Two Chickens and a Boom in the Night

There are bicycle tire tracks on the frozen lake near my house. The lake doesn't look that frozen. It's covered in a little snow, but there are large spots on the lake that are slushy and transparent looking. It can't be trusted.

Last February Patrick flew here from NYC. We drove to the family cabin in Wisconsin, counting all the Old Style signs along the journey (24). The cabin's on a hill above the lake. We hauled in firewood and made martinis and played rummy. The whole east wall of the cabin is a 2-story window. We saw little creeky shacks out in the middle of the lake. There were pickup trucks. A recliner. Smoke coming from a small chimney stack.

At dusk, a thread of colored lights glowed between fishing shacks. Smoke wafted up from chimneys. From our balcony, you could hear the faint sound of polka music and laughter and see figures of friends milling about in their parkas and flannel vests and John Deere hats. From afar, it looked like a village--where friends no doubt roasted marshmallows and shared chocolatey drinks and dirty jokes.

Patrick and I wanted a hut. We wanted to be invited in for stories about crappies and bait. We wanted to peek in the fishing hole and tell the one about the Rabbi the Priest and the Antelope. We wanted to go make friends. We wanted to see what was going on out there.

Just before dark, we started to walk to the middle of the lake. The ice was surely many feet deep, but we didn't have ice like this at home where we grew up. At home, lakes that appear to be frozen actually shatter like glass and swallow up curious little children.

We wouldn't fall in--that's absurd. There's a pick-up truck out there! A recliner with an old fat man in it! We felt confident, running and skidding on the ice. We were almost there! Then, there was the sound--the sonic boom-like explosion that reverberates against the hillsides. It's the sound of the lake cracking and splintering from some great point of icy pressure out to the edges. We ran. We decided we liked our cabin on the hill better than a fishing shack with merry neighbors and hot drinks and flopping sticky bluegill.

The End.

I think I'm dying of Bird Flu

I'm freaking sick AGAIN. I'm the annoying borderline-ill, where if I drug up enough, I can still function, albeit miserably. I taught this morning, and I've e-mailed in sick for class tonight. I'm very sad because one of my Somali students is cooking up a storm for us in class tonight. We're writing stories about food. Everyone has stories about food.

This morning, a student kept talking about washing her chicken. She needs to mop her chicken. Lightbulb: Kitchen! Not chicken. Kitchen.

I go sheep now. I mean sleep. Sleep!

Pajama Love

First, there are the cotton ones—a t-shirt and bottoms—covered in pink flamingoes. Only the flamingoes have on winter hats and gloves and galoshes and it’s snowing on them. They’re soft and stretchy and have a draw string (elastic sucks) and frankly, I can relate to that bird. I lived in the tropics once and I must say—it’s easy to get used to. Now I am in Minnesota where it’s bloody freezing and snowy, but like my flamingo friend, I like it here enough to just rug up in leg warmers (some of the flamingoes on the pants have on leg warmers) and get snowed upon.

I also have a pair of very oversize red, black and white flannels that are mens’ pjs—saggy bottom and all—that I adore. They’re very old and slightly raggedy, as they are from the Curt Cobain era of chicks-who-wear-extra-big-flannel-stuff. I love them. However, I can’t wear them right now because they are at Lola’s house from the time we had a slumber party and she borrowed them and loved them so much she wore them to breakfast at French Meadow and took them home. She also still has my prom dress, but that’s another story.

Then we have summer wear: light blue shorts and tank to with sparkly sheep on them and an awesome ribbed tank with grommets that I wear with boy-shorts. Then we have a few kinds of pajamas that I won’t get into, but let me just say that American lingerie sucks. French is the way to go. There’s a fabulous French skivvies shop in Portland (6th and… oh, near the square downtown, right next to the Starbucks. Ha ha.) that has the silkiest, most beautiful accentuate-the-goods slips and lots of other lovely awesome wearables. I love my purchase from there so much I could marry it.

Tonight, however, I wear the Magic Love Shirt. The Magic Love Shirt is a raggedy old top that I bought for approximately $1 at Ross in P-town. It promptly shrunk to the Barbie size and is way too bridge-and-tunnel to wear in actual public. It is black and has the word “LOVE” across the front in (not glitter, not sequins) silver and red rhinestones. I wear it with my favorite yoga pants (hooray draw string).

Why is it magic? I only wear it when I need or want to welcome or give or be grateful for all the kinds of love around. I wore it when Melanie died. I wore it right before I met someone I dated for a long time. I wore it when I was homesick for Australia. I bought an identical one for my best friend who lives in NY and am so happy to see when I see her and so sad when we are apart for too long. I wear it when I need to project and open up to love and want loving things to happen, and I swear it works. Quantum physics backs me up on this, people. Seriously. Although there isn’t any kind of catastrophe at present, tonight I wear the magic Love shirt because I want to send all that out there—openness and gratitude, and perhaps a request for a new chance to give and receive it—and we shall see what it brings me.

