I Kicked a Tree in Anger

I kicked a tree in anger. I've been so mad this week, so on my walk, I kicked a tree. Puhg looked at me incredulously. "Hey!" he said like I was a misbehaved puppy. He was right. As soon as my sneaker hit bark, I felt worse. "What did that tree do to you?" Puhg asked.

I thought about our guide from the Amazon. He showed us the inside of a rubber tree, but slicing it with a machete. Then he covered the wound with dirt and said "thank you." He said trees talk, maybe to everything, but certainly to other trees. I think so. Everyone knows about mushrooms and their telephone lines. I used to love mushrooms growing up. I felt so close to them when I found a stray white bulb in a lawn pocket. In the grocery store, I'd shove my thumb nail into the dead ones in cartons. I liked how it felt. They were corpses, so I figured it was okay. I'd make X's on their skin. Sometimes when I see a mushroom now (small, red in this neighborhood), I say hello. Maybe they've heard of me from an aunt.

I apologized to the tree. I make a habit of not touching anything outside anymore. I open the front door with my butt and keep my hands at my sides. But I touched this tree where I'd hurt it. I said sorry. Then I hugged it. I hugged this tree for ten seconds. I felt it accept my apology.

G v G, Age 9

I'm not sure how you felt about your girlfriends growing up, but there was an intensity between mine. I did not form supportive bonds until I was probably in college. I loved my girlfriends, but we also hated each other. In hindsight, I don't know why I didn't question this more or even ask for help. Maybe because my tribe was still a tribe--despite having inward slashes? At the end of the day, we would still always be against other girl tribes (a whole different issue).

When I sniffled because I thought another girl was better at cheerleading than me, my mom said, "Well, she's a dog." Meaning, maybe she can do a backflip, but in ten years I would be beautiful and she would still be woof. I googled her two years ago to see if it was true. I don't blame my mom. It was her job to make me feel better, and in desperation that's what she landed on.

In middle school it was always someone's turn to be hated. I didn't mind this cycle because I had about six friends, so five weeks would be good and then one would be bad. That was okay odds. I had respite in my summer camp group, but there were weekly awards we all secretly hoped for, so? Once a girl in my bunk said she struggled with math. I told her I liked math and she said if I went to her school I'd probably have worse grades than her. When I was 17 one of my camp friends exploded at me yelling I always when were 12 I always purposely ate dessert slower than everyone else to make them feel bad. Ridiculous if it weren't true.

My gang was academically-driven, so we competed with grades and whispered when someone turned in homework late. We wanted to be the best. I'm trying to determine if the media influenced me in this way. I guess. It was always Christina vs. Britney never Christina & Britney. Betty v. Veronica. Most TV I watched didn't have girlfriends. Patti Mayonnaise. Rugrat Angelica. Spinelli. Lisa Simpson. They were loners. I read Betty Tasty and Tib or whatever those dumb books about growing up in the 1930s were. Samantha the American Girl had a friend, but she was mainly a metaphor for poverty. The Disney Princesses were loners.

Anyway, the world is different now? Frozen? Is Frozen saving us yet? Well. In improv class the students' favorite game is Four Corners. I stand in the middle of the room with my eyes closed, count to ten, and then call out a corner. Anyone in the corner is "out." I recover my eyes and repeat until one student remains: the new caller. So this Girl wins the round and excitedly stands in the middle of the room. After she counts to ten she spins around surveying the room with her eyes "closed" and then calls a corner. I ask her to put her hands over her eyes. She puts them up, gaping cracks between each finger. I let it happen. I watch her pick off the people she doesn't like corner by corner. Until its her best friend, someone she doesn't care about, and a boy I suspect she sort of likes. Her friend wiggles in excitement of potentially winning the game and then, boop, Girl chooses her corner. Best Friend Out. Girl poorly acts surprised and then tried very hard to hide a devilish little smile. I don't judge her. I remember feeling so horribly happy when I was hanging out with a group of girls I didn't know that well and they started making fun of one of my tribe. It was completely base--I'm better than her, but still so shameful. The Girl then proceeds to make the boy she likes win. He jumps around and screams, very proud of himself, announcing he is the best at this game.

It All Fades

The other night on the train a teenager was telling his friends casually he was an only child but his mom miscarried twice before he came around. They hung on the loops hanging above and chewed gum.

