to love to hate all of them from far away. I hated their ideas and their beliefs and their politics. They represented everything I fought against. It all melted away when I saw them. Maybe it makes me a hypocrite, but I stopped caring what they believe or how they live.

Everyone wanted to suspend time between the two trips, and let this one just be a continuation of the last. It worked somehow. Except for Max; he didn't come. I missed Max.

Toward the end and on the edges, some reality started to creep in, but we fended it off with plenty of alcohol. I jumped in head first. I jumped into the visceral nurturing of family and liquor, and I never wanted to come up for air. The years started to shed off of me right away. I was like a baby when I left, and, had I stayed, I may have ended up back in the womb. But that's what the ocean is, anyway, isn't it? I had no problem ending up there.

"...Obama and McCain..." Oh no, here comes reality. "...Guantanamo Bay..." Are they really playing the news somewhere? I haven't even gotten on the plane yet. I'm not ready for it. I finish my second bourbon, and the first one starts to kick in. The bartender thinks I'm so cute, and he's pretty cute, too, but I barely see him. I wonder if there's any part of the ocean waiting for me back home. Home. That's a laugh. Back homeless, I mean. I'll have to deal with that when I get back, too. That and Guantanamo Bay. But not Ingrid Betancourt, because somebody freed her while I was gone. All this time, and they rescue her while I'm gone. Talk about a cock-tease. We must have a thousand things in our database at work on her, waiting for the moment she's released, and then I'm not even there when it happens. Not that I am important. That's the point. Did I really think I gained some kind of control when I started following these stories? All I did was invest in the business of constantly feeling my impotency.

No, there is no ocean waiting for me there, no family, no nurturing. It's all cold thought. It's all talking talking talking. Everyone wants to get their word in.

Shh, shh. Just float.

"It Is What It Is"

What is it with this phrase? I first heard it at the restaurant I work in, among my co-workers, then from my bosses. I wondered where they got such a phrase, but I figured it was some kind of restaurant thing like "on the fly" or "86'd". Like it was their version of "let it go". Suddenly, however, I heard the phrase come out of more and more people. I started hearing it from my college friends and other people my age, too. So then I wondered if it was just another one of those passing generational things. Then I started hearing it from members of my parents' generation! What? I know how that generation easily picks up the words and phrases of my generation, but usually they sound foolish doing so. Not this phrase. They somehow own this phrase, saying it with deep feeling, wagging their heads. How has this meaningless piece of faux philosophy suddenly crept into the hearts of so many?

And what do they think they mean when they say it anyway? Are they saying "let it go" or "that's life" or "get over it" or "nothing makes any sense"? Are they trying to be existential or pragmatic? Allow me to reiterate, this sentence is meaningless. They are either saying that the thing has identity or simply that it exists. They may be trying to imply something of the existential or pragmatic flavor, but what they are saying is that that thing is itself. Somehow I doubt that they are contemplating existence when they say this, because they only apply this idea to all the bad things that happen in life.

My boss is incompetent and is firing the only useful person in my department.
Oh well, it is what it is.

Millions of people are dying from hunger, and we're using food to fuel our engines.
Well, it is what it is.

Women say they want nice guys, but then they only date assholes.
Ah yeah, it is what it is.

What are they implying here? "Well, there's no point feeling anything about this, because it exists." "Because this thing has identity, because it exists, it is unchangeable, and because this thing is unchangeable, there is no use thinking or feeling about it." How many assumptions go into this line of thought? First of all that every identity or everything that exists is unchangeable. Second of all, that when you think or feel something about a certain thing, you are trying to change it. This is ridiculous. You are doing neither. You are either trying to understand that thing or you are reacting to it. These two things have nothing to do with changing anything, so that even if you granted that they are saying what they think they are saying (well, you can't change it), it is still ridiculous.

Additionally, if you disregard all that reasoning and apply this crazy logic to anything, you can't just apply it to the bad events and situations. You have to apply it to the whole world, even the positive things.

"I won the lottery and gave half of the money to charity."
Hmm, it is what it is.

"My boyfriend proposed to me, and we're going to start a family."
Yeah, it is what it is.

"I've never been happier in my life."
Oh, it is what it is.

