Four

Shamelessly ripped off from other bloggers:

Four jobs I have had in my life:

Worm sorter. (Bait.)
Maid.
Wine Club Manager.
Medical Writer.

Four jobs I think would be neat:

Scuba diving instructor.
Travel writer.
Musician.
Nun. The good kind. Especially if I could fly.

Four places I’ve lived:

Rural Indiana
Oxford, England
Portland, Oregon
Perth, Western Australia

Four places I’ve been on vacation:

Cabo
New Orleans
Wyoming
Prague

Four TV shows I love to watch:

Jeopardy
Oprah
Some sitcoms from before 2003
The Universe shows on PBS

Four of my favorite foods:

Thai curry w/ tofu and veggies
Ruffles and French onion dip
Gourmet chocolate and red wine
Enchiladas

Four places I’d rather be right now

Cottesloe Beach
The Walk Café in Subiaco
Road tripping through South America
A cabin in the mountains with lots of windows.

Happy Halloween

BOO.

Anyone? Anyone? Anybody out there?

Today I took 6,395,329 pounds of books to the used book store. The idea was to sell them and walk out with more money and fewer books than I walked in with. Rather, I walked out with the same amount of books I walked in with, minus $64.

I am working on a research paper about poetry written about science. I’m learning that there isn’t much of it out there. I got a book called “Verse and Universe: Poems about Science and Mathematics.” Other than that, I’m not finding much poetry about science (for adults—there are some kid’s science education books). Can any of you recommend anything? Specifically about the Universe/Space or about the opposite: Cells, microscopic stuff. They don’t need to be whole books about it—a single poem here and there will do. Anyone?


"It hit the news today: the telescopic evidence,
faint light from cosmic gas, traces of the stuff
that held everything at once--my fingernail, this pen...
my mother's hairnets, the plane that crashed in Dallas yesterday...
the cameo that vanished under my bed when I was ten, mountains
of bleashed conch shells, women washing sheets
in the Ganges... cobbled streets
of Paris, craters on the moon, spaceships not invented yet
and cameras clicking pictures of that cosmic dust
colder than the pain of loss--proving that everything came
from the same infintesimal seed
about the size, they say, of the dot at the end of this sentence."

--Dinah Berland, All Together, Nothing Lost

In which the artist bangs her head on her desk, stops to yawn, and resumes.

When I dragged myself
to my cubicle this morning
It was like I had never left. I can’t escape
To a coffee shop
Or—novel idea—the gym
Because I have to leave on time again
to go to class and I
I’m going nuts
It is 2:30. The day is young.

My rhododendron weeps for me.
The printer whines.
If my cube had iron bars
I’d drag a tin can along them.
If my cube had iron bars
I’d hold them in my fists
Shake and do something obscene,
like a monkey at the zoo who belongs
in a tree, in a forest, in a country, far, far
away from here.

Where will untellable stories be told?

“We would learn to hear the blankness / that forms the essence of our going on”
--McPherson

On the lawn at 1 a.m. they grow
closer together, strangers in robes
and party skirts and flannels they come
from watching television, making routine love
the bar, couches where they dozed, they come
from doorways and alleys
from the gun shot, the sirens, or the
rustling of voices they have come
together now, from the corners, with nothing
at all to say.
A boy is dead. They all know that
The many questions have no answers
no use asking
but there is comfort
in standing near, the drawing in like ducks on a pond,
an unlikely group, silent, as if to say I
am not alone I am not alone right now these
are my companions
in this they shift their weight cross
and uncross their arms then one girl, maybe twenty, says
It is late.
They separate, the miserable thread of the night growing long and tangled
between them.

Firstbasawassa

Coach Conrads Sit-up Camp for Shirtless Boys

I Ransacked My Landlord's Garden

You charged Joanie downstairs for heat and water
for the washer everybody, including you, uses.
You yelled at Ali for not composting eggshells.

And when I asked you to replace the backdoor eyehook
with a deadbolt
you told me that such paranoid vibes
sent forth into the world
will only serve to attract rapists to me, and
by your inaction, you declared you deemed
a lock
unnecessary.

