Bullseye

Immediately upon entering T@rget Headquarters for a job interview, one is faced with a long, tall escalator, as though one may be on the long trip to heaven, should the trip to heaven start with the scent of Starbucks triple mocha lattes and end with a dozen security guards the size of The Fridge who have wire curled around each ear, presumably to communicate with whomever will drag you back down, down, down the freezing metal tube to the cold Minneapolis streets should you not give adequate reason to be Checked In.

There is a vase of tropical flowers at the summit, with pointy, angry, fur-tipped pussy willows that thrust upward like claws that, if they could talk, would scream “Haw haw haw! Now I’ve got you, my pretty!”

To get past the escalator, one must choose a lane: the lane for T@rget “family members” or the one for “guests.” “Family members” go through what looks a bit like airport security. There is much scanning and beeping, and clenching of Starbuck's cups and rolling of luggage. No joke: some of them must be carrying product samples, but a good deal of them are rolling with actual suitcases like they're going to stay for a week or two.

I chose the guest lane.

"Why are you here?" The Fridge said, deadpan, no eye contact.

I said I’m here for an interview in room 617, but that was not enough.

"With whom? At what time? For what position?"

"I don’t know. The temp agency sent me. Room 617, man."

His forehead scrunched and he looked at me like a kid who was suppose to know that that means I knew I was in trouble for something I now knew we both knew I did wrong.

"What?" I said.

"Your appointment was at 3:00,"The Fridge said. It was 3:17.

"No, it wasn’t," I said. "I don’t want this damn job anyway. You people freak me out, and I’m not afraid of you." Okay, I didn’t say that last part, but I really wanted to.

"It was at 3, he said." He picked his teeth, like he just polished off the girl who interviewed at 2:30.

"No, you’re wrong, I said. It’s at 3:30. In 10 minutes. If you could just let them know I’m here."

He handed me a badge. I sat on the couch embroidered with bullseye logos. The coffee tables, too, were also bullseye shapes. It all was. Everywhere.

I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be in any corporate office ever again, and there I was, interviewing for an admin position. My heart wasn’t in it. It never will be. For a long time, I thought if I tried hard enough, I could make my heart be okay with fucked up places like this. I know now that that will never be. Yet! Here I was. Here I was, in the lobby, ten little T@rget logos imprinting themselves onto my butt.

Do not despair: I won’t take the job. I have another offer coming down the pipe, and I’m only here for a backup, Just In Case of Financial Emergency.

Now it was 3:45, and no one had collected me for my interview. The Fridge headed toward the T@rget Café and returned with a gallon-size T@rget Soda in a T@rget branded up. When he walked, a mass of keys big enough to be the morning star on a medieval ball and chain bounced on his rock-hard thigh. The Fridge smiled at me, and nodded. I imagine, if I got in, this man has been trained to throw himself in front of a speeding train to save me. After all, I would be in charge of one of the 79 Vice President’s Blackberry.

A gaggle of chicks scanned their cards and dragged their luggage past me, and I swear, 9 of them were streaked-blondes with knee-high black boots pointy enough to pierce one’s coal-black heart. I saw that most of them had similar hair highlights as me. I became very afraid. FINE. It’s true. I have the exact same Goddamn hairdo. I could be one of them. With only 80% more morphing, I, too, could, gulp, fit in here. I wanted to run, but it was too late.

I have a confession: I dated one of them. The men, I mean. Yes, yes, very briefly when I first moved here. I’ll call him by the first two letters of his last name: Ew.

Ew was dashing. On our first date, he pulled up to Zeno in Uptown in a 2005 Jetta (it was 2004) and a three piece suit, just after work. He had that hair thing going on—the one where guys look like they tried to open the bathroom stall door with their forehead? He was gorgeous, romantic, attentive. He told me he didn’t vote because nothing mattered except music and… shit, I don’t remember. Then… suddenly he seemed so metro. He had a suspicious disinterest in boobs. Then, he revealed his serious obsession with New Kids on the Block (I’m not exaggerating. Kate? Kate was a witness. She can back me. Once Ew requested “Hangin’ Tough” at the Wild Onion and flailed about the dance floor alone while we watched, aghast. Carson Kressley would’ve been proud.). Then this one time, we were walking through the MF skyway and he said “Oh, that pink purse is awesome! I wish I’d been born a girl!,” which sent him straight from Questionable Sexual Orientation-ville into Questionable-Sex ville, and onward into increasingly distant history.

I thought I saw him coming through the skyway now. I buried my face in my Creative Process book. I had to know, so I looked up. Oh, thank Christ. Not Ew, but a guy who looked like Ew. Then another guy who looked like Ew. Then another. And another. And OMG—except for The Dozen Fridges, they ALL looked like Ew. Ew! Ew! Ew!

My generalizations were disproved immediately. “Cavu? I’m Turtle.” My interviewer was old and balding with gray teeth. He looked like The Turtle (The one Samantha dated?) on Sex and the City. He didn't look plastic and probably did not get manicures. Despite the fact that he was in a t-shirt that said “Welcome Home” on the back, with the two “o”’s the shape of the bullseye logo, I liked him immediately.

He led me back to a conference room. Everything one would need is here: a branded café, a gourmet coffee shop, a gym with showers.

I asked Turtle what department the job was in, and what they did, and what he did. “Well, we’re somewhere between IT and business unit managers, the BUMs, and we’re kind of the liaison group that takes care of the tracking of data and scheduling for things, you know, executives and, well, business and so forth.”

And?

“You wouldn’t really understand unless you’re familiar with the systematic organizational development hierarchical demographical flow-chart of our corporation. Do you have any experience with Microsoft products?”

This is how the interview went.

Then, “Great, well, we hope to add you to our team. Is $40,000 enough to start out?”

Okay, the last part isn’t a direct quote, but the job is basically doing NOTHING and it is for far too much money considering the tasks at hand.

Later, I stood under the bus stop heat lamp reading Creative Process until my bus came. Eunice, my recruiter called. “Are you still interested?”

“I’m considering a few offers,” I said. I am. I’m considering working for a company that eases human pain and suffering and feels really right and good. I should have an offer from them soon. “But you can call me and let me know what they have to offer,” I say, sincerely. I’d really like to know what on God’s green Earth they think they actually have to offer. If they come up with anything, I’ll let you know.

This Just in from My Fucked Up Hometown

My parentals have lived in a small Indiana town for about 6 billion years now. It’s rather conservative. For example, my mother’s tai chi class got boycotted because the locals thought it was satanic. Even after that, the townies never cease to amaze me.

Madre is the arts administrator, in charge of all things artsy from little kids ballet classes to theatre to painting classes to the annual Christmas tree decorating contest. Most weekends, my dad drives busloads of artistically deprived people out to cities that actually have real art.

So: My mom organized a very cool historical architecture expert to come give a talk about our amazing county courthouse and all the gargoyles and green faces and very cool designs therein. A fellow who is new to town came to the talk—we’ll call him Jason. Jason, 25, just moved to BackAsswards because he married a local woman he met in college. Jason and his young wife are currently shopping for a house.

Jason is into photography. You know, as a hobby. A creative pursuit. So, after the gargoyle expert gave his talk, Jason was fascinated, and he returned to the county courthouse with his camera to photograph the artwork. That’s all, He was just milling about outside shooting photographs of gargoyles and buttresses and stuff.

SIX PEOPLE CALLED THE POLICE.