When I was in 1st grade? 2nd? a girl in my town died unexpectedly of an aneurysm. It was sad but beyond my grasp. It was within my grasp in high school. The family with the late daughter moved from their home, and my wild friend Knoze's family moved in. She had the girl's old room. Complete with bathroom, where the child died. We would often take turns pretending to have brain aneurysms on the toilet and laugh and laugh.

I'm watching this garbage documentary about JonBenet Ramsey while I write lesson plans. I think of "Jon Beignet Ramsey." I imagine a pastry with a curly blonde wig.

Grapefruit Body Wash

Was only going to be in Boston for two days, so I used the grapefruit body wash in Bex shower, assuming two squirts would not be missed. I rarely eat grapefruit because it's so obnoxious, but if it's on a brunch menu? Some brown sugar-crusted magic? Sigh, sigh, I have the luck of remembering the first time I ever ate grapefruit. I was 3 or 4 and up tootling around the house as my childhood insomnia had me to do. First stop was usually my grandmother's recliner. Sometimes I could shake her awake and ask for a story. One this night, I'd like to think it was summer, but who knows, she grogged awake and asked if I'd like to try grapefruit. I did because what is that. She took me to the kitchen and explained the two halves, the special spoon, the tartness. I slurped it up. From then on every time I visited her I asked for some, but it was never in the kitchen again.

I liked the body wash so much the day I got lost walking through the city (making a 2 mile journey into 5) I stopped in a CVS to alleviate some of my back sweat and bought some. It's what I have been using here in Maine. A happy, fresh way to start my day. The new cast member Dollar arrived Sunday. I started noticing something in the tub--sometimes my pink bottle was suddenly open. I had left it closed. But then I started noticing sometimes I would walk into the bathroom to find the cap open, then closed, but I hadn't showered. Last night while brushing my teeth I asked both the guys to come into the hall. I asked, "Who has been using my grapefruit body wash?" Dollar admitted it. He seemed embarrassed (?) to be caught in a way that made me wonder if I should have said anything at all. "I don't care!" I said. I just wanted to know. Then, Tulsa: "Wait, what does it look like? Pink? Yeah, I've been using it too." It was like the time Hill and I were hanging out at our guys' house and we realized on the way to lunch we were all wearing the same deodorant. It made me feel gushy, honestly, that my castmates and I all pump the beady syrup into our palms once a day. I shouldn't have said anything, I thought. This doesn't matter. "You can use as much of my body wash as you want!" I exclaimed between spitting my toothpaste out. Dollar walked into the bathroom, picked up the soap, said, "excuse me for a moment," and opened it over the toilet. "No!" I whisper-yelled at 2 in the morning. He put it back. This morning I got the third shower. The pink line was lower.

Saint Over-Save

A childhood friend's mom put together a huge Easter extravaganza for all us kids. We had a fashion show of Sunday best and bonnets followed by an egg hunt where we tore through the yard like Whoopi Goldberg in the Lion Kind (read: hyenas). There was a lot of tiny plastic booty, but there was also one very special prize: a giant white chocolate rabbit. And who do you think found it? That's right, the little kid who dug through a bush in  her grandmother's old mink shawl (read: me). I was supremely proud of my win. The rabbit sat on the kitchen table for a while, but when I was prompted to eat it, I couldn't. I wanted to save it for a really special occasion. I mean, really really special. The thing was eventually moved to above the china cabinet. Then it was eventually over a year old and thrown in the trash.

This was a common habit of mine as a child. I saved. I saved money in Altoid tins and Dean's milk bottles. I saved all my best Halloween loot "in case." I owned three blank books and never wrote in them because what if I got a really good idea, better than my usual? This might be considered over-saving.

Two days ago I smelled something familiar on State street. I couldn't place it for a while, but the scent stuck with me. It was this specific Bath and Body shade! A shade I knew well because for Christmas one year my mom got me dissolvable bath bubbles with the same smell. I really looked forward to using the gel bubbles. "One day I will take the sweetest stinking bath ever," I plotted. I would open the boxed container and sniff the soapy orbs. I would do this quite often actually. I never took the bath.

But. I felt so peaceful and wistful on the street niffing that memory. I knew it so well because my hopes were so high. I've heard the happiest you are is actually right before a vacation--not during. I don't think the over-save is always a crime.

A Painting, a Whale, Spillage of Water

Three souvenirs from Italy: some salmon shorts, a pizza magnet, and a little painting from a street vendor in Florence. I have been very troubled in the past couple weeks because the painting is missing. I have no clue where it went. It was wrapped in brown paper. I am fairly certain I took it home from Europe, but then I schlepped things across the country, around the midwest, made trash piles, etc. I kept thinking the painting would pop up in some box, but now I've gone through everything in the apartment, and it's not here. I think it's a goner.