You didn’t tell me that squirrels nest
in the vent ducts in the cold and will
break into my house and might
smash my stained glass art,
pee on my bookshelf
and claw the window sills so they look
torn, like the work
of a crowbar
which sent me screaming down
the stairs to the neighbors
There's A Man In My House
when it was just three stinking rats
with bushy tails.

Yes,
it has been a while, I know, but today,
I ransacked your garden.
All summer you have been bent
yanking and digging and sweating and I
have watched you
from my comfortable chair on the balcony,
sipping wine, grilling burgers and now,
Steve,
A half-dozen red ripe tomatoes
sit in my bowl.

Three hot peppers,
the only yellow squash,
several cucumbers (there are a thousand),
a head of lettuce, five carrots,
a most beautiful violet eggplant with
waxed-shiny skin and
a spongy core fresh
and white,
like a daisy.

I wonder, Steve, if you put some
fear-of-people-steeling-your-vegetables
paranoid vibe
into the Universe
because
I blame your vibe
for making me hack through
enough rhubarb
for twenty-seven pies.

I do have one regret.
I did not not take
the lovely lone melon.
The cord, too strong
for me to break
by myself.

Jackpot.

I picked up my new car last night. The sellers and I went to the DMV together to with our sickle’s (for the red tape), and after nearly keeling over from the amount of taxes I had to pay (there is no sales tax in Oregon, so what a surprise!) and dealing with a guy who didn’t want to accept my out-of-state check (Yes, I’ve lived here 2 years and still have Oregon checks. Sue me.), and filling stuff out and all that jazz, I have my new car. Well, it is new to me.

My old car—well, dears, my old car is very old. If my old car were a person, she’d be named something like Matilda and would be someone’s 80-year-old grandma who wears fuchsia polyester pants, smokes 3-packs of Parlaments a day, complains about her aching liver and spends far too many late nights drinking cheap gin through a straw in front of the slot machines at the casino. She’s not stylish, has a broken tape deck, coffee stickiness on the dash (no cupholders), and no cruise control. She wheezes and coughs and clunks and exudes a puff of smelliness every time I turn left. And like said granny-lady, she’s been there when I needed her—gotten me around in my underemployed days, made it through a snowdrift in rural Wisconsin, blasted through Chicago toll roads without (accidentally) paying, remained relatively rust-free, and recently survived being driven into an (almost) flash flood. Matilda, she’s a trooper when she isn’t groaning about her aching CV joints and asking for insanely heavy buckets of change to be dropped in her engine.

My new car, if she were a person, her name would be Ruby and she’d be dressed in stylish yet comfortable designer shoes she found at a consignment shop. She’d belong to MPR, vote, pluck her eyebrows and occasionally date a motorcycle. She would see Paris while she’s young, eat chocolate ice cream in her pajamas and escape to the boundary waters for the weekend. She’s pretty but not too frilly. Practical, safe, and zippy enough to be fun and free-wheelin’.

I feel like I just went from a college-age futon and milk-crate coffee table to Pottery Barn. Not Ethan Allen, but happy to have it.

Word of the day: Phhhhht.

Things that suck:

Family issues that I won’t bother going into and some other unfortunate crap.
Dreams about hurt friends and burnt love letters in the toaster (Hey, it was a dream).
Schlepping boxes and stuffing 250 marketing launch packets.
Heavy boxes.
Incompetent people who say they’re going to do something (that is ON a DEADLINE) then don’t do what they said they’ll do, and to fix it, you must make 42,000 phone calls like this: “Dial 1 for loans, 2 for contracts, 3 to wait on hold for 5000 more minutes only to be connected to someone COMPLETELY useless who will just fuck up your paperwork even MORE.”
Eating cheap take-out lunch while trying to assemble 250 shipping boxes.
Clowns. Okay, clowns have nothing to do with today, but aren’t they totally creepy?
My boss, who got in at 9 and left at 4.
Cute shoes that really hurt.
Stupid people who demand stupid unreasonable things and change their mind at the last effing second and don’t understand what you do enough to know you can’t just freaking whip out jobs in two seconds by command.
TWO presentations on poets that may or may not be due tomorrow but must be prepared anyway.
PMS.