While Jason comes from, like, Colombus, Ohio or something, he is of Italian heritage. People called the cops saying a dark haired man who might be a terrorist was taking photographs of the courthouse because he might be plotting to blow up the lone government building Paranoid, Indiana. Six separate instances of this frantic phone call, my friends.

Jason was ambushed by screaming sirens and bored cops and taken in for questioning. I imagine Jason in a serious discussion with his lovely wife about moving far, far away right this very minute.

I would like to officially nominate the members of my hometown for the American Terrorist and Buckeyes and Anyone Who Doesn't Look Like Them Protection Committee because they do such a thorough job of protecting their territory from invasion by both terrorists and by 25 year-old photographers from Ohio. I’d also like to nominate them for the Biggest, Dumbest, most Paranoid, Close-Minded, Irrational-Fear Mongering, Narrow, Judgmental Freaks award, because (with a handful of exceptions) they’re a heap of Bush-loving morons.

Kookaburras are really loud birds.

They lived in the tree outside my window in Perth. They sound like this.

Millicent the Philodendron: Hostess with the Mostest

The Voix laughs louder and better than just about anyone I know. At parties, she puts a tiara on her house plant, Millicent, and carries Millicent around the room so Millicent can meet everyone. Millicent has a French accent (all the inanimate objects in Voix's house have a French accent): "How do you do? My name is Millicent. I am a philodendron. Welcome to the party. Can I get you some Pinot Noir? Do you like my tiara?"

The Voix hosted a very fun girl's night last night. She has great scarves, lots of shiny things, a great collection of Prince music and when bad shit happens, she will get you drunk and dedicate songs to you on the radio. She cooks mashed potatoes in my bitchin' (bedroom/kichen), e-mails me photographs of my uvula and helps me pick out French wine and stinky cheese. She fears no church basement or Irish pub. She writes a shitload and isn't afraid to show the whole world that even though she's smart and productive and strong and has a gigantic heart, she's also sensitive and open and honest.

She also made the mistake of giving me a little notebook, which I use to collect some of her fine one-liners. I shall post a sampling of them here for you now, and I will keep them PG-13 so she doesn’t kill me:

“I bought a blender so I could make hummus. No, wait. I bought a food processor to make hummus. I bought a blender for the margaritas.”

“I’m addicted to kitchen appliances, but I can’t bake. Sifting flour? What is that? I refuse to jack off the flour.”

[In church basement.] “Where the hell are the catholic boys who don’t look like they tried to scrub their face off? Well, we’ll have to go to the next logical place. The Irish bar.”

“So then, when I bring a date home, I can just say, ‘Oh him? He’s just the gay boy that lives under my bed.’”

Perhaps one day I will collect enough of them to publish a book. Hm.

Another Story About Nachos

When I first moved to Australia I had no friends and my boyfriend worked until midnight. So his best friend Rob took me out, even though he didn't know me. We went to an aboriginal music festival. It was amazingly cool--outdoors at this place that had a glass floor and water flowing underneath it. There were about 10 short shows, all of different kinds of aboriginal music and dancing. We drank a lot of beer and had a fantastic time. Then we went back to Dan's and my house and drank more beer. Then we got baked, and I formally introduced Australians to nachos.

While I give them credit for all foods Asian, Mexican food in Australia sucks. They confuse it with Spanish food and try to serve you tapas, and they don't get the concept of layering stuff onto the nachos to make them gooey and good. They put weird stuff on them, like baked beans. They'd put beets on them, too, if you let them. They put beets on everything. So I showed them how it's done.

Anyway: the nachos were in the oven. We drank more beer. It added up to quite a shitload of beer in the end, and Dan came home from work and took off his work boots and he got a beer, too. A mere moment after Dan set the boots down by the door, Rob, quite drunk by now, accidentally but with much force, knocked a pint glass off the table. The pint glass, as if in slow motion, tumbled through the air in a wide arc all the way across the room. The glass landed (this is true, I tell you) upright in Dan's boot. It was amazing.

Einstein thought up Relativity while shaving.

So, I was in the shower this morning getting in touch with my subconscious (Shut up, Brian.) and I’ve decided to do an independent study before I start my thesis.

It will involve travel to some place amazing and wonderful. It needs to include a writing/art combo of some kind (Music? Theater? Dance? Visual arts? I don’t know.) and some cultural study and immersion.

Here is what I know. It’s still vague and flexible and without solid structure, so if you have traveled or have a suggestion or guidance or a favorite book I should read or anything, feedback is most welcome. I’m trying to get it sorted out enough to start a proposal, and possibly apply for a grant.

What I Know So Far:

When: Jan-May of 2007. Spend 3 or 4 months reading and writing, then 2-4 weeks (depending on work schedule) in the country/town I studied.

Where: I’m narrowing it down to the following regions, and I’ll need to narrow it down more from there—Northern South America, Central America, Caribbean, Mexico. The more I think about it, I’m drawn to the Caribbean, but I don’t want to go anywhere infested with tourists. Also, maybe Costa Rica? Belize? The small beautiful town Gabriel G. Marquez grew up in? Where can I go that is welcoming/accessible but not infested with a bunch of people on a Carnival Cruise?

What: This is tough. I want it to be interdisciplinary and involve both art and writing. I’m also interested in art that is a result of oppression. Not the "Shout out against oppression!" cathartic kind, (which has it’s place, of course) but more the art that people who are oppressed use to bond with one another and both express and soothe themselves. Like, what are the stories parents tell their children during war? What secret arts to they keep from their oppressors?

Example: Steel drums were invented because the local people were being forbidden by the US military to practice their religion, and when the locals adapted Christianity in a way that was deemed blasphemous, music was then forbidden. Ludicrous, but true: humming? Big trouble. So the oppressed secretly stole the empty oil drums that the Americans had littered on the shores, and made them into musical instruments because all the other music-making materials had been confiscated. This i what I mean. The way art and the joy of it can’t be squashed, and that sometimes adverse conditions create a unique environment for creative work that wouldn’t have come about otherwise. I find this interesting.

More “What”: So, I suppose I’d study the chosen area’s art and culture, history, politics, music, you know, EVERYTHING (I need help narrowing this down for sure), and then go there and live in it. And, I suppose, attend lectures or take a class or interview people. I insist that several days be spent in a small hut near a beach wherein I write in solitude. When I’m not swimming in solitude.

The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of music and writing. Stories and poems about music? I don’t know. I don’t know. I need to have a meeting with DK. She brings it all out. She could just sit there next to me and brilliant ideas float up. She’s the reason I started the refugee project, which I love. I shall beg her to be my IS advisor.

And, the Big Question really is, how could I use this project to become a better writer? What would my final project be and what purpose would it have? I don’t just want to do a bunch of research and write essays. I want a creative piece in the end, at least, but I’m sure I could do an essay or CNF piece, too. That’s a lot. I want to get something out of it for my fiction writing (and poetry, I hope) but also would want to report on the experience. What can I do and how can I do it so that, in the end, I have something creatively rich and valuable to contribute?

If you guys could just solve that for me, that would be great.

Maybe this IS a thesis? Okay, okay, now I’m totally overwhelmed. Starting to melt down. Must stop. Must think about something else. AHHH.

Nachoes are delicious.

A few Marches ago, I went to Mexico with a bunch of junior traders from Enron. They were fun and loud and rich, and I was friends with them, so they took me along. I am not loud or rich, but I am fun. I snorkeled. I learned that I am allergic to lobster. I saw a pod of gray whales. I stayed in a condo that said (yes, it spoke to me), "Recepción a Cabo San Lucas, Srta. Cavu" when I walked in the door.

