last summer a friend and i were telling stories about growing up in the pre-digital world. i explained summer months in a pin oak tree with a book or a journal, hiding from my brother. he spent his winter months on the living room floor building houses of cards.
i thought that this was super weird and challenged him on the story.
who really sits around doing nothing long enough to build a house of cards?
turns out he did. and was in the guinness book of world records for making one with the most cards, ever. with a 1979 article from the Omaha paper, my friend proved that people really do spend ridiculous amounts of time on meaningless constructs, and the world takes notice.
last night, someone else and i were also telling stories about growing up. i spoke of my pin oak, and he talked his neighborhood on the lake, the freedom of swimming pool baths and no underwear in july.
in this conversation, i added on to the house of cards that i have built. rooms of families and other relationships arranged with such delicate mortar, that they are hard to keep upright in an honest conversation. i made no mention of brazillian voices, hallway pacing, or the squirrel on a fence.
later on his couch, in the fold of a blue silk dress over green corduroy, i got tired of arranging hearts, diamonds and spades in a scaffold that keeps falling. i have wasted too much of what i've been dealt in the neighborhood of "right things to do". too much of these places are done in with one breath. one word. or one squirrel.
i'm quitting card games.
what comes next will be forged from pin oak.
maybe something with a roof to tell secrets on.
and for sure, there's gonna be a fence that i can see over.
i'm chasing that fucking squirrel back into his own yard.
5.19.2008
5.14.2008
communication breakdown
when i taught creative writing, i was a hag for precision in language. never say tree, make it oak or ash. avoid the word angry, instead write blushing necks and the tightening of a shoulder. i was intent on the idea that words had to be exact to communicate what is felt, known, or believed. only in detailed language could we ever convey the truth in what we are.
last night destroyed that.
i sat at a bar with a man. and in our language, there was no miscommunication. everything we said was what we meant. politics. reading. family. city. all clearly defined.
but at the same time, we did not communicate.
the noise of the bar was a constant distraction.
the basketball fans on espn inexplicably wore yellow shirts.
the bartender tossed me the crown from a bottle of chambord, as though all women really want to be a princess. no matter how precise my words, the truth in that moment was that i not was even there.
and then.
on the way home.
i attempted to communicate with someone else. and the words would not come. stuttering lead to a change in breathing patterns and silences heavier than a house.
so i realized. that the truth in what i am is not in precise language, but in snapshot moments in my digital mind.
a text message at 10pm.
a cookie saved until 9.
the chatter of rain on a window.
and a door opening for one last good-bye.
this morning i stood in the street and watched May winds pull silver maples the way that sheets billow around a body; a buick travelling gallatin road, saying puddle spray, new muffler, and i'm late to work.
and the truth of what i was in that moment had no language but a quote in a book at 2am.
i'll leave you with this poem by Jack Gilbert
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write; and the words get it wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. Oh Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this desire in the dark. Perhaps spiral Minoan script is not a language but a map. What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
last night destroyed that.
i sat at a bar with a man. and in our language, there was no miscommunication. everything we said was what we meant. politics. reading. family. city. all clearly defined.
but at the same time, we did not communicate.
the noise of the bar was a constant distraction.
the basketball fans on espn inexplicably wore yellow shirts.
the bartender tossed me the crown from a bottle of chambord, as though all women really want to be a princess. no matter how precise my words, the truth in that moment was that i not was even there.
and then.
on the way home.
i attempted to communicate with someone else. and the words would not come. stuttering lead to a change in breathing patterns and silences heavier than a house.
so i realized. that the truth in what i am is not in precise language, but in snapshot moments in my digital mind.
a text message at 10pm.
a cookie saved until 9.
the chatter of rain on a window.
and a door opening for one last good-bye.
this morning i stood in the street and watched May winds pull silver maples the way that sheets billow around a body; a buick travelling gallatin road, saying puddle spray, new muffler, and i'm late to work.
and the truth of what i was in that moment had no language but a quote in a book at 2am.
i'll leave you with this poem by Jack Gilbert
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write; and the words get it wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. Oh Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this desire in the dark. Perhaps spiral Minoan script is not a language but a map. What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
5.12.2008
quote of the day
"Art and love are the same thing: it's the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you. It's understanding the unreasonable."