Things that do not suck about today:

French Meadow’s Almond Croissants and my friend Kate.
Getting home from work.
Flannel pajamas.
Purple. I just like purple.
The 42,000-phone-calls-stupidity working out in the end.
People who help stuff 250 packets and assemble shipping boxes.
Overtime.
Fall. Fireplaces.
72 hours until I leave town for a north woods cabin.
Myself, who has good work ethic. Except for that whole personal-emails thing.
Good. Boxed. Wine.
Cheesy chick TV shows.
Quality frozen pizza.
My new car. Well, new to me. I pick it up on Thursday.
Phones with an off button.

Oh, more good things on the list than bad things. That’s good.

-Deborah Keenan

Your job is to add
To the river.
You might be
a drop of rain.

If you break down, I'll drive out and find you...

I spent my actual b-day in Indiana with my family—my whole immediate family—and that is exactly what I wanted. My older sister and I drove out to the country to our masseuse friend’s house for massages. After my massage I dozed off in a patch of tall grass next to the big red barn while I waited for my sister. There were chickens and a big green cornfield and a little pumpkin and sunflower patch and a big blue sky. It smelled like home.

I also went to see my 96 year-old granny and my aunt and uncle and cousins and parents and cousin’s babies came over, and I played with little Autumn who is 3 and when we parted she gave me a kiss and made the I-love-you sign with her hand—her mom is teaching her sign language now—and it was all very sweet. Then we barbecued in my back yard and had really yummy cake and wine on the screened in porch of our big old house and talked about our lives, and how blessed we are and how fast time goes. On our refrigerator there is a picture of my father at age 5 on his bicycle just outside that screened in porch. My family’s been in that house for almost 3 generations now, and he grew up in it too.

Back in Minnesota, Voix and Frances threw a killer party for me with all of my favorite stuff and all my favorite people. We drank champagne and had the best cake ever and red curry for dinner (fav) and went to a swanky place where we drank drinks that end with –tini. I got presents: a journal, salt and pepper shaker, litjo subscriptions, a set of golf clubs, a great ACDC t-shirt. It was classy and fun, and Voix’s cooking totally kicks ass.

I love my birthday time because the sun is high and bright and people are jamming the last bits of fun into the rest of summer and then we get to calm down, rest, harvest stuff, turn inward, get the sweaters out of the closet, turn on the fireplace, pick apples, read and write more, and the life cools down. This time of year, school starting and things ripening and everyone resting from a busy fun summer. It is good. Being 30 is good.

I am going home to Indiana today to celebrate my thirtieth birthday,

which is Sunday. Because I'm leaving work early, I needed to work extra to hit my 40 hours. Because work dinners count as hours, I decided to leave work at the regular time yesterday and go to the dinner planned for our sales reps. Usually, I skip these.

Now, I haven't worked at a company that actually has money for a long time. I've certainly never been in a position to go out to a shmancy restaurant, eat and drink well and get paid for it. My last job was at a very poor nonprofit. My other job was nannying two little boys. My job before that was a receptionist. You get the idea.

Can I just tell you that for about 15 people, we ran up a tab that was the same amount of money that I lived on for an entire semester. It's approximately enough cash to feed all the starving children in China, AND fund research to learn to make fuel out of corn cobs. I was astounded. People ordered so many shots of Patrone that eventually, when one young woman nearly slid out of her chair like a wet noodle, the waiter cut us off. I was even more astounded when one of my co-workers, the leader of the whole young, flash, hammer-fied group, tried to kiss me in front of everyone, and when I dodged him, he accidentally licked my face.*

I don't know if this is common protocol or not. Maybe it was a particularly crazy night. If I ever, ever tell you I'm dating either a sales rep or a surgeon, you have my permission--rather, you are required--to come to my house and perform a lobotomy. Not that they're ALL bad, but I'd certainly consider it a high-risk endeavor.

