Escaping the static…

She was a creature of habit. And those close to her knew that when she was frustrated or needed to escape the static and think she could be found lowering her grandfather’s wooden rowboat down into the water of the bay’s narrow inlet.

This particular day she relied on reflex to lower the boat, as her mind was elsewhere. She settled in the center, squaring her shoulders and facing the stern, and began rowing. The oars caught the water, propelling the small boat closer to the open mouth of the ocean. Second nature, her movements flowed—back, front, back, front—exhaling frustrations and gaining speed.

Dark clouds hung low on the horizon. Trapped inside her head, her focus was on the constant back and forth of her thoughts—lightning synapses firing—diversions to one another.

She continued, rhythmically rowing. Back, front, back, front. The rain began to fall…streams of water running down her face, down her forearms tightly grasping the oars. It did not slow her actions but it proved to be the distraction she needed.

She looked up for the first time as the sun slowly made its exit. There was no land in sight. As the darkness enveloped the space around her, she surrendered to the rocking of the ocean. The only sound was that of the waves hitting the side of the boat followed by a silence like she had never heard before. A silence that became a steady hum in her ears—a hum so loud she couldn’t think.

Things to be desired...

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore, be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Afternoon on the lake...

Hot July afternoon on the lake. Children jumping off the dock, orange floaties pushed high on arms. Sunscreen bottles overturned. Glasses of lemonade, no ice—just condensation beading up on the outside, leaving puddles behind. The water was refreshing to bodies sun-bathed, no breeze. Crisp and cool, she lowered herself down from the ladder wrung by wrung, slowly adjusting. Feet, legs, and torso, dipping her head back into the water and smoothing her hair with her hands as she came up. She began to relax—a reprieve from the dry heat of the dock. She kicked her feet slightly to keep afloat. Moments later, out of the murky lake water, came a nip at her foot so startling she speedily re-climbed each wrung—torso, legs, and feet—back to the safety of the dock.

I was the water. You were the fish.

On ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur...

"The Professor & La Fille Danse" by Damien Rice

Well, I don't know if I'm wrong
'cause she's only just gone.
Here's to another relationship
bombed by my excellent breed of Gamete Disease.
I'm sure when I'm older I'll know what that means.

Cried when she should and she laughed when she could.
Here's to the man with his face in the mud,
and an overcast play just taken away
from the lovers in love at the center of stage.
Loving is fine if you have plenty of time
for walking on stilts at the edge of your mind.

What makes her come and what makes her stay?
What make the animal run, run away?
What makes him stall and what makes him stand?
What shakes the elephant now and what makes a man?

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.
No, I don't know anymore.
No, no, no, no...

I don't know if I'm wrong
it's 'cause she's only just gone.
Why the hell is this day taking so long?
I was a lover of time and once she was mine.
I was a lover indeed, I was covered in weed.

Cried when she should and she laughed when she could.
Well, closer to God is the one who's in love.
And I walk away cause I can;
too many options may kill a man.

Loving is fine if it's not in your mind,
but I've messed it up now, too many times.
Loving is good if it's not understood.
But I'm the professor
and feel that I should know...

What makes her come and what makes her stay?
What makes the animal run, run away?

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.
No, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.
Hell, I don't know anymore.
No, no, no no...

Well, I don't know if I'm wrong
'cause she's only just gone.
Here's to another relationship
bombed by my excellent breed of Gamete Disease.
I finished it off with some French wine and cheese.

La fille danse
Quand elle joue avec moi
Et je pense que je l'aime des fois
Le silence, n'ose pas dis-donc
Quand on est ensemble
Mettre les mots
Sur la petite dodo

The things we leave behind...

Becoming less idealistic, but at what cost?

An epigraph from Erdrich...

"The same Chippewa word is used both for flirting and hunting game, while another Chippewa word connotes both using force in intercourse and also killing a bear with one's bare hands." —Dunning, 1959

Leaving the city...

From her window seat, thousands of feet above the city, she wondered if she could pinpoint his window—in the towers of twinkling squares—if it would be yellow or black.

And I, I have much farther to go...

"Much Farther to Go" by Rosie Thomas

New York is lovely in the winter time,
how the sidewalks are white as snow.
The buildings, all the people that pass me by,
how the smile on his face says he's in love.

I took the train all the way to Brooklyn Heights;
I remember when you took it there with me.
We sat side by side and held hands for some time;
we saluted the Statue of Liberty.

And I, I have much farther to go.
Everything is new and so unpredictable.
I should just kick my heels together and go home,
but I'm not sure where that is anymore.

Oh how I wish I could go back in time,
to the night when I heard my mother cry.
She held me in her arms and we talked for some time,
and I sang a song her mother sang to her.

And it goes something about paper dolls and what men prefer.
Something about the cross and how her Jesus died for her.
Something about love and how it's worth fighting for.
I wonder does love like that exist anymore?

And I, I have much farther to go.
And I, I'm so confused I know.
I should just kick my heels together and go home,
but I lost my way when I lost you.

Sometimes I cry when it's late at night,
and you're not there to lay next to me.
Morning breaks and the sun warms my face,
how I wish it was you warming me.

"The fierce urgency of now..."

Tonight, we gather to affirm the greatness of our nation—not because of the height of our skyscrapers, or the power of our military, or the size of our economy. Our pride is based on a very simple premise, summed up in a declaration made over two hundred years ago. –Barack Obama

On November 4, I sat on my couch just like thousands of others. And, for the first time in quite a while, I was filled with pride to be an American.

Many of us take for granted where we are in the history of our nation. It is sometimes easy to forget that not half a century ago an African American man would not have been allowed to share a water fountain, a bathroom stall, a bus with white Americans. And now, for the first time in our nation’s history, an African American man has been elected leader—not of a minority, not of a specific county or state, but of all individuals—of all races within this country. We have come so far as a nation in such a short (historically speaking) period of time. Therein lies the beauty of America.

