see how they run

I’m writing to tell you I’m not unhappy. If that’s been a misconception. She nodded grimly when I said I’d been feeling lonely. I don’t know who can sit with me these days, on the kind of benches I sit on. She winced apologetically, “It’s hard when you’re so unhappy.” I was surprised to hear this assessment. I corrected her. I’m not unhappy. I am happy most days. I am just also very sad. I think there’s a difference in being unhappy vs. being both happy and sad at once. I noticed, in that same conversation, how I tend to talk about what makes me so sad. I often outstretch my arm, just off, as though the genocide is in the room with us. Like, hey no sudden movements—the climate crisis, it’s right over there.

It’s been one of the grander discoveries of my life that it seems most people have some kind of brain mode that can numb the sad away. I wasn’t born with that toggle. While we’re watching TV, Puhg will sometimes even reach his paw toward my head and make a “click” sound, like he’s trying to turn it all off for me. But he knows, as I do, there is nothing on Earth that can silence the beehive in there. For the love, I could be on a beach chair in Tahiti and still be consumed by my hatred of capitalism. I say “I could be” as though this example isn’t just an anecdote from three summers ago.

Living unnumbed used to be slightly easier because I prayed about the horrors, which offered me the illusion of control. But now I see prayer as an oppressive tool. Not all the time (gray areas abound)…but in instances of inequality and injustice. In instances when it’s a frilly little sugar pill to make people feel better about their lack of action. In instances when it makes us feel better about what is unnatural to just “feel better” about.

As of late I would describe myself as “haunted all the time.” It’s not so bad. I’ve always liked ghost stories. I remember not minding when Haley Joel sees the hung corpse in The Sixth Sense. I used to think I’d turn off the Darkness if I could, god knows I've tried. Recently I wonder if it’s part of the package. I can go sicko mode for hours over school shooting data. I click through pictures of children’s rooms, their little coffins. I read through their parents’ crashed out Twitter feeds. I listen to the 911 calls. At the festive party of course I randomly sit next to the woman whose third grader has recently died, and to be honest it was the best seat in house. I watch looping videos of the floods at that summer camp or ICE raids or interviews with sexual assault survivors. I let rage flow through me, as it has the right to do. This world inspires rage in me, and I won’t pretend it doesn’t. But the only time I think I am actually truly unhappy is when I feel I can’t be myself. And being myself includes speaking my truth. I simply cannot pretend disturbing things aren’t happening when they are. It’s not who I am. It makes me want to die to pretend. So that’s probably where the confusion comes from: I need to express the sadness to be authentic to be happy. This paradox probably explains why, historically, when I am most myself, that is when most people run away.

Some really nice things have happened lately. In mini August alone. Started STRONG with a last minute ticket to see Lady Gaga, one of the top five concerts of my life! Maybe I’ll write a postlet about it. Last Monday went to the basement wine bar to see Bunhead’s set with SW. Laughed in the mood lighting at two girls doing musical prop comedy. Puhg and I saw Weapons in a nearly sold-out theatre. It was an incredibly rowdy room, we were all screaming and laughing and cutting up—such fun. My sweetie has already inflicted two heinous scares on me, inspired by the film. He hit the lights and lunged at me, then a couple days later, he sprinted at me from behind when I thought I was home alone. I wrote something a bunch of people seemed to enjoy. The gal who runs the local shop and I went to lunch so she could tell me about her real life. So our seven year “friendship” is more than “And how are you today? Good?” Sat down at the hip lunch spot with Big Comedian's exec and he kicked it off right away: “How does it feel to be the coolest kid in Hollywood?” I nearly spit my water out, told him I’m not. He was SURE I was being modest. If only he knew! Can you be cool if you’re actually just a sea cucumber who responds to emails efficiently? I wrote a ton of PSAs for a local immigrant collective. I called the White House about Gaza. I got to be in a mini writer’s room for a brand new musical show, and it filled my cup full. Caught a matinee of a Mary Kate & Ashley classic at The Academy Museum. Wrote at the knoll, listened to Knox at the pool. Went on my friend’s podcast and we all laughed until we cried and then they paid me $100. The monthly gab was useful. I walked around the hills for two hours chattering with Snake, pool following. Taylor Swift is releasing her 12th studio album sooner than I thought she would.

you you you broke my rose-colored glasses  / so go play in traffic

Giddy Giddy Ghosts

 At Disneyland a few weeks ago I saw a display of Mickeys and felt a nostalgic breeze. Something I'd known before I knew most things. Stacked stuffed Mickeys. I've known the stacked stuffed Mickeys three decades, can you/I believe? I had a VHS of a singalong video, Disney songs over short almost music videos of the park. Genius idea. Basically a thirty-minute commercial I rewatched again and again.