In these examples, the phrase finally reveals itself as the misguided crusader that it is. So I wish all these people would stop spitting this idiotic phrase as their catch-all for every bad thing they hear. If something bad happens, feel free to feel something. If you can have emotion about the good things, then you can have emotion about the bad. I wish the world would stop trying to delete half of itself. We need to go back to the good generational phrase that everyone once adopted: THIS SUCKS!



Let me just add, that every single time I hear this phrase, my skin doesn't just crawl. It feels like someone is taking a cheese grater to my back. There might be some irrational repulsion here as well.

Indian Rock

Indian Rock, something simple like that. A giant bolder formed from God knows what, right in the middle of these little woods. I scramble up the stone while they throw the frisbee back and forth below. I imagine them climbing all over this cold surface as kids to play "King of the World", then as teenagers to smoke a joint. How big this rock must have seemed to them then, and these woods endless. They didn't even notice these things grow smaller as they grew bigger. I envy them their childhood.

It's a strange thing, being in love with two people at once. It isn't about choosing, it never is. The idea of choosing is something forced on the lover by the beloveds, because the beloveds feel jealousy. The lover never feels the need to choose.

But really I was in love with his entire life, including his best friend, his hometown, his family. I loved him in his environment, not as something isolated that I could pull into my own world. He was his best friend and his mother and his nephews and the biodynamic farm and the Waldorf upbringing. He was hiking up Hook Mountain, canoeing to the tiny island for a picnic, playing flip cup with his best friend's little brother, drinking too much coffee, drinking too much beer. He was for me an entire life, a life I wish I had lived and tried to live. So, was it a love born of envy? He was a brooding writer with a nurturing mother. Everything I wanted to be, and I didn't even know it.

But that's the thing, isn't it? I am selfish in the end. I want to be everything. I use people, love them and use them. I want to live their lives for a while. I want to be, for a time, the brooding writer with a nurturing mother, the recalcitrant druggie with spoiling parents, the arrogant ignorant with no father. I want to be the selfless philosopher, the conceited athlete, the reckless traveler, the driven worker. I love their lives, and I want them all for myself, all at once. So, I take them, one at a time, since I can't have everything all at once. When I get bored with one life, I drop it for a new one. Everyone I meet, I take their lives into myself. I want to own each one. I am a heartless cameleon with no skin of my own.

Internal Battles, Part 3: Meanwhiling Away

Zimbabwe's opposition leader banned from holding rallies and arrested twice in the past week, leading up to the re-run of the Presidential elections. Current elected president threatens war if the opposition wins the election. More proof of failure of imposed democracy, as if Kenya was not enough. Alexis De Tocqueville knew that a country's government must grow organically out of it's mores in order to be properly nurtured and to flourish. Beyond a more than persuasive argument for this theory, he offers Mexico's attempt and failure to adopt the United States' exact constitution for an example. I suppose the western cultures just want to offer more examples for the doubtful. I suppose since our own governments are so perfect and free of corruption, we ought to concentrate our efforts on imposing our beliefs on the rest of the poor, unfortunate world.

Meanwhile....
The square people with their square heads wile away their time in their square houses with their square yards staring at their square boxes with its strictly-regulated, square broadcasting. But I understand why they don't want to know. I understand why they do their best to keep their heads tucked out of the rapid fire of bad news. Even the ones considered aware of or even active in the problems of the unfortunate and helpless, these people only have the energy, the heart, to care about one thing. These martyrs have to choose just one thing to focus all their energy into. Because how do you deeply care for the entire world? Who has a heart so big? You have to leave some room for yourself. So of course I would rather buy my Dolche and Gabana sunglasses than try to choose which cause to fight for. Better to stay inside the square world.

A girl stares at the black wall flying by, in the honeycombs under the city, and wonders where she can find a man. A man who could be her lover and her beloved. A man who might respect her as much as she does him. She left a man, whom she loved dearly, and who doubtless loved her, but he loved his own life and his own thoughts more. She left him in a hopeful state of mind, with the faith that she could find someone who would not only love her, but who would also care about her life and her thoughts. She believed she could find a man who would get excited about her pursuits instead of jealous of them. She would try to do the same for him. So far, no one, and hope is fading, but she refuses to settle.

