What's Tucked Inside

After writing in my journal this morning, I flipped through the book "In Pieces: an Anthology of Fragmentary Writing," edited by Olivia Dresher. I've sung the praises of this collection before, and it's one I return to often for the reminder it offers: all those little bits of writing you do are worthwhile. The collection is a diverse sampling of fragments by 37 writers. Some of the fragments come from diaries, some are postcards, notebooks, letters, aphorisms, short prose, vignettes, and lists. There are writers I know in the collection, or rather, I don't know them so much as I've had brief "writer interactions" with them. One is a mail artist and writer, Roy Arenella, who regularly exchanged postcards with my husband. The copy of the book is inscribed to Dan from Roy, but I've hoarded the book in the same way I've laid claim to Dan's copy of the Compact Oxford English Dictionary. It's mine because I use it more. Rights by usage!

I found some interesting fragments in the book this morning, but they weren't part of the collection. They were temporary bookmarks and placeholders during my tenure as the book's "owner." (I guess no one ever really owns a book - the same way you can't really say you own land -- it's an odd concept.) There was a postcard from the mail artist whose writing is part of the book, a post-it note with a woman's phone number on it and a plea to call, a florescent orange "Riverside High School VISITOR" badge from my visit as a resident poet a few years ago, a blue post-it with the note "1st, 4th, 5th" written as a list, and my favorite, which gave me pause this morning: an origami puzzle folded from school notebook paper by a boy who lived next door to us for a couple of years.

The puzzle is simple and intricate at the same time. When folded tightly it resembles a throwing star. If you pull on the top right and bottom left points simultaneously, the star slides into more of an oval shape and an hole appears in the center. You can continue to turn and pull on the remaining points gently until the opening in the center becomes larger and larger and the end result is close to a circle. The boy was about eight or nine when he made this for me. He used to sneak over to our house to make origami -- his father disapproved of his "habit." He struggled in school. He told me his teacher found origami in his desk and threw it away. I made sure we always had some papers around for his folding because he had a gift, and was learning from it. Then he just vanished. I saw him at a bookstore recently, a teen out for a trip with what seemed to be kids from a group home. We exchanged glances. No words. They were all tucked inside. I can't help but think of this origami star as a metaphor for the boy himself - either tightly closed and pointed, or a gaping hole. Maybe this applies to any human being.

A long grey sedan is parked in front of the bookstore this morning. In the passenger seat, a boy of about 14 or 15 sits and stares up the street. The fifteen minute parking space allows customers to the television repair shop a chance to dash in and drop off whatever electronic device is on the fritz. The boy waits for his father to return. He looks sullen. Maybe there was an argument. It's an early June morning, and he's in his father's car in front of a bookstore. The boy's nose is a little to large for his face. Some body parts race to fit the growing frame, others tortoise to the finish. Pubescent torture. The only time the boy changes his gaze is when my husband unrolls the awning. Yellow and white stripes cheer, we say, but our bookstore is just a brief part of the landscape of this boy's mind.

Writing is hard. If you care about it and want to do it well, it's difficult. If anyone tells you that writing is easy, they are trying to sell you something, and it's probably software that "smooths" the writing process.

The lack of pre-ground cinnamon in the cupboard for your coffee means that you'll go to the trouble of grating it from cinnamon sticks. Why not? You've got the time. You're only writing. Instead of squishing the carpenter ant that is mapping out your writing space, you watch it bumble over the berber toward the snoozing cat. There's a lot of hair twirling and mosquito bite scritching (I draw little x's in the center of the bumps with my fingernail) involved with writing, and plenty of staring out into the sunny yard. Then finally, if you're lucky, something clicks, and off you go, smashing through letters. It's almost enjoyable, until your neighbor cranks up his plaid music and coughs like he caught a hornet's nest in his lung. You shut the door. The coffee is too strong.

Too Much Freedom

In a day and a half:

• I read two books
• Ate three kinds of fish (mollusks, shellfish, crustacean)
• Took note of shell shapes and seagull markings
• Watched the sunrise over the ocean
• Got a ridiculous, spotty sunburn in spite of the reapplication of SPF 50 lotion
• Caught someone's beach umbrella tumbling in the wind
• Took a Chardonnap
• Wrote nothing

Book Bonanza

This weekend we visited another independent bookstore with the intent to buy a few (or more) books to add to our inventory. I love to see how differently bookstores are designed. We visited one in Philadelphia a couple of months ago that was very orderly -- the shelves were handmade wooden boxes stacked up to the ceiling and most of the inventory faced out. The grid-like structure was pleasing and tidy, if not a little Brady Bunch. The seller knew the worth of his books. We spent about $160 there, and left with a bag full of books for our store (and ourselves ... not everything makes it to the shelves here!). We didn't feel like we'd received any kind of bargain, but were happy to get the books we did.

Saturday's bookstore was inside half of a house. The door had a hand-written note taped to it that read, "I'm out, but come on in and browse. I'll be back in a minute." When we walked inside the owner was there, and had just forgotten to take the note off the door. "Hey, hi, welcome. There are books in all four rooms here, if you have any questions, just ask."

I hit the fiction first, and had an armload of books before I could get to the section marked "Affordable Shakespeare." The poetry section spanned two entire cases. We talked a lot with the owner of the store, and he invited us to have a look at the books upstairs that "just didn't fit on the downstairs shelves yet." He let us have first crack at what was up there, which was generous of him. In our conversations, we realized we were both not making any money in the bookstore business and our intents were similar - to get books moving and get people reading. I found some old Edward Albee paperbacks, a huge selection of John Updike paperbacks, some Kurt Vonnegut, a really old and yellowing pulp-ish edition of "Cannery Row" by Steinbeck, and several New Directions paperbacks. I get excited about old book cover design as well as content.

This morning I sat on the floor of the bookstore and priced the new books and stacked them according to genre so they can be shelved this afternoon. I found an unfinished crossword puzzle inside a children's book (all about teddy bears and kangaroos who start a circus), and the copy of the Vonnegut was well-loved by the original owners. They carefully "preserved" the cover by coating it with clear tape. There's so much to stocking an independent bookstore that I love - the smell of acid-ridden paperbacks, the Ex Libris stamp variety of book ownership, the little notes written in margins, the ephemera left between pages. I really enjoy finding books that I know customers who frequent the store will be interested in, too.

We spent about $140 in the independent bookstore we visited on Saturday, and we left a box of encouragements (Want one? Email me! They are free.), and sold the owner some used DVDs. "Oooh, the money is just flowing all over the place!" he said. We laughed, all in on the joke.

I'm working on the unfinished crossword, and filled out the "co-creator of Dungeons & Dragons" (Gary Gygax) and "Old NYC club birthplace of Punk" (CBGB). Harvesting for fodder? Six letters. _ _ Y I N G.

Money Suck Week!

The culprits: The vet's office with two cats (a duet of mrowls for the entire trip), and two trips to the chiropractor* for an injured back (a solo of howls for each ride).

Non-money related, less sucky details: At the vet's office an inflatable tick toy twirled above the examination table, little plastic-haired legs twittering under the air-ducts. A fun reminder of the dangers of parasites bobbing over our heads. The vet had a small white feather stuck in the scruff of his beard from the parrot he examined before he called my cats into the room.

The chiropractor keeps a water feature placed at the head of the patient table, so when you can't stand the pressure of the face-plant pose sqwooshing your skin into a forced grin, you can turn your head and watch water trickle. The feature is a series of plateaued stones, one layer shorter than the next up to the top where the water bubbles out from a tube that is hidden behind everything, but which circulates the pooled water into new cascades. Relaxing, until your neck starts to stiffen, and you notice the Magic 93 office radio music and start to think about how it's a pity money doesn't work like this simple water feature - flow in, flow out, flow in. Or is that how laundering money** works? I'm not sure.

Pain makes you think short, jabby thoughts.

*Yep, I am scratching "acrobat" off my mid-life career change list.
**Also any jobs in crime.

I had heard the birds are in the Middle East, wondrously important ... I see!

The pale cover of her bird notebook was laced with a network of wrinkles from sharing space in her purse with a buckled wallet. A red bookmark skimmed between the pages in a spot she didn't intend to mark. She'd kept track of all the birds she'd seen in her lifetime since she was eleven. This was one of many of her travel notebooks, and every year on New Year's Eve while everyone else was toasting and kissing, she was transferring bird names into the lifetime list she kept in a hardcover journal. The barometer of her year was not how many birds she'd spotted, but which varieties. In 2007 she spotted two cactus wrens in Tuscon, and added a common nighthawk, Chordeiles minor, too, when she'd nearly tripped over it during an evening walk. It looked a lot like bark, and blended in well, perhaps too well, with its surroundings. Next year, she was sure, would be the best. A trip to Uzbekistan promised the Blue-Cheeked Bee-eating Hawk, larks, Clamorous Reed Warblers. This year felt like an abbreviation of her twelfth year. She'd not strayed far from home. Her list was a series of brown finchy burns across a suburban sky when what she wanted was wonder and importance, a riot of colors.
--
Sketch #4 in the Visitor's Book at an Art Gallery Series. The titles of the sketches are the notes left by the visitors.

I walked around and around alone waiting for shape and then this flew into my skull: the ecstasy of yesterday's plans?

He forgot yesterday's plans while he watched the arrangement of sunlight and waves. Molecules. Atoms. Chemical bonds. The light looked like it was frozen on the surface of the water. Yesterday's plans were displaced by today's thoughts. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small notebook and pencil. The pencil was one of those golf sorts, stubby with a worn off gilt message, and decorated by a chew mark on the end. He wrote "a gull oscillates above the water," in the solid capital letters of an architect or a draftsman. The ideas halted. A mist of sea spray shied across his face and made him think of sex. He couldn't write about her. Study the gull, the sand, the waves, he thought. So much wonder, flight and feathers to cram into a skull in a lifetime.
--
Sketch #3 in the Visitor's Book at an Art Gallery Series. The titles of the sketches are the notes left by the visitors.

Really scary, especially at night ... what is she eating?