Two of the fellows were twins (one with flaming red hair and one with no hair). Sipping pina coladas by the pool, Red Hair told me he and his brother been raised on a commune in rural Oregon, and had both run away from home at 17 to join corporate America. I kid you not.

Then, the shit hit the fan. I got a call at work from Red Hair at 2 in the afternoon on a Tuesday, totally drunk. They'd all been laid off. All good friends. All of them swore they'd never known anything about the mischief going on, although an acquaintance (Who we called Mr. Slapass. He was creepy.) is on trial.

They scattered. Some to New Zealand (suspicious), some to LA, one to Texas, one to Connecticut. I still have my collection of tiny drink umbrellas. And an allergy to lobster.

My grandmother turned ninety freaking seven yesterday.

Yep--Gram is 97. So yesterday I called her during happy hour (she always drinks a glass of $3/bottle cream sherry with two ice cubes at 5 PM), which was right around when B. and I got home from playing Frisbee golf (his idea) in the g.d. icy rain, which started pelting us in the face around the second "hole." We (and by "we" I mean "I") only lasted 4 holes. I did not enjoy yesterday's rain. I digress.

So I called Gram while I was waiting for my ass to thaw out and B. was making us tea. Gram had had a rockin' birthday party on Sunday with 30 guests, most of whom she was responsible for putting into the world (catholics, you know). Sons. Daughters. Grandchildren. Great Grandchildren. And I said, "Wow, lady, you've done your part to keep the globe populated!" and she said (really loudly), "Yeah, so when are you going to start doing your part to populate the globe? You're not getting any younger either."

The new guy was standing 4 feet away, my friends. Who is Catholic. Which I didn't tell her. I have learned my lesson. The last guy I dated once saw the Pope, and Grandma still begs me to drag that poor chap down the aisle. You're almost 30! He'll do! Go get him!

B. thought the comment about me doing my part to populate the globe was pretty funny, although he does not recommend spitting hot tea out your nose.

I have to say, Gram says this stuff, but she's kidding. My grandmother and I talk about dating and marriage fairly openly, and she's got a giant heart and isn't actually applying serious pressure (although I suspect she prays the rosary for me frequently). We have an understanding that she only wants what's best for me and that I'm going live how I want. Even though she doesn't always get my choices, she respects them. We've discussed.

Anyway--I love my grandma. She's a badass. She still lives alone. She still has a valid driver's license (she chooses not to drive) and she still prunes her own humongous rose bushes. During the depression, she wanted to marry my grandpa but "wasn't allowed" because he had no job. So SHE got a job, used her paycheck to buy coal, which he sold on the street. Selling coal counted as a job for him, and they could get married without pissing off her parents. So she gets it. Sort of.

When she turns 100, we're partying in Jamaica.

Falling on your fire escape

I want a thunderstorm. Not really the steady pouring or the drizzly NWestern stuff—I want a nice, loud, pound-the-windows, roaring kind. The kind that puts you to sleep at night. The kind that wakes you up a few hours later. I want crashing booms and a flash of blue light in the dark. Then, I want it to keep getting warmer and humid so that when you walk from the car to the house it feels good to get wet and better when you get in the air conditioning and your sundress is sticking to your legs and you get goose bumps, then you dry really fast and your hair’s all curly. Yeah.

No, not a tattoo, people.

Check it: Yours truly is featured on Minneapolis Photo Blog.

Three girlfriends and I had henna done at the Somali Mall (Carmelle's?) in Uptown. Somali people are warm and kind and smile a lot. I taught many of them this week at the learning center near Hiawatha and I love them.

So, the henna. It's applied like frosting and the artist works very quickly. It's a bit like mud--kind of cakey and cracks when it dries. Then, after you sit around with the other’s and have an hour or so of women talk (the same worldwide), they scrape it off with a knife. The black burns a little like a sunburn and kinda itches, so the knife-scraping feels good. This photo doesn't do it justice, really. It is very ornate and gorgeous. My artist was quite talented.

Then everyone tells you you're beautiful. Walk around the shops, people come out and hold your hands and look you in the eye and smile and say you're beautiful a thousand times. Your date might tell you he wants to eat your hands. In the Somali mall all covered in scarves and drapey things, it looks more flowery and elegant. In the real world of Minneapolis, it is still beautiful, but often mistaken for a tattoo of, say, a spiderweb, until you look up close.

My friends commented, so did a waitress, the parking garage attendant, a stranger in an elevator, someone at the doctor's office and the checkout boy at Kowalski's who said, "Not to be weird, but that's kinda sexy." The young gentleman who overcharged me for an air filter at Jiffy Lube took my hands, held them close up to his face and said "Wow. Wicked awesome." Then he gave me ten bucks off. It’s art. Powerful stuff.

My Beautiful Sister

My big sis Emily Jane is a painter. She's opening an exhibit on First Thursday at Urban Wine Works in Portland, Oregon. All the paintings are from her recent 6-month visit back to the Midewest where we grew up.

She's a talented lady. Oregonians, do stop by! Tell her I sent you.

Urban Wine Works
407 NW 16th Ave.
March 2, 2006
5:30 to 8:30 PM
More Info

This is My Uvula

Lesson

autotelism
n : belief that a work of art is an end in itself or its own justification

An exercise in procrastination

Especially for the Voix, per request.

1. What time is it? 9:12 pm
2. What is your Full name: Mary Katherine Blah blah blah
3. What are you most afraid of: Dig right into the big questions, eh? On the Big Scale: World War. On the day-to-day scale, harm to my family (and I consider many friends family).
4. What is the most recent movie that you've seen in a theatre: Uhhhh… The Fastest Indian. Nice flick.
5. Have you ever seen a ghost? Nope, but I’ve always kinda wanted to.
6. Where were you born? rural Indiana.
7. Favourite food? Thai red curry with veggies and fresh tofu. If your nose ain’t runnin’ by the second bite, it isn’t hot enough.8. Ever been to Alaska: Nope
9. Ever been toilet paper rolling: No, but I have put toothpaste under a couple car door handles.
10. Loved someone so much it made you cry? Of course.
11. Been in a car accident: Nothing major.
12. Croutons or bacon bits: Croutons
13. Favourite day of the week: Sunday
14. Favourite Restaurant: Bai Tong in Portland. Or… oh, what’s it called? That great Thai place on SW Hawthorne and 45th or so…
15. Favourite Flower: Cala Lily. My friend Matty sent me two big bunches for V-day.
16. Favourite sport to watch: Rugby. Go Wallabies!!!
17. Favourite Drink: London Fizz.
18 Favourite ice cream: B&J’s coffee toffee
19. Disney or Warner Brothers: Warner Brothers. I once owned Pinky and the Brain underwear.
20. Favourite fast food restaurant : Huh? Does Escape from New York pizza count?
21. How many times you failed your driver's test? None.
22. Before this one, from whom did you get your last email: Australian Dan.
23 . What do you do most often when you are bored: E-mail. Eat.
24. Bedtime: 11
25. Who will respond to this e-mail the quickest: Voix, Brian, Julie, Jessi and Zetta are about the only ones who ever post comments, so….
26. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond? Who cares?
28. Who is the person that you are most curious to see their responses??? Oh, anyone, I guess.
29. Favourite TV shows: Jeopardy
30. Ford or Chevy: Schwinn
31 What are you listening to right now: Lyle Lovett
32. What are your favourite colours: Today, sky blue.
33. How many tattoos do you have? Zero
34. How many pets do you have? The Bird (my cat) lives with his Uncle Matt in P-town.
35. Which came first the chicken or the egg? The burbling mass of oceanic jelly.
36. What would you like to accomplish before you die? Really, the whole point of incarnation is love, growth and helping each other. [Cue sappy music here, but it’s true.] We’re more one unit here than we realize, so I’d have to say I want to touch lives for the better and ease suffering somehow. Maybe it’ll be by contributing something artistic, or through relationships, I don’t know.