A quote from Jean Sramek

from www.mnartists.org, “Math Class is Tough: That Rare Artist”

http://www.mnartists.org/article.do?rid=84009

".... This newcomer, we read, is that rare artist who also has a head for business. This description is repeated several times by both the reporter and the artist’s devotees, repeated so that we understand: sure, there are plenty of creative people in the world, but most of them are not very good with numbers. It implies many things, each one more infuriating than the last. But I know what the reporter means. She means it in a positive way, when she says that this artist can also make money. Really. We all know what she means and so let’s stop taking it the wrong way.

"Okay, scratch that. We all know what she means, and let’s take it the way we want to take it, which is with a grain of salt, preferably attached to several other grains of salt, which are in turn attached to the rim of the glass of the world’s largest margarita, which we all drink as we sit around reading the newspaper’s arts section out loud, guffawing until tears come to our eyes. That rare artist who also has a head for business. Ya hear that? I’m rare. You? Well, no. Not rare exactly. More like medium rare, haw haw, God that pisses me off. How come it’s never the other way around, like if they interviewed the president of the Chase Manhattan fucking bank they wouldn’t be all surprised if he played the violin, they’d just say he played the fucking violin, not that he was a rare businessman who had a head for music, and we laugh louder and then have another drink and dull the pain of the world thinking that we’re too stupid to make a living because we are Creative Artists. That’s what the reporter means, and it sucks that most people think she’s right."

Starfish and Coffee

It’s Sunday, the day of Getting Things Done. I will do laundry, clean and go for a long walk. It’s a balmy freakin’ 40 degrees out here in Minneapolis. Still: winter air in Minnesota is dry and makes my hair frizzle up and crack off. So first, I slather high-powered conditioner on my hair. I will cover it with a plastic shower cap and a super-warm REI skiing hat, as the conditioner is heat-activated. I will wear this and dance around my apartment to Prince songs. I will put on fluffy wool socks and, with a running start at the back of my bedroom, glide across the hardwood floors from the bedroom through the bitchin (bedroom/kitchen) and across the living room singing along to "Lets go Crazy."


"Starfish and Coffee":
All of us where ordinary compared to cynthia rose
She always stood at the back of the line
A smile beneath her noseHer favorite number was 20 and every single day
If u asked her what she had 4 breakfast
This is what she’d say
Starfish and coffee
Maple syrup and jam
Butterscotch clouds, a tangerine
And a side order of ham
If u set your mind free, baby
Maybe you’d understand
Starfish and coffee
Maple syrup and jam
-Prince

What the F. And by "F" I mean Frequency.

Behold! I have found the secret key to staying happy, occupied and sane while working hour upon hour inside the cubicle labyrinth! Muzak.

According to Mike and the Muzak corporation.

You see, it goes something like this: Musak isn’t just Rod Stewart songs remixed by Zamfir and his magic pan flute. It is a combination of art and science. It is sophisticated, engineered to saturate business space with dilute, inoffensive Background Product. It employs “Stimulus Progression” (dull tempos, rhythms, and instrumentation followed by brighter tempos, rhythms and instrumentation) to create psychological effects for which the human psychology is apparently programmed. For example: happiness. “When you employ the science of Muzak in an office, workers tend to get more done, more efficiently and feel happier. In general, people feel better about where they are, whether it’s during work or leisure time.” No shit?

Why can’t we just listen to real music? Muzak’s effectiveness is dependent on you tuning it out to do other things, which isn’t possible with regular music you might, say, listen to consciously and, you know, enjoy. That would be too distracting for the cubicle environment.

Muzak is not to be confused with anti-noise, another environmental background tool whereupon two varieties of sound wave are produced to block one another out and result in perceived silence. Okay.

So why aren’t I happier and more productive in my Muzak-saturated business environment (L-shaped desk, uncomfortable chair, wilting poinsettia from the holidays, 5 kinds of machines within a 2 foot radius, gray walls, cheap coffee)? Because Muzak apparently does not work on yours truly. It only has the desired result when it is tuned out, goes unnoticed and the listeners go happily about their conversations and other business without paying it any conscious attention. Muzak’s “Causing people stop to ponder the nature of emotion is seen as a positive failure by its manufacturers and users.”

Alas, my key to cubicle bliss is thwarted. Muzak fails me. Those of you who find happiness, contentment and productivity in the pan flute are blessed, indeed.

The Tiger and the Frog

So, I woke up in a panic in the middle of the night. I had a dream that my house was being attacked and I had to run for my life and catch a boat to the other side of the world. Perhaps I should not read my student's work before bed.