Two nights ago I couldn't sleep. I found the "tape" on YouTube. Just as I remembered and yet I didn't remember most. I think I fast forwarded big chunks, in hindsight. Yes, I think I did. I liked the Mainstreet song and Goofy sweeping and then there's a bunch of Adventureland bits that bothered me. "Follow the Leader" and Tom Sawyer's island. I scrubbed through the video just as I did on the brown beanbag in the Midwestern summer and then ah ah yes. Finally, the best part, the "Giddy Giddy Ghosts" segment. Captain Hook and a terrifying fox creeping around the Haunted Mansion. Yes, yes, yes. I felt my pupils dilate all the same. Mm the horror, mm the spooks.

I did something I assuredly never did as a child: watched all the credits. Who made this funny little project? The names came up so 1990 colorful and tilted. I wondered if there had been a discussion about if randomly shoving in a horror piece was really appropriate for the rest of the mood. Or did no one care what was going on in those stupid little side projects when The Lion King was in pre-production? "This will scare kids," I imagine someone saying, having no idea it would be my favorite part for ever and ever.

Ex Post Facto

My 8th grade music class was particularly boisterous. The middle school was being renovated that year, so we were shoved in some kind of makeshift used-to-be superintendent's office? We had a first year teacher. I'll call her Miss L. One thing I liked about Miss L was that she started every day by playing a song, and we would journal about it--what instruments we heard, the mood, the tempo, etc. What I didn't like about Miss L was basically everything else.

That class was important to me because I don't remember having many friends in it. Most of the honors kids I was usually saddled with were in band. This was my time to experience what the rest of my peers were up to. Some key things I remember were getting up to do a presentation on my favorite musical artist--at the time a ska band--and a girl said I was probably going to talk about Dreamstreet, which is completely embarrassing because Dreamstreet was the dumb spin-off BSB made for teens two years too late. I had referenced the group and their "hit" once at a Girl Scout trip ironically. This chick did not get irony. I didn't know what irony truly was at the time, but I felt shamed for trying my hand at it. And now I go to satire school.

I also remember when I ran for class president a guy who ran opposite me asked his friend, "Are you going to vote for me?" He chuckled, "No dude, I'm voting for SNAP" (which was my team's ticket name). I thought that guy was pretty bold to make me the butt of a joke one foot from my seat, but I was weirdly not bothered. Despite the fact that that one dude got fewer votes than me, it was a daunting use of (ironically) irony. That jokester made a point to talk to me at our middle school reunion when we were seniors in high school. He asked if I was going to Harvard, and when I said no he was like, "Why not?! I thought for sure you'd go to Harvard." I googled him last year and the only hit was a police report from a DUI he got two summers ago.

So, Miss L. Kids were chattering and joking and goofing as usual in her class, and she said every time we misbehaved she was going to write a letter of "MUSIC" on the white board. So, we kept misbehaving, and by the end of class all five letters were up on the board. She then announced any day we made "MUSIC appear" we did NOT get a sticker on a chart. And if we filled the chart with stickers, we got candy.

"There are so many things wrong with this," I thought. 1. Kids should not be rewarded with candy. 2. Huge boxes of every kind of candy imaginable were available every single day in the cafeteria for 50 cents a bar. The prize for a month of perfect behavior was worth two quarters. 3. We had just learned about ex post facto in social studies class. It meant you're not allowed to make a law in retrospect. And that's exactly what Miss L. did. She explained the rules around her "good class" test after we had already failed. I raised my hand and said this. "We should get a sticker for today because what you just did violates ex post facto." She gave me the biggest, nastiest eye roll I had ever seen.

My reaction was, "I guess that's not how it works here. Or maybe I didn't understand the concept like I thought I did." But the classroom should be a just place, and I did understand. The eye roll, it haunts me. But in a good way. A way that reminds me it might be me who knows a thing or two.

Ought

Every day is Birdy on my mind, Skinny Love. The rains come in patches of mist. Purple hood up. It's the time of three paper ghosts on my front door. Squash in the oven Sunday after church. Beauty in the day, whip brisk by night. Take the train down south to the blufftop. Run to the old house, wood porch, Mississippi river boat. Murder stories and that golden hour on the shoe box casino. New season of American Horror Story, and this time maybe Ryan Murphy won't ruin the kit 'n' kaboodle. It's everyone's birthday. It's audition season. No, it's audition town. In any season. Fire up the Keurig.

Sullen load is full, so slow on the spit.