A radish. In the echelon of shadows that formed since dusk it looked more like the head of a mouse. Possibly a rat. Is she eating a rat? No. She bent over the wire that kept the riff raff out of her garden, and probed the dirt to release another radish. The day's sun had baked the ground to a hardness that created a light crust on top. It flaked under her nails. An earthworm, repeat customer to the garden, whorled near the strawberries. The garden was suitable. Nothing fancy, but she was proud of its healthy rows, its ready order. The shrubbery had its own language. It spoke in wagging tongues, lapped languid, lazy branches to the lawn. It needed to be punished. She tossed the radish greens, then slid on a pair of dark gloves. The hedge trimmers were oiled, glistening. She held them up, opened the blades. Her neighbor across the street only saw an elongated V cast against the fence. She liked the authority of gardening at night. She was the scheduler, the pruner, the cruncher of hairy root vegetables. Soon the rabbits would have nowhere to hide.
--
Sketch #2 in the Visitor's Book at an Art Gallery Series. The titles of the sketches are the notes left by the visitors.

Effectively Grotesque, Fascinating. Eliminate the Sound.

There were birds in the walled garden. They perched on the thorny branches of a wood rose, and whirled and chittered among leafy cover. The stones in the wall were cold, the dark grey color of thunder. She pressed her hand against the wall to borrow the strength, then dragged her knuckles across to feel them bump and thud. The air was humid and soupy with pollen. Felled buds and leaf whirligigs laced the sidewalk; the cars parked in the street wore a patina of pale green. There was a tiredness in her head. A hum. Her knuckles were bloodied from their trip along the wall. She raised her fist to her mouth and licked the stinging skin. Honeysuckle? Yes. It sent out its inquiries from the garden. There was no gate, just an opening in the wall near the church where she entered. Drowsy bees. A cellophane wrapper flapped against the base of a butterfly bush. A robin popped around the oak in the center of the garden. The oak was old, and some inspired handyman built a bench that wrapped around it. Honeysuckle spilled out from behind a fuschia filled rosebush. She pulled a trumpeted bloom off, reached in for the filament in the center, sucked on the end. Sweetness. A slight itch down her arm.
--
This is the first in a series of short sketches I'm writing based on the notes I read (and copied into my own notebook!) in a visitor's book at an art gallery. The titles of the sketches are the notes left by the visitors.

Well, no Rapture. My neighbor still hasn't mowed her grass.

Forever

I spoke about the friend who died, the one I thought was a lifetime friend. I remember thinking "forever!" when I asked him in the hallway, "Do you ever feel like you just don't fit in?" and he answered without hesitation, "Yes." We were 39, teetering on the cliff of 40 together, holding hands and hoping the fall wasn't as steep as it seemed. I forgot that some forevers are really short, shorter than a season. He didn't get to fall into 40 with me after all.

His classroom was a safe place to share yourself, your thoughts, your ideas. Kids knew he wasn't a phony. He listened. He threw his arms out wide and laughed. He challenged. There were rules. He took no shit, and rearranged the room if there were any jokers. He was respected.

I spoke about what an honor it was to have known him, and how I wouldn't have met him if it weren't for my work in the schools. I was there for his parents, not myself, not really for any award. Oh, it felt right, but damn it, I still miss him.

Distinction

I've won the "Teaching Artist of the Year" award for our region's Arts-In-Education program. Today I receive the honor, and I get to read two poems during the luncheon. The award is lovely, but it's the opportunity to do the work before it that matters the most to me. I have many incredible memories from teaching poetry, I've written poems I never would have written otherwise, I've met some wonderful people, I've encouraged others.

While digging around for appropriate poems to read today, I ran across some fragmented notes. I don't remember writing them, or where I was heading with them (if anywhere at all). So, I've decided to post them here. Maybe they'll inspire someone else to write something. Please don't try to eat your own belt, and be careful around large bakery equipment.

They tried to eat their belts. Soaked them in boiling water, then cut them into tiny pieces.

His brother was killed in a bakery accident.

In September the middle schoolers move in packs, run along the sidewalks. They aim for the local park, where they spend their Friday evening sprinting and training for upcoming track meets. Three ponytailed girls pant at the corner traffic light. One bends over to stretch, places her hands on her knees, her ponytail a sudden divining rod. She will always take the lead. The other girls follow - bend, knee touch, stretch – one after the other, reeds in the wind.

Model of the week:

21
If you were invisible for a day?
Celebrity you think you look like?
Reality TV Show Title?

Achoo Haiku!

Some of us want Spring to die. Some of us like me and my friend Matt. Instead of cursing the darkness of pollen, we lit a haiku candle via text messages this morning. We also shared some remedies. Bread, tic-tacs, tea, staying in the shower until Summer. Anyway, these hanky haiku woke me up and took my mind off my snarflesnuffle:

Cherry blossomed air
sun nudges the world awake
Kimberly Clark wins

- JH

Green covered windows
A film I cannot clear off
Lick me, Mother Tree

- MH

Sinus cavity
clicks like a garden of crickets
Fuck you, Springtime's sigh

- JH

Mucous, viscous green
Bondo plugging my face hole
Get my nose drill, love!

- MH

Bird shit drip on car
reminiscent of sneeze
Spring's allergic thoughts

- JH

My car sits, lifeless
rag top bitch-slapped by ragweed
Eat a dick, Springtime

- MH

Oh wintry world
you vanish into a sneeze,
ripe snot, puffed eyelids

- JH

Nose, raw and runny
My stock in Kleenex goes up
Cheap 1-ply bastards

- MH

Sinus drains, drip, drip
I pop five tic-tacs, why not?
Ah, minty relief!

- JH

Drip drip drip drip drip
snot soup slips down throaty hill
A cold lunch. Serves one.

- MH

Roof of mouth itchy
Insert finger, violent scritch
Hope no one saw that!

- JH

Teeny Type Story

There's coffee, the usual cat on the lap, the pile of books I never tidied. A train of allergy sneezes followed by snarfles and a trip to the bathroom to unroll several squares of toilet paper. I don't know, I think I should stop reading the letters of writers I love. It's ruining their writing for me. My glasses don't work anymore. The prescription is just too old. I don't like squinting, but I squint, tilt my head down to peer at menus ... if I get the angle just right ...

She gets the angle just right and the door opens. Several messy letters schlorp past, leaving a trail of messy messiness. Consonants. They are so sloppy. Mannerless. The entire room is filled with giggles and chortles as the letter U tries to call everyone to order. There's a boy in the center of the room, and she wants to talk with him, but the consonants took all her confidence away with their power moves through the door. She wipes the mud and tittle (that j!) from her skirt, and walks over anyway. The boy works a thread through a needle. The thread wriggles, and she notices it isn't a thread at all but a word. The letters are silent in anticipation. U spreads his arms and conducts them as if they are an orchestra, but the word the boy is threading won't stay put and the letters stay quiet. The type is tiny on the thready word. Probably eight point, maybe six, the girl guesses. She hands the boy her glasses. He threads the word, aria, through the needle. The r grumbles. R is such a jerkoff. She never wants to play. Tough doodley-doo, r. You have to play with only vowels today. The word needle is threaded, and the music swells. An aria, of course. The girl puts on her glasses to read all the assembled letters. That's better. Sublime, even. Musical.

Unfinished Sampler

Last night I went to bed after watching about an hour or so of Avatar, after declaring it Pocahontas with tall, blue aliens. The bio-luminescent landscape was the most interesting part, and as my daughter said, it made me wish it existed. (The element that the humans wanted from the alien landscape was called "Unobtainium." Who wrote this?) None of it made me want to stay awake, so I went to bed and read a chapter of a book where a man has his suitcase riffled through while he's sleeping on a train. This is unsettling, but he finds no answers. All of the sentences were short and it reminded me of some writing advice for beginning writers -- write in short sentences.

The short sentences, the recovered suitcase without a culprit, the computer generated blue people battling it out on the television downstairs, it all put me to sleep. It was humid in the bedroom. At 4 a.m. lightning broiled the sky, and rain shot through the window and into the laundry basket on the floor. I felt it against the exposed part of my back, the rejected lump of covers at the foot of the bed. Outside was angry, and it invited itself inside.

I fell asleep and had dreams of of crying and yelling, "This is not the shit house!" This morning from my writing desk, the Q-tip of pear tree sways back and forth. The lilac nods in the breeze. All the furious rain that pelted the house is captured in the needlepoint grid of the screen like an unfinished sampler.

This is not the shit house.

The rain worked with a spiderweb stretched over the seat of a chair on the patio to knit a sequined chair cover. The tensile strength of the web is impressive. As the wind pushes through the open weave of the seat, the web waves and each captured drop glitters.

Eskmo and Beats Antique

Philadelphia evening. Oh glow sky dandelion bloom, brick building dryer scent exhalation, fried peppers and onions, concrete dusk stoop song!

"I love new experiences," Susan said. I agreed. We parked on the sidewalk near a fenced lot with "No Dumping" signs, the sidewalk sprayed with constellations of broken glass. The bar was a block away. Young women with feathers in their ears and black lace stockings waited near the entrance. The bouncer checked our IDs, stamped the inside of our arms with the word "Important." We found a table in the back room of the North Star bar, ordered some dinner, and talked as our food was prepared in what the menu stated was "a very small kitchen." The menu pleaded for patience. The servers looked exhausted but kept their humor as people ordered drinks and dinners.

A woman seated next to us leaned in to ask, "Are you here for Beats Antique? How did you hear of them?"

"Hooping!" I shouted over the din of one of the opening acts already going on in the stage area in the neighboring room.

"What?" she asked.

"Hooping! Hula hooping! We hoop to Beats Antique sometimes!"

"Ooooh!" and she told us about her three workshops at Burning Man where she laughed and laughed while re-learning to hoop. Would we be interested in doing something with the Sustainable Living Roadshow? She gave us a card. She told us about the origins of the band, and that she is the mother of one of the members. A man who I imagined was her husband offered us some of the Ben & Jerry's ice cream that he brought into the bar. "They don't have dessert here!" He had extra spoons to share.