Killing Yourself to Live
by Chuck Klosterman
this was offered up in an, "i've never shown this to anyone." moment from saturday night that i will keep in the queue of moments that i will never give back. this and 1920's bungalow windows to get on the roof, patterns of rust in the basement, the smell of his body after a horse race, losing a game of uno, the way he looked at me when i washed my face, and the moment i let go.
Killing Yourself to Live
by Chuck Klosterman
this was offered up in an, "i've never shown this to anyone." moment from saturday night that i will keep in the queue of moments that i will never give back. this and 1920's bungalow windows to get on the roof, patterns of rust in the basement, the smell of his body after a horse race, losing a game of uno, the way he looked at me when i washed my face, and the moment i let go.
favor
i needed to do myself one of these and not have said the first thing that flies out of my mouth. i did that wayyyy too many times at steeplechase.
all i know is that i had the most interesting conversation about love that i have ever been privy to with someone whom i share nothing and everything with.
that's kind of beautiful.
it's also kind of sad.
hm. that's life.
all i know is that i had the most interesting conversation about love that i have ever been privy to with someone whom i share nothing and everything with.
that's kind of beautiful.
it's also kind of sad.
hm. that's life.
5.01.2008
call it a day
did you know that they make sardines in buffalo wing sauce?
yup.
and they're good.
at 2am.
with chili cheese fritos and hot and spicy chex mix.
my feet are salt swollen to a shrek like state of not-zen.
wagon? can you stop? i'm getting on for a week or two.
yup.
and they're good.
at 2am.
with chili cheese fritos and hot and spicy chex mix.
my feet are salt swollen to a shrek like state of not-zen.
wagon? can you stop? i'm getting on for a week or two.
4.29.2008
my mind is ramblin'
growing up, relationship constructs and rules in accordance made sense.
my brother lived to torture me.
my parents lived to protect us.
and my friends lived to share twinkies with me.
my brother was allowed to trap me in the kitchen corner and force me to dance with the utility knife, but not the butcher knife. he could yell, "dance bitch, dance!" but was never to call me mother-fucker.
my parents would only leave me alone with said brother when every babysitter in a 167mile radius was booked. and if they had to leave me with him, they checked mileage on all cars and warned the neighbors next door to listen for screams.
concerning friends, i would give them unicorn pens, kaleidoscope pencils, and small change for bites of twinkies. if i happened to score a $5 bill, sometimes we negotiated the entire swiss cake roll. what? i was fat and my parents were health nuts.
childhood relationship were even.
fair.
understood by all parties involved.
that shit flew the coop in 8th grade. my brother hugged me for the first time in recorded history when he went to college. my parents quit pretending that they liked each other and no one was safe anymore. and exchanges between friends became ones of emotional collateral instead of refined sugar. and it's taken me 20 years to be glad that bird is long migrated.
sure. some of my relationships still follow the rules.
take work: i don't steal stamps and don't use my corporate card for personal expenses. take the irs: i file by april 15th and pay my taxes. god, do i pay my taxes. and my car. well- i sink hundreds of dollars into it and it looks like shit.
these are rules i am still okay with. but others... i'm done.
like my ex.
i refuse to follow the rule that says we should hate each other.
i refuse to follow the rule that says we should hook up after break up.
that man and i made vows. and while i'm not keeping them, i still respect that i once made them.
like my best friend.
i refuse to covet her beautiful children and fabulous husband.
i refuse to think that she owes me any more time than she can give.
this woman and i have made it through boyfriend trades, hallucinogenics and after-birth; i think it's okay if we don't talk on the phone for a month.
like men i like to kiss.
i refuse to demand that because you can't get away from me means that you should be with me.
i refuse to think you can only get what you need in boyfriend, girlfriend and fiancé.
some people and i are connected through time, music and really great tv. no one says it's gotta fit into a 30 minute time slot.
don't get me wrong.
when you see a stop sign- come to a complete.
wear clothes when you leave the house.
for god's sake, leave the room to fart.
but don't. just don't.