My students are refugees. I love them very much. Sometimes they write about things like their lovely, pristine, happy villages getting attacked in the night and having to run for it only to find relative safety in a camp where soldiers come in the night and do horrible things. Other times they write about feasts they make for various religious holidays (deep fried bat, anyone?) and we look up pictures on the internet. Other times they write made up stories about, say, a tiger and a frog where the tiger tries to eat the frog, and the frog tells the tiger that if the tiger can beat him in a race, he can eat him. Then they race, and at the last minute the frog jumps on the tiger's tail and when the tail flips up the frog is thrown over the finish line. Other times they write about computer programming, the meringue, political uprisings, and their PhD in engineering. Some of them write about America, and how they threw up the first time they saw moving traffic, and how they thought some of our machines were dragons. Quite a variety, I must say.

I'm very thankful that I live in a pretty safe place. I'm also thankful that my students all made it to a pretty safe place.

So, I got up for a while just to double check that the doors were locked and then tried to read a mediocre story to get the dream out of my head, and to get the obnoxious Billy Joel song I heard at Lund's out of my head, too. And when I fell back asleep, I dreamt I was on the boat getting ready to leave home forever, and all the girls I used to waitress with in high school were on the boat with me. And Jamie M. still had on the cropped shirt she used to wear in high school that made all the boys nickname her "Schwing," but it was nice to at least see someone I knew, because I was rather freaked out about the whole boat-with-unidentified-destination thing.

Thought, Discontinuity

Frozen frame:
Chin dips
into sheet of stone
not stone
but river.

Two handfuls of stones
In apron pockets.
Two seconds from saying
No.
Should I turn back?
Two steps not taken.
To steps not taken.

[R2. Response to Auguste Rodin's "Thought," Marble, 1886-'89]

God Plays Mean Trick on Local Single Girl

Being underemployed as I am, I was still in bed when my phone rang at 8:15 this morning. That is when I discovered that my recent cold has left me with no voice. "Hello?" is what I tried to say, but what came out was more of a breathy, voiceless Haaaah sound that vaguely resembled heavy breathing. It was my ex-boyfriend. Awesome. He just wanted to say thanks for the Christmas present I sent. "Oh, good," I whispered. Yeah. Can I call you later?" Sure, he said, mildly confused.

Although I sound like I've smoked 4 packs of cigarettes--made of fiberglass--every day for my whole life, I feel fine. So I sent to French Meadow for coffee and, forcing air out of my lungs with all my might, I said to the barista, "Coffee?" which came out like a satanic growl. The barista's expression changed to some combination of both pity and fear. While I admit I'm not my perky self before my morning coffee, and I consider myself a mild coffee addict, I do not actually turn into the devil without it. The barista’s service was rather swift today, I must say.

I made a decision to make the most of it. I settled in with my coffee and paper for a day of reading and writing and peace and quiet.

My phone rang again. It was Mr. Dashing. A handsome fellow I’ve had a crush on since summer. We hung out a couple times and had a ton of fun, but then there was a bit of a miscommunication and I reluctantly wrote him off. I haven’t heard from him since October. My phone beeped—a voicemail. “Hey,” he'd said, “Listen, I know I must seem flakey to you, but I really wanted to explain.” [Insert totally reasonable explanation here.] “So, I’m sorry, and now that I'm in a better place to give you the attention you deserve, I’d love to take you out. So if you’re still interested, please give me a call back sometime today and let me know if you’re free for drinks on Thursday.”

“Nooooo!” I shouted, only nothing came out.

Two Clay Poker Chips

Umbra has black hair swept across her forehead and large black sunglasses like a bumble bee. She’s wearing a red shirt and white pencil-legged pants that stop mid-shin. Black slip-on shoes. She selected this outfit carefully, but forgot about it once she put it on.

She brought these things in her oversized black handbag—two magazines, a small tin of watercolor paints, a journal for journaling, a journal for making lists, a journal for documenting dreams, a tin of breath mints, two tampons, a stack of tickets (baseball, train, an opera she hated) bound by a rubber band. A black wallet long and thin as a checkbook. Two bobby pins. Her credit card statement. Two clay poker chips that she rubs together when she’s waiting for the train, standing in line, sitting alone in a movie theater.

It is a Tuesday afternoon. She’s in France or Germany. Probably France. She hopes someone will stop by and talk to her. When her server asks if he may take her extra chair (she presumes he asked this; all she understood was “chair”) she shakes her head “No,” meaning, I don't understand, which he took to mean "Go away." He goes away. She is lonely.

There are irregular cobble stones under her feet that make a very aesthetically pleasing noise at the clicking of shoes and shuffling of chairs. The café has a dozen or so tables set up outside here on the pedestrian mall. There are lovely old shops and buildings all around, close together but not so close that the sun is blocked by the buildings. She gets a slice of ripe camembert, a crusty roll and a bunch of grapes. She orders a glass of Pinot Noir and goes with the cheese, bread and fruit. She sips it and looks around to asses the prospects for friendship at the tables around her.