The opening act was Brendan Angelides, a DJ known as Eskmo. The floor throbbed with people. We nudged our way to the middle. Scent of sweat and beer, sweet fading perfumes. Dreadlocked hair, feathers, Tristan Tzara faces. I felt like I was waiting for a train with my purse in my hand.

Eskmo crinkled plastic water bottles, shook strings of shells, banged rhythmically on pot lids, and looped it all over a bone humming bass. Fractalled images of feathers, water, and a double helix flashed on a screen behind his tabletop set-up of electronic equipment. Images were sometimes joined by phrases like "you have invisible friends watching, guiding," and "little sister, little brother, big sister, big brother." The Brave New World-ian text made me wish for more poetry. Brendan swayed, cracked open a beer into the mic to capture the "pop" of the tab, then leaned forward and bobbed a bit with his mouth open in a semi-hypnotized state. He looked like a technological Linus in his striped shirt and maroon short pants, weaving the sound of torn up paper into a melody with the twist of a knob. There is a joy from watching someone do what they love when they do it well. Virtuosity.

The crowd didn't dance so much as sway in a trance. A hand popped up here and there to limply wave. Bubbles floated. It wasn't the mosh pit of my youth. When Eskmo packed up his gear and Beats Antique took the stage, the space was packed and I tried to hold my ground close to the front. Instead of being shoved out of the way, I was shoved out of the way with a phony "Hi!" from a short woman with curly hair adorned with a peacock feather. I prefer just being shoved. Is it now concert etiquette to pretend we know each other? If we're going to be polite, say "Excuse me," but don't be fake. Just shove or nudge your way past me.

Beats Antique started their first set after 11 p.m. Zoe Jakes took center stage in what seems to be her trademark leopard bodysuit. Harnessed to her shoulders was a large high school bass drum. Gold on her cheeks glinted under the lights, and the heavy beats and sub bass swelled into a full-on whirlchurn. Susan and I moved to the back of the room when the bodies made us claustrophobic. Stage presence is a big part of the Beats Antique show, variously parts high school band, performance art, and burlesque bellydance. A woman in the back shook and rattled the coin-beaded scarf wrapped around her hips as Zoe danced around the stage with a Sally Rand fan.

It was midnight. We had a two hour drive home. We are middle-aged. This morning I'm feeling a titch on the puny side. The coffee isn't strong enough.

The Lone Star bar was so close to the zoo. I kept thinking of the animals with their thrumming, caged heartbeats, so near. I love a new experience colored with forever.

The Poetry Mines

Why doesn't anyone buy poetry? Geezamarooni! If I knew why, I'd fix it. Maybe it's because poets use words like "geezamarooni."

My husband and I turned our art gallery/poetry studio/theatre into an independent bookstore at the beginning of the year. (Now the money will really come rolling in!) We've published collections of poetry for the past seven years. Poetry titles don't exactly fly off the shelves. We've witnessed the trend, and continue to see it in the teensy checks we chase from distributors (sales there aren't all that brisk either and they like to keep the money for as long as they can), the few times a month we see a sale online, and the once or twice someone stops by to pick up a title. What sells poetry? When poets give readings from their books. I'm pretty sure the audience feels obligated to buy. The poet is right in front of them. Buying a book is their way to get out the door and on to a dirty martini.

The entire left wall of our store is dedicated to poetry. There is a series of four shelves mounted on the wall right when you walk in that feature poetry books, and in the middle of the left wall is a large, wooden shelving unit from a school library with a magazine rack below that holds all of the Paper Kite titles. We are loaded with poetry here. The visual, the lexical, the Ijustdon'tgetitacal. Bern Porter's Found Poems, Improvisations by Vernon Fraser, the tender collection of Kristin Prevallet that appears to be sold upon inspection, but I later find mis-shelved, of course. Kenneth Patchen. Denise Duhamel. I spend my days gazing at spines that stand as straight as capital I's. Maybe that's the problem. Poetry just feels too self-centered, too prone to introspection. Novels transport the reader.

We have a few regular customers in our store. There's a man who always asks about 19th century diaries. Another wants books about world religions. When prompted to check out some poetry, he said, "I don't know what it is about poetry. I just don't like having to read things more than once." He never finishes the hot chocolate he makes for himself either.

Books facing out sell first. Most people don't like to paw through books, squint to read the mouseprint titles of the spines, or disrupt the 64-crayons-in-the-box order of things. However, poetry books facing out don't sell. Their cover designs just plead.

I'm pretty sure you become stupider for not reading poetry. That's right, you become downright dumber if you don't at least pepper your gluttonous meal of autobiographies, fashion magazines, and novels with poems. I owe thanks to many poets not just for the garniture of their writing (I've been wanting to use that word!), but for the empathy that comes from their poems, the delicious word pairings, the sensory delights, the new ways of seeing. For me, long stretches of reading poetry feel like philosophical dumpster dives. I come up breathless, with hands full of treasures no one else wanted. Fools! Remember Hector the Collector by Shel Silverstein? I think Hector was a poet.

Mine, mine, mine!

I mean that as a verb. Read poetry.

Girl Out

of step again, ribald rhythm plays
its tricks from Hell. Right leg kicks, left leg
stays put. Oh, vile muscles, memory's betrayal!
Swallow that pill as you smile. No one likes vague.

The audience can't see your “Oh, shit!” thoughts,
but be expressive. They'll forgive your flubs
if you shake your fringe and wink as you were taught.
Glitter toss! Now count to eight, Beelzebub.

Blow a kiss, shiftslideturn, all the applause
comes from hips and gaze, your electric hands.
You do not ask, you earn. Empress of Awe,
your screw-ups erase with the lift of a fan.

Feathers pillow your skin as you lean,
tassels twirl, light licks silver sequins.

- Jennifer Hill

Birthday Girl

You forgot it was your birthday
when the alarm went off
in its submarine deep bloop,
and you rose from a dream
where your right hand
was trapped in a tangle of fabric.
The cat rubbed her furry cheek
on your elbow, up your arm,
against your chin. Another day
of being alive. Purrr.

The day before, you forgot
it was almost your birthday,
and the day before that you forgot
it was almost, almost your birthday.
You count the week as birthday week,
share it with your sister and daughter.
You march as a triumvirate,
you ram the world.

Now as you get older, the day before
the day you were born is quiet as a long
stretch of field covered with snow,
or the fist of a peony bud.
Regular mail.
Skim milk.

It's so quiet, you almost don't exist
as you pour coffee, seal an envelope,
read an advertisement for soap
with those eyes your mother and father created.
You prefer it now, the day before your birthday.
The power of invisibility.

Today is your birthday,
and as your outline
fills with color and confetti,
you bop around
the landscape you painted
and see how little
of life is ever still,
how much is thrown,
how little you own.
Birthday girl,
even your eyes
are loaners.

- Jennifer Hill

Pep Talk

This is the place and you are here,
scratched up desk, no chandelier.

Old glasses jabbed into a pot
with dried out pens and fusty thought.
You twist and wind dreams into knots –
This is the place and you are here.

So get it out, good God, be done!
The coffee’s black, your timeline thrums –
this whingy-whine is overdone.

This is the place and you are here –
so suck it up, you chanticleer!

This is the place and you are here.

- Jennifer Hill

The Morass of Self-Doubt

Self-doubt spreads like kudzu. Let it in and it will cover and take over every corner of your body. It will invade your gestures, and control how you view your environment.

I used to think that if I was genuinely having fun, others would want to play too. I'll be 42 next month, and I'm not so sure that's always true now. (I spent a lot of time alone on the playground as a kid, making up stories in a dirt pile. It was genuine fun for me.)

Sometimes I'm just having fun alone. It's just me, and that's ok. This is as true for the writing parts of my life as it is for the hoop dance parts. What makes me giggle as I write it might not make the reader giggle, but I write it anyway. I have to remind myself over and over that it's alright to wear shorts with fringe on them, bleach my hair, go to a burlesque class, sing a sound poem on the elevator, wear a top hat to the grocery store, leave a painting in the woods for a stranger or a bear to find, and that it isn't some sort of mid-life crises.

Do enough people "like" what I'm doing? That smile on my husband's face - does he think I've lost my mind, or is he enjoying the show? Oh that horrible little voice inside me that says that people are laughing at me behind my back! It feels like all the worst parts of education.

Am I sorry I didn't discover that I have a body that dances earlier in my life? Yes. When I was younger my muscles were suppler and I had more energy, but when I was younger I was also wrapped in kudzu.

Right now, I'm happy that I discovered that I have a body that works with my mind at any point in my life. My forays into hoop dance have inspired others to try it. This is good.

So this post is a big screw you to strangling vines of self-doubt. If I feel like wearing shorts with fringe on them and hooping it up on the dance floor, I'm going to do it, with relish and abandon.

Destroyer

I praise the beast who gave me boots,
spirit strong,
eyes that thawed winter with absolute,
fenced-in song.
Together we stamped the damp ground
with our names. I am astounded.
So stable,
unable
to hide the animal I’ve found.

- Jennifer Hill

This is a Ronsardian Ode. It's a French stanza form, syllabic (decasyllabic and tetrasyllabic lines), rhyming, with nine line stanzas. Mine is short. I realize this poem isn't going to win me any vegan friends.

Praise for What Floats to the Surface

I don't care that your poem was published in Huckleberry Pie Review, or that you've won that prestigious award that turns every other writer's eyes into thumbtacks. I don't care that you live with your four cats and husband on an island. It doesn't matter that someone once described your writing as "the deft hand of minimalism." What matters is that you wrote a phrase in a poem that still floats to the surface of my memory as I press my foot into the ground of my backyard to check for 60 foot sinkholes. I don't own any of this land, this bland madness of snows.

The Chillmonster Rhymes with Truck

It's not that I resort to unprofessional tones when it's only nine degrees outside. Really. It's only nine degrees outside and I feel the dread hand of a ghost brush along my back in the quiet of the bookstore. The cold slips under the backdoor, or from the basement, or is wheezed through a window gap.