The painting was 20ish euros, which isn't a huge sum, but also isn't money I feel good about throwing away. I don't remember what the image was--just that I really loved it (enough to say "let me hang this in my new home!"). I'm not sure why this is making me so sad. Sometimes I go through my shoe boxes one more time in a frenzy. Eventually I make some kind of reasonable speech to myself about how I have a lot of lovely art in my home, and I really didn't NEED that painting. The pizza magnet is on the fridge. Am I being serious right now? I went to Italy, and I mourn some tiny art that is of basically no value to anyone else.

I'm sure you (whoever you are) can't really commiserate with me. There are far worse problems. More importantly, there are far better, more wonderful things to think about. I'm a person who tries to keep my possessions limited, and I still have a lot of things. Things I love a lot. Things I would be sad to lose. Although, eventually I will lose them all because you can't take it with you. Just as energy is transferred at lower and lower rates from grains to cows to humans, so is sentimentality. I could give that painting away, but it will never mean half as much to that soul as it did to me. So actually I'm just cutting to the chase. Nothing you can own is ever that important. The less stuff that is running your emotions, the better. I know this. I know this.

I am reminded of a small purple polka-dotted whale I lost as a child. I had brought it down to a hotel swimming pool on some trip. I left it by the edge of the water. The next morning I went to retrieve it, and it was gone. I really liked that whale, and I think I cried about losing it. I had earned it with tickets at Chuckie Cheese's. I missed Jelly (his name) for days. My mom told me she heard some people in the hotel were staying there because their house had been in a fire. Maybe the children who ended up with my whale had recently lost their toys. This didn't really comfort me because I still considered grabbing an abandoned whale theft. If someone had stolen the whale from my hands, I doubt the experience would have stuck with me. It is the burden of guilt that stays so permanent in my mind. If I had just taken better care of what I care for, it could be with me now. This painting experience smacks of the same melancholy.

I told Bisque this morning I hate that stupid painting for ever even entering my life. He thoughtfully pulled up a photo of us from Florence. That was comforting. Even if the photos were destroyed, nothing could erase my memory of those tan roofs.

The spring musical my freshman year of college opened right around my birthday. The cast celebrated by all wishing me a happy day during mic checks. One of my new pals secretly had the entire cast sign a card for me. 40 names and messages in that card! I was so touched. That night I knocked the vase holding flowers off my desk. The card was drenched. I was crushed. And then! The friend who had been with me when I ruined my gift called every person in the cast individually and got them to resign a new card. It is still one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me, and it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been so clumsy.

Some days I really think I could get rid of everything. I really think so. Others days I am not so sure.

Italy: Part Four

The coolest thing about Rome is also what makes it one of the hardest places to travel: there's just cool ancient junk everywhere. It's exciting at first like, "Oh my. What is that huge marble thing! Let us take photographs and reference the guidebook!" But after half a day you're like, "Yeah, yeah, I know. Some important dirt clods." It's tiring really. There's a disease I began to catch called "over-taking-things-in."

That said, I enjoyed eating sweet bread in the shade a stone's throw away from where Cesar's house once stood. "He walked this road," Bisque said. "He probably ate his lunch here once or twice." It was exciting and the smallest bit heart-breaking to see directly into the Coliseum ground level. All those scared little gladiators. We made a lot of Russel Crowe jokes.

The catacombs were cold and creepy. The best was getting out into the country. The greens and the white flowers that bloomed everywhere. The same petals that fell in my childhood backyard. I hadn't smelled them since, and I pressed my face to the plants as we walked to bus stops.

Gelatos, The Spanish Steps. Allegedly romantic but bunkered with annoying peddlers. A good view. A good view. Goodnight, Rome.

Rice Krispies Mad Men, Y'all Be Smart!

Today in Screenwriting someone mentioned the movie Flipper, and I immediately wanted a bowl of Rice Krispies. Not weird or a coincidence. It has happened my entire life. Luckily, people don't mention Flipper that much.

I know exactly where it comes from. I have a memory, clear as day, of the blue and white-floral plastic tablecloth under my hands, a bowl of Rice Krispies in front of me, the wooden chair under my butt. I was staring at the cereal box. On the back was an ad for Flipper including a send-in-this-box-top-for-a-Flipper-watch deal. My dad did send in the boxtop. I did have the Snap, Crackle, and Pop water watch.