tell me
that he should
and she should
and we should
be anything other
than what we are.
my brother lived to torture me.
my parents lived to protect us.
and my friends lived to share twinkies with me.
my brother was allowed to trap me in the kitchen corner and force me to dance with the utility knife, but not the butcher knife. he could yell, "dance bitch, dance!" but was never to call me mother-fucker.
my parents would only leave me alone with said brother when every babysitter in a 167mile radius was booked. and if they had to leave me with him, they checked mileage on all cars and warned the neighbors next door to listen for screams.
concerning friends, i would give them unicorn pens, kaleidoscope pencils, and small change for bites of twinkies. if i happened to score a $5 bill, sometimes we negotiated the entire swiss cake roll. what? i was fat and my parents were health nuts.
childhood relationship were even.
fair.
understood by all parties involved.
that shit flew the coop in 8th grade. my brother hugged me for the first time in recorded history when he went to college. my parents quit pretending that they liked each other and no one was safe anymore. and exchanges between friends became ones of emotional collateral instead of refined sugar. and it's taken me 20 years to be glad that bird is long migrated.
sure. some of my relationships still follow the rules.
take work: i don't steal stamps and don't use my corporate card for personal expenses. take the irs: i file by april 15th and pay my taxes. god, do i pay my taxes. and my car. well- i sink hundreds of dollars into it and it looks like shit.
these are rules i am still okay with. but others... i'm done.
like my ex.
i refuse to follow the rule that says we should hate each other.
i refuse to follow the rule that says we should hook up after break up.
that man and i made vows. and while i'm not keeping them, i still respect that i once made them.
like my best friend.
i refuse to covet her beautiful children and fabulous husband.
i refuse to think that she owes me any more time than she can give.
this woman and i have made it through boyfriend trades, hallucinogenics and after-birth; i think it's okay if we don't talk on the phone for a month.
like men i like to kiss.
i refuse to demand that because you can't get away from me means that you should be with me.
i refuse to think you can only get what you need in boyfriend, girlfriend and fiancé.
some people and i are connected through time, music and really great tv. no one says it's gotta fit into a 30 minute time slot.
don't get me wrong.
when you see a stop sign- come to a complete.
wear clothes when you leave the house.
for god's sake, leave the room to fart.
but don't. just don't.
tell me
that he should
and she should
and we should
be anything other
than what we are.
4.25.2008
my friend goo
last night was a cluster fuck and i can't even work a metaphor around it.
i tried to play with the idea of all or nothing, but all i got was nothing.
so basically...
i went to see sonic youth. while i was standing in line to get in, a guy from work who wears the same bifocals his grandfather wore in 1983 (possibly his hairpiece too) spots me. i'm talking 43 years old. clint eastwood from the 80's hair. black jeans and doc martens.
seriously.
not.
reasonable.
to look at.
soooo, he leaves to sell his extra ticket and returns to suck the life force out of me. literally, the entire time he's talking to me DURING THE MUSIC i'm texting my friend and inching away. i mean i'm texting for a decade. inching away, and he still won't get away.
text transcription:
me: i've seen 2 work douches at this concert and am scared. people who work where i do are weird. now i'm getting work douche stalked.
bff: where the f are you? what concert?
me: sonic youth. punk. he found me and i am sharting myself. i hate being nice.
bff: who is it
me: he might be 46 and bought his glasses in 1983.and he has kept them since.
bff: lose him. who are you with?
me: alone. i keep inching away and he keeps getting closer. you know how bitchy i am.
bff: kick his ass seabass
me: i want to kill myself.
bff: buckling. i'm going to bed
me: and let me modify that. i want to kill myself with a toothpick.
bff: buckling
me: nite nite. if i turn up missing, fun bobby from work is wearing my skin
bff: oh god
me: just emptied the douche on the other work cat.
bff: ok good
now. if you couldn't already tell. this blog is really written by a 17 year old boy.
seriously. i may be one.
except for the fact that 3 seconds after i emptied the work douche, i met a really hot guy. we chatted. we were walking over to hang with his friends.
then.
my uterus erupted in my pants.
proving that i am not a 17 year old boy.
i'm a 32 year old woman.
who can't control her period.