Pineapple Cake in the Oven

I have a job interview tomorrow from 10-12.

You know how when you're looking for an apartment or, lets say you're trying online dating, sometimes it's not what you hope. (Digression: What's up with my second person thing these days? Brian, have I driven you insane yet?) You see the ad, talk about it and kinda get exited and hope that it's all as good as it appears to be. Then you go and check it out in person. Sometimes it's exactly as awesome as it sounds, like my old job at the winery, my current attic apartment, Jon the baseball player whose online photo does his rock-solid abs no justice. Most of the time it blows chunks, like my evil-lawyer job, infomercial products (Avoid the leg-waxers, ladies. And gentlemen.) and the blind date I went on where the guy had a mustache and wore a t-shirt that said "Co-ed naked firefighting: Find 'em hot and leave 'em wet."

I really hope this job is as good as it sounds. And that they love me as much as they should, of course.

Say a prayer for me, some love, cross your fingers, consult Buddha or send me vibes or chi or whatever version of holy goodness is that you dig.

I do not want to do homework today.

Twilight Zone

I'd like to inform you that the Mall of America is a vortex of evil. It takes non-materialistic souls like myself, sucks you in and before you know it you're in some dressing room with a massive pile of cool stuff you can’t afford. You go in for one thing—a nice, affordable outfit for a job interview. You go on a Monday because you hate throngs of stupid people. You aren’t overly fond of shopping in the first place.

MOA may pump sanity-altering chemicals through the vents. Your eyes glaze over like those folks hunched over the slot machines all night in Vegas. Before you know it, you’re stumbling around with 50 pounds of shopping bags muttering "I can't carry anything else... but there's H&M... and that cool place I've never heard of... and the sale at Bloomies. I thought Anne Taylor was just around this corner, but it’s a whole wing of more, more more stuff…" Since when do you wear Anne Taylor? Since when do you use words like "Bloomies?" Never. Now you’re plopped down in front of the giant roller coaster made out of Legos or whatever sipping an Orange Julius to refuel.

Rather like the Bermuda triangle, you go in prepared to get what you need and get out quick, but all your money somehow disappears and you're lucky if you get out alive. Beware, that’s all I’m saying.

A Love Letter to Saddam Hussein

A hunger strike? Are you KIDDING me? Why are they feeding you in the first place? The world is full of starving homeless people and you’re on a hunger strike? You're getting food and clothing and shelter? OH MY GOD this is one messed up planet we live on. Saddam, clawing for the last bit of power… There is nothing left, Saddam. Nothing left. You will never last. I’d like just 5 minutes alone with you to scream in your face. Okay, maybe not alone. Maybe we could get a guard in there or something, or maybe I could be okay screaming, SCREAMING at you through some metal prison bars. Oh, I would so let you have it. Starving yourself. Go for it. Go for it. You are not worthy of an ounce of pitty or aid this world has to offer.

Eye of a Hurricane, Listen to Yourself Churn

I lived with Emily and Patrick in a grubby apartment complex next to an alligator infested pond in South Carolina. It was during hurricane Felix. The rain came in sideways and just about drilled holes through your shirt. The alligator floated on its belly all day long, its stubby arms and legs spread out. We saw it travel from end to end all day from our living room window.

Emily was sick. Patrick called me at the restaurant and told me to come home. She couldn’t keep down applesauce. She couldn’t keep down anything.

I stunk like French fries and ranch dressing. The wind threw the door open and I kicked off my shoes and my keys slid across the counter and crashed against the kitchen wall. “Emmy, Em are you okay?” She was awake with a fever and a trash can of vomited up water.

She was in the hospital for 5 days a week ago. They thought it was food poisoning. They couldn’t find anything else wrong. This wasn’t food poisoning. I was 18. I had driven the two hours to the hospital after work and then back to work in the morning for the 5 days she was admitted. They sent her home because she was fine. Now, a week later, she is not fine again. I called the man who had been her doctor before. It was 4 a.m.

“Bring her in at 8 AM. Leave home with her at 6.” The phone rang at 4:15. It was the doctor again. “I changed my mind. Bring her in now.”

She was curled on the back seat. The traffic lights swung precariously from their threads above. Stop signs quivered and the rain and wind were smashing. What do you do? She didn’t move. I had a tape of REM’s “It’s the end of the world as we know it.” I played the first 5 seconds and rewound it until I memorized it:

That's great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aeroplane -Lenny Bruce is not afraid. Eye of a hurricane, listen to yourself churn -world serves its own needs, don't misserve your own needs.

Then played the next 5 seconds until I memorized it, then the next until I got to the hospital. It was all hurry and fury and take the corners slow so it doesn’t hurt her and the wipers going at high speed, keep that glass clean! and then it was into the hospital where they whisked her away from me then it was me sitting alone in a plastic covered chair with a Styrofoam cup and silence and more silence and the buzz of fluorescent lights and I am alone. Alone. Alone for a long time. Then the lady tells me to come in here and sit down at this desk and fill out this stuff and I filled it out. Is the pregnant? No. Is she allergic to anything? Does she smoke? How much does she drink? And I had some questions, like Where did you take her? Why didn’t you figure this out the first fucking time? Where are our parents? What are you doing to her? Are you going to save her life or not? What is wrong with her? How will I ever survive if she dies? Why didn’t I do something sooner?

The doctor came in and told me they didn’t know. They didn’t know what was wrong but there is a mass in her abdomen. For a second I thought Mass? The Pope and candles and Glory Glory Hallelujah and smoke? I hadn’t slept all night. I still had on my orange-tinted panty hose and waitress apron. What do you mean mass? I uncrossed and recrossed my legs, and the change in the apron jingled.

I mean, there’s something in there and we can’t figure out what it is, so we’re going to do surgery. We don’t know what we’re going to do in there. We have to look inside to see what’s wrong, then we’ll fix it. If we can. And we’ll know more then.

I’m calling our parents. They can be here in 18 hours.

We’re taking her to surgery now. Are you a legal adult? You’ll have to sign here.

I paused and thought, “I’m signing a piece of paper so this doctor can slice my sister open and do something, we don’t know what, to an unidentifiable mass in her abdomen.” The doctor said, “If we’d have had any idea how bad this was, we wouldn’t have had you drive her. We’d have sent a helicopter to pick her up.

I signed it.

Teaching Poetry to Refugees

We go slowly. We get good at waiting and listening.

We repeat.

Last night we talked about metaphor. We read a poem where a man compares himself to a tiger. The tiger lives in the woods and stalks animals, kills them and drags them to its young. The man, because of the war, escaped to the woods, stalked animals, killed them and dragged them to his children. I am you, tiger. I am animal.

Can't we just write stories? Why didn't he just say "The war is bad. I hunt rats."

Lets think of a metaphor for winter. Homelessness, they said, winter is the inside of a dark cave. They wrote a poem about what they like and don't like. They wrote I Hate Metaphor.

We had a talk about why poetry is art, and why it is more powerful to use a comparison to express a feeling. The poem isn't just about acting like a tiger, hunting for rodents in the woods. It is about being reduced to a primal level, being treated like an animal, watching your babies starve. It's about oppression. War. Desperation. Writers use poems and comparison to tell stories that aren't just about a man in the woods in Laos. There is more there. Do you see now that there is more?

