Nine Months Catch-22 feat. Drake

 The thing is every day that passes the more people die or get extremely ill, the more people I know whose lives are affected and sometimes destroyed. I keep finding new backdrops to punch through. I thought I was as deep in the anxiety pool as I could go, but another false bottom shows me otherwise. "What's WRONG with me?" I bemoan, freelancing from inside the one bedroom apartment in a lockdown last friend I saw was two months ago, last family 9. It's like this diary I read of a woman who was kidnapped and lived with her abuser for years before she escaped. "I should be happy" she wrote. NOT TO EQUATE MY LIFE WITH HERS. Obvi. Good gravy. I'm essentially in a palace of privilege writing from the kitchen table, palm trees waving out the window.

So the thing is these days keep passing and I have insane thoughts at times, "like is this the last year of society as we know it?" Then I'm like, "Haha, no everything will be normal one day" and then I'm like "Hm climate change though." So, essentially, there's more YOLO inside of me than ever before. But also I am still inside following all the rules. The very crisis that's making me believe life is short and meant to be lived is keeping me from living my dumb life!

Feathers in the Wind

In the old country in a tiny village there was a Gossip. Was the baker fighting with his wife? Was the Blacksmith's daughter expecting? The stable boy was riding too quickly again. Whether it was true or untrue did not matter to the Gossip. She didn't know why she spilled (or spun) so many secrets. She didn't even know she loved doing it. She just did it as a natural function like blinking. The townsfolk were frustrated by Gossip's tattles and fibs. Their grievances eventually reached the local philosopher. The LP lived in a humble shack on the highest hilltop. After the egg human delivered a basket to LP one day, LP asked her to send for Gossip. "Tell her to bring a down pillow," LP added. The egg human did as she was told. The following morning Gossip arrived at LP's shack holding a fancy down pillow from Crate & Barrel. LP took the pillow, smothered Gossip to death, kicked her body off the hilltop, and that night slept with more comfortable bedding.

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.

How Much?

This morning Bisque called out from behind the light of his phone, "Did you see this article about the couple who quit their jobs to travel the world and regret it?" I hadn't. "Yeah, they're janitors now and are totally broke." This is pretty funny because what you always hear is, "You won't regret it" and the term "priceless." But sometimes there is a price.

We watched Another Earth yesterday with my hair wet from the rooftop pool and my hands full of leftover pizza. Very reminiscent of summer days at Peppermint's house growing up. We'd sit dripping on our towels while Spice World played for the billionth time. Without any spoilers, there is a lot of dramatic action surrounding a 3 million dollar travel ticket. The stakes are high, very high. There is deep dark guilt, love lost, love found, repentance. But even so. 3 million dollars. Sheesh. That's a lot to be tossing around.

I wonder about how important it is to visit. Friends. Okay, kinda. My parents. Sure. Sometimes I don't want to. Well, it's rarely that simple. I feel like I'm just not up to it. Planning, traveling, and mainly all those dancing dollar signs. But anyone could die at any moment. And then how would I feel about those dollar signs? Pretty dumb. But, also, sometimes I'm thinking about what it would be like if I actually just did everything I want. Oh whatever, I'll take more cabs so I feel up to a big trip. Let's go out and celebrate more. Who knows when we say goodbye. If we did, would I not empty my bank account to go back in time and have that weekend getaway with you? But what if I emptied it now and credit card debts strangle me and I am nothing, and every time you see me for the next twenty years (because goodbye didn't happen) I am sad and sick and mainly oh so poor. Oh so, oh so poor.

Lt. Fran

Little old lady
with no legs. She said, "Under
my left boob. It hurts."

Barnes and Noble book
club. Can you return the ones
I didn't get to?

Her body was in
a box in the church in the
town she lived always.

This was the same stained
glass as in 1970.
Familiar wafer

slipped into pockets.
Paul bearers, and you got out
of the car, saying,

"I want to see that."
And you listened to the stuff
people say every time

in the first pew, same
windows as 1970.
There's nothing inside

that box. There's a dish
of potato sour cream cheese
something we all like.

The pious cooks hint
it's time to move on from the
congregation's gym.

Tables are folded
and suddenly there is a
basketball at play.