I did not just use a word that rhymes with truck as I felt the chillmonster grasp the wedge of skin exposed from my sweater's lazy rumple. Yesterday I had a fruit salad for breakfast (not made by me, what luxury on a weekday!) and the chunk of real peach I bit into sent a spineshiver tone of summer through my body. Lawnchairs, sun on skin, dirty feet -- the parade that marches out slush and stagnacy. I'm ready.

A Pleasant Cure

A friend replied to a recent email of mine: "The list of authors I have not read never ceases to embarrass and amaze me. However, there is a very pleasant cure for such things."

I agree. At fancy and not-so-fancy dinner parties with literary, intellectual, highly-educated types, I find myself struggling to remember the plots of novels I've read, the names of the authors who wrote them, and the titles of poems that moved me. I remember a phrase, but I can't quote it perfectly. I remember the feeling or color I got from reading a poem, novel, story, or excellent phrase, which is much harder to quote. I can recall whether what made me laugh or cry was on a right-facing or left-facing page, at the top or the bottom, in the book where I read it (my husband also has this quirk of memory).

I'm not totally ashamed by my shortcomings in reading. There is a very pleasant cure for such things, as my friend said. One of my favorite writers is E.B. White.

Books of E.B. White I have not yet read:

The Lady is Cold - Poems by E.B.W. (1929)
The Trumpet of the Swan (1970)

Books of E.B. White I have partially read:

Is Sex Necessary? Or, Why You Feel the Way You Do (1929, with James Thurber)
Here Is New York (1949)

Books of E.B. White I have read completely:

Essays of E.B. White (1977)
One Man's Meat (1942)
Stuart Little (1945)
Charlotte's Web (1952)
The Second Tree From The Corner (1954)
The Elements of Style (with William Strunk, Jr.) (1959, republished 1972, 1979, 1999, 2005)

I have a biography of E.B. White that I haven't even touched. There's a collection of his essays and poems that I didn't cite in my partial list because I can't remember the title of it. I've read a short piece of his simply titled "Note" in a 1950 New Yorker magazine (upper right of right-facing page) that reflects on a forgotten actor in a restaurant.

In Charlotte's Web, Wilbur says:

"What do you mean less than nothing? I don't think there is any such thing as less than nothing. Nothing is absolutely the limit of nothingness. It's the lowest you can go. It's the end of the line. How can something be less than nothing? If there were something that was less than nothing, then nothing would not be nothing, it would be something - even though it's just a very little bit of something. But if nothing is nothing, then nothing has nothing that is less than it is."

This appears on the lower portion of a right-facing page in the edition that I own. In fancy conversations about books I admit I feel like nothing, but I do know that my combined reading experiences account for something. I consider myself lucky to have days filled with books that I can pull from shelves and sink into, or lazily peruse. I hope it is alright that I can't quote verbatim, that I forget author names, plots, and titles. When a writer makes me laugh out loud, or connects me to another writer, or gives me an "aha!" moment that connects me to the larger world (not just the world of letters), I feel appreciative and warmed by the light of genius.

New Year

The stapler forced to hold everything together
with its metal teeth finds out later the lion’s maw
of staple remover rends it. My bare foot
discovers the bracket shaped discard.
Always, the hungry hum of the paper shredder,
the scissor’s ample and clean cuts,
pens bleed maps onto my fingers
that I can’t wash off, and the receipt spike –
oh, how it lives to gore! Paperclips
hold permanent yoga poses.

I press a stamp of approval down hard,
also a delinquent stamp, neither declaration
ever changes. Both grin their red grins.
Only the date stamp laughs –
Wrong year.

I notch a fingernail into the gear
for its last number, edge it forward.
How behind I was. How behind.
How could I forget?

Christmas Eve Meditation

Good morning. It's December 24th, and it is 5:32 a.m. I am sitting here in this chair. It's a tough and sturdy chair, a chair of penitence and patience. It is dark outside, still. When I walked the dog, the sharp edge of the air jabbed itself inside my coat and grazed my collarbone. No stars. The wind composes music with the chimes, the dog snores from his pillow. I am wearing one of the many pairs of glasses I own - the brown oval frames with the loose right arm. I keep them in the blue flower pot with my arsenal of pens and one u-shaped bobbypin.

There is a clamshell on my desk that has "Quiet, Please," written in script on it in black Sharpie marker. To my right is a painting of the beach that I bought for my daughter as a Christmas gift. I haven't wrapped it yet. I have other gifts to wrap as well, yes. To my left is the door where a draught slinks in from the bottom. The coffeepot just beeped off. I'm trying to drink all of the coffee I made before anyone else wakes, because I put cinnamon in it and I'm the only one in the house who likes that.

I should be writing, but I am just sitting here in the mostly dark, thinking. My hair has a tangle in the back that feels like felt. When I run a comb of fingers through it they catch, and I use my thumb and forefinger to wiggle the matted strands loose. That tangle is always there. I like it. It is like time, or the sea, or the sky. Maybe a mouse nest or the mouse itself. It is a mess that is mine alone and I wear it everyday, even on holidays.

Good morning. It's December 24th, and it is 5:52 a.m.

I Still Do

for Kenneth Patchen

It takes a great deal of love to give a damn.
Be rebellious. Do more than kiss a cheek – punch
the button of the heart’s elevator. Become a battering ram.
It takes a great deal of love to give a damn.
Point to where the pain is, call yourself alive, a dram
of care in your blossomed fist, a cup of blood clenched.
Be rebellious. Do more than kiss a cheek.

- Jennifer Hill

The Base Price of Going Blonde

On a semi-lark, I walked into a hair salon to have my hair colored. I wanted to try blonde. It's on my list of "100 Dreams." I've never been blonde and thought I would like to try it.

I found myself flipping through a large book of hairstyles, and found one or two examples that looked right. A stylist with white, fastidious hair and his collar buttoned asked, "Now, what do you want?" He was flat-lipped in his delivery. I told him I wanted to try blonde and his jaw dropped. His co-worker, who was crossing off appointments in a book on the counter, cocked her head and smiled in a way that said "crazy."

"It's on my list of 100 Dreams," I smiled. A short, plump man with a walk like a pigeon said, "Your Bucket List." I corrected him. "No, a list of 100 Dreams. The word bucket implies something I'm not ready for yet."

My stylist introduced himself to me as he sat me in the chair. His name was unique and reminiscent of high school English classes. He walked in the back and produced a large gateway folded book filled with little loops of hair in different colors. Each loop was marked above with a number. He held the book up to my head and said, "You look like a 6. Well, maybe a 5." I got a lecture against going blonde. "You know you can't put color on color and go lighter, right?" He ran a hand through my hair. "And with all of this, it's going to be a base price of $150. Then there's color and cut."

He talked me down off the ledge of blonde, and onto the concrete sidewalk of brunette. Together, browsing the Book of Loops, we chose a brown that matched the summer lightened ends of my hair. Fine.

In the time that passed we discussed teaching, poetry, the War of the Roses, Prince. We shared our mutual distaste for certain Christmas carols. He shared a story about an 11-year old girl who came in wanting a "scene" hairstyle for a big event. "I wouldn't do it. She was pre-pubescent. It would damage her hair. I said 'Honey, life isn't about things. It's about people, knowledge, and experiences.' So I just straightened her hair and she was happy."

My hair was piled on top of my head and covered and goo while he cut the hair of three other clients. Iridescent snowflakes twirled above our heads, advertising "Cut, color and style from $59.95 and up." A couple of older women got some extra hairspray applied to their holiday teases.

As my stylist washed my hair, he chatted with someone across the room. "God brings certain people into your life for a reason," he said. His fingernails scritched my scalp. From my angle I could see right up his nose. Fastidious there too. All of his buttons were completely and neatly threaded through their holes. Years of experience lined his face. He taught high school English for thirty years, he told me, "and then they offered me an early retirement. Of course I took it!" Now he cuts the hair of women who try to make rash decisions.

As he cut my hair, I asked for bangs. "No. You don't want bangs. You told me you pull your hair back a lot. Do you want to be like a 16-year old, pushing your hair out of your eyes, and looking out at people from a curtain of bangs? No."

We talked about Lord Byron's real name as he dried my hair. "You know, only one person I've asked knew the answer. It really tripped up my students. I asked a lady working in customer service at Price Chopper. She got it right away. You never know. There's this lady, in her 50's, working at the grocery store who knows Lord Byron's real name."

I failed his quiz, but now I know.

The short pigeon walker complimented my stylist's work. "She was a 6, and we just took her to a 5!" he laughed.

My hair looked neater, and a little lighter, if not all that different. Possibly redder? It wasn't what I asked for, but then, life isn't all about what you want. I put my coat on and walked to the counter to pay for the experience, the new person in my life, and the knowledge that I was given. I tipped generously.

Contrarian

This morning I was described as a light switch that is wired the wrong way. On when I should be off, off when I should be on. It's accurate. The older I get, the more contrary I become. I'm either the only light on in the house, or the only room that's dark. I'm up by 5 a.m. when everyone else is snoozily snoozing, cranky and unreasonable by 7:30 p.m. and in bed by ten while the rest of the family laughs at a movie or reads.

Sometimes my contrariness is automatic and without restraint. If you want quiet, I'll crunch my popcorn. If you want to sit, I need attention. Please talk to me. You like bread? It will kill you, you know. Make you fat. You will rise like a loaf. A wad will catch in your throat and you'll choke. You shouldn't eat bread. Bread is bad.

I say things and I hear them come out of my mouth, and then they are in the room and I can't catch them. They are filthy marionettes freed of their strings. Watch them thrust and gyrate with their creepy hinged hips!

I can be reasonable, but I can also justify my crankitude as being far more fun. I think that sometimes my unreasonable nature leads to good things a reasonable nature would not.

Well, it is either right to think that or not. Talk to me at 7:30 tonight. I may have a decision on it, or a puppet for you.