A man from Sudan said Yes, I know how this man feels. I have felt that. It is same. All over the world war feels same. Learners nod at each other--they're from 8 countries and 4 continents all together--then look back up to me with a respectful You don't know. They're right--I don't.

In the end, they put on coats and gloves and walk to catch busses and go to work at the stop sign factory and day care center and tall office buildings where they dump trash and sweep coffee grounds in the middle of the night. They go off to do their homework, to underline words for me to define next week for them: What is distance? What is glow? What is this: has made all the difference?

Did anyone understand? I get in my car and drive home with a stack of I Hate Metaphor poems and think next week, I will try something else. When I return to the stack, there is this:

A Poem by Wang Chue Xiong, Hmong freedom fighter living in Saint Paul, Minnesota:

Catch a dove
to lock in the cage
It lonesome (lonely)
endure suffering, It
live in the cage is a
silver cage, gold cage.
but a dove doesn't forget
the wood (tree).

same as me. moved to live
in the propress country.
I'm lonesome (lonely) and
endure suffering. live in a
big house, big apartment many
floor, but I don't forget my
homecountry, don't forget my
native language, don't forget
ricefield, fence and garden,
don't forget my cousins, my
friends, my Hmong people that
risk in fighting to protect
themself, from killing and
destroy by communist vietnam
and lao communist military
power, and they still fighting
untilnow.

We may lose and we may win, but we will never be here again.

Snowhills are good for fort building, tunnel digging, and hiding behind fortresses and nailing your sister in the mouth with a butt load of snow from close range. They are good for saucer sledding. They are not good for shoving matches. They are not good for coming over from another neighborhood, acting like you own the place, especially if your name is Megan and no one likes you anyway.

Bossing people around on their snow hill and announcing to me that Santa Clause doesn’t exist will result in a verbal assault by my older sister, Emily. If you insist that Santa is a big fat lie, you will be shoved by Emily and told repeatedly to Shut Up. It is not recommended that you shove her back and cause her to tumble down said hill and split her lip open on the Telephone Company’s parking lot asphalt.

It is hard to run 5 blocks to your father’s hardware store in Moon Boots. Nineteen-year-old, probably high, bicycle mechanics named Tim do not like being the only adult around on such occasions, and they do not like calling the neighbor girl to baby-sit you while he takes your older sister, who is bleeding down her chin and throat and onto her shiny yellow snowsuit, to the emergency room. Tim does not like that the reason your father was not at the store is because he was in the house right next to the scene of the incident, but happened to be untangling Christmas lights in the attic and not hear the commotion.

Tim will hold her hand through three stitches, and your dad will leave you with the neighbor, walk to the hospital and carry her home. Later, he will feed you hotdog pizza, toss you both into the bathtub and play the Entertainer on the piano while you splash around because it’s Emily’s favorite and she’s had a rough day.

When you’re choosing pajamas (you father’s t-shirts, that come down to your knees), you will let Emily wear the Eagles one from the 1978 concert Dad went to at Comisky Park in Chicago, because that is the most coveted nightgown of all.

Your sister doesn’t need to know that you already knew there wasn’t a Santa Clause, but she does need to know that when she needs a warm, comfy Thank You, you will provide it in the form of your favorite shirt that lists “Witchy Woman” as song number 10 on the play list, right under a picture of a giant Eagle, wings spread wide.

What to toss. What to keep.

I was driving down Hennepin at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m. praying that the needle on my—what do you call that?—thermostat on my car would go down. It creeped up slowly from Franklin to Lagoon, paused right before the red, then started coming back down.

There was a guy on the radio who may have been some evangelical preacher of some kind giving advice to people. Not so much a preacher as some kind of psychic who could apparently heal through the airwaves.

“Janice, Janice, Janice!” he said. “You have a block like a river dam. You’re attracting creeps into your life because you’re still in love with someone else! You’ll never move on until you let go, Janice. This man you love? It’s never going to happen. I’m here to help you.”

“Really?” Janice said. “Oh, how did you know!”

There was a pause.

“There. Feel that? Did you feel that Janice? A tingling sensation throughout your body?”

“Yes!” Janice said, “Not really a tingling, though, more like my hands got hot.”

“That’s it,” he said. “Just like that I tore down that block and you have let go. You’re free to move on. I see you starting a romance with someone within the next month. Someone who is in your life right now who you haven’t ever noticed before. You two will be happy together.”

The guy went on like this—proclaiming the truth of people’s problems and tearing down blocks and predicting all the good things that would happen to them now that their internal alleys are free and clear. The DJ occasionally interrupted to tell us how jammed the phone lines were.

So last night I was driving to a gathering in another town. It happens to be very close to the house of someone I dated. He’s probably the only guy I’d actually throw a drink in the face of, or perhaps punch in the eye, if I saw him today. Every other time I’d driven this route was full of happiness and comfort because I drove it to see him. Driving it now, my anxiety level now increased in some sort of Pavlovian way.

Oh, it all came back—the automatic way I turned here and there. Then, the mental movie reel of The Scene of Disaster wheeled out from its corner and started to play in my mind. I stopped it—the playback—because now I have the ability to intercept the thoughts. I wished some nice evangelical psychic nutjob would come and blow the movie reel downstream with a power washer and make my head tingle and tell me that now that the dam has been broken up and swept away. All will be clear and the future will only be good. That sounds nice. But it doesn’t work that way.

Frankly, I want to hang onto some of the Bad Experience river dam. I've already hacked through most of it, and unless you practically drop me in front of his house, I'm in a great place. We've all go them. Parent stuff, relationship stuff, friend stuff, our own stuff. Yes, Old Stuff hurts, but it also does us some good: If a caveman goes into a cave and gets munched on by a tiger, chances are he’ll learn something about what caves not to go into ever again. So: Do we need the bad things to entirely go away? Is remembering and reliving and “working through” them all the best way to do that?

It leaves a lot of questions about what stays on our minds—what to let go and what to hang on to. And how, how, how, unless we enlist the help of Evangelical Guy, do we let go of what needs releasing ourselves? Is it deliberate? A choice? Something that happens naturally over time? Can we help it happen faster? That’s what I’d like to know.

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.

Found: Random Exercise from Old Notebook

“I bet all of this will be over soon,” Judith said. She set the bunt cake on the wet counter. The pan rattling against the Formica, sizzling.

Anna wasn’t comforted—not by the smell of cake or by her sister-in-law’s attitude or by everything she’d looked up on the Internet about her symptoms. Her condition on top of her condition.

“It just as likely that it won’t be over soon,” Anna said. She put another cherry in her mouth and bit gently, as not to crack a tooth on the seed. She tossed the stem on the pile next to the pitting machine. “Aren’t we done yet?”

"No," Judith said. Anna picked up a handful of cherries and put them in the bowl. She turned the crank to roll them around until all of them had been taken in by the crank, had the pit forced out of it and been spit out the other end.

Judith’s forehead was shiny. The wallpaper curled from the heat. Anna felt like taking her shirt off, and her obnoxious, sticky, tight bra. It was all very restricting. She leaned back in the kitchen chair, the baby weighing on top of her, her breasts spread from their resting place on her stomach. She could feel prickling hairs in her armpits.

Judith turned to her. Anna got up and walked into the back yard. She looked at the tree, and put her hand around a limb—flexible enough to sag with cherries but strong enough not to crack. There was a breeze at the top where the branches were thin and light flexible. She shoved her foot in the crotch of the branches and hoisted herself up.