The television captivated my senses as I watched poignant screen shots of Americans—African American, Mexican, white, old, young, gay, straight, and from a variety of cultures and geographic locations—embracing, crying, hands clasped together. It is undeniable that this election has already proven to bridge gaps, even if only for a moment—a grand, historical moment.

This election proves to Americans that nothing is truly out of our reach. That close-mindedness is not an epidemic. That people can change. And, with that sentiment, that a country can change. And that is what we so desperately need.

I am incredibly hopeful and no longer just “blindly optimistic”. I am proud. And I look forward to the possibility of a return to greatness for the United States of America. It is what we are so desperately striving for—“A nation healed. A world repaired. An America that believes again.”

We all made this journey for a reason. It's humbling, but in my heart I know you didn't come here just for me. You came here because you believe in what this country can be. In the face of war, you believe there can be peace. In the face of despair, you believe there can be hope. In the face of a politics that's shut you out, that's told you to settle, that's divided us for too long, you believe we can be one people, reaching for what's possible, building that more perfect union. –Barack Obama

Excerpts from Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert...

"Saint Anthony once wrote about having gone into the desert on silent retreat and being assaulted by all manner of visions⎯devils and angels, both. He said, in his solitude, he sometimes encountered devils who looked like angels, and other times he found angels who looked like devils. When asked how he could tell the difference, the saint said that you can only tell which is which by the way you feel after the creature has left your company. if you are appalled, he said, then it was a devil who had visited you. If you feel lightened, it was an angel."

"The Yogic sages say that all the pain of a human life is caused by words, as is all the joy. We create words to define our experience and those words bring attendant emotions that jerk us around like dogs on a leash. We get seduced by our own mantras and we become monuments to them. To stop talking for a while, then, is to attempt to strip away the power of words, to stop choking ourselves with words, to liberate ourselves from our suffocating mantras."

"But I was always coming here. I thought about one of my favorite Sufi poems, which says that God long ago drew a circle in the sand exactly around the spot where you are standing right now. I was never not coming here. This was never not going to happen."

The train...

The train passed on the hour, marking time throughout the night like the chime of a grandfather clock. Sleepy eyes opened to whistle sounds, slowly focusing. Lights from streetlamps seeped through the window's corners just enough to cast a thin beam of light across his face. He could always sleep through anything. As he lay there, unmoving, she took in his face. The subtle creases of his eyes, the slight curl at the corners of his lips. It was only a few seconds before her heavy lashes mingled with sleep, but in those moments she knew she would never take him for granted—the rise and fall of his chest, the curve of his back—his presence.

Independence is overrated...

He never minded living alone, but the pain in his shoulder was a constant reminder of absent hands.

A line by line...

by Joshua and Melia

A dark street is never as dark as it seems. Light leaks out from curtain seams of lit windows—from short-circuit streetlamps. Darkness is nothing more than the absence of light, and mostly, streets are made of light-things. Or are underneath suns, moons, or stars. So true darkness must be found elsewhere. The crevices under your bed, natural caves with ceilings that drip, the caves of one's chest.

Small reminder...

TiVos reruns of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition for those days when she needs to be reminded that good still exists in the world.

Seriously, don't vote...

Elephants...Teeth Sinking Into Heart

Beautiful song. Beautiful video. Beautiful, just.

Finally, Rachael's 2-disc album, Elephants...Teeth Sinking Into Heart, hits stores October 7th! I am glad she realized that over 4 years is too long to keep her fans waiting, and has decided to make up for it with 2 (count them, TWO) discs featuring 15 new songs. Very yes, Rachael.

Next Tuesday you can guarantee I will be curled up in my reading chair with the liner notes in my hands and the stereo turned up. I can't think of a better way to spend a Tuesday, actually.

Defying death with no nets...

Already a nervous person, she decided that watching the acrobats at the State Fair may not have been the best idea. 

Selective hearing...

Self-taught selective hearing—so he hears everything he wants to and none of what he doesn't.

Hold on and brave the storm...

The storm keeps her up—"Hold me close." With every gust of wind against the shutters outside their window, she holds him tighter. His arms, heavy with sleep, pull her into him. As the rain grows louder, and the lightning crackles in the night sky, her hand grips the collar of his white t-shirt. Half-asleep, she invisions the storm touching down, destroying houses, churches, and roads along its charted path. All they had built together, suddenly scattered debris. She shudders, fully awake now—"Hold me so we are not torn apart. Hold me until the storm passes. Hold me."

On my table at a Greek restaurant...

was this coaster. And I just had to share it.






I want to work for Canadian Club's marketing department. "Damn right your dad drank it." And yes, they went to the effort of trademarking that phrase. Genius.

Explanation...

I have had several people ask me about the title of the below blog, as there are several theories on the paradox of the unstoppable force and the immovable object. I understand that one theory states that it is impossible for those two forces to exist in the same universe because they, for lack of a more scientific description, cancel each other out—you cannot have a force that cannot be resisted and an object that cannot be moved by any force. For those of you that think this way (and if this were my thought process), I agree that the title would not make much sense, as the purpose of the story was to discuss the couple finding one another each night in a beautiful collision of sorts.

I chose to look at the concept of unstoppable force vs. immovable object in the following way: in taking an unstoppable force and pairing it with an immovable object, the result would be ultimate power. You have two forces that are the best in their divisions, if you will. They would be the extreme tag team. And, in researching this hypothetical phenomenon, I found the phrase “infinite potential” and fell in love with it. If these two forces existed and were to collide, the product of that collision would be called “infinite potential”. Isn’t that an exciting idea? By these two forces coming together, anything would be possible because they both hold ultimate strength and would be, in fact, omnipotent.