In 30 Minutes and 10 Minutes and a Lifetime

The local newspaper urged me the other day to "Take a Minute and Reconsider Your Time." The article advertised a new book titled, "168 Hours: You Have More Time Than You Think” (Portfolio, $25.95), by Laura Vanderkam. I skimmed it, I'll admit. It was an article of advertisement, but I gathered two interesting nuggets of information that make me want to find the book. (I doubt I'll pay $25.95 for it, since I tend to take more than a minute to consider my pocketbook. I'll wait for the paperback.)

Ms. Vanderkam suggests list making. I come from a family of list makers. We like to plan. I plan, and lose the list, go about my day, find the list later, and am secretly pleased that I remembered to do two things on the list. My sister plans, scratches off, and plans again. My mother makes lists in the morning for her daily schedule. My daughter has kept lists since she was a child, a few of them reading something like this:

1. Wake up
2. Brush teeth
3. Put pants on cat
4. Eat breakfast

You get the idea. We like to keep track, or at least feel like we have some control over our lives. Lists help us feel more comfortable in a confuddling world.

One of Ms. Vanderkam's list suggestions was this -- write a list of things you can accomplish in thirty minutes, and another list of things you can accomplish in ten minutes. I scratched out a two-column list in my morning journal pages of all the things I thought I could do in thirty minutes and ten minutes on that day. The tasks totaled six and a half hours. Compartmentalized like that, it seemed do-able. Sure.

Like an explorer with a detailed map, I set off on my first 30 minute task of the day: pack and ship books. Yes, it takes thirty minutes. Packing and shipping books means a trip to the studio, a fumbling for packing material, grumbling, printing out of receipts, and then a trip to the post office, and more grumbling. I managed that and two other items on my list, and then the phone rang.

A friend was dying. That wasn't on my list at all. My compartmentalized day blurred:

1. Listencryhugholdhandkissonforeheadlistenmore

The next day, I tried Ms. Vanderkam's other list-making strategy; to make a list of 100 Dreams. Do I have time to even dream the dreams? I couldn't stop wondering if I wasting time making the list when I could be out doing one of the items on the list. It was more difficult than I thought. Ms. V's list of 100 Dreams included "Do a wine tour in Argentina” and “Maintain a stash of Trader Joe’s dark-chocolate-covered caramels.”

It's hard to really care about a stash of caramels. I want to get better at listening. That's on my list of dreams. I'd like to sing more, direct a play, learn to make croissant dough, knit something other than a tangle.

I started my list of 100 Dreams in the back of a notebook I keep for the notes on other people's lives. I drank a coffee, ate some melon, twirled my hair, and came up with 38 dreams. Then the day called out to me. I took a minute to reconsider my time, and I'm not sure if I have more time than I think, or less. What I do know is this -- we all have very little control, and the family cat does not like to wear pants.

The Voices in My Head

Three of us took aim and fired. One of us killed him. It's a beautiful life, believe me. He said, "Look, you don't have anybody and I don't have anybody. Do you want to go out sometime?" It wasn't an easy life. We had nothing. You try to make your own fun and all, but I was the only one without a father. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about her. I guess my children turned out alright. We had milk delivery every day. I used to watch the carriage with the horse come up the street. I would go out and walk for miles, just to be away from the house, to get away from her. I didn't know my father. He never talked to me. I learned about him from reading history books. One of us killed him, we don't know who. I gave him a cigarette. My life? It was filled with ordinary things.

A quiver of words

This is the field where we fly our kites. Birds question us. This is the field, right here. See? It has a dip in it, and a sawed off piece of rusted pipe. Wild mustard. This is the cul de sac that you hate walking in, but we walk there anyway after dinner every night. We watch the seasons change by the decorations on our neighbors doors. This is the alleyway where you kissed me. The brick of the bank wall is rough. This is the sidewalk where you carried me piggyback, and this is the street you crossed. The bus driver smiled to see you carrying me, to see our smiles. This is the sky where you sometimes fly, thousands of miles above me. This is the paper airplane I made for you. See how the wind lifts it like a kite, a bird. This is the arrow that the sun sets on fire to blaze away from us.

The Twenty-Five Most Used Words in Novels

I'm only just beginning my fall down the rabbit hole of The Readies, by Bob Brown, but I'm in awe of his playfulness, fervor and intelligence. The Readies was written in 1930. Brown was way ahead of his time. I'll leave it at that. You can do your own research.

Yesterday my brain twitched on this tidbit of fascinating information shared in The Readies: According to statisticians, in a novel of 80,000 words the following twenty-five are used the number of times indicated:

The: 5,848
Of: 3,198
And: 2,624
To: 2,339
A: 1,696
In: 1,693
That: 1,076
It: 973
Is: 970
I: 924
For: 828
Be: 677
Was: 671
As: 626
You: 620
With: 582
He: 544
On: 514
At: 498
Have: 494
By: 480
Not: 471
This: 458
Are: 434
We: 423
GRAND TOTAL: 29,661

Only 50,339 to go and you've finished your novel! What I wonder is how this list has changed over the course of eighty years. There's a distinct lack of feminine pronouns. Then I wondered - could a novel be written without these words? They do comprise more than a third of the novel. Hm. I wonder if I could write anything without those words? I managed this bit of strangled prose:

Valentine glitter winks, sparkles from her closet shelf. Hearts collide against Halloween – no - they collude. Winter’s coats hunch over hangers, bamboozled. Her daughter’s paper ghosts fold into halves, then quarters, pressed flat under years. Ornaments wrapped, tissue coddled, become babies. She sighs, unwraps joy. What does everyone else save? Another season. Another holiday. Laughter scotch-tapes itself, wallpapers their rooms. Closets emptied, they smile.

Oh how I love a good challenge! The words I found myself wanting to use the most were: as, of, with. Some of the poet's tools for detail work. I recalled my list of prepositions, once recited while standing at the side of my 8th grade school desk: "about, above, across, after, against ..."

It's surprising to me that "are" is used 434 times, but "be" gets and ranking of 677, and "is" racks up 970 uses. I guess the past is the past, present tense is where it's at, and the future, well, according to the New York Times,Bob Brown saw it clearly.*


* I don't totally agree with the New York Times correlation between what Brown imagined and the Kindle. I believe he was thinking more in terms of cinema. Words as characters onscreen.

Alphabeticharacters

Lowercase a is shy, demure. Uppercase K wears steel-toed boots. Exclamation mark wants to bugger every sentence ending, so lowercase s and e are really nervous all the time. T carries an umbrella wherever she goes no matter the weather, h is tired of everyone sitting on his lap, and Q went on Weight-Watchers and joined a gym, but no one noticed. V mocks everyone and falls over on his side to show how great he is. X likes to hang out with uppercase K in dark alleys. Lowercase w was once dragged into a scuffle with lowercase x who was only trying to be more like his brother. The fermata is totally out of place, but lingers anyway. R lives on the street, b turned 40 last month and checks herself in every reflective surface, and uppercase F never pays his bills on time. M loves everyone, especially w, who she's had a crush on since Kindergarten. She wishes there were less than nine letters between them, and shivers when cats meow, when people feel warm, and when comics burst with wham! Lowercase m isn't very happy with exclamation mark right now, but exclamation mark loooooves the comics. Where is O? Always in love, and O and o blow bubbles all day. They are really out of their heads with joy and glory, or maybe have lost it altogether. The vowels gather in a secret meeting, attempt to oust o and O, but they look so cute together, confused and surprised at the same time. Y is pissed that she's only sometimes a vowel, and hasn't been informed of this meeting, so she wedges herself in wherever she can, including nature's broken branches. "Sometimes Y, my ass ..." she mutters.

Grateful for a Rot House of a Stew of Thought

We were both smiling, but neither of us was feeling happy. We had to smile. It was required of us to beam, to glow, to prattle nonsense through the lemon wedges of our mouths. Then my friend revealed her acidity. "I'm fueled by rage," she hissed through her grin. I felt the same way. We were playing the part of goddesses. We had to be beautiful, happy, serene. We were pissed.

I'm a strong believer in feeling the rage, the funk, the whatever it is you are feeling just to get through it. Sometimes I poke a finger into my wound just to see if it's healing or not and to feel the pain.

The past couple of days I've been in a funk. A nasty mood. A foul place for thinking. A rot house of a stew slopped into a muck and mire. I can make all the positive affirmations I want, write about all the things I'm grateful for, and still the crank continues. Why? Because I'm not acknowledging what is bothering me when I do those things. I am thinking all around it, above it, and below it to get away from the negativity.

I don't believe that if you are positive all the time, you can will away the bad. Smiling helps me, sure, reminding myself of what I am grateful for is excellent, but if I feel angry, I ride it out. I do my best to figure it out. If a friend is sad, I ask her what is the matter, I don't hand her a platitude. Sometimes I forget to do this for myself. Why wouldn't I ask myself what the matter is in order to explore it? You can't force away sadness or anger with a stubborn grin.

Without the negative, there can be no genuine positive. Without feeling what you honestly feel, you'll never figure out who you really are. You'll be a mocking mask slapped onto a cardboard cutout. You'll be greeting card verse.

What's bothered me these past few days? Well, I wrote it out, I rode it out, I talked it out, and now I know two things: I feel better today, and I don't believe in a "fake it til you make it," philosophy. I don't think I knew that about myself before.

A Playlet on Doubt

Sheep are pretty brave, actually. They are fallen clouds. They leap even though their legs are stubby, they are generous with their coats, and they don't worry about wolves. The connotation of being like a sheep is negative. Being a sheep is playing the part of the follower - the insipid, luckless doofus who grazes the fields, happy to be herded wherever nudged or prodded. The brain of a writer plays the part of both the sheep and the wolf.

Doubt, that insidious wolf, creeps in everywhere in the writing process, plotting against the sheep.

He first appears lurking around the Seedling of the Idea:

The Sheep:
Incoming great idea! You have to try this! Sit down and write.

The Wolf:
No one has ever done this before. Too risky. No one will get it.