It has been almost two decades, and that ad campaign is still zinging me. Geniuses. Geniuses. Our actions last a long time. Also, who would like to deliver some Rice Krispy Treats to my house?

My Family Weighs In On Aforementioned Dream

"To: Alice
Re: Dream 8.25
Cheese and crackers, Kid!
We need upbeat stuff!
Dad
P.S. The summer camp trip ruse my yet come true."
-Char

"What a sad dream! Hope your waking hours are happy! Glad I wasn't in the posse locking you up! But then again, I guess I wasn't there to rescue you."
(followed by a ton of emoji--like mother like daughter)
-AStanSr

"Just read your blog. Chilling.
Also had a dream where I was in our old house last night."

-Pookie

My sister and me in our childhood yard. 1992?

A Thing I Kind Of Get (But Only Kind Of)

Before I even got to camp my first summer, I wanted to learn how to sail. Then, when I arrived, I learned you had to be thirteen. I was twelve. Blast.

There was something ABOUT those little boats on the lake. They looked so peaceful, but also fun, and also colorful! I wanted to be on them. We (collectively as children) had been drawing them with triangles and half-circles for years on penciled waves.

Two summers later, I finally grabbed one of the coveted six spots in the sailing double period. The counselor sat us in the sand and explained the very very very basic overview of the sport. I was completely lost, the terms "mast" and the effects of wind on cloth sailing over my head. (Pun unavoidable.) We hefted those gnarly wooden blocks out to sea, awkwardly slumped into them, ducked, leaned, and I never signed up to sail again.

What compels us to set sail? The freedom? The wind? What's so good about wind anyway? Is it the Jesus thing? The walking on water? (This is all true of waterskiing too--which is glorified standing that people flip for.) Water: it's what we're made of. It's free in every restaurant. We want to be on it.

This is a thing I can only kind of get.

My first Michigan sunset of 2013.

And somebody told me that this is the place

where everything's better and everything's safe.

Walk on the ocean. Step on the stones.

Flesh becomes water. Wood becomes bone.

Wisconsin in June

Typing in the guest bedroom with the concrete floors, fluffy blankets.
Basement, corner of the house. Middle of the woods.
It's been cool here, windy. Wildflowers--hot orange, little purple kisses.
Out running in sunshine, but it feels crowded. Trees brilliant--
but they hang over me, casting shadows, hiding the lake.
A toothless man in a van pulls up next to me.
I usually do not stop for this type of thing, but in America's
Dairyland...He tells me there's a bear ahead, so I 180.
I look up to find a dragonfly halo.

In town I remember sitting on the bench at the marketplace.
The old time candy shop. I wish I could bottle the smell.
It hasn't changed since I was four. The barrels of Bullseyes,
taffy baskets, cashew brittle on wax paper. Jars of gummy sharks.

Late sun on the porch. Two big ol' dogs.
My dad eats a sandwich quietly across from me.

No Credit

This semester I am taking four classes, TAing two, and working part-time. Also, rehearsals for improv nationals. I was strongly invested in taking a Performing Childhood theory course with the Theatre for Youth PhDs, but I knew it was stupid to push myself just that much over the limit. I decided to audit.

So, this class is fascinating to me. And I want to get the most from this opportunity. So I'm doing all the work. It's not horrible, but it makes a difference to have a few extra hours of reading per week. To me it's worth it...I think. The other day I felt grumpy about my audit decision. "I'm doing all this for nothing."

But I'm already going to graduate with an overflow of course credit. 3 more credits won't help or hurt me. I mean, technically, if I got an A in this class my GPA would bump up...but it's not like my GPA for my DEGREE IN PLAYWRITING is going to get me places in this world. Furthermore, I might have gotten a B. And then I'd just be bitter.

It's strange to do things for no reason. We do it all the time, of course. I am sitting on my front porch because it is sunny. No one has mandated that. I read an article about feminism and the Oscars this morning. I just wanted to. Really all these classes are silly. But in the context of getting something for something, it feels strange not to. A good thing to learn though. A very good thing.

Mainstreet Mems

It's this time in the semester I get nostalgic for childhood. I rarely wish for times before the present. For the most part, I'm always the happiest I've ever been. I didn't like my childhood. I don't want to go back there...most of the time. It's nights like tonight though--nights where I already greased up my inner kid with a comedy group dinner and playtime at Dave & Buster's, nights where I come home exhausted to a huge stack of scripts to grade--that make me long for the littlest things.