With that being said, the man (the immovable object) and the woman (the unstoppable force) in the short short story differ vastly in their daily patterns, etc. Some may even deem this couple incompatible or mismatched, but when they find each other in the night and they are once again together, their potential is infinite.

I do not want readers to overthink short shorts, as they are meant to be taken at face value. That’s the beauty of writing—it may mean one thing to you and something entirely different to someone else. You may hate it. Someone else may love it. Therein lies the gray area that I appreciate so much in literature. And to over-explicate writing robs it of its certain je ne sais quoi—and that’s just a crime (albeit one I am now guilty of).

She was the unstoppable force to his immovable object...

It was all about compromise—as are most things in life. She liked attending parties on New Year's Eve. He liked staying in—watching the ball drop. She was constantly going, going. And he would rather sink into his spot on the couch with a good book. She always had a plan, places to be. But as long as he could reach out in the night and find her body warm with sleep, leaning over to kiss the corner where her lips meet, none of these differences mattered.

In her brain it is chaos and sparks...

Sparks that ignite a fire, sweeping the mindscape, an unstoppable force. No one can pin the source, so there is no one to blame, catch red-handed. Her thoughts commit arson, triggered by a switch she has never seen. A spiral-down blur to desolate ground. Everything gone, buried underneath soot and rubble. But she will rebuild what is lost. A phoenix rising from the ashes once again, triumphant.

For B.

When she closes her eyes she can hear the waves...

She has this reoccurring dream where she is sitting on the coastline. The cold water greets her feet, touching her big toe and retreating. The crisp night wind blows hair across her face. She brushes it away, looking for the spot where the moonlight hits the water. Finding it in the distance, she wonders if the fish can see it from underneath—if they think it is some sort of signal calling them to the surface. In the dark, someone sits down beside her. Legs stretching out next to hers. White sand caked on skin. And as she turns to speak, she wakes up. She knows the person in the dream is him, even though she cannot see his face.

Not even a little bit country...

Lives in Texas and wonders how it's possible to go a lifetime without owning boots.

One Art...

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Thao with the Get Down Stay Down...

I am still smiling from this concert, so I thought maybe if I posted several videos I took—along with a photograph—you might smile too.

If you like what you hear, check her out her website at www.thaomusic.com and pick up her album "We Brave Bee Stings and All". It's incredible.


Thao Nguyen at Club Dada


Beat (Health, Life and Fire)


Bag of Hammers
Features beatboxing.

Feet Asleep


Moped (Clip)
And yes, she is playing with a toothbrush.

Heavy in the air…

It all began with a shrouded whisper. Traveling person by person—spreading through crowded rooms like an airborne virus. And, as with most gossip, once it was spoken into the air it was carried with the heat of breaths and became stronger—speculation turning into fact. He heard them speaking and began to believe their words. They spoke with such conviction, as if they had witnessed the scene with their own eyes. However, as a pragmatist he could never believe without seeing the evidence laid out in front of him, and no one he asked could place their hands on anything concrete. He knew the truth and so did the masses huddled in their cliques. If they searched themselves, they would surely feel it. In the same way lies don’t settle right on an honest stomach. But, it gave them something to whisper about—and people like to whisper. They like the way it tickles their mouths.

Words she longs to hear...

The more she reads Austen and watches Italian films with subtitles, the ones with handsome men who move as smoothly as they talk, the more she wants to hear those words spoken to her. Words that are only heard in movies or read in 19th century literature. She wants to be "incandescently" happy in someone’s arms. She wants to be called "exquisite". But she fears no one uses such words anymore, and the ones who do are trapped behind her television screen or in the pages of the novels she keeps on her nightstand.

When you can feel it building up...

She has so much to say, but she promised not to talk that way anymore. So the words pile up on the tip of her tongue. Ready to spill out at any given moment.

The crash and burn...

She can't bear to watch the crash and burn. So she turns her head— fighting every urge to look hard and close. Just in case there are any survivors.

Between her fingertips...

He never liked smoking. Even secondhand smoke tickled his lungs and upset his stomach. He didn't like the lingering smell. The Surgeon General's warning plastered on the side of the pack— confirming his thoughts that no good could possibly come from it. But, there was something about her that caused him to rethink his stance. Watching her smoke on the rooftop— noises from the city her soundtrack— he was mesmerized by the way she blew smoke through subtly parted lips. How it curled in the air above her head. The shape of her hand as it held the cigarette— delicately, with purpose. He never thought smoking could be sexy. But, in that moment, he would have bought her a pack without hesitation— a small admission fee to this private show.

The way change hits you...

As she sat alone on her sofa, she realized that nothing had really changed. But the feeling of weight bearing down on her chest was a sure sign that everything had changed.

Fancy footwork...

Lying so convincingly for so long and with such ease that even she is fooled.

The grass is always greener...

He specialized in keeping up with the Joneses. Standing outside he saw the cable man attaching a dish to the roof of his neighbor's house. That's where it began. He had the same setup the next day. When his son came home boasting about the neighbor's television, complete with surround sound, he spent his lunch break the next day walking the aisles of Best Buy and by that night their entertainment center put movie theaters to shame. Next came the pool table in the game room. The sprinkler system. The art deco lawn furniture. The granite countertops. The convertible. The swimming pool. And just when his family thought it could go no farther, when their house had more amenities than a five star Caribbean resort, he hoisted himself up on the slats of the fence, and peered over into the neighbors' yard. "What honey?" his wife asked. "Do they have nicer lawn furniture? A bigger pool? What?" And he answered, "No, our furniture is better by far. And our pool is much bigger. But," he said defeatedly, "Their grass is slightly greener."

One of my favorite...

StoryPeople entries. Have a wonderful weekend!