Later, he skulks in the grasses and high weeds of the Process of Writing:

The Sheep:
Well, this isn't too bad. A little harder to navigate than I thought, but kind of fun, even.

The Wolf:
Absurdist. No one will get it.

Finally, he growls and wiggles his ass for a lunge at the First Draft:

The Sheep:
Sharing is good. Get it off your desk. Let someone else read it. You finished! Yay!

The Wolf:
Whoop-de-doo. Your readers are never going to get it. It's not even what you imagined it would be.

How do I want this playlet to end? I'm not sure it ever does, but if I had my druthers ...

The Sheep:
I'm going to end this play once and for all.

The Sheep binds up the Wolf, shaves off all his fur, felts it in the washing machine, and knits herself a sweater.

The Wolf:
I'm cold!

The Sheep:
Ha ha ha! What nice fur you have!

Where a Shell Belongs

Shells are teachers, and we put them in the bathroom. Right now there are two Ziploc baggies of shells on our kitchen counter. They hold their beachy breath and wait for us to open them. It seems unfair that they go from the sea to the back of the toilet in a bowl that was made in a pottery class.

Last week two friends and I found ourselves on the beach in the late afternoon, up to our waists in the ocean water. We planned to go for a swim, but the ocean had other ideas. It was serving up all sorts of shells - shards and whole. Standing meant getting the soles of our feet stabbed, our ankles and calves pummeled with the ocean's teeth. Oh, what lovely teeth the ocean has! Instead of swimming, we started collecting, or trying to collect, what was being served to us.

At first, I tried the "spot and grab" method. A beautiful shell would glimmer under the water, the wave would pass over it, I'd reach down, and voila! It was gone, pulled in by the undertow. After a few disappointing tries with this method I switched to the "blind scoop." The wave passed over, I scooped up whatever I could in two hands, and then sifted through for goodies. I found beautiful, tiny bits of seaglass and perfectly smoothed stones this way that I wouldn't have found otherwise.

Wendy noticed our different collecting methods. She had the "spot and grab," Anne pressed herself down into the water against the thrash of waves to seek out whatever she could find, and I continued with my blind scooping. We all stole something from the ocean.

I thought about how when writing something large, you try all of these methods. There's the initial idea - the spot and grab, and then the blind scoop, and finally you press yourself into the project, against all the waves and salt and potential jellyfish. I'm still in the blind scoop mode with a project I'm working on, and will be happy to submerge myself in its last pages. The ocean reminded me to be patient - to let go of that beautiful idea because it is already washed away and replaced by other ideas. It reminded in a fatherly way. It roared, "Look, look, you numbskull! Look at what you've already picked up in your hands!"

These shells belong in the ocean, not in a baggie, not on the back of the toilet. But here they are, all landlocked - on my desk.

Poememory

A poem is composed of words, not of ideas. A poem should come to you, you should not come to it. Be a tiger, not a rabbit. Don't fold laundry. Don't list your prestigious awards. And for heaven's sake, don't be witless.

Two books on writing and reading are on my morning reading schedule -- Ezra Pound's "ABC of Reading," and William Packard's "The Art of Poetry Writing." Reading both at the same time is enough to give a writer a complex. Reading about writing and reading makes me not want to write. But I do anyway. I respond.

Yesterday, just for the joy of it, I memorized a poem by Vasko Popa. There is no book you can read, no workshop you can take, that can replace the wonder of writing or reading a poem. Memorizing a poem reminds me of why I write. A poem is composed of words that form ideas, that wash empty spaces with emotion, that open entire landscapes. It's exciting to me to memorize the molecules of someone's thoughts. Depending on the poem, it can feel naughtier than opening a letter or a diary. The joy comes in sharing the music of those lines with anyone at any time. I have memorized the poem "by heart," as we say, but really it's "by mind and heart." The words become part of my pulse, part of my synapses.

I have mixed feelings about Poetry Out Loud, the National Endowment for the Arts and the Poetry Foundation's high school level contest for poetry recitation. The program has gained popularity over the past few years. Stakes are high. There's a hefty scholarship on the line. Students who move through the ranks memorize several poems, each one of a different time period. Recitations are judged on physical presence, voice and articulation, dramatic appropriateness, level of difficulty, evidence of understanding, and overall performance. An accuracy judge follows the text to make sure the reciter doesn't miss a word. They also act as the prompter if a kid "goes up on a line."

I've judged this contest at various levels and have been stunned by the level of understanding some of the contestants have of the poems they chose to memorize. I've also been one of our regional competition's organizers and felt overwhelmed by the level of administration needed to run a contest like this. One one hand, the students are learning poems that probably would not have learned in school otherwise (there's a paucity of poetry in school). On the other hand, there is little to no follow-through from memorization and appreciation of those poems to writing poems of their own.

The prize of memorizing a poem, of understanding the poem, is just that. You have a poem inside of you forever. A twenty thousand dollar scholarship is great, sure, but money has a way of disappearing. Poems have a way of rumbling around inside of you foreverly.

The Wedding Dance Floor

I'm not sure how many weddings I've attended in my lifetime. Twenty? Thirty? Maybe not that many. One thing I am sure of is that I have seen a little girl in a puffy dress at every wedding. She circles the empty dance floor alone with her arms out until she is dizzy and then she falls, exhausted and giddy. I think I can count my lifetime in dizzy, circling wedding floor toddlers. It is surely better than counting out one's lifetime in root canals, or in tax payments.

This weekend we attended the wedding of some dear friends. It was a memorable reception. Fondant robots topped the wedding cake. Articulated metal toy robots, chattering teeth, tiny bowling pins, dinosaurs, and noisemakers waited in clusters at each table for the guests to play and make introductions. An Elvis impersonator shimmied and gyrated the reception into action. A photobooth was available for guests to ham it up and leave a strip of smiles for the bride and groom, and take one away for themselves. I think a few regular restaurant patrons might have taken the opportunity to have their photos taken as well. That will be fun years from now for the bride and groom ... "Who's this?"

This was a relaxed and fun wedding reception, held in the open room of a local restaurant. The heads of moose, elk, deer, and a few whole animals (foxes), looked down at us in judgment. "Let me get this straight. You kill me, stuff me, and make me spend eternity watching you dine and dance?" Disco lights animated their frozen stares.

During faster music, kids four and under imitated what they see on MTV videos without care of who was watching. Loose arms gangsta flapped, bodies turned on the floor, legs kicked up, and those still on the floor elasticized their way back up into a vertical position. A three year old girl really listened to the music and let her body move to the melody, not the beat. Her parents didn't try to alter what she was doing at all, they let her be herself.

Adults who don't know what to do with themselves but who want to dance will try a few different techniques. I have seen these at every wedding reception I've ever attended. I've also used some of these strategies myself.

Survival Strategies on the Wedding Reception Dance Floor

1. Grab a kid and dance.
Smaller kids you can pick up and hold, spin around, and do a pretend, over-exaggerated Tango. With larger kids, you can hold their hands and sway. They will break away from you to dance with other kids.

2. Mock a dance move.
You're dancing in a safety cluster of friends, and you start an offbeat version of John Travolta's point to the sky, point to the floor. Make it obvious you're just "joking around."

3. Dance a waltz with a friend during a rap song.
This is a take on the second survival strategy.

4. Do the Charlie Brown. Or the Lawnmower.
Always a crowd pleaser. For more ideas, Ze Frank has a tutorial.

5. Be yourself.
This is the hardest. Watch the little kids and remember what it was like to not care what you looked like. Now move as who you really are. If you dance who you are, the little kids will dance with you. Maybe.

The bride danced with her sister the other night. A glorious, uninhibited, raucous whelping on the dance floor. Their happy dance was infused with years of history that no one could touch. As the bride's dress burned white in spinning and her sister twirled around her, I missed my own sister who is thousands of miles away. I remembered how we danced at my wedding. Years of impenetrable history. Together our bodies made a geometry. With her, I am myself. I am three years old, spinning with my arms out.

My husband danced with me and it wasn't just a slow turn to the right. He led me, our noses touched, and we closed our eyes. My feet finally felt right in high heels. If I can't spin myself dizzy in a puffy dress, I'll count my lifetime in nose touching dances with the love of my life.

Sixteen Horrible, Terrible, Very Bad Reasons for Writing a Book

1. You think it will make you famous.
2. You seek revenge on that 8th grade teacher who told you that you lacked creativity.
3. You're sure it will make you look thinner.
4. Everyone will say glowing things about you on Facebook, Twitter, and in fancy martini bars.
5. You need something to talk about at parties (i.e. "Yeah, I'm working on a novel.")
6. Someone told you that you should.
7. You figure you can, because now you have an MFA. You learned how, from other people who wrote books.
8. You figure you should, because now you have an MFA. That was an expensive two years!
9. You figure if you don't, people will say you've "lost your touch."
8. You figure you can, because you don't have an MFA. Your degree is from the University of Life.
9. You figure you should, because you don't have an MFA. That'll show 'em!
10. You want to write a book just like that author you love so much.
11. You have a penchant for the barfy smell inside of books that haven't been opened in a really long time, you own a library card catalogue, you spell catalogue with a "u" even though you're American, and the right kind of writing implement is is almost orgasmic to you.
12. You are two pages into your idea and you're already obsessing over who will publish it, thinking of clever marketing schemes, and looking for agents.
13. You like talking about the book more than the actual writing of the book.
14. You have a really great idea - teenage vampires!
15. You don't believe in rewrites, editing, or anything beyond spell check.
16. You had a dream in which the cupcake told you it was time to write your masterpiece.

The Elastic Memory

We remember and in our retelling of the memory we alter it. Memory is elastic. The sounds, smells, sights, textures, flavors you experience as you tell the story may alter the memory itself.

The memory I have of lying on my back in the driveway and looking up into the trees? That’s likely a composite memory. Several instances of taking photographs of leaves and bark, the photographs themselves, of the driveway my father took pride in, of all my time outside, and my own telling and writing about it have created a collective memory of something that brought me joy as a child. I share it often and in many different ways (written, oral, recall in my private universe) and in sharing the memory it is possible that it changes.