Then a few. The men
in their ties and black slacks shoot
around. The moms and

daughters and sisters
watch on. Watch on. Not a bad
way to go in June.

Sweet Brown Kitty

The family cat passed away this week. She was twenty years old. She was born into a chaos of siblings, shuffled to our quiet shack, and given a partner/boss cat. She chirped like a mouse, her namesake. She was useless in catching bugs, but she did fit my hamster into her mouth once. Unlike her shifty roommate she despised the outdoors. She'd just rather not. If held to a lightbulb, she would lick it. She was a fat cat, gobbling up everything, including a basket full of Easter grass, but this past year after I took her to the cat salon for a shave, I realized she had gotten quite tiny. Itsy bitsy bird bones and shivery scalp. She was missing teeth and yowled at two in the morning like a cat pirate.

In cars she complained the whole time. She learned a cottage twice, but she spent her last days with my dad quite constantly living to jump into his arm chair as soon as he stood up. Toasty seats make good cat beds.

I don't have a favorite memory of Mouse. I guess I liked when we put a pumpkin onesie on her and she just laid on the couch like a festive slug. We never had a bond. She was just sweet and frumpy and a little clueless. I will miss her.

You can sort of be bird-brained and even a little gross, but people will still like you if you're just nice and generally happy it's another day.

Last Full Year of Your Life

"What would you do if you only had a year left to live?" A solid question. A hearty question. I asked Bisque the other night. He told me he would travel to all seven continents with friends and family. That's a good answer.

It's strange that an answer doesn't come obviously to me. All the possibilities. Little time. What to do? It surprises me which things I have on my life plans that get knocked off immediately. International travel doesn't appeal to me without more years following to soak in the culture comparisons. Oddly enough the place I would most want to is probably Disney World. I just want to be happy and feel magic. I would visit important people in my life to enjoy some fond farewells. Would I see art and theatre? I don't think so. I MIGHT see something especially excellent, but for some reason final nights even in a Broadway theatre don't appeal to me. Movies certainly don't. I would write. A lot. I would probably write one or two books and a finish my screenplay and play I'm poking at lately. Writing would be my main squeeze.

I would definitely get fat. I would eat everything all the time. It would be actually ridiculous. I would probably make a can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls every morning. And that's only the beginning.

I finally chose grad school my recognizing living abroad might be a stalling point (albeit a cool one) to get on the track I actually was hungry for. I asked myself the same question when I was accepted into The Program. "If I were to die in a year, would I be please with a year of teaching and waiting?" Probably not. I would have wished I just jumped and shipped myself off to Chicago.

We should not live like we're dying. I like my savings account and my health and my sturdy relationships. But, if you did die in a year, would you be pleased with how you spent this final one?

Shots Shots ShotsShotsShotsShots (Everybody!)

I heard someone die on Sunday. My mom and I were in the living room of her condo on the south side watching The Artist (which I had never seen and enjoyed, A-) when we heard gunshots.

"Hmm." I said.

"Fireworks?" She asked. We kept watching the black and white actors.Then sirens a bit later. Out the window eight cop cars. We peered out but nothing was happening presently.

Anyway, in the morning the front desk guy explained it was the head of one group and his brother. They were both shot by someone yet to be caught. We say "group" here because no one likes to live in gangland (although if you live in Chicago, you do).

I had done sprints at the exact spot of killing that morning and did them again Monday. And yesterday. People power walk and bike on by. There's clover and Alice Sr and I even jumped in Lake Michigan. From the still glassy water I could see the white brick where it went down.

I don't feel particularly unsafe as a non-member of any groups. But the couple blocks from the bus to the door at midnight I don't prefer. There's just a bed of fear we all have to lie in. And that makes me really mad, actually.

No guns. No guns. No guns please. I cannot die from a stray knife wound. But bullets fly. And having my own would not save me.

Maybe guns will always exist, but come on, make them harder to buy. Scarier to own. More expensive. Tax the heck out of them. We don't need them. And generation by generation we can sort some of these issues out. Slavery was really important to us at one point, but when it was time for that to end, if was time for that to end. Don't be the jerk who was like, "We've already built our whole culture around having slaves! Whoopsy can't change it now!"

Uncle Passing

Stay near, stay dear.

Ballons from Muffy, my final day of vacation.