I don't want anything from you, I said, unless you want me to want something from you & she smiled & said, I knew you were in one of those moods.

All she leaves behind...

She hops lovers the way Hawaiian tourists hop islands. And in her wake, fractured shells wash upon the shore, left for others to pick up. For fear of turning to salt, she never looks back. Far too taken by her next move to consider all she leaves behind.

The voice in her head...

As she went through the motions of the day, she wondered if everyone had an inner voice constantly prodding them—sometimes gingerly, sometimes with an ardent sense of urgency. A voice declaring there is more to life—far greater things to experience and achieve. If other people could hear the voice, did they believe in its message the way she did? As if it were a handwritten note from God...

Instructions for Life from the Dali Lama...

1. Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.
2. When you lose, don't lose the lesson.
3. Follow the three R’s:
Respect for self
Respect for others and
Responsibility for all your actions.
4. Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
5. Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.
6. Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship.
7. When you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.
8. Spend some time alone every day.
9. Open your arms to change, but don't let go of your values.
10. Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.
11. Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back, you'll be able to enjoy it a second time.
12. A loving atmosphere in your home is the foundation for your life.
13. In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don't bring up the past.
14. Share your knowledge. It's a way to achieve immortality.
15. Be gentle with the earth.
16. Once a year, go someplace you've never been before.
17. Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.
18. Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.
19. Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon.

He was pro-ketchup... OR Why imbeciles should not be allowed to vote.

"I'm voting for Obama. He looks very presidential. Doesn't he just look presidential?" She stared at him across the dinner table, puzzled. "What? I never said I was consistent," he said. She rolled her eyes and sighed heavily at her husband's latest proclamation. This newfound Democratic vote was coming from a man who took the term "pro-choice" as a punch in the gut, saying, "They were pro-choice before pro-choosing to be pro-sex. Now it isn't a choice. It's donesky." Looking back at his track record of consistency, he had missed many homecooked meals over the years, food cold on the plate upon his arrival. He had forgotten the dry cleaning countless times— colorful shirts on wire hangers, sheets of plastic in rows behind locked doors. And, despite his conservative nature, he voted for Kerry in 2004 because of his marriage to Teresa Heinz Kerry. His reasoning was simply, "Kerry's wife is a ketchup heir. Honey, she's the veritable 'Queen of Ketchup'. I love ketchup. Who wouldn't want her as our First Lady?!" This was what he actually said. She remembered quite vividly— the sheer exasperation. "I just wish you'd try...just try to be a little more consistent," she pleaded. He looked at her and said, "Well, one thing is certain. I am at least consistent in my inconsistencies." Seconds of silence passed. "That you are," she said. "I guess it keeps me on my toes."

Two perspectives...

“How big do you think God is?” he asked his grandmother. “Well,” she said, “his hands are big enough to hold the entire universe—all of the planets and oceans and stars.” The whole universe? She could see his young mind reeling. “How big do you think God is?” she asked. “Bigger than my dad, but if I curled up in his lap I would be able to press my head against his chest and hear his heart."

Things in boxes...

The movers told her to make a list of her belongings before placing them in boxes, tape sealing the seams. Before handing it over, she looked at the list—measuring spoons, perfume bottles, photograph albums, spine-worn journals, threadbare sleep shirts—a detailed account of her earthly possessions. It was then she realized these things didn't hold any value, and the things she did value could never fit in a box.

The Anna Karenina Principle...

It was their first date. Complete with sudden lulls in conversation and littered with the getting to know you back & forth. They sipped their drinks and laughed. So far, so good. She wanted kids. She was impressively intelligent and driven. She could cook. Check. Check. Check. “Do you like animals?” he asked. “Why yes, I love cats,” she said. He sat there and finished his Jack and Coke, interlacing his fingers and lowering his voice, leaning further across the table. “Hmm…well, do you believe in the Anna Karenina Principle?” he asked. “I believe it holds some merit, but overall, no. No, I don’t,” she said. “I do. Very much so,” he said. And with that he wished her well as he dug in his pocket for exact change and excused himself from the table. Why waste his time with something that was doomed to fail?

She works in reverse...

She works in reverse. When she meets you at a bar —at a coffee shop— she surprises you with her frankness. Where most would shy away, you want to know more. Always more. Late at night she talks on the phone in quiet tones. Sometimes the rawness of her words makes you wince. Their truth burns through you, like whiskey on a dry throat. The grit before the glitter.

A passion for Pinkberry...

If she could, she would eat Pinkberry every day. She loved the way it felt on her tongue. The mixture of berries and chocolate, red and brown flecks scattered in the white cream — the definition of delectable. She ate it in her sweatpants, as passersby observed the way she slowly turned the plastic spoon and opened her mouth for the perfect bite. She ate it in the park, sitting on a bench enjoying the warmth of the sunshine against her skin. She ate it in her pajamas on the sofa, sharing bites with her boyfriend. This was the only time she would share. Because she loved the feeling of his cold lips against hers, and that his breath smelled like chocolate.

elephants

by rachael yamagata

if the elephants have past lives
they're all destined to always remember
it's no wonder how they scream
like you and i they must have some temper

and i am dreaming of them on the plains dirtying up their pads
searching for some sign of rain to cool their hot heads

and how dare that you send me that card
when i'm doing all that i can do
you are forcing me to remember
when all i want is to just forget you

and if the tiger shall protect her young
then tell me how did you slip by
all my instincts have failed me for once
i must have somehow slept the whole night

and i am dreaming of them with their kill
tearing it all apart
blood dripping from their lips
and teeth sinking into heart

and how dare that you say you will call
when you know i need some peace of mind
if you had to take sides with the animals
won't you do it with one who is kind

and if the hawks and the trees need the dead
if you're living you don't stand a chance
for a time though you share the same bed
there are only two ends to this dance

you can flee with your wounds just in time
or lie there as he feeds
watching yourself ripped to shreds
laughing as you bleed

so for those of you falling in love
keep it kind, keep it good, keep it right
throw yourself in the midst of danger
but keep one eye open at night

For a friend who needs to read it...