The Year-Ago Game

Every New Year my sister and I make two lists: “What I Got Out of Last Year” and Goals for This Year. For instance, last year, Emily wrote “Goal: Increase physical phitness” next to which I scrawled “Teach Emily how to spell.” (She’s 32.)

We also play the last-year-at-this-time game.

A year ago right now: Lived in Minnesota. Just finished semester 1 of grad school.

Two years ago: Living in Oregon. House-sat a big, drafty, scary house with weirdly slanty floors. My best Australian friend just died. I was pretty much on a gin-for-dinner diet for about a week.

Three years ago: Lived in Australia. Taught friends how to make snow angels in the sand at the beach. Swam daily. Drank fruity drinks in the hammock strung up between an orange tree and a fig tree in the back yard.

Four years ago: Worked at a winery. On vacation high up in the Cascade mountains. Friends had a bonfire in their yard so huge that it practically lit the sky on fire. With a running leap, we all sledded down their hilly, remote street.

Five years ago: I just moved to Portland, Oregon, and was working my first job out of college and hated it. Lived in a shared house with a crazy model-turned-Buddhist and a psychotic 45 year-old waitress.

top ten favoritest christmas gifts

in no particular order:

1. a jar of red pepper flakes (madre)
2. a shot of goldschlager chased by a santa-shaped chocolate (buckaroo: "oh my GOD. i feel like i just snorted christmas right there.")
3. my car washed by hand (little sister, who is broke)
4. 3 loaves of homemade raisin bread (gram)
5. a pair of 80's-style white sneakers trimmed in hot pink (kate)
6. a beer at Pugly's Mug in Napanee, Indiana, and a really awesome hug (josh, who i haven't seen in half a decade)
7. a trip to the dentist (padre)
8. three beautiful lacy silk antique slips, .50 cents each, from the tiny resell shop in my hometown (self)
9. a throw rug made of shreaded, woven old towels (mom)
10. a bag of homemade candied nuts with a note reading: "enjoy my nuts. love, em." (big sister)

anyone else get anything good?

post finals vacation-itis

Ah, the end of finals week and my school friends and I seem to be in recovery. I bet Voix is busting out the tiara, Jessi is finally showering again, the Captain is contagious, Michelle is in family crisis, Lorissa is missing, and I, darlings, have had a mostly crappy week. I am glad to see it end. I am also glad that the FedEx man just delivered a huge box of Godiva, into which I shall dive mementarily.

Why is Godiva so delicious? Why is there a plush reindeer wearing a Santa hat on my desk? Where did lawyer T. get that God awful rotating fake Christmas tree that glows red, yellow and blue? Why do all the clients who walk in here sweat nervously and ask me to sign paperwork next to a box marked "Witness?" Why did Britney Spears let Kevin Punk-ass father her child? How can I resist the urge to answer the phone "Good afternoon, we know you're guilty but we want your money anyway, may I help you?" Why do coffee filters make such funny hats? Why won't the vending machine maintenance guy make out with me in the janitor's closet? Would he make out with me if I wore a tiara? Gave him Godiva? If I made out with Britney Spears? What do you get when you image-google Mandolin Elvis Mouse?

Ten Awesome Things About Being Single

A friend of mine is tired of being single and of bad dating experiences. Well-intentioned friends are telling her that it (you know, IT) will happen when she stops trying so hard, or when she tries harder, or when she stops emitting the wrong vibe, or when she just keeps being her awesome self and all the other crap people (myself included) say to make single people who are bummed out feel better.

Let’s be honest here: having romantic love can be great. So can being single. And because the majority of people who want a life-partner eventually get one, single hood will end and take some of the good things in life with it. Here is what really makes me feel better when I'm down on being alone.

Ten Awesome Things About Being Single:

1. Being in a relationship that sucks (or going through a breakup) is a nightmare; being in a relationship that is undefined or sketchy is anxiety ridden. I don't wonder where anything is going and whether I want it to go there.

2. I'm more likely to go out and go DO fun stuff—stuff I may not have tried otherwise—than when there isn't a default person at home to just sit around with.

3. I will never fold Dan's rugby socks EVER again. I will never listen to Nate pick his fingernails. I’m not worried whether J is cheating on me. And this Christmas, the only mother I will have to deal with is my own.

4. Shave my legs regularly? Whatever.

5. I thoroughly enjoy sprawling out in the middle of my big comfy bed by myself.

6. I spend more quality time with friends and am more open to new people coming into my life. More importantly: I am more aware and involved with the truckloads of love I receive in my non-dating life: my student who told me how much I helped her, my dad who sends me cute emails about how much he misses me, my best friend who sent me her lucky disco dress from New York for an important party, my boss who sent a card thanking me for work that inspired her, my girlfriends who can make me laugh and cry in the same hour...

7. I don't have to worry about getting stuck with anyone else’s life-crap for an indefinite period of time: his messed up relationship with his siblings, his job angst, his drug use or financial irresponsibility or anything.

8. I can pack my bags and fly to Italy to romp around with a hot, younger fireman whenever the hell I want to.

9. Going out to dinner with guys can make you fat: see. Really, I’m more likely to slack on exercise/reading/homework/me-time with a man around.

10. To reiterate (it’s a big one) the general freedom to do what I want when you want to with whom I want and not have to consider anyone else. Fling with a rich investment banker? If I feel like it. Spend a week getting certified to scuba dive in Thailand? No one to miss terribly. The dirty dishes in the sink for days? Mine. And there are the little things: No one talks me into ordering pizza when I really want Thai.

Until I want a relationship and someone worth giving that stuff up appears, I'm gladly hangin' onto it.

List

Shamelessly stolen from the Voix.

1. What did you do in 2005 that you hadn't done before?
Got a poem published. Started helping people in a more hands-on way.

2. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Sort of. My cousin's wife had a baby and my friend Erin's due any minute.

3. Did anyone close to you die?
No.

4. Did you travel? Where did you go? Best holiday memory?
Yes. Portland, Oregon, NYC, Italy, France, Monaco, Spain. Best memories: Thunderstorm while camping on the Oregon Coast, Hiking through olive fields in Cinque Terre, Lying on the beach with an expensive cocktail in Monaco, the soccer game in Spain and, lastly, coming home. Ah.

5. Best thing you bought?
Boots in Spain. My education.

6. Where did most of your money go?
School, life and travel.

7. What do you wish you had done more of?
Reading. Working.

8. What do you wish you had done less of?
Putting up with men's shit. I was too optimistic and loving, if that's possible. I usually have a good dating life, but this was an insanely bad dating year.

9. What kept you sane?
Friends, school, books, writing, my friends' inexhaustible patience, my own inner strength. Tequila. Just kidding.

10. What drove you mad?
The way a few "loved" ones treated me--the confusion and hurt. At times, I really didn't like the person that turned me into.

11. What made you celebrate?
Starting a creative writing program for refugees, and all the support I've received from that. My student's reading was amazing. My friends' successes.

12. What made you sad?
War, human suffering.... Heartbreak and disappointment.

13. How was your birthday this year?
Awesome. It was beautiful outside. I was surrounded by friends. The Voix threw me a fabulous party and I went to a comedy club and dancing. Love birthdays.

14. What political issue stirred you the most this year?
If it counts as politics, all the suffering from war. All of it. It's atrocious. A disaster.

15. Where you in love in 2005?
I thought I was, but now I'm not sure if that was love at all.

16. What would you like to have in 2006 that you didn't have this year?
More inner peace. A job that's worth my time. A healthier outlook on dating, whether I'm single or not. More discipline to do creative work.