I am starting to sense your location.
You are somewhere in the basement
beating on a makeshift drum kit
songs that I can hardly stomach.
I'm floating up the stairwell
with my fingers shaking frantic
thinking softly what a concrete mess we live in,
And what a icebox heart I've been given.

He Was Somethin'

"It is very important to generate a good attitude, a good heart, as much as possible. From this, happiness in both the short term and the long term for both yourself and others will come."--Dalai Lama

Beloved.

Dream 12.22.13

The craft studio was sort of like the one at camp. I don't know why I was there, but so was Steve Martin. There were a lot of people milling around this studio, but no one else recognized him. When he didn't seem too busy I sat next to him and tried not to gush. "I love your work, all your work," I said. I quoted my favorite poem of his from Cruel Shoes. He smiled and asked me about my life. He set to work at his table covered in cheesecloth.

James Earl Jones was kitty corner at a wheel. He had overhead our conversation and presented me with a clay figurine. It was brown and sort of looked like an offensive rendering of a black baby. James Earl Jones told me it was a talisman. Steve Martin then presented me what he had been working on. A big card designed with light blue clouds. In cursive he had written encouragement about my future, my writing, my life. At the bottom in bigger font he had scrawled, "For I am not long for this world" over a doodle of his feet in 50s loafers floating to heaven.

Starfish: A Modern Parable

A young boy woke one morning craving to see his old friend the ocean. He wiggled into a sweater, laced his sneaks, and made for the beach. It was early morning, calm. But the previous night had apparently not been so. Thousands of starfish lay on the beach, drying slowly in the rising sun. They must have been tossed from their lives by a storm, and, now, they were goners. The boy sadly walked along the water's edge observing the loss of so many tiny lives.

Then he noticed a figure just down the bend. He started jogging. As the boy came closer, he realized the figure was a man, hard at work, picking up starfish that weren't just finished yet and throwing them back to the water. The man moved with focus, determination. The boy watched a few moments and the man continued to work and the beach continued to look basically the same despite the efforts of this stranger.

"Excuse me, sir," the boy said.

The man barely paused to look over and kept searching for the next creature. "Yes?" he murmured.

"It's just...you're working so hard. But there are thousands. It will not matter."

The man looked at the starfish in his hand. "It matters to this one," he said as he sent the little star soaring over the blue tides. Then he smiled. The boy smiled too. The man let out a fat guffaw. "NAH," he boomed. "Truthfully, I just really like chuckin' starfish."

And then the man laughed. Laughed a lot. "Wait, what?" thought the boy. But the man kept laughing. In good spirits the boy joined in. The man cackled. Like, an uncomfortable amount? The boy felt like he really didn't have another option other than to also keep laughing? The man's face turned red. The boy's too, out of sheer terror. Oh my God, is that a gun in his sock? Why didn't I notice his ICP t-shirt? Am I gonna die today?! Is today really the day I'm gonna

Parents' Stuff

"If your house were on fire, what five things would you save?" I asked my dad.

"Well, the cat," he said. "Whatever computer had most of my files on it..." He paused, "I mean it would depend on what I could take. I wouldn't have time--"
"No, time is a non-issue. You just get five things."
"Well, I would just take whatever I could--"
"No, that's not...it doesn't matter. A fireman will get any five things you want."
He clinked his spoon around. My aunt shuffled in the kitchen, closing the bag of pretzels.
"I would save [her boyfriend], the dogs--How many is that?"
"Let's say it counts as one."
"Then...my computer. Non-digital photos..."
My dad re-piped in, "Old photos, yes."
"And?" I asked him. He shrugged.
My aunt narrowed her eyes around the living room. "Okay, maybe a lamp?" Then, definitively, "I guess I would save three things if my house were on fire."

And yet. We sit in a house of things.

Back in the day.

My dad and aunt have been spending the weekend sorting through their parents' things. Every night, Char takes to his bed like its magnetized to his back. So many boxes. Tables fill of things, empty, shift.

Tonight the garage was officially closed. The siblings had conquered the junk/treasures. I have a new can opener and sheets. Tax Ant exhaled big and prodded at Char: "You promise Lucy right now you're never going to put her through this." My dad said, "I promise," but he looked at his hands and smirked.

He knows. He knows the box he heaved today is one I will heave someday.