They left me
with your shadow,
saying things like
Life is not fair

& I believed them
for a long time.

But today,
I remembered
the way you laughed
& the heat
of your hand
in mine

& I knew that
life is more fair
than we can
ever imagine
if
we are there to live it

by Brian Andreas

She smelled like Orange Glo...

With childlike wonder she came home from an outdoor market and described her rediscovered love of fruit. She rattled off what she had eaten with the excitement of Eve in the Garden, seeing the variety of colors dangling off trees for the first time. The produce section became a veritable Utopia while grocery shopping that afternoon. She emphatically tore off plastic bags from the dispenser, filling them carefully with her newfound loves. After placing the final bag in the cart she stood, hands on waist, and let out a satisfied sigh. Trying to help, he looked around, pointing out the few items she missed. "You forgot the grapefruit." "Yeah, that was purposeful", she said, "It's disgusting." He laughed at this. "Oh, hmm. Well, what about strawberries?" At this she looked like a disappointed child. "You know I am allergic", she said sadly, "Why did you have to bring it up?" He knew she was allergic, of course he knew, but filling the cart with fruit had become a game in his mind.

That night, bending over rifling through the drawers of the refrigerator, he asked her if she would like something from their produce adventure. She paused and thought, pursing her lips together. She wanted an orange. "Are you sure?", he asked, laughing and watching her eyes dart back and forth as she sifted through the choices in her head. As he watched her, he felt his eyes soften. A slow smile turned up the left side of his mouth. He knew, if she had looked up right then, she could have seen it. The change in his expression. She was adorable and he was in love.

"Yes, yes...an orange. I want an orange." He stood in the kitchen and helped her peel the orange and they placed it delicately on a paper towel. He grabbed an apple for himself, which she informed him was a Gala, and they headed back to the sofa. She sat at the end, one leg curled underneath her and, as she took the first bite of orange, they talked about the pattern of her socks. Argyle. Always argyle. As orange met her mouth, she closed her eyes and savored it. He took a bite of his apple and continued to watch her marvel over this seemingly ordinary find as if she was the first to ever discover citrus. She lifted one hand to her face and breathed in. He looked at her with a curious grin and asked, "What are you doing?" "Smell", she said, "What does it remind you of?" She waved her hand in front of his face and he grabbed it gently to hold it in place underneath his nose. A flash of recognition. "Orange Glo?", he asked. She smiled and said, "Exactly. Orange Glo." A cleaning product used in their apartment from time to time. They laughed and he said, "Well, maybe you could have achieved this very same excitement by cleaning. There's a novel idea. Yes, maybe you should have done that." She laughed and rolled her eyes, slapping his thigh while eating another slice of orange.

She watched him eat the apple. "Would you like a slice of my orange?", she offered. He looked at her, not wanting to take something that brought her so much joy. "Well, okay. You want to trade?" She knew he would ask. So he gave her his apple and she handed him the paper towel with her last remaining slice of orange. They passed the apple back and forth, both taking bites, until it was gone. He never knew fruit could be so intimate. In that moment, he understood her love.

The shapes of grapes...

All evening he captivated her interest. Over dinner he discussed the landmarks of London and how the weather affects his sleeping patterns. In the car he leaned back, his long legs contorted into geometric shapes. He chewed on the earpiece of her sunglasses, talking about meetings he had lined up with so-and-so. Fascinated, she listened and watched his forehead crinkle as he paused—searching for a unique analogy for such-and-such. At an uptown wine bar, a woman brought the menu and they perused it —Bordeaux, Pinot Noir, Cannonau, Viognier— discussing the grapes in the drawings and how they looked almost geographic. One, Italy. One, Africa. When it was time to order, she felt sure his knowledge of wine would surpass hers, as with most everything else. He confidently asked for something "full-bodied". Alone at the table, he looked at her with a sideways grin and said, "I have no idea what that means." They laughed. The evening seemed more real after that.

I'll find you in the pages...

They spoke on the phone. Every day. That's how it had to be, for now. During their conversations they would share stories of childhood, visions of the future, dreams of traveling abroad, and literature. The literature that each of them felt molded their lives. He listened to her as she passionately recited passages that made her mind reel. He asked her to make a list of her favorite authors. She did. That Sunday, as he walked the narrow city streets, he stumbled upon a small secondhand bookstore and quickly ducked in out of the rain. He walked directly to the M's and pulled one of the books she mentioned from the shelf, purchasing it immediately. He walked home with it carefully tucked under his arm. Up the stairs to his apartment his anticipation grew. He wanted to see the words that moved her. He walked straight to his sofa where he sat the rest of the afternoon, reading the entire work cover to cover in one sitting. With each chapter he felt her sitting beside him. The turn of each page brought them closer together. So close they could touch.

Thankfully surrounded by wisdom...

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket - safe, dark, motionless, airless - it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable." --C.S. Lewis

We are all so foolish...

Nightclub by Billy Collins

You are so beautiful and I am a fool
to be in love with you
is a theme that keeps coming up
in songs and poems.
There seems to be no room for variation.
I have never heard anyone sing
I am so beautiful
and you are a fool to be in love with me,
even though this notion has surely
crossed the minds of women and men alike.
You are so beautiful, too bad you are a fool
is another one you don't hear.
Or, you are a fool to consider me beautiful.
That one you will never hear, guaranteed.

