My Imaginary Forest

When I wake up, before I remember

my life, sometimes I can pretend

I live in the imaginary forest.

The traffic is rushing water

and from my pillow view

out the sliding glass door

everything is green,

like I live in a treehouse over a brook.

On Sunday I was at the coffee shop when Puhg texted

they cut it down, the bright one,

the one the pair of hummingbirds live in.

As I crossed the street back I saw two men in vests and goggles

and a pile of dust and a mound of dirt.

I asked what happened, they said landscaping.

I said no one told us, they seemed sorry.

I asked if there were more coming down and they pointed to another.

We need it, I said. It’s true, we do. All summer we cook

against that wall.

No one in the building has bedroom AC.

I went upstairs, frantically paced around.

I went on the balcony to watch as they prepared another slaughter.

I opened my email to find the property manager’s contact information,

not fast enough. They were whirring the chainsaws.

I ran down again and pleaded,

who can I talk to? There’s been a mistake.

One guy said, I know, I know. He pointed me to his boss,

down the sidewalk. I rushed over.

I live beside the tree, I told him.

He didn’t need this. Not in the rain. Not on a Sunday.

He said call the building manager, so I did immediately.

He rolled his eyes and said we should just walk over.

So we did. Poor M___, grey haired and tired,

she was spooked to see us.

The guy said I need to talk to someone

about the last tree. M___ called the owner,

explained there is a tenant, upset, tree reasons.

I could hear the owner’s annoyance over the phone,

“I don’t work Sundays,” she said.

M__ said, “Neither do I.”

Neither do I, I wanted to hiss. But you didn’t think about that when you sent a bunch of men and metal to my window at 8 AM, did you!?

M___ gave me a shrug. So I leaned over,

close as I could to the phone, and said—

That tree is not coming down. I am hugging the tree!

The tree guy threw up his hands and walked off.

Owner grumpily said they could do a call tomorrow.

M___ mumbled maybe it would work out.

I huffed back out into the rain. Tree guy approached me.

He said, How about this? We just trim the tree?

Yes! I said. Yes! I made him promise, he laughed and said,

I promise, I promise.

I sat inside at the the balcony door, peeking at the guy up there.

He kept his word, only trimming.

Why didn’t they just trim your friends? I asked her, telepathically.

I made a batch of cookies for the trio in orange vests.

A thank you. But I also left my number

on a Post-It. Maybe they’d tell me

if something bad was going to happen later.

I tried to calm down and have a “rest of the day.”

But the next morning I woke up

and saw the skyline instead of leaves

and cried and cried and cried.

Later, when I was at the cafe, I got a text

from a number I didn’t know.

“Hi Alice. This is Paolo the tree guy. I just wanna thank you for the treats. It was good. You are awesome thank you??”

“Hi Paulo! Thank you so much for helping me save that tree! I love that tree.”

“I can tell you love that tree have a wonderful day”

Hamster Claws

I. Floaters vs. Clawers

I've long had this theory that (working) artists tend to fall into one of two categories: floaters and clawers.

Floaters are naturally talented, typically fun, and well-liked. They seem to sweat inspiration, which is to say, easily, without much thought. They tumble into acclaim because they're so delightful. We all know a floater.

You can guess what clawers do. They find some large rock on the beach, bitterly carry it back to their cave, chisel away for weeks, take opinions, chisel more, take more opinions, go marvel at the floater's most recent sculpture (made hastily, incredibly brilliant), chisel more, sandpaper, sandpaper, sandpaper, then finally present, breathlessly. Half the time swim, half the time sink. It is what it is.

You can guess which I am. I don't mind. Maybe I'll change, but lately I've been bending toward--not total--but a kind of predestination. This is who I am, this is who I have been. I don't always like it, but there must be a reason I continue to be it. I don't believe our "worst qualities" are necessarily "bad." (Trying not to believe in "bad" honestly. What is "bad"?) Our worst qualities are a foil to our best. Maybe it's a package deal. Not that that would be an excuse for...whatever one would need an excuse for.

I'll admit I could loosen up a little. But who does that benefit? Sure, me, probably. ...But also The Oppressor, does it not?! It is certainly not everyone's lot in life to stomp around, but it's got to be someone's. Or how would things change!

II. Cruise Ship Advice

I kept asking the director for my cruise ship gig for advice. I wanted to meet with him privately. I was about to go off, literally to sea, and I wanted assurance I'd be considered for opportunities on land when I returned. Or, if I weren't going to be, I wanted to know why. He kept worming out of the ask, pretending his schedule was full (on a party boat with no cell reception).

Finally, after dinner, with another actor (but I'd take it), I asked, again, for advice. He was frustrated-- there's no promises there's no facts there's no future--but I persisted, I'm sure there is general advice. This man loved to act like the world's leading expert on comedy, and yet had not a single waif of an aphorism!? Which BY THE WAY, is a form of sexism! To express the knowledge needed to get into a male-dominated field is just kind of...understood, not able to be grasped, much too complex to become inviting. I DIDN'T BUY IT! So finally, this director gave me one consideration. He said you'd be surprised how many are so so so close to getting exactly what they want, and then they, for whatever reason, blow it up.

I have considered this "advice" many times in the past eight years. Maybe patience is a virtue. Or maybe it is a self-imposed gate.

III. Sweet Potato's Cage

Sweet Potato is the most determined hamster I've ever known. Tofu was a sweetie. A quiet lump who needed her creature comforts and little else. Cappuccino was "bossy"--she liked to command us with squeaks and pouts, but then she'd become comfortable, the little queen, and fall asleep on my chest for hours.

We've had Sweet Potato since July, and she's just never settled down. If out, she's attempting to jump from the chair to the bookshelf, to dig behind the mattress, to lift up the books on my nightstand with her snoot. No matter how long I let her out, how much I let her explore, it was never enough. On the couch she'd take running leaps off the ottoman, in her playpen she'd pick up the corner with her mouth and shake it, once back in her cage she would gnaw at the bars, climb the walls, chitter ferociously.

Puhg and I would try to explain, "Girl, you've got to stop! This is your life! This is it! You will never destroy metal, but you might destroy your little teeth!" I began to feel immensely guilty. I so wish I could provide this creature a totally satisfying life, but maybe that's not possible. Puhg and I considered what I could learn from Sweet Potato. God, she tries! But in vain! And she doesn't even know it! Everyone else can see it!

...Only then a month ago, Puhg started casually researching other cages. We've considered them before, of course, but our apartment is only so big and no abode is perfect and...long story short we got this massive wooden thing. A critter palace. Sweet Potato adores her new home. So much, in fact, she doesn't want to come out every day. She is busy with her tunnels and sunflower seed collection and wicker corner.

We told her, A for effort, but her situation unfortunately would never change! We, the people, who ultimately changed her situation!

Once upon a time, the planets and the fates

and all the stars aligned