She takes out a notebook, the dream journal. “I dreamt that I was in Dupont riding a ferry down the river,” she writes. “Grandmother was there with Bobby, and they were wearing their church clothes. I think we were going to a funeral, but I don’t know whose. I saw rowers in pairs around us, and I recognized the running trail as the one next to the Thames at Oxford, the one Janey and I used to jog during summer school at Christ Church.” She put the pen down and sipped her wine. She tore off an edge of bread and smeared a hunk of the cheese on the broken part without using a knife. The waiter rolled his eyes. She ate it. The bite was too big and she had to chew and chew. It wasn’t very lady-like, but funny. She hid a smile behind her hand.

She stares into space internally debating this: is it better to let people come to you? Or for you to pursue them? To strike up a conversation? People have been nothing to her lately, nothing but disappointing when she tries to cultivate friendships. And men, they are always a disappointment. If she wasn’t thinking of a specific one, she was thinking about not thinking about one. What energy she could save if she forgot about them! If she could channel the energy she spent on worrying and turn it into fuel for good things, she’s sure she could save all the starving people in China. Now, she just wanted a friend. Really, it shouldn’t be that hard. She spotted a fellow with red hair and a trimmed beard. She walked over and asked to borrow the book review section of his newspaper.

the matter wave

Einstein knows it.
Bohr knows too.
All their lives
they sweat it

discontinuity
continuity
guitar strings
waving
or leaping.

The fear of determinism
as fuel.

There is no God, it says,
only mechanics. Cause. Effect.

The Atom
is both machine and art--
emits both color and music.

The smudged lens
they left behind is
little clearer than when they found it.

We can look with all our tools and
just the same
we won't really see
to the other side
until we cross it.

Why I'm Evil

You know those people who come to work sick and cough all over everything? I bitch about them. And today, I join their filthy ranks. I'm not at work right now because I'm dedicated or motivated or want the boss to see that nothing gets in the way of my career. I'm here because I'm broke. And because I'm a big evil germ-spreader. And because all I do at work is surf the net, talk on the phone and read anyway and if I stayed home I'd be doing the exact same thing only in my pajamas and with intermittent naps.

I may have caught the bug in New York City hopping around from party to party on NYE until, that's right, 8:30 a.m. It was a spontaneous trip largely, but not entirely, funded by taxpayers of the small Indiana town in which I was raised (my best friend's Trust, from her Gramp's job as mayor). Here were a few goals of my NYC goals:

1. Big Night Out on NYE: I generally hate NYE. It's overrated, never that fun, and crowded and expensive and all of that crap. But When in Rome... one may as well go all out. Six parties and thirteen hours later: mission accomplished.

2. To smooch a handsome fella at midnight: At 2 seconds to twelve, I grabbed the closest hottie I could find and laid one on him. He's a physics grad from Princeton named Asher or Alden or Alistair or something, who now does some medical job I can't remember. He kind of stuck around after that, so we talked and danced and then he asked me if I had any coke. My friend and left for the next party shortly thereafter, sans Astor McCokerson.

3. To have NY Pizza and Coke (as in soda): Done. Twice.

4. To see some touristy stuff: Done, sort of. Went to Times Square and Rockefeller Center (yep, it's a big tree alright) January 1. Every time there was a gust of wind, confetti rained down from rooftops.

5. To drink a fancy, overpriced martini in Manhattan Somewhere Swanky: Key Lime Pie martini in a hipped-out jazz club: mission accomplished.

6. To spend some Q.T. lounging around with my best friend: We spent a very high percentage of time in her teensy East Village apartment in our pajamas watching movies and eating milkshakes.

7. To see someone famous: I'm pretty sure I saw the guy who used to play the dad on Happy Days. More notably, I met a famous pup--a rescue dog named Theodore who who found firemen in 911 rubble.

8. To do something moderately literary: Had a drink at Chumley's, where Dorothy Parker and many others used to come hang out with writer types during prohibition, ""A New York City institution, this former Greenwich Village speakeasy, opened in 1922, has its original booths, fireplace, and no-name entrance still intact, so remember the address or you'll never find it. The hodgepodge interior includes framed book covers - F. Scott Fitzgerald allegedly wrote parts of 'The Great Gatsby' here - lifeboat memorabilia, sawdust on the floor, and a resident black lab."

As much fun as it was, I'm so glad to be home. And that the holidays are over. And that in 2006, I will kiss my 20's goodbye. Now I need to just make it another 5 hours at the desk until I can go home and crash in my nice, quiet, comparatively enormous apartment.