For no particular reason this afternoon
I am listening to Johnny Hartman
whose dark voice can curl around
the concepts on love, beauty, and foolishness
like no one else's can.
It feels like smoke curling up from a cigarette
someone left burning on a baby grand piano
around three o'clock in the morning;
smoke that billows up into the bright lights
while out there in the darkness
some of the beautiful fools have gathered
around little tables to listen,
some with their eyes closed,
others leaning forward into the music
as if it were holding them up,
or twirling the loose ice in a glass,
slipping by degrees into a rhythmic dream.

Yes, there is all this foolish beauty,
borne beyond midnight,
that has no desire to go home,
especially now when everyone in the room
is watching the large man with the tenor sax
that hangs from his neck like a golden fish.
He moves forward to the edge of the stage
and hands the instrument down to me
and nods that I should play.
So I put the mouthpiece to my lips
and blow into it with all my living breath.
We are all so foolish,
my long bebop solo begins by saying,
so damn foolish
we have become beautiful without even knowing it.

A remaining Bohemian...

She told me if I wrote the words down they would materialize. She believed in words – their power, the strength in the way their sounds hit your ears, the absolute purpose in their formation with your tongue – the way I believe in love. So, I wrote down a list of desires and they found power in their acknowledgment. Now I wait for the manifestation of all things good.

No one sets out to be a workaholic...

When an acquaintance asked for her phone number, she began to rattle off her extension at work and caught herself, saying, “No, sorry…that’s my work number. My home number is....” She couldn’t remember. She searched her mind. All that was there was the number for the cubicle where she sat day in and day out. The fact that her work number was the only one engrained in her memory, she felt, was a startling reflection of her highly mismanaged priorities.

The day he realized that you only live once...

His children knew he had had a good day when they went out for dinner, because when the waitress asked if they wanted an appetizer he didn't immediately reply with a dismissive "no". He actually opened the menu and looked at the list, lifting his head to ask his children if anything sounded good. For a painfully frugal man, this was letting loose.

Things she used to like...

The sound of rain keeps her awake. She remembers being young and wanting a house with a tin roof. She enjoyed the sound of rain. Not young anymore, the rain depresses her. All she can think about is how she just washed her car. She needs to sleep. She closes her eyes hard, wrinkles in the corners, and hopes when she opens them she is somewhere...anywhere...else.

Thieves go to Belize and Dreamers to the Caspian Sea...

He laid in bed one night, dreaming of sailing on the Caspian Sea. He dreamt of waves...of how her hair would blow across her face and the way they would throw their heads back with laughter. He liked these dreams. What he did not know, while far off on the sea, was that a stranger was purchasing a ticket to Belize with his credit card. He would not know that until tomorrow.

Pennies are not obsolete...not yet anyway.

She said, "Remember that penny I found in the parking lot yesterday?" Her roommate said, "Yes, I was surprised you stopped to pick it up." She said, "Well, it happened to pay for 1/54 of the day-old loaf of bread we had with our fettucini alfredo tonight." Her roommate asked, "And you paid for it with all pennies again, didn't you?" She said, "Yes." Her roommate asked, "Are you pleased with yourself?" She grinned and said, "Yes."

People say all sorts of things to make themselves feel better...

She typed, "Come over." He typed, "You know I'm at work." She typed, "Okay...later then?" He typed, "Of course." But they both knew he didn't mean it. They were 2400 miles away from each other. He picked up a pen and began to sketch what a teleporter might look like.

I'm kickin' it old school...

with my song choice today, but it just seems fitting.

Amie by Damien Rice

Nothing unusual, nothing strange
close to nothing at all.
The same old scenario, the same old rain
and there's no explosions here.

Then something unusual, something
strange
comes from nothing at all.
I saw a spaceship fly by your window,
did you see it disappear?

Amie come sit on my wall and read me a
story of old.
Tell it like you still believe that the end of
the century
brings a change for you and me.

Nothing unusual, nothing's changed
just a little older that's all.
You know when you've found it, there's
something I've learned,
'cause you feel it when they take it away.

Then something unusual, something
strange
comes from nothing at all.
But I'm not a miracle and you're not a saint,
just another soldier on the road to nowhere.

Amie come sit on my wall and read me a
story of old.
Tell it like you still believe that the end of
the century
brings a change for you and me.

Amie come sit on my wall and read me the
story of O.
Tell it like you still believe that the end of
the century
brings a change for you and me.

The joys of teaching...

On Tuesday evening, in my Composition II class, we busted out some crazy rhyme schemes and mad assonant beats. By this, of course, I mean poetry. Yes.

To get their composition-loving feet wet, I assigned a dozen poems for homework. True, I had read the majority of the poems I assigned beforehand, but one escaped me. When I was preparing for class I stumbled upon this happy surprise, and the poem hit me. I can't pinpoint it, but it evoked emotion and stirred something inside of me. Maybe urgency...maybe desire...both emotions the poet is conveying, among others. And that is what good poetry should do. Affect.

In teaching the poem, I know I relayed my passion for the work...and in talking to my students, several of them had emotional reactions to Pastan's words. Earlier this evening, I received an e-mail from one of my students explaining how this particular poem impacted her and how she didn't feel she could share her emotions or opinions in class, but she just wanted to let me know. I loved that e-mail. I love knowing how words can cause chain reactions from the page to your mind and through your body. In short, I am a nerd.

Shared passions. Slight nods of affirmation. Excited looks that say, "Yes, I get it. I know exactly what the author/poet means, but I've never been able to express it that well." These are the joys of teaching.


love poem by Linda Pastan

I want to write you
a love poem as headlong
as our creek
after thaw
when we stand
on its dangerous
banks and watch it carry
with it every twig
every dry leaf and branch
in its path
every scruple
when we see it
so swollen
with runoff
that even as we watch
we must grab
each other
and step back
we must grab each
other or
get our shoes
soaked we must
grab each other

I ♥ short short stories...