Meanwhile...
Women in Mexico City can't travel to work without being fondled, gawked at, cat-called, and even raped. The city had to make women-only buses and train cars to try to reduce the occurrences. They say the problem is that it is embedded in their culture to treat women as mere sexual objects. If the women take the incidents to court, judges question them on their lifestyles and the way they dress. They try to figure out how the women bring these incidents on themselves.

Intimacy

So I have a hard time accepting nurturing from others. Don't you know that I wasn't breast-fed? The most intimate thing that a human being will ever experience -- the mother's breast, the child's mouth -- this almost killed me. I learned at an early age how painful intimacy is . Poisoned by my mother, I turned to my father. I learned to love the cold, mechanical workings of the intellect -- distant, reliable, safe. Come to find out, safety is unsatisfying, isolating. Now I'm trying to figure out how to come back to nurturing -- how to turn the poison back into mother's milk.

Living Metaphor

I saw a black man with white hands and white eyes on the train to work.

Internal Battles, Part 2

My half-Jewish, half-Swedish boyfriend taught me about Jewish stereotypes. Everything: the big noses, the dark curly hair, the greedy hoarder image, the Goldberg's and the Rosenblatt's. I didn't even knew they existed.

Ignorance has a bad rap. I wonder if pure ignorance really is bliss. It's the partial ignorance that can get so muddled and cause so much trouble.

I came out of college one year ago knowing practically nothing about our War on Terror. The towers were hit my senior year of high school. I watched it on television during drama class. None of it registered at the time. I watch the same footage now, and I am horrified. I think how awful it must have been for the people who were there. Then I remember that my brother, Ned, and my sister, Ellen, were there, right there.

Just as quickly as the smoking image came in, the image went out. I didn't want Bin Laden's blood. I didn't want to comfort the dead. I didn't want revenge. I didn't want to watch the terror-meter. I didn't want to worry. I just wanted to forget, and I did.

I had a few encounters with political conversations during college, for which I vehemently expressed my displeasure. I remember being disgusted by the idea of bringing Democracy to Iraq. Mostly because I had recently read "Democracy in America" for school, and I thought the idea went against everything Alexis De Tocqueville had so eloquently professed.

When the 2004 elections came along, I did my part as a citizen. I registered to vote, and voted against Bush. Bush stayed. I got angry. I went back into my haze.

I didn't know what to think when I heard that my brother, Lance, and later my cousin, Max, were going to Iraq, going to fight this war. Not knowing what the war meant made it hard for me to form a judgement. I knew others were horrified, but I found it hard to feel anything. I actively forgot.

When my temp agency called me for a job at a place called Al Jazeera, I was clueless. I looked it up in Wikipedia, and all it said was "Arabic news channel". I couldn't fathom what I could do for an Arabic news channel, but I took it anyway. I spent the next six months with Wikipedia and the Al Jazeera English channel (the English news channel I was actually working for) as my only friends. I felt like a character in a science fiction film getting zapped with infinite information all at once. When I found the entry for "Guantanamo Bay," I felt like the pure being in The Fifth Element looking up the word "WAR". Total disillusionment.

Now I consider myself "politically aware," even well-informed. Not just on Bush's War on Terror, but everything considered of note happening all over the world.

So I ask myself, "what now?" Now I shake my head a lot, like a boat rocking back and forth on calm water. Now my eyebrows find themselves in an upward bow pose quite often. Now I hurt for other people.

I'm just not sure of the value of information. Things stay as they are, regardless of my knowledge of them. The elections in Africa are still corrupt. Powerful nations still torture, withhold, and stifle. The children are still starving.... I know that knowledge contributes to my feeling of impotency. I just wonder if it does anything positive.

I watched a special on US soldiers who went to Iraq on our channel. The special said that many soldiers cannot re-immerse into society, and long to go back to war as a result. The special showed a few soldiers talking about their experiences coming home. How they can't sleep. How they feel constantly threatened. How they are always on edge. That's when I realized that I never asked my brother what it was like, how he felt. I never spoke to my cousin about it. I didn't even wonder. Then I was truly horrified. Then I cried.

Now I long to know. I can't wait to ask. I want to hear everything. I want to feel my bowing eyebrows, my sinking stomach, my tightening throat. I want to feel it with Lance. I want to feel it with Max. I want to hurt for them, not just for strangers and far away children. I want to understand.

Can knowledge lead to understanding?