For those who cherish memories, the idea of them being not entirely “true” and elastic can be upsetting. But for those who have traumatic memories, this can come as a comfort. It’s an interesting concept.

I read an article last night in the Smithsonian magazine titled, “Making Memories,” published in the May 2010 issue, which focuses on this idea. Karim Nader, a neuroscientist who works at New York University, talks about how he recalled seeing television footage on September 11th of the first plane hitting the north tower of the World Trade Center. He was surprised to learn that this footage aired for the first time the following day.

In order for a long-term memory to be built, neurons need to manufacture new proteins and expand to make the neurotransmitter traffic run more efficiently. Long-term memories have to be built into the brain’s synapses.

We say things like “memory fades,” and think of ink on paper. Over the years, the memory might fade a bit. For an Alzheimer’s patient, the ink becomes invisible. Is it really possible that under any ordinary circumstance, memory stays the same? Nader challenged this idea by experimenting with rats.

From the article:

In 1999 he taught four rats that a high-pitched beep preceded a mild electric shock. The rats froze in place after hearing the beep. Nader waited 24 hours, played the tone to reactivate the memory and injected into the rat’s brain a drug that prevents neurons from making new proteins.

If memories are consolidated just once, when they are first created, he reasoned, the drug would have no effect on the rat’s memory of the tone or the way it would respond to the tone in the future. But if memories have to be at least partially rebuilt every time they are recalled – down to the synthesizing of fresh neuronal proteins – rats given the drug might later respond as if they had never learned to fear the tone and would ignore it. If so, the study would contradict the standard conception of memory. It was, he admits, a long shot. […] It worked.

When Nader tested the rats, they didn’t freeze after hearing the tone. It was as if they had forgotten all about it.

For anyone who has given birth to a child, you recognize the fact that you forget the pain. Your memory focuses more on the joy and less on the pain as time progresses. I’ve always wondered if this was the brain’s trick at getting the body prepared to have more children. If we remember the pain, the likelihood of wanting more children would be slim.

When I think of memory as being plastic, it’s a huge relief. My sister’s memory of a childhood event that we both participated in might be different from my recollection of it because we have led different lives, and told the story in a myriad of unique places which changed it for each. I think seeing photographs of events change the memory of those events too. Photographs remind and can change a memory.

Writers know that the act of writing down a memory can be cathartic. Therapists recommend keeping a journal to patients who need to work through complicated feelings. Is part of this process refashioning the memory so the person can live with it safely?

When I think of writing this essay three years from now, will I only remember the part about the rats and forget the rest?

If memory is plastic, then all memoirs are “lies.” I’m okay with this. I’ve always felt this way. The brain is fascinating, willing to embellish and make connections between all sorts of details that we experience, including those we dream. We are not always aware of our brain’s sleight-of-hand, and it sure is interesting. What colorful scarves are being tossed in the air of my brain as I write this? As you read it?

I Wrote (a very short story using only subjects and verbs)

He swilled. He smoked. They lived. He planned. He collected. They worked. He tested. He hated. They loved. They lived. He drew. He plotted. He slept. They dreamed. He packed. He lifted. He walked. He carried. They lived. He rested. He arranged. He positioned. He aimed. They lived. He fired. They scattered. They screamed. He laughed. They ran. They fell. They lived. He fired. He laughed. They fell. He fired. He laughed. She hid. She aimed. He laughed. He fired. She fired. He fell.

The hive of my heart keeps track of time

On quiet days without you here the house is cleaner, but I fill my own coffee cup, and wonder where the spontaneous laughter from the living room has gone. I make sure all the artwork is hanging straight, flatten out the curled ends of throw rugs, peek into the card catalogue just to see the maps we keep inside. We've been to Arizona together and I kept a pamphlet on the birds we saw there. You were fascinated by the hands at the Rodin Museum in Philadelphia. I saved the brochure and made a sketch of you when we sat outside in the garden.

The refrigerator sighs and trickles, Bananafish pecks at his seed, the window fan drones. I stare at the wall, the shadow of butterfly bush on the floor, my own filthy toes. No one adores you like I do and when you aren't here I probably eat too much cake. Its sweetness makes me sleepy and slow. I count the time by the bees drowzing on thistles in the garden. Zzzzwhirp. Will you be home soon? Zzzzzyes.

The Tempest

The shipwreck left a flotsam of empty Mountain Dew bottles, McDonald's containers, candy wrappers, and Diet Coke cans in our fourth-grade classroom dressing room. Every actor has scribbled on the chalkboard during the long pause between call and places, because no kid can resist chalk and an empty blackboard. "A plague upon this bowling" is my favorite rewritten phrase, and then there's the call for "pants off/dance off," a few caricatures of cast members, and a Shakespeare-as-Devil which somehow got labeled as Therese. Fans stationed in the room fart the hot air around more. It is impossible to keep cool in a mask and several layers of polyester weave during August, so we're left with humor. Paul revisits a favorite Caldecott Award winning book from the teacher's desk while he waits for his scene. An excerpt from "Are you there God? It's Me, Margaret" is written on the board behind the desk. Mandy reworks the ace bandage around her sprained calf, and Emily takes a swig of water and sits behind a personal desk fan.

During intermission, we take off our masks, strip down to the least amount of layers allowable, and stand outside in hope of a breeze. We've set out a few chairs too tiny for our butts near the corner of the school building. One by one players spill out of the building like characters from a romance novel - sweaty and desperate. We light up cigarettes, drink water, laugh about gaffes. Last night a heron flew overhead. A few nights ago a bat circled the urban forest just beyond the school. Some of us talked about watching the meteor showers. Nature doesn't pause for theatre. It is the theatre.

As "five minutes to places!" is called for the second act, we put our masks back on to return to our lives as a devious plotter, a spirit, a goddess, a drunken butler, a monster, a misplaced king. We wipe the sweatstaches from our upper lips. The lights go down and we go on to tell a story, while above our heads the scattered and roiling details of two weeks of our lives wait for our return.

Why I Love Hoop Dance

Some of you might have noticed a photo or two (or fifty!) of me with a hoop around my waist, my arms, or hoisted up in the air. It’s official. I’m obsessed with hoop dancing. Here’s why:

1. It’s some of the best exercise I’ve gotten. Ever.

I used to run. I’d do three or four miles a morning, combined with some weight lifting at a local gym.

With a couple of months of solid practice in hoop dance, I’ve built muscle in my arms (hooper’s shoulders!), toned up my legs a little, and lost weight – a bonus! (I don’t own a scale, but I can tell “the rind” at my waist that appeared around my 40th birthday is significantly diminished.)

2. I’m learning that I’m not such a klutz afterall.

With practice I store different tricks and moves into muscle memory. I’m still not the most graceful hoop dancer ever, but hey, I can move and not look like an idiot. This is a huge deal for me, having been laughed at by a professional dancer in a college-level jazz dance class. That left a bruise on my psyche. So ha ha to you, Mr. NYC FancyPants Dance Man! I CAN dance! Oh, and your class wasn’t as creative as hoop dance either, so there.

3. It’s good for the spirit.

With running, you get “runner’s high,” and with hoop dance you get “hooper’s bliss.”

You know that feeling you get (or got) riding your bike down a really sweet hill? That’s hooping. It makes you a kid again. It’s pure play. Hooping attracts good people. Put a hoop around your waist, and suddenly women, men, and kids alike are coming over and asking to give it a try. Why? Because it looks like fun, and it is.

4. I get to wear skirts!

I’m a girly girl from a theatrical, creative family. I’ve never liked pants much, so getting to wear skirts to “exercise” in is a major thrill. Hooping clothes run anywhere along the line of regular workout wear to tutus with torn fishnets. Some hoop dancers wear masks when they perform, or tiny little hats or crowns, or feathers … there’s a whole incredibly creative array of dress and makeup that makes me giddy just thinking about it. What do I wear when Irun? Oh, right. Sneakers, socks, a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. I’ll take a fun shirt paired with a skirt and pink leggings over that any day.

5. People who hoop make up a community of really positive and kind people.

I joined Hoop City, a sort of “Hooper’s Facebook,” about a month ago, and at the request of my sister (who gets total credit for my addiction to hoop dance), started taking SaFire’s classes. I began reading and posting in the forums on Hoop City, and joining in some of the groups. Everyone from newbies to professional performers posts there – and they are all supportive, encouraging, and inspiring.

The hoopers I know in real life are also this way. Everyone shares ideas and tricks they’ve learned with each other. A lot of hoopers attend festivals and concerts and take their hoops with them. I want to start doing more of that so I can meet more hoopers! I’m still trying to crack the secret code for getting people to join in a free hoop jam I’ve started at the park. My latest attempt at that is a hoop making workshop. I figure by empowering people with the craft of making a hoop, they will want to test it out.

6. It makes me happier.

All of the above combined conspire toward a happier me. When I’m happy, I make things happen for myself and others. I create. I make meals at home instead of eating out, I write more, I garden, I attempt to sew, I learn to use a rivet gun, I paint. I’m more likely to tackle a large, looming project that I've put off if I’ve spent part of my day in the hoop.

If it makes me happier and keeps me creating, inspired, and encouraging others, I think that's some of the best exercise I've gotten. Ever.

Living Where You Love, Loving Where You Live

In a 5 a.m. frenzy to get my baker daughter to work on time I thought about the buildings I passed (going ever-so-slightly over the speed limit and just bowing to the stop signs). The Liberty Throwing Company chucked and clucked behind its grey-painted windows. Early shift workers were at the helm of machines that make spandex threads. I once bought a car from a woman who worked there, and this is why I know the secret behind the name.

St. Hedwig's school sits squarely on Zerby Avenue and promontory in my mind. My daughter's first lessons in socialization, organized religion, and education were in that building. I walked her a mile from home every day to Kindergarten, through the baseball field behind the Russian Club, past a few barking dogs and their fences. It was there at the school that I directed a play called Princess Grey and the White/Black Knight. The entire school community (and my mother) rallied to make it happen - props, costumes, cardboard painted set pieces. The janitor shared his lighting talents with me after revealing he'd spent years in backstage work at a theatre in New York City. I see him now at the mini-mart every morning on Main Street. He is frail and thin. His teeth are missing, but he still smiles and always remembers me.