Hi. Bye.

Part I: Hi.

April 2013.

Today is Muffy's birthday. Hi, Muffy. Happy Birthday. I love you. You are my best friend.

Everyone who meets Muffy either loves her or at least recognizes there is some weird hippy dippy force radiating from her. She is that good. This is legit.

In honor of her day of days, three things I love about her:

1. If you are getting gas, she hops out and stands with you.
2. I have literally never seen her be judgmental about someone's appearance. More than that. She's not someone who refuses to show judgement, she is someone who doesn't seem to feel it. Big diff.
3. She wrote this to me in an email a week or so ago after seeing Red:

"Seeing the play also reminds me that expressing through art is not the end and all. And if it’s the ego that wants it, well, the ego’s never going to be satisfied. Rothko finally produced the perfect masterpiece in Houston, but he still killed himself. So, we should be basing our actions on something other than the ego—of course on Love."

Part II: Bye.

People die every day. But others live every day. And overall, I have to believe the good is winning.

Haunting

When I die I'm coming back as a ghost. I'll be at the help desk and the lady will say, "Now, if you take our basic package, you spend some time in purgatory and then eventually head on up. Or, for a premium we can send you express to heaven--"
"What about your ghost options?"
"Well, we usually reserve that for our embittered or rage-filled guests--"
"Sure, but I am just really interested--"
"According to your file, Ms. _______, we have heaven as...a giant trampoline made of Peeps? You're not interested?"
"I just really like ghosts is the thing."
She sighs, "Well, let me get my manager over here. And! You know you don't get any powers, right?"
"Not even ceramic skills?"
"Ha. Ha."
"And I have hungered for yooooour touch--"
"Yeah. You and every other person that comes through this office. Look. You want the haunting program director or not?"

My sister and I visited the cemetery for people who have died trying to climb Mount McKinley. (Some years two, some eight. In 2002 three brothers all together--27, 21, and 15.) I liked being there. I told her--my sister, I mean--that she will know my spirit remains because I'll be blowing on her with peanut butter breath for all eternity. I tell this to Bisque and he says he'll find my face in a burnt marshmallow--like a Jesus watermark. I tweet that and Shells counters, No, a Pop-Tart. Options.

AliceSr and I went on a ghost tour of Anchorage on Sunday. A woman committed suicide in the bathroom of the hotel we were staying in. Apparently something would snatch at women's ankles and shake walls until the stall was locked permanently. The chicas on the tour trickled in, took photos. One announced, "It smells like blood! It smells like blood!" and I rolled my eyes. It often smells like blood in the ladies room.

You flew out on a plane,
came crashing into the ocean,
and then you haunted me.
Don't have a clue what's the motion,
so every now and then it feels so soothing
when you float on a bit and move right though me.

I Will Miss You!

This morning on PostSecret there is a picture of coffee cups. The sender wrote, "What I would give for one more cup with you."

Oh, it is so true. What we exchange for quality time with people we love, and if we no longer could, THEN what we would exchange.

I would probably go into a year's worth of debt--ten years, twenty--to have another hour with you if that were no longer an option. Do you know what I mean? I'd scrape slugs off the sidewalk with a spatula. I'd smile and nod to consumers. I'd fold a trillion towels. I would if it meant a mocha, advice, affection, a genuine touch.

Strangers sharing the beginnings of a journey.

(I salute you!)

(God be with you!)

(I will miss you!)

In the darkness of the dawn--journey on.

From Inside the Hive (Some Things That Are Good to Remember)

I cannot take every opportunity I am given.
Comfort is not guaranteed. It is a bonus.
I can't make people know I love them.
The hard questions are soil.
There must be time allotted for stillness.
Being judgmental of someone for being judgmental still counts as being judgmental.
There is no competition. We will all die.

Smithfield, VA. 2012.

November 12th

Last night a staged reading of my newest play went up. This production has been a point of stress in my life since my proposal for the show was accepted last year. It was garbonzo bean size when I left school in April, rolled to the size of a lion cub by summer (conceptualizing etc.), and by yesterday morning I could barely breathe with the Taj Mahal of anxiety that had been constructed on my chest. Two hours pre-show I was too inebriated by worry to even lead my cast in a warm-up. I secluded myself and got my tech cues together and stared at my shaking hands.