Blockbuster. It was half a mile away, and I could spend an hour browsing.
Pressing the "on" button for the tree-lighting ceremony after Thanksgiving.
The tan paper mache shapes in Ben Franklin.
Penny candy baskets. Mary Janes and candy cigarettes.
Green River at the counter of the 50s drugstore. The big medical RX on the awning.
The orange bubble letters of Golden Shoes.
The big padded chair at the window of the library, right next to the water fountain.
The sweet sugar cookies, stuck together with fudge and dipped in chocolate. Grooves like clams. The cartoon wedding cake on the bakery front sign.

I repeat, I have so much grading to do, but, I might just fall asleep. I wish I could be a bad student--or even mediocre--for these next two weeks, but, no, I will knock myself out. It's just what happens.

That Is How I Know You Go On

When I finally pulled the suction from around my eye hard enough to lift my goggle onto my forehead, I had swam a mile. I only had a minute to cool down before I had to hit the showers if I was going to make it to Theory on time. I rolled onto my back and propelled slowly towards the North wall, watching the morning clouds over the palm trees.

Tonight I saw Titanic in 3D. I was excited all day. This morning, twelve hours before I would be in the theatre, I packed my theatre loyalty cup in my backpack, so I could get a large lemonade for a dollar. Forget the haters, I love this movie. One hundred years ago today Titanic set sail on its maiden voyage. It was destiny to buy half-off Easter candy at CVS with these comedy boyz and walk through the glowing outdoor mall and land in seats and watch the love story that moved me when I was ten.

As a fourth grader I really got the "Live life to the fullest" message. I wrote, "Life is a gift.-Jack Dawson" on a small slip of paper, folded it, and tucked it into my shoe before school the next day. Tonight I liked the message of willingness. Jack could not have planned to die by iceberg. Cal could not buy his way to Rose's heart or escape from the sink. Leo said something like, "We never know what cards we will be dealt." How two years ago I had no steamy idea of my future, and, yet, I have one. I could not have willed that. It's just what happened. How one year ago, my mom was living in England, and poof poof poof, changes occur and she's in a small Illinois bungalow. How one-hundred years ago tonight people were celebrating like their lives meant something, and in four days, they were bubbles and fish food. But their lives do mean something, even if they never could have guessed their lives would mean me screeching Celine Dion into the night as I stand, arms wide open on the handicap ramp outside the theatre.



And Rose laid on her back, in pain from the suction of the propellors, gazing up at the night stars.

Near, far, wherever you are.
I believe that the heart will go on.

Mornings with Fathers

This morning I watched an episode of Louie while running at the gym. The episode ended with Louie coming home after a long night, and as soon as he paid the sitter, his little girls woke up. "Good morning!" they cheered! It was 4 AM. "Can we go out for breakfast?!" Cut to the three of them at a tiny diner eating pancakes in the wee hours of the AM.

My heart was touched in this day of hearts. I remembered this time I could not sleep. I was 8, and I eventually just got out of bed. I knew it was the nowhere zone of time. Everything was still. I crept downstairs to find my dad also insominating on the sofa. I think it was winter break. I had just gotten a bat computer game for Christmas. He pulled out the desk chair and let me play. Sometimes kids just get up. No use fighting it. I think I played for hours. I just wasn't tired. And the TV hummed behind me.

Valentine updates tomorrow. Love you all.

AZ Gratitude

Why I'm Grateful to Be Here:

-I can bike home from sketch meeting turned trip to Red Robbin for endless steak fries in the dark night without a coat.
-The birds chirp as my eyes are opening when 90s alternative wakes me up. This is what they mean by flying south for winter.
-I sit on the porch when I can't think anymore, and the sun lightly bakes my face.
-Cacti. (See above.)
-Being forced to write. Maybe I can't do it forever, but for now? Okay.
-Lots of theatre all the time. And pretty cheap.
-Chelle and Kale coming over for banana chocolate chip pancakes yesterday morning.
-All my basic needs are met within a one mile radius.
-If I had ended up at a more prestigious school, I couldn't wear sweats 85% of the time. Maybe this is not a good thing for my future/potential love life, but lawd help the institution that tries to divorce me and my seafoam green shorts.
-The opportunity to do a lot of comedy.
-The opportunity to look at mountains every day.
-The proof that I can be far away from all the people I love and survive quite well.
-There's a train that comes through just half a mile away from my condo. I hear its whistle. Everything reminds me of being in my bed in the house I grew up, open windows in May, listening to the ooOOOOOOOOOOOoo in the distance.