Now, I have to roll out of bed and go into the office, and I really, really don't want to.

*Lucky for him, I know he's a very respectful guy who was having a rare, dipshit moment.

With salt. Extra salt.

Moi. And Voix.

I am playing hookey from work.

It is 12:30 and I am home sick. Am I sick? Well, a little. I have a cold. And lots of paid sick time. So I am home, and I just left a v-mail for the Voix and I'm going to read and take a nap and watch some movies that I swiped from Kate and Tim when I went over to water their plants. They are on their honeymoon.

I am not going to stay on the computer very long. It is not okay to play hookey from work then spend all day on the computer unless you are doing mandatory homework, and I have no homework right now. I must find mischief. I don't know what kind. One can't ditch out on something unless it's to do something Ferris-Buhler's-Day-Off-esque. At least a little bit.

Now, I'm off to eat enchiladas and drink margaritas with the Voix. Suckas.

Yes. A while.

I just called my ex in Australia and he was asleep—it’s 11 p.m. or so—-so we agreed to talk later and I said Love You because we still do that even though it is a different kind of Love You than before. He didn’t say it back. Which means either his mother is present or he’s in bed with a woman, because I know he loves me to pieces and I know him well enough to know when he’s up to mischief. I shrieked at him—OMG, you totally have a girl over. I teased the shit out of him for a minute and he laughed and said he’ll talk to me tomorrow. He wasn’t dating anyone when I talked to him less than a week ago, so she’s either really new or an ex or a one-nighter. Where once I’d have found this utterly heartbreaking, now it’s just funny and whatever and no big whoop.
That is kind of weird, that this isn’t weird. Does that make sense? I used to live with this man and bought us dishes and talked about marriage and had Christmas with his parents and washed his endless pile of rugby socks. There was a time that I couldn’t imagine a future that didn’t include us together. Then, things changed. When we were heartbroken about it, it was impossible to imagine that being apart would ever feel natural or okay. We thought it would feel wrong and foreign forever. And it doesn’t feel that way—it feels like finally, after 5 years of knowing each other, our relationship is finally exactly where it is meant to be for the long haul. He’s there and I’m here and he dates and I date and we call each other to whine about who we’re dating and we send birthday presents and have a whole new meaning for the I Love Yous between us. Sometimes we can promise to love someone forever and move heaven and earth to keep them as safe and happy as possible. Sometimes you are wrong, and can’t and don’t keep that promise, and that is scary to think about, because if you can be wrong once, you can be wrong again.
I guess… that’s where we’re lucky, Dan and me, is that that part hasn’t changed at the core, it just looks different than before. I still would jump in front of a speeding train to save the guy, and he would for me. And whenever I call him crying about something, he cries with me because even though he’s a big, burly, hairy, steak-lovin’ manly man he can’t hear me cry without getting teary. But the love does not look like I expected it to—we don’t have romantic feelings for each other anymore--and there was a time that I couldn’t trust that things would ever be okay. But they are. It took a lot of time and hurt like hell, but they are okay. And I’m really lucky for that. That even though we’ve been through a train wreck and couldn’t ever imagine how it would ever get untangled, it really is all back on track. It feels good to finally be able to say that and mean it. It’s taken a while.

Grodie.

Did you know that Dairy Queen has a flavor of Blizzard called "Cheesequake?" Excuse me, but I do not want my Blizzards to evoke the image of quaking cheese. I like cheese. I like ice cream. I approve of these dairy products. Please do not mix them.

Ich lebe mein Leben in Wachsenden Ringen

I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.

I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I've been circling for thousands of years
and I still don't know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?

-Rainier Maria Rilke

Some sad notes from an old notebook I used to write in when I was half asleep:

In bed
I smooth my foot along
my dry white calf.
So soft
after you were gone
from lying here
Evening.
Night.
All morning.