I feel good now that it's November 12th. I've been looking forward to this date for a long time. Last night after the lights came on, and I ran a talkback, and I hugged and thanked friends, and the cast went out for froyo, and I got onto my scooter, and I got into bed, I felt overwhelmingly emotional: happy it went well, nervous it didn't go as well as it maybe should have, grateful for my hard-working cast, surprised by some zany comedy friendos who actually showed up, disappointed by peers who didn't make it, unsupported, supremely supported, worn the heck down from being "in charge," excited by the idea of rewrites, horrified by the idea of rewrites. Mostly? Just tired.

Hill asked me what my favorite part was, and I answered truthfully the bows (to "Hey Hey Hey" by Jack's) because I knew it was OVER. I really do hate seeing my work performed--it's part of that terror I blogged about a couple weeks ago. I know it's just an itty bitty thing, but I dunno, as an artist if you don't take the itty bitties seriously, the serious things never happen for you.

Me and the cast post-show

But, ultimately, mostly thanks to the affirmation of the people shown above, this morning I woke up fresh as a daisy. Terror at bay, emotions drained besides an aftertaste of pride, mental space immediately filled with what comes next. I am very grateful.

Where I'll be tomorrow is God only knows,
seems there's science at hand, but I'll finish the shows when I land.
I said hey hey hey. We're all gonna die.
Hey hey hey. We're all gonna die--
we're all gonna die someday.

Hit

I was hit by a truck today. On my bicycle. The cliche is true. Time does slow down. One second expands to a million decisions. One minute my biggest concern was wondering if I would have enough down time at work to grade. Next, I see the driver only look one way as he's turning out of the parking lot. I was already in front of his grill. I knew it was about to happen. I screamed with everything I had. My brakes couldn't save me. The vehicle plowed into me. I flew. The tires moved forward, and I thought I was going to die. But, no, it was a lurch from being put in park. A man in construction garb ran around to me asking, "Can I call 9-1-1? I'll call 9-1-1." I had burst into tears. It was as if someone had injected me with a triple shot of espresso. My adrenaline was so high. Busy time of day on a busy street--people stopped traffic, ran from their cars, "I saw what happened!" they yelled. I was partially blind by my nerves. I stood up and all I could think about was how scared I would be if I had hit me. I kept assuring the man I was okay. I was okay. I was really okay. I wanted him to know. I wasn't thinking straight, but I knew I needed to make the man feel like he hadn't done anything wrong. That it was going to be okay.

I wanted to walk. A voice in the back of my head said, "You have to get to school still. You're subbing today. You'll be late." I honed in on that need and started walking. I couldn't stop crying. It was instinctual--surely chemical. My bike chain was screwed up, I walked. I felt like I should call someone, but I knew it would sound much more dramatic between sobs. I put my phone away. I got to the class late, really fine, but still crying. I couldn't stop for about an hour. I held up my bloodied, bike-greased hands and excused myself to the bathroom. I taught. I let them out a little early. I got hit by a truck, you know? I also had two pieces of cheesecake for dinner. I got hit by a truck today. I think it's okay.

EDIT: After to waking up to concerned texts I want to say I AM TOTALLY FINE. I have some scratches and bruises, but I really am fine! I actually had a pretty good day. I was let out of work early and baked and saw some friends and had a rehearsal. I even got my bike in decent working condition at the school co-op for free.

A Bad Poem from the Heart

I think of you when I pass the Game Stop
the one on Harlem next to the store with the picture of the Egg.
I think of you when I pass the Game Stop--
which used to be fairly often when I lived in Chicago,
and even when I lived in St. Louis,
because it's south of suburbia and on the way.
It was a sign of good things to come--
getting home. I didn't like it in that half-lived in house
(my room, freshly painted with the new carpet I had picked out,
gutted besides one creaky twin)
but getting out of a car is getting out a car,
and I always did like our driveway. No,
I liked the rusted lamppost with our last name stuck on.
Anyway, it was the homestretch when I passed your old work.
I know I visited you there once. Why? Why?
I can't remember.

Chicago. September 2012.

I haven't been on that forever road headed north in three years.
So instead I think of the Game Stop when I think of you.
I love you and I miss you,
and if there was a time to believe in heaven
it is now.