The school sits empty now, the by-product of diocesan budget cuts. The teachers have found other jobs and moved away. Weeds grow in every crack on the sidewalk where I once stood to wait with other parents for the dismissal bell at 2:05. The kids used to rush out in a whoosh of whoops, and their backpacks made them look like multicolored turtles.

The ungroomed and well-pruned shrubberies of side street homes collect snow in January that turns them into iced cakes. In spring, birds make them sing. Fans rest unevenly in windows of houses in the summer. This morning I noticed a home with two fans whirling away in the bedroom windows of the upper floor. It created a wonky eyed monster.

Most houses here lean like drunken uncles (to borrow from Carl Sandburg). Mine subsidences have been known to open up and swallow entire houses, or children on the sidewalk, or pets. I listen at night for the tell-tale "crack" that I'm supposed to hear before the ground opens up and gorges on clapboard. We only own the surface of our land here, and keep insurance for any greedy gulpings of earth. Owning land at all is such a strange concept.

A sprawl of progress neons "The Ave" as we call it. Planet Fitness runs in place under its bright yellow apex, Price Chopper shares a stripmall with what I've dubbed "World Domination Buffet," Radio Shack, and Blockbuster. Cole Muffler makes a good landmark and a joke - the neon sign blinks out certain letters suddenly turning it French - "le muffler." When a Lowe's Home Improvement Center moved in, they paid off a small church on the property they wanted and moved it up half a block. The day the church was on wheels, the entire town came out to watch it move.

Main Street is congested from sprawl traffic, but no one stops to eat at the Mexican restaurant whose owners painted a sunset mural on the front, or the barber who still has a working awning that he cranks open every morning. His storefront is filled with dollhouses. The old coin shop closed a few months ago when the borough bought it (rumor has it they are demolishing old buildings and putting in a stripmall), and had to pay to clean out three floors of accrued errata from a determined collector. I once took a coin in the shop for appraisal. It was worth nothing, but the shop was piles of fascination. War medals, buttons from ancient elections, metal detectors, and coins in their plastic protective cases. The helmet of a knight sat in his storefront window.

I love to walk and see what neighbors have put on their porches, plant in their gardens, and note the oddball personalities of mailboxes.

We leave a free book box on the stoop of our gallery and studio so the neighborhood has access to free reading material as they walk to and from work, or the sprawl of The Ave. It gets brisk traffic. Sometimes it gets a candy bar wrapper or two, and sometimes people donate bags of paperbacks.

I live here. It's imperfect, weedy, unkempt, off-plumb, full of strangers and friends. The energy of the past toil of our fathers was washed away in a flood that dissolved their progress. Sadness followed and lingered, closed shops, broke wills.

I live here to give my energy to this place. To stand on a school stage and hang a backdrop of roses that a 6th grader painted, to make a space for the arts where people are welcome to share their ideas and poetry, to share books, to plant flowers. I can live anywhere I want, but I choose to live here, and I owe it the best of my life.

500 Words

Can you come up with a list of 500 favorite words? It took me about a half hour to write up a list (which I launched into willy-nilly), and then realized about three-quarters of the way through that I was going to have an overabundance of words for the project. A myriad. A plethora. An ivy-whorl of tenacious words.

1000 words? 10,000 words? I shared some toast with my husband. "Pillowcase."

We walked upstairs. I shouted down the hall, "Freckle! Piano. Gravity. Grace. Bespectacled."

I have some decisions to make (architecture?) with the first list I made. The process of making the list is really interesting to me. Some of the words I like for the sound, others for meaning, some for both. There are words that have emotional attachments. Some are a part of family vocabularies. A few are inventions. In the meantime, (fern) words keep springing up in my mind (foderol) like midnight mushrumps.

What are some of your favorites?

Staying Aloft

I've never stepped on the Priority Sky Miles mat. If you have, you've paid too much by credit card. Sure you get on the plane quicker, but you're on with the screaming kids. They rolled all over the mat first with their strollers and Graco trappings.

Whether you walk down that flap of mat or wait until "Zone 4" is called and are herded through the gate, you likely have some special way of handling flight. (Or maybe not. This could be one of those places where I once again find myself alone on the playground.) Maybe you say a Hail Mary, or a few Please Gods, or you have another special mantra. Maybe you always say thank you to the person who scans the bar code on your boarding pass. Whatever it is, you're sure it works.

I keep a pinecone in my pocketbook. No one has frisked me for keeping a bit of the ground in my purse yet. It's a non-aerosol pinecone and is less than three fluid ounces.

The sudden camaraderie I feel toward my fellow passengers is always surprising to me. These are people I don't know, and will likely never get to know, but I start to think about what we might say to each other if the plane were to spiral toward the earth from 30,000 feet. The woman in the striped shirt looks like a soft grandmotherly sort. The tan guy is returning home from a vacation and seems happy. That crying baby is a good luck charm. The likelihood of a crash with a baby is small, I trick myself. Good.

A friend of mine told me once how she enjoys being in airports because "you can be anyone there." I think you can be anyone anywhere, and would rather be anyone anywhere other than in an airport. I enjoy watching people's reunions, but the frantic chirping of trapped birds in the Detroit airport makes me uneasy.

On the plane, I have my rituals. I figure if I am just good, if I pay attention, if I obey, the plane won't nosedive into the ocean. I always look at the safety card. I buckle my seatbelt when asked. When I exit the plane, I thank the pilot. I never complain about anything until I have gotten back on the ground.

If I am good, if I obey, if I don't complain, we stay aloft. If I bitch, it's a sudden plummet for all.

So I feel love for the trapped humanity on the plane until we land when I start to wonder why that woman is wearing a striped seersucker shirt. What a horrible word -- seersucker. I wouldn't want it wrapped around me. I wouldn't want to die in it.

The salt from my mini pretzels has confettied the insides of my pocketbook. My ears feel like they have blades in them. The view from 30,000 feet was a miniature wonderland. Thank God we're landed. Hail Mary. Hail Pinecone.

Abstractions as Units of Measurement

An exercise in thought and wordplay on a hot afternoon where my brain is a fresnel of flaccidity.

1. An angstrom of angst
2. A furlong of fragility
3. Two hundred leagues of levity
4. An em of entropy
5. An en of empathy
6. A dram of damnation
7. Three gills of gumption
8. A gamma of goodness
9. One pennyweight of perniciousness
10. Ten scruples of sorrow
11. A rod of reality
12. Two cords of compassion
13. Eight pecks of peculiarity
14. An assay ton of anger
15. A hogshead of hilarity
16. A footlambert of foolishness
17. Two hobbets of hate
18. A jansky of joy
19. Three kips of knowledge
20. A maxwell of menace
21. An osmol of obsfucation
22. A firkin of friendship
23. A vara of victory
24. A weber of wisdom
25. A therblig of thrill

A Monosyllabic Essay on the Old GE Fan in the Kitchen

The rite on a hot day in each home is the twist of a knob to form a drift of air. I prod the old fan blade and send it to a slow grind and turn. It finds cat fur in the air and the grate sports flags of hair that ebb in its wind. This fan groans in the face of work and needs a new nudge to pick up drive. One push with the edge of my thumb on the blade, two, three, four, and the force wins. I move the jar that sits near it and clunks with the time and time and time of turns. With my coax, my wish, the fan is still just a head that shakes a slow no, no, no all day in a room where bread sweats.

What the Members of the Hill House Put On Their Cereal

Forecast: Plenty of Piaf

Life is too short to be wasting it on music I don't like. If a piece of music doesn't open up a room I'm in, I don't want to listen to it. Music creates new rooms for me, sometimes entire mansions. There are almost always walls, but sometimes no roof or a floor.

Last night while waiting for friends to arrive for a meeting at the house I put on an album by Edith Piaf, (recorded in Mono!), and everything became a set for a French movie. The room was black and white and looked like it needed the despeckling filter in Photoshop. That's what I love about music. I can't even remember the title of the album I was listening to (it was a gift from my brother), but the music transformed a moment in my life and transported me to another place for a little while.

If the music inspires and creates a safe space for me to dream, or a space that's filled with color and movement, I'll listen. I won't remember the label or who produced it, but I will remember the room it put me in, the color of the walls, and if the room had a floor.

Trivia: Edith Piaf's matron of honour at her wedding in 1952 was Marlene Dietrich.

Oddity: Piaf singing La Vie en Rose turns my living room into pointillism.

Excitement: Rain all weekend. More Piaf in store for me.

Fragments of Spring

Stapled to the telephone pole
where her classmate died
two wilted bouquets of roses
form a Y.

.

A woman waves with a cigarette in her hand,
her long hair gathered at the bottom
with a rubber band, loose pink pajama pants
flop in the breeze. Her son's hand grips
the green seat of the school bus.

.

Today I clean the baseboards,
tomorrow I paint the hall floor,
Friday I take over the world.

Arrhythmia

The nurse asks: “What do the extra beats feel like?” and I say I don’t know. What I want to say is it feels like I am hugging a bag of feathers. That I am reading another one of those really long poems by a poet who uses tildes in between stanza breaks and is so very in love with the way his words look on paper. It feels like the sound the piano makes when you step on the damper pedal hard and then release. That’s probably too much information for his form, so I say “It feels like I shouldn’t take my heart for granted. I’m nervous. I hate it here.” It feels like I’m falling through the stars. Hole, hold, black hole murmur.

Clothesline

Tuesday March 2nd clomps across the busy street in heavy boots. It is double-freaking-parked, it is pocked with potholes, it is a clothesline full of old towels.

There's nothing particularly wrong with today, other than I can't seem to find my focus. I've had a series of pretty good days in a row where I've been writing and creating, and thinking good thoughts. Today, nothing but old towels and everything has a grey noise.

On the upswing, my stitches came out while I was in the car today! Healing complete.