17. What date from 2005 will be etched in your memory and why?
October 21. I was in a gorgeous town in Italy with someone who made me really happy then.

18. What song will remind you of 2005?
Probably a song by the Killers--can't remember the name of it.

19. Compared to this time last year are you happier?
On this exact date last year, I was probably happier then, but I didn't know that shit was about to hit the fan. Last year by the end of December, my answer would be that I'm happier now. By FAR. I have absolutely purged my life of several toxic people and situations, but this time last year I didn't know some of them were toxic yet.

20. Biggest achievement this year?
My success in school and teaching writing.

21. Biggest disappointment this year?
A job I was thrilled about didn't work out at ALL. Also, a few people really disappointed me. Some other people also really, really came through for me. It was definitely a year that showed me who is devoted and authentically cares versus those who needed to get lost. I was surprised--pleasantly and unpleasantly--many times.

22. What is the one thing that would have made you more satisfied?
A solid job where I can give and contribute and be treated well and have financial security.

23. Best new person you met this year?
Michelle, Lorissa, Jessi & Michele (who I technically met last year, still), Alison, Dan M., Emily, all the people at FIRE.

24. A valuable life lesson you learnt this year?
To be more protective of myself. Not to let in anything toxic--a person, relationship, job or situation. I knew this before intellectually, but it was really tested this year.

It was... SOAP POISIONING

I could be at home in my flannel pajamas watching A Christmas Story, Best of Saturday Night Live Christmas (Schweaty Balls, anyone?) and my favorite sappy holiday flick, Love Actually. But am I, you ask? Am I curled on my couch with peppermint-schnapps infused cocoa and Scott Farcus? No, I am not. I am sitting in an office in an itchy wool skirt and tights that make me feel a bit like a breakfast sausage.

Soon, I will go to my small hometown for an old-fashioned, obligatory Christmas. Because it is unbearably rural, these trips are traditionally coordinated with my best friend who now lives in NYC. We get quite bored.

Because B.'s dad is the mayor and her brother is the town cop, kidnapping the baby Jesus from the courthouse square, holding him out the sunroof of Mr. Mayor's Firebird while cruising cross-town laps is frowned upon. So last year we got drunk at the Stag.

Patrons of the Stag are predominantly male, look over 50, work at the local plastics factory, haven't touched a razor in a decade or seen a woman under 60 in as long, and think that the District of Columbia is an island in the Caribbean.

Music stopped when we walked in. We reconsidered. Just then, a fellow half hidden under a birds-nest beard called out to us by name. It was the guy who used to buy is beer in college, who we hadn't seen since 1993, who proceeded to buy us shots of Goldschlager until B. got so drunk we had to call her brother. It just isn't Christmas until a 6'7" cop walks into the bar, tosses your super-hammered best friend over his shoulder muttering, "You are such a dumb ass" to her and the guy who bought you beer 15 years ago shouts "Are you still single? Can I get your number?" as you open the police car door so Copster can toss her in the back seat.

This year there will be no Goldschlager. Except the bottle I buy B. as a Christmas gift.

biker bob's java garage

sounds: pleasant electric guitar and a man's voice. the guitar could be mistaken for hendrix until the man start's singing. now it sounds like scott r., my huge crush in college, who was also an english major. we took this weird class together where we lived on communes. once, we were at this weird commune in rural indiana that really creeped me out, and i didn't want to socialize with the group in the evening, so scott came to me where i was curled in my sleeping bag on a pine floor, and played the guitar and sang to me. when he thought i was asleep, he touched my hair and said, "you are lovely," and left.

smells: warm banana bread with melting cream cheese. i try to picture the barista, a large woman with multiple piercing and strong fingers, stirring a bowl of batter. is banana bread mix called batter? she doesn't seem domestic, but she's very sweet and gives me free coffee at the end of the semester during finals when my loans have run out and the new check hasn't come yet. every time i try to pay her back she swears she doesn't know what i'm talking about and won't take the money. i tip her extra well.

sights: two men--one in a business suit, one in a black sweatshirt and jeans with oil stains. many tattoos. they talk about stripping. wood, i mean, furniture. they talk about kinds of stripping and sanding, getting coats of things on, cutting doors and prepping them to go in. i think yes, strippers need coats. then i picture a dresser in a coat. my sisters and i used to hang around my father's hardware store listening to conversations about finding old pieces of furniture, of being able to see how sturdy and tough they are. they don't make them like this anymore. quality stuff that's meant to last, that people throw out these days because they're afraid of a little work, of putting in a little elbow grease. then i think of our old neighbor who used to help my dad recover furniture, and how the neighbor looked like very very much like spock. so we called him spock, and once my sister called him spock to his face (did he even have another name?) and got in Big Trouble for it. the smell of lemon oil reminds me of spock.

feels: no matter how much i layer, my toes are cold. tights, socks, another pair of socks, thick boots. maybe the extra socks are cutting off the circulation to my toes. my legs are warm, my neck is extra warm on account of the rockin' scarf jessi knitted for me for my birthday. i remember getting the scarf--we were having post-dinner chocolate cake and red wine. it was so hot--august--and i remember thinking how beautiful it was and how looooong i'd have to wait to get to wear it. ha! how long. august feels like yesterday.

tastes: coffee, of course. my mother tells me she's going to give me her french press for christmas so i don't have to spend money going out for coffee. i tell her coffee isn't always the point of going out for coffee. this is the same french press i gave her for christmas the year i didn't let my then boyfriend come home with me. i didn't want him to. i didn't like him enough. took my french press and left my pissed off boyfriend at the gate—you could leave people at airport gates then. i hauled that coffee pot from oregon to indiana. now she's giving it back—she's given up coffee and drinks tea instead, which pleases her greatly. i drink coffee. it may be bad for me. i asked a doctor once if it's bad for me, whether i should give it up to be a healthier person. he said, "what are you catholic?" which reminds me of the last time my parents came to visit. it was summer. we were grilling dinner on my deck. my father opened a second bottle of wine and my mom said "another bottle? really" and my dad said "what are you, protestant?"

why i love my friends

A letter from one Miss Tiffany:

"In today's news, it was reported that an exuberant female resident of the East Bay performed an impromptu one-person dance-party wearing a fuschia tutu, juggling 15 bottles of champagne and swallowing a flaming sword as an over-excited Jack Russell Terrier dry humped her leg. According to amazed bystanders, this unusual performance was spurred by the fact that the obviously unhinged female had FINISHED HER FREAKIN' THESIS. Ha, booya, in yo' face and did I forget to mention that I ROCK! Just wanted to share the love ya'all.

p.s. Moneypenny, the guilty Jack Russell, has submitted an official apology for her appalling breach of etiquette. I was so overcome with gratitude I promised the chastised pup that she can have free access to any of YOUR legs, should anyone feel like a visit. How's that for incentive, mmmmm, puppy-love."

why i love thanksgiving

a fifth-grade style writing exercise

Carol Bly, my writing teacher, harbors a thinly veiled disdain for Thanksgiving. She keeps giving us writing exercises (see below) in which we must write about a holiday drama. She's given a few examples, like the time Robert told off his aunt at post-dinner pumpkin pie, and talks about what a hotbed of psychological turmoil surrounds the dinner table.

A classmate asked her what the deal was. Carol admitted that she isn't thrilled with Thanksgiving, and a number of classmates said they hate the holiday, too. Hate it. It's purposeless and a lot of work to get a bunch of people together who have to pretend they're not going crazy to get it all over with.