***

The earrings I wore tonight
glisten on the counter top

You will never understand
the depth of my sadness.

When my last lover saw me
In the picture by the waters

He said standing there
You look like you might
dive in
and swim away.

***

The tree has borne a thousand seeds
and none will ever live.
Last night, the storm
ripped a thousand branches
to the ground.

Why didn't you tell me?

She is sick
to think of it.

***

What I remember most about you
is orange skies
in Minnesota winters.
I was amazed
that it never got
truly dark.

Sponge-Tim No-Pants

My friends Tim and Kate got married yesterday at 5:30 in the morning. They rented a giant camping space in the boonies that was private and pretty. A bunch of people camped and the grandparents and aunties and such stayed at a hotel nearby. Camping Friday night. Wedding at 5:30 Saturday morning. Brunch. Free time for swimming, golfing, canoeing, etc. Reception at 3. Camping again Saturday night.

It was approximately 1005968493 degrees yesterday, so the 5:30 a.m. nuptials outdoors turned out to be a good idea, a cool 83 degrees with a nice breeze. The bride dragged me out of my tent at 4 a.m. We woke up the bride’s sister and a friend or two. We went to the bridal tent (tall enough to stand up in) where we strapped Kate into a bra that looked much like a torture device, Lauren clipped on jewelry and I put on a headlamp, the kind you use for spelunking, to do the bride’s makeup. It was still totally dark out.

Meanwhile, back at the hotel (the groom loves his bride’s hardcore outdoorsyness, but wanted AC and, you know, a shower before his own wedding), the groom and his best friend were dressing. Tim put on his shirt, his tie, his jacket. Then he felt a cool breeze and realized something was missing: he had no pants. There were no pants on the hangar, none in the bag, none under the bed. The groom, he had no pants.

Tim made the 40 minute drive back to Minneapolis in SEVENTEEN minutes wearing a dress shirt, tie, and his boxer shorts.

At 5:30 a.m., all the friends were caked in bug spray and sweat and bed-head and had breath that could kill an elephant. There was no running water, you see, and pit toilets. But Kate—not Kate. Kate was born with mutant naturally-gorgeous genes. She rolled out of her tent with flowing hair soft as cornsilk, as fresh as a spring daisy. She was dazzling. When she walked across the field with her father to marry her groom, she was glowing, Tim was glowing, and he had on pants. It was all as it should be. We would’ve cried if we hadn’t been so dehydrated that it was impossible to produce tears. The ceremony was meaningful and the J.O.P. said relevant and touching things. Tim’s father sang a very appropriate and lovely song he wrote for the couple. His sister sang “All you need is love.”

Then we ate brunch. And instead of canoeing and golfing and swimming, per The Plan, everyone went home or to various hotel rooms to shower and shave their teeth and take a 2 or 3 hour nap. Then we went to the reception where we visited and hugged lots of people and ate barbecue food and really good cheesecake. I skipped the second night of camping and drove home and slept in my own bed for 10 whole hours. It was happy, and I am glad they are married and I am glad to be clean and in air conditioning.

Tonight I rowed on the Mississippi

...in a double with a young woman named Erika. It was a skinny double--not much wider than my hips--and very sensitive to every movement. Sleek and white on the outside, and all wood on the inside. An old boat.

Erika bowed, so she sat behind me and called out instructions every once in a while to steer, but mostly we just rowed. It was cloudy, so it wasn’t too hot, and the water was totally calm. Because she was bowing, I didn’t have to look back or think about what direction we were headed or if we’d hit anything. All I had to do was my job, a rhythmic motion, and look straight out ahead at the rippling V we sliced through the water, at the three ducks by the shore, at the one white cloud atop gray ones the shape of a crumpled quilt, at the airplane just taking off at the horizon, at the arc and pedicles of the Lake Street Bridge and the lone biker crossing from one city to the next. Arms away, slow up the slide, click, plunk, exhale and power through the drive, handle heights even around the corner at the finish and click to feather the oars for the recovery.