maybe i should have hung out with the douche.
cause i walked out the door in shame either way.
i tried to play with the idea of all or nothing, but all i got was nothing.
so basically...
i went to see sonic youth. while i was standing in line to get in, a guy from work who wears the same bifocals his grandfather wore in 1983 (possibly his hairpiece too) spots me. i'm talking 43 years old. clint eastwood from the 80's hair. black jeans and doc martens.
seriously.
not.
reasonable.
to look at.
soooo, he leaves to sell his extra ticket and returns to suck the life force out of me. literally, the entire time he's talking to me DURING THE MUSIC i'm texting my friend and inching away. i mean i'm texting for a decade. inching away, and he still won't get away.
text transcription:
me: i've seen 2 work douches at this concert and am scared. people who work where i do are weird. now i'm getting work douche stalked.
bff: where the f are you? what concert?
me: sonic youth. punk. he found me and i am sharting myself. i hate being nice.
bff: who is it
me: he might be 46 and bought his glasses in 1983.and he has kept them since.
bff: lose him. who are you with?
me: alone. i keep inching away and he keeps getting closer. you know how bitchy i am.
bff: kick his ass seabass
me: i want to kill myself.
bff: buckling. i'm going to bed
me: and let me modify that. i want to kill myself with a toothpick.
bff: buckling
me: nite nite. if i turn up missing, fun bobby from work is wearing my skin
bff: oh god
me: just emptied the douche on the other work cat.
bff: ok good
now. if you couldn't already tell. this blog is really written by a 17 year old boy.
seriously. i may be one.
except for the fact that 3 seconds after i emptied the work douche, i met a really hot guy. we chatted. we were walking over to hang with his friends.
then.
my uterus erupted in my pants.
proving that i am not a 17 year old boy.
i'm a 32 year old woman.
who can't control her period.
maybe i should have hung out with the douche.
cause i walked out the door in shame either way.
4.24.2008
sheep scratch fever
so last night i made it out with one cat earing missing and my afro curls a-raging.
this morning i made it home with a bitemark on my hip and a scratch on my thigh.
good times were had by all. especially the sheep dog.
this morning i made it home with a bitemark on my hip and a scratch on my thigh.
good times were had by all. especially the sheep dog.
4.20.2008
see how they run
i am attracted to 2 kinds of people:
ones who are so involved in their own pain that it destroys them
and
ones who are so detached from their own pain that it destroys them
i can navigate the involved.
i can not navigate the detached.
i'm done with the detached. i can not even begin to understand not seeing the horror in who we are. it's the worst kind of blindness.
ones who are so involved in their own pain that it destroys them
and
ones who are so detached from their own pain that it destroys them
i can navigate the involved.
i can not navigate the detached.
i'm done with the detached. i can not even begin to understand not seeing the horror in who we are. it's the worst kind of blindness.
4.19.2008
holy holy holy
it's been a long standing policy of mine to not date guys from work. probably because they have all either been gay, married, or seriously not reasonable to look at. no one yet has tempted me to break from the philosophy of "don't shit where you eat".
recently though, a friend has considered shitting where she prays. she gave her digits to a man whose wife died a few months back. are we really there yet? i mean. divorce, i can handle. but i'm not ready for dead.
anyway, they went to lunch and made a dinner date that she backed out of. then he stalked her at service and whispered in her ear during liturgy. the other day, he texted her saying that playing hard to get was working. this did not go over well.
so now i'm wondering, how is she going to go to church without wondering where the pissed off widower is sitting?
he whispers.
he stalks.
he gets defensive.
this was not the holy trinity she was looking for...
recently though, a friend has considered shitting where she prays. she gave her digits to a man whose wife died a few months back. are we really there yet? i mean. divorce, i can handle. but i'm not ready for dead.
anyway, they went to lunch and made a dinner date that she backed out of. then he stalked her at service and whispered in her ear during liturgy. the other day, he texted her saying that playing hard to get was working. this did not go over well.
so now i'm wondering, how is she going to go to church without wondering where the pissed off widower is sitting?
he whispers.
he stalks.
he gets defensive.
this was not the holy trinity she was looking for...
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