"I was never good at hide and seek because I'd always make enough noise so my friends would be sure to find me. I don't have anyone to play those games with anymore, but now and then I make enough noise just in case someone is still looking and hasn't found me yet."

Let's play catch up: An exhaustive list of events...

Things that have happened since my last blog post (in no specific order):

• One of our house pets, First Lady (an African Dwarf Frog), died. Our fish, John Adams, was in mourning for weeks.
• I went to New York City.
• My students turned in their first essays, which proved to be interesting reads.
• I found a spider in a bell pepper.
• I wrote snippets of poems on the backs of receipts in between subway stops.
• I had several drinks at the taco bar behind my apartment, and that place is never a good idea.
• I slept for approximately 230 hours.
• Two replacement frogs were purchased.
• I put down a deposit on a house, which (subsequently) made me feel far too adult-ish.
• I ate many, many sandwiches at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Chelsea.
• I almost flew to Missouri to rescue a dog named Molly, but – assured a family with children wanted her – I stayed put.
• I bought Dendrobium Orchids and they were beautiful.
• I watched TiVo-ed episodes of MXC and laughed.
• I spent quite a bit of time at JFK Airport and was quite disappointed in the breakfast selection.
• Replacement frog #1 died. Ashley performed some sort of top-secret burial ritual. I couldn’t watch.
• I signed a lot of housing paperwork. It was boring.
• I met incredible new friends that live too, too far away.
• I saw a British actress at the DFW airport.
• I got lost, by myself, in the ghetto. Good times.
• I took a few showers.
• I watched four episodes of The Biggest Loser and cheered for the Black Team.
• I celebrated Valentine’s Day with a café latte and fabulous dessert in a quaint coffee shop, preceded by a walk through Central Park.
• Replacement frog #2 died. The only logical reason for this frog holocaust is PetSmart has sickly frogs. Look out.
• I picked out flooring and appliances.
• I tried avocado eggrolls.
• I celebrated the birthday of one of my favorite people.
• I carried luggage across Manhattan.
• I tried out some new recipes.
• I was upset about the economy and falling interest rates. Though it may prove beneficial to mortgages, it is not good for high-yield savings. Stupid.
• I played Guitar Hero: 80s Edition.
• I attended Emily’s baby shower aka Abilene High mini-reunion.
• I ate famous cupcakes.
• I discussed current events over Saturday morning coffee at Starbucks.
• I stayed up all night.
• I two-stepped.
• I slept on a futon in Bushwick, Brooklyn.
• I rode curled up in the back of a Volvo station wagon.
• I read a lot of Flannery O’Connor.
• I drank delicious wine in various forms: sangria, bellinis, and wine…just.
• I took photographs showing the progress of my house like a proud mom.
• I ate Italian food for far too many meals back-to-back.
• I tried the new, tiny cheeseburgers at Chili’s and they were incredible.
• I went to bed with wet hair and woke up to a wavy mop.
• I took my first taxi in Texas.
• I frequented the local DQ for Blizzards.
• I paid $70 for a cab to catch a plane I missed – all so I could meet a friend uptown for coffee. Worth it.
• I held a hamster.
• I saw Leslie Hall in concert for the second time and threw my head back with laughter (www.lesliehall.com).
• I jumped a fence.
• I saw a grown woman wearing a Jurassic Park backpack. Awesome.

So, yeah…that’s about it. The events of the last month…from the mundane to the less mundane. Maybe one day I will put up some photographs or something.

An open letter to friends residing in the UK...

Skype is for expatriates.

A (very) short list...

of things I miss when I stay home sick from work:

1. snack drawer
2. surprise office visitors (especially when they deliver sodas)
2. my chicken, mrs. brains



she also doubles as a slingshot. seriously. there is a slingshot built in. i know...you're jealous. she also makes gobble-y sounds when you shoot her at people. yeah.

Things...

in my cube that make me happy.


Robot. I make him hold my pens. He does my maths.


My T-rex likes cheeseburgers. Really a lot. And palm trees.


The Office quote of the day calendar. Edvard Munch mouse pad. The reading of the quotes has become a much-anticipated office event.


Sometimes I get awesome scrawlings and prizes on my dry erase board. And...yet another calendar featuring The Office. Common theme: I like The Office.


I use at least one of these books every day...hoping that I will become much more smarter. And I like the Thesaurus. It sounds like a dinosaur.


When I first got this metal-pin-thing I would press my face into it and pull it away and laugh...flip it over to erase it...repeat. Then, random co-workers started coming up and pressing their faces into it. So...I don't do that anymore. It's highly unsanitary. I don't tell them that though.


Roxy. My piggy bank. I rob her for soda money. Side note: She's running low. So, if anyone in the IS department would like to contribute to Roxy's "fund", please do so at your earliest convenience.


My ING ball. I use this to study geography...and to throw at people. I also find it's a conversation piece. If you and I have not spoken about the awesomeness that is ING, we need to make it a priority. Stat.


My very own Chi Claus. This was a collaborative creation that I had nothing to do with. A surprise masterpiece...truly. And obviously the main focal point of the cubicle. Well, Chi and the Robot. Hmm...that would make a terrific children's book.


A tiny Slinky. A paperclip holder (with a dog bone paperclip that turned up mysteriously). A magnet tower of what appear to be jester-ish characters...a gift from the ladies upstairs. A sand timer. Is that what you call them? It reminds me of The Wizard of Oz. And, lastly, a green car eraser. A gift from a little boy that was in my Junior Achievement class last year. You can also throw it at people. Or make driving sounds (horns, tire squeaks, crashes) while racing it back and forth, up and down...thereby getting death rays from Staci. When that happens, my goal for the day has been accomplished. Snack time.