Adult Swim: A Parable About Worry

Pookie and I were all about the public pool in our summertime youths. ALL. A. BOUT. IT. Splashin', and mermaidin', and jumpin', and slidin', until--TWEET TWEET ADULT SWIM.

To the snack bar we would go! And if we forgot money...we'd pout. Fiddlesticks. Nuts to all those 18 and older. One of these pouty times I remember Pookie turning to me and saying, OKAY PAUSE--This story makes Pookie sound like a brat, but, the brattiness is necessary to the message. UNPAUSE. She said, "I can't wait until I'm 18, and I can swim, and you can't."

AND I WAS REALLY MAD.

"Noooo," I whined. "Noooo..." and then the whistle blew, and we dunked ourselves back into the cool water, but I was fuming. I was probably six and plotting about how as a 7th grader I was going to trick the lifeguards into letting me swim so my sister would NOT get the better of the situation. And, I gave myself a heavy head full of schemes and angst. And I was not happy to be somersaulting in the June heat.

The truth of the matter is that I think that summer was the last summer Pookie went to the pool with me at all.

Three Sick Days

Pops making bird calls with a blade of grass in Germany. 2011.

Fell asleep waiting for the bus,
wasn't tired--just overworked--even in 4th Grade.
I carried around
some heavy weights.
I woke up at 11
to a loud Eagle Eye commercial
on the radio.
I had probably been called in sick, I thought.
There was snot on my face, dried.

Or.
I got extremely nauseous at the beauty parlor
the day my Poms team got to go for free.
Had to go home early. Dad was making a rotisserie chicken and Mom was watching The Wedding Planner.
So many reasons to throw up.

Or.
This one time,
I know I was sick,
but it didn't feel too bad.
Mid-morning my dad rented
a Ray Romano comedy
that I really liked.
(I was only 12 or so.)
And I laid on the couch, with the JC Penny tan blinds
stringing me with slivers of sun.
Dad typed away in the corner.
I snuggled into the cushions.

Scooby Dooby Doo

After like five years of more attempts than I can count, I wore my seahorse boxers in public without judgement. Last night I went to a pajama party at two comedy boys' house. Pretty much everyone I knew from sketch/improv/standup was already drunk at like 4 PM or earlier. Welcome to my school.

Anyway, Chelle kept trying to get me drunk, being all devious and giggly as she would ask me to hold her shot and then just get another one. Bwah bwah. Sid was equally coercive. Some random dude with a mohawk kept finding me all night, no matter where I stowed away, to give me very poorly constructed speeches as to why blacking out is necessary. (Obvi, one of us was just a speech and debate coach, and one of us wasn't...) During one of these speeches, he mentioned to someone passing by, "Oh yeah, and Scooby Snacks are on the way."

"Oh!" I said. Immediately I was back in second grade, sitting at my childhood friend Hilg's kitchen table, her mom bringing us Eggos with ice cream on them. "I want a Scooby Snack!" Chelle looked incredulous, "You won't take a shot with the girls, but you'll have a Scooby Snack with this guy?!"

Uh oh. Abort. Abort. "Oh...I'm just kidding." I said. Had I actually believed someone brought a waffle iron to the shindig? Mohawk dude winked and said, "I'll make sure you get one." I tried to backpedal. I disappeared to the back porch. Somehow, he kept finding me and offering me a cup of this slime green substance. No, no, no, I'd say, but it was like he got hit in the head and lost all his memory after the moment I showed mistaken joy in eating a delicious ice cream novelty.

No moral to the story. I'm just twelve.

Hiding at the Bottom of Your Swimming Pool Some September

Thanksgivin' Turkey Trot with Pookie. 2010.

LOOK AT US WEARING COATS LIKE SUCKERS! It's mid September, and it was over 100 today. I read about Shakespeare by the pool in my two piece. Word. Up.

I thank the heavens above for the things that remind me of the good parts of growing up in the Chicago suburbs. The feelings that I can only name by the images and sounds associated with them. Dark blue kitchen tablecloth, chirpchirpchirp, eating sliced strawberries with wet hair, spiders in glass jars, train whistles in the early morning, pine cones, fat comic anthologies, the railing of the public library.

And I thank the heavens for the flecks and flakes of it that have followed me here. And I thank the heavens in general.

And it's unclear.
This may be the last song.