Pish.

I love Thanksgiving.

It's non-secular, (although I like most secular holidays, I like that it isn't about organized religion) all about food and gratitude. Gratitude is underrated.

It celebrates a friendly union between two enemies through food. Food is powerful stuff. I have a problem with romanticizing the relationship between invaders and natives, yes, but it's not so much about that anymore. It's grown into being about family and stopping to appreciate the good things. It's about cooking and eating, which are historically fantastic methods of human bonding. In my family, it's about seeing the new babies that have been born or adopted in the past year, like my baby cousin Lucy from China.

You dress in warm clothes because the business and heat of summer are officially over. This is key: Thanksgiving rocks because it marks the point where things calm down and we all turn inward and get a little solitude after an extroverted summer. I'm a writer, so I dig that.

You cook good stuff. The house smells good. You get together people you love. (Frankly, I avoid people that don't make me feel good. It's a holiday for chrissake, and life's too short.) You eat a ton. You take a nap. You drink good wine and eat pie. I hardly ever eat pie. My sisters and I make lists of all the things we're thankful for and read our lists from the previous year, which usually makes us laugh till we just about pee our pants. Then you sleep and eat more. When else can you watch at 35 foot tall Wonderdog falloon float down Madison Avenue? Never.

I am single. I know my friend Voix is/was a little bit bummed not to have a snuggly signif for the holidays, and I can relate. But I'm telling you--there are benefits.

Single people usually get adopted into another person's family holidays if they're too far from their own, and my single friends kind of band together. Single folks often get to spend holidays with different loved ones and possibly an eclectic group of cool people that they might otherwise see.

The Voix is in Arizona with some dear friends right now having a fab time. Today, my friend Matt is flying in from Portland. Matt grew up three blocks away from me and we've been friends forever. I haven't seen him in age and our Thanksgiving is going to be fantastic. If I had a signif, would Matt be coming to spend a ton of Q.T. with me? Maybe, but I doubt it. I'd be more likely to spend the holiday at Mr. Signif's parents house (or dragging him to mine) where one of us spends the day making small talk with strangers. There's nothing wrong with that--but there's plenty of time for it down the road. That's all I'm saying.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go tidy up for my guest, get my fireplace going, light my candle that smells like pumpkin spice and decanter a pinot noir. All the best....

pickled

I was far too pregnant to cook a 20 pound turkey. I gave the job to my younger brother Jason, fresh off the plane from Africa. Two years in the Peace Corps, Jason’s the only one who didn’t give a told-you-so when I bailed. So I’m stubborn and thought I could peel a hundred potatoes at 8½ months pregnant. Forget it.

Everyone was coming to my house as planned, and my only job was to lie on the couch with my legs propped up and to do what I pleased. This, for me, was to eat pickled eggs. Old pickled pregnant lady, I was perfectly happy with a big jar of purple eggs swimming in purple juice eating them one by one. Eat them slower, get more of them down.

Jason and his girlfriend Martha clinked and clanked around in the kitchen while I watched a giant 35 foot tall Barbie falloon float down Madison Avenue in the TV room, my legs propped on several pillows. Jason appeared in the doorway with a soup pot.

“They just said there are 3.4 million flecks of glitter on Barbie’s purse,” I said. “Get a load of that.” I fished in my big glass jar for another.

“Can you mash these?” he put the pot on the coffee table. I scooted myself upright on the couch.

“Three point four million,” I said. “That’ a truckload of glitter, my friend.” I put the pot next to me on the couch. “What? Beans?”

“Lentils,” he said. I looked at him, And? “I need you to mash them for me.” My husband, Rick, was walked through the room to get the vacuum cleaner off the back porch.

“Instead of a traditional Thanksgiving with all of us sitting around romanticizing the genocide of Native Americans by European invaders,” Jason said, “this year we’re going to eat a traditional African meal I learned to cook in Kebri Dehar.” Rick stopped in his tracks.

“Soooo no turkey, potatoes, pie, gravy—” Rick said.

“Nope,” Jason said.

“Creamed corn?”

“No.”

“Sweet potato marshmallow goo?”

“Nooo!” Martha sang from the kitchen?

“You can still watch football,” Jason said.

“Alrighty.” I said, “Where’s the pestle?” And I mashed.

By the time Dad, and Grandma arrived, Jason was spooning the top three inches off each pot of lentils so Martha could take the pots into the back yard, still smoking, to scrape the black layer of burned crust off the bottom. Our father sat in the living room telling his half-deaf mother that women are incapable of getting a perfect math score on the GMAT because they’re too emotional.

I raced my granny, 95 now, to the table, which Rick had decked out with paper cutouts of turkeys and cornucopias because he a very cute husband. Dad moved on to his next favorite task to insulting womankind (both of which he’s mastered): drinking wine. Jason served each of us a plate of spongy bread.

Grandma said to me, “Laney, I think Jason forgot to set the table.”

“Gram,” Jason said, "the Injera is your silver wear.” He spooned bean paste on her flat bread. You use your fingers to scoop up the food instead of a fork.”

“What the hell, Jason?” Grandma said. Bubbles broke through the soupy beans like gas through molten lava on Mars. Everyone looked at my brother. Yeah, Jason.

“Well, this is Misir Alicha on Injera, and this,” he stirred a pot of stew that looked like stringy cabbage in opaque bullion, “is Quanta FirFir. Dried beef stew in BerBere sauce.”

“Where’s the real food?” Gram said.

“Grandma—this is a traditional Ethiopian dish. I learned to cook it in the Peace Corps. I was given the honor of cooking this year’s family Thanksgiving’s meal and I’ve chosen to celebrate, I mean, I've chosen for us to celebrate, together, cultural diversity rather than the violent oppression of English Colonization.”

Dad poured himself some more white zin to break the awkward silence.

“You eat all this food with your hands,” I said. “See?” and I scooped up a spoonful of the bean mush and sponge bread with my purple-stained fingers and shoved it in my mouth. “Oh, dear God, Jason. I love you, man, but you can’t cook. Little Bunny Fu-Fu or anything.” Impossible to tease my brother without getting a smile out of him.

“It’s FurFur, Lane.”

There was a loud crash from the kitchen. After several moments of pause for a mental Holy Shit, Rick ran into the kitchen. I hobbled behind him. The floor was covered with purple juice.

“Oh my God, my pickled eggs!” I said.

“Oh my God, she made a pizza!” Rick stood behind me. Martha held a pepperoni pizza with a fish-shaped oven mitt.

“I’m so sorry,” Martha said. “I hit the jar with my elbow.” Rick lunged for the pizza like it was a mirage in a desert. Martha handed him the pizza slicer before he shoved the thing in his mouth whole.

“Jason, there are some rags in the laundry room,” Rick said. “You clean up the juice. Honey,” he said to me. I was trying my damndest to pick an egg up off the floor. My God! The eggs! Purple eggs rolled everywhere, under the kitchen table, under the cabinets, down the stairs to the back porch. “Go back to the dining room, Okay? and keep your grandmother busy for a few minutes.” Every time I bent to and reach for it I nudged it with my foot and the egg slid away.

“Slippery bastards.”

“Baby?”

“Okay, okay,” I said. I walked back to the dining room. My socks, dyed purple and soaked with juice, slopped on the linoleum.

Neruda

i sleep with pablo on
the empty
pillow not asleep

my lover
when there is none
i lie
on my side

your hip, he says,
curves up
from the blue sheets
like an island
from the sea.