I didn't show you my drawer of crackers and tangled iPod stuff. Nor did I show you a drawer where I keep over 20 different colors of Play-Doh. I also have to safeguard all of my top secret files and official documents and codes. So, much has been left out. But, I hope you will take a look around where you spend most of your day and think about what...in that space...makes you happy. We spend almost 2,000 hours a year at work. If you don't have something fun...or something to throw at someone...then make it happen. You owe it to yourself.

From me to you: Song 1

I Can't Read Your ...

I Can't Read Your Mind by Jonah Matranga

I know those eyes.
I know those eyes so well.
I've seen them when you're saying come to me.
I've seen them when you're saying go to hell.
I've seen the way they fall when things don't go your way
and I wanna make it better, but the words get hard to find.
I've gotta remind myself
that I can't read your mind.

And I know your smile.
I've seen it when you pray.
I've seen it when you trying not to fall apart.
I see it on your birthday.
And when you're trying but you're tired,
when I hurt, when I'm trying to help
you know I really want to get it right...
be perfect every time.
But no matter how hard I try,
I can't read your mind.

We've been through a lot.
We've gone a lot of miles.
And with a little luck we'll keep going for a long while.
So for every aching night and every perfect day
when I ask if you love me, don't laugh or turn away.
I love you all the time,
but I can't read your mind.

Places for Josh and Matt to go in London after 7 o'clock in the pm...

1. pub

2. club

3. pub-ish club

4. club-ish pub

5. flat

Proof: Moms are adorable...

Below is an e-mail from my friend Bill's mom to Bill concerning Myspace. It made me smile. It's just freaking adorable. Enjoy.

date: Jan 17, 2008 3:23 PM
subject: My Space friends

Hey Bill,

What am I suppose to do when someone I don't know wants to be one of my friends? This girl is young and kinda pretty. Don't know what I would have in common with her unless I knew her. I know it says approve, deny, send a message, etc. I really don't know how this stuff works. Tell me what to do.

Love You,
Mom

I stole this prank from "The Office"...

and implemented it in my own office.

Today, I replaced all of Staci's writing utensils with Crayola crayons.
You may see my detailed plan below.
I encourage you to torment your co-workers; it's a good time.



Once again, double-click the image and it will take you to flickr.com where you can make it larger.

Sometimes you give in to the undertow...

because you can't tread water forever.

In order to learn the art of resignation, most specifically in situations where we desperately want to act, sometimes we must have our hands tied behind our backs. We must be placed right in the thick of things...bound, sans blindfold.

If this process is repeated in various situations, the individual will gradually become more accepting of the scenarios he or she used to desire some control over/want to fight against. These events will inevitably remain frustrating... and the desire to act, even in part, will still be there. That may never fully go away.

Over time though, one will learn to concede...because of the simple (yet somehow abundantly complicated) fact that, in all reality, there is nothing left to do but look the situation in the face... and surrender.

Because on a Monday morning...

she's good for the heart.

My dear acquaintance...

a happy new year.

Regina Spektor has sent us a present and you can find it here:

www.twelvemajorchords.com/?p=825

Here's to hoping that she will throw her B-sides and rarities on an album soon. Very soon.

My Dear Acquaintance (A Happy New Year) by Regina Spektor

My dear acquaintance it’s so good to know you
for strength of your hand that is loving and giving.
And happy new year with love overflowing
with joy in our hearts for the blessed new year.

Raise your glass and we’ll have a cheer
for us all who are gathered here.
And a happy new year to all that is living
to all that is gentle, kind and forgiving.
Raise your glass and we’ll have a cheer
my dear acquaintance a happy new year.

All of those who are hither and yonder
with love in our hearts we grow fonder and fonder.
Hail to those who we hold so dear
and hail to those that are gathered here.

And a happy new year to all that is living
to all that is gentle, young and forgiving.
Raise your glass and we’ll have a cheer
my dear acquaintance a happy new year.
Happy new year.

Cheers to a new year...

and another chance for us to get it right.

We spend January 1 walking through our lives, room by room, drawing up a list of work to be done, cracks to be patched. Maybe this year, to balance the list, we ought to walk through the rooms of our lives... not looking for flaws, but for potential.
--Ellen Goodman

Dear Friends,

At exactly twelve o'clock last night, it became a new year. I think that is pretty exciting! Actually, I am not sure I have ever been more excited about beginning a new year...except maybe 2000 (because I envisioned explosions and computer meltdowns and having to ration out my food and because I knew the days of the disgusting, superfluous use of "Party Like It's 1999" had finally reached their end).

I hope that you were able to ring in the new year with the person/people you love. Maybe you watched the ball drop on what is formerly known as "Dick Clark's New Year's Rockin' Eve", which has been tragically commandeered by Carson Daly. Maybe you travelled somewhere awesome and experienced midnight in a different time zone (an experience I hope to encounter...possibly next year). Maybe you put on you dancing shoes and hit the town. Maybe you put on flannel pajamas and curled up on the couch with Chinese takeout and a few Blockbuster rentals. However your evening went, I hope you were able to reflect on 2007, gear up for 2008, and maybe even snag a kiss from the person sitting next to you.

Today marks the beginning of a new year. And you can choose to look at it one of two ways: 1) As just another day on the Gregorian calendar or 2) A fresh start. A clean slate. A day of optimism that opens the door to so much possibility. Benjamin Franklin once wrote, "Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each new year find you a better man." Maybe this is where resolutions come into play. Today is a day to remind yourself that if 2007 wasn't all you hoped it would be...it's over now and, therefore, in the past. And who wants to live in the past? This year can become anything you want it to be. Anything at all. See, that is exciting! Happy New Year!

For last year's words belong to last year's language.
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
--T.S. Eliot

Sincerely and with appropriate love for the type of relationship we have,
Melia

One resolution I have made, and try always to keep, is this: To rise above the little things.
--John Burroughs