An Insolent

It's interesting to see how people react to the homeless. When you've just met someone, and he is accosted by a beggar, he suddenly looks as though he's been caught masturbating by his mother. How does one respond to these encounters? Each person's experience is different and somehow intimate. When there is a witness to this experience, one feels violated. Lending to the embarrassment is perhaps that most of the homeless are mentally disabled in some way. And let's face it, no one knows how to interact with the mentally disabled, unless they have been trained or have an inherent gift. Doubled with this unfamiliar feeling is the feeling of scorn, but also pity. Scorn for the audacity of someone wanting your hard earned money without offering anything in return. Pity for the hopeless state they are so obviously trapped in. Scorn and pity fold together with the unfamiliarity to create repulsion, a secret repulsion. It is secret, because, no matter how low they seem to be, you cannot deny their humanity. You also know that there isn't very much separating you from them. But the repulsion remains. You are embarrassed about your repulsion, and each person reacts to their own embarrassment differently. Some are offended, some are ashamed, some become angry.

I witnessed a bony girl in a tube top refusing a beggar passing her street-side table at a hip Latin American restaurant in Eastern Market. She informs the bum of her tax paying status, and then ventures into her well-rehearsed tirade about how alms-giving only perpetuates the problem. In this situation, our heroine is surrounded by her tight-fitted comfort zone, though she is purposely informing the rest of the restaurant of her views through them. I know this tactic well, because I have used it often. It is quite useful when trying to initiate an intoxicated brawl. There's something quite empowering about your comfort zone. She never would have ventured on her tirade without them and certainly not with a new acquaintance. Strip the indignant lady of her support group, and she becomes an impetuous child.

Alone, you fear judgement. With friends, you invite it. The brave invite judgement indiscriminately, and I envy them.

Megrim 2

A fanatic is just a bored existentialist.

Megrim 1

A conspiracy theorist is just an idealist throwing a tantrum.

Internal Battles, Part 1

I watch it bubble over on the rotating plate and make no attempt to stop it. I'm not a fan. I thought split pea soup was supposed to be creamy. This is just water with hard peas literally split in half all sunk at the bottom with a piece of celery here and there to dress it up. I'm gonna eat it anyway, though, because there are starving children in Africa, and because a enough salt and pepper can make almost anything bearable. I'll even drink the birth water; they can't say I didn't do my part to help the skinny kiddies.


"Myanmar Devastation," "Mexico Drug Violence," "Peru Floods," "Lebanon Clashes" flash past my eyes. Save everything in our jurisdiction. Myanmar out, Mexico in; Peru in, Lebanon out. Each screen shows me some new piece of reality, and it is stark. The news is never good news. And I can't care about Mugabe, because I cared about Kenya. I can't like Clinton, because I love Obama. I have to choose my internal battles.


A recent grain of sand in the ocean of horror -- a pearl really, as it is a product of that ocean, is Sami Al-Hajj, cameraman for Al Jazeera. A name I heard at least once a day, everyday, announced through a picture of a dark-skinned man with round glasses. 2139 days in prison, 465 days on hunger strike.


Now he is freed. No reasons, no apologies, just freed. Can this really be? Can I be witnessing the end of this appalling injustice? One of several festering in my stomach? How do I celebrate the freedom of a man I never knew? A man I effectively helped imprison? A man who must despise me, my country, and everything I believe in? Yes, he has a right to his hatred, too. I daydream about kissing his feet. I imagine bowing my head in shame at the sight of him.

I rejoice at the recognition that I will never have to meet him. I can love him from afar, admire his courage, and say my prayers for him, but I can never face him. I cannot celebrate his freedom, because his imprisonment remains a fact. I cannot celebrate his freedom, because I have no right to. I cannot celebrate his freedom, because I still believe in all the things I believed in before I learned of the injustice he endured. Injustice is a fact, a disgusting, horrifying, relentless fact, laughing in the face of the ancient philosophers. I cannot celebrate his freedom, because I am still powerless to stop that injustice.


My friend's reaction is an easy one. "Did you know that a freed prisoner of Guantanamo Bay blew himself up in a suicide bombing the other day?" This observation echos through me for weeks. I doubt it is enough to make him feel justified, but perhaps it serves as a comfort to him. There is indeed evil everywhere.