Waiting Outside

My mom hates all things frightening. When I was growing up sometimes I could sense her confusion  as she walked past me curled up watching Lady in White for the twelfth time or examining a dead possum with just a touch too much enthusiasm. But it's who I was, and my mom shrugged it off like, "I dunno maybe she'll grow out of or into being a weirdo. Yolo?"

I love haunted houses. Like. So much. So so so much. Why aren't they open all year? I'll never understand. I have this really clear memory of being in middle school, reading about a haunted house in the newspaper one day. For some reason the attraction was closing that night or something, and I was el bummed of course. No one was free, it was a school night, etc. etc. But my mom was just super caj and all, "I'll take you." And she did! We donned jeans and headed to this dinky but creepy haunted house in a series of trailers. My mom sat at a picnic table with some paperwork, and I did my social studies homework in line until it was time to go in. I walked through alone, soaking up every drop of blood, every creep with a mask. I came out, and my mom was drinking hot chocolate. She had one for me too. She asked how it was. I told her my favorite parts, but I left out the things that would churn her stomach.

This is a thing I will never forget.

Birthday cupcakes for the Alices. Plus! A ghoul-friend! Mine was chocolate covered marshmallow.

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.

Ghoul's Night

(LIGHTS UP on FIVE GIRLS--RO, SHELLS, ALICE, KALE, AND PAKE in a CAR, en route to an abandoned motel in Phoenix.)

RO: You guys, I'm looking up skin walkers right now on Wikipedia.
SHELLS: How is that scary?
ALICE: ...because Wikipedia is hAuNtEd! OoOoO!
PAKE: Wicked-pedia.
       (KALE laughs.)
RO: Well, that wasn't scary. I'm redoing my Google search.
ALICE:...You mean...hAuNtEd Google? (Beat.) Boo-gle!
       (KALE laugh.)
RO: ...Is Ya-ghoul good? I can't tell.
SHELLS: No.
ALICE: Hey, guys, what's a ghost's favorite board game?
        (Beat.)
PAKE: Scattergories?
KALE: Boo-gle? As in Boggle?
ALICE: (Bitter someone got her Boggle joke.) Ouija Board, idiots!
PAKE: I dunno. I thought mine was pretty good.
ALICE: What's haunted about Scattergories?
PAKE: I dunno! It's just a fun-ass game!

(GIRLS drive off into the distance. FADE TO BLACK.)

Haunted Dawn

Last weekend, Lazz and I headed out to middle-of-nowhere Missouri to participate in a guided tour and exploration of an official paranormal site. We visited a haunted building--formerly hotel, schoolhouse, brothel--now run down that was on Travel Channel's "Top Twenty-Five Most Haunted Places in the US."



It was a truly enjoyable experience--meeting these other couples from the petite college cheerleader and her brawny man who had "ghost apps" on their phones to the women who worked at a Reebok store together and watch ghost TV on weekends. We had experienced paranormal hunters with us. There was equipment for monitoring electro-magnetic charges, unexplainable flashes of light. I got seriously creeped several times, but I also laughed a lot with Lazz.

We stopped hunting around 3:30 AM. Too tired to drive back, Lazz and I set down blankets on the porch.


We were inside a closet that had a confederate flag on it. The house was once a stop on the underground railroad. We sand "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" trying to invoke a spirit. It did not work.

The fireflies were huge, jetting between the ancient trees in the front lawn in front of us. Thousands of visible stars. Broken limestone was everywhere. The house creaked. Cicadas.

Suddenly the stars were disappearing. "Look what we did," I said. "We made the stars go away!"
"I think it's the light," he replied.
I pointed to one street light a mile away. "That?" I asked.
He laughed, "No. The big light. The sun."
"Oh that," I said. And next thing I knew, dew was everywhere and the sky was full of bright blue.

The sky became pink.
And then guess what happened?
Well, what do you think.

Ghosts!

So far, there have been three super-natural experiences in my life. Pretty sweet, right? Yesterday, as I was boppin' around the internet looking for tickets for ghost haunting showsies, I go so engrossed I literally wanted to take on ghost-stuffs as a career. Let's talk about my experiences:

In high school I went with three other friends driving around cemeteries with white noise on the radio. We'd drive to a gravestone, ask a question, and then if the static jumped we'd get an answer. It was all well and fun until we found a convent cemetery. There were there elaborate high metal gates--as soon as we passed through the radio started BLARING gospel music. We reversed immediately and drove off in screams. After calming down, we went back and stopped right at the gate. We had not touched the radio. We found no stations playing gospel music. Not only around our white noise station, but at all.

While I was in Japan, a chunk of the group watched a horror film called The Orphanage one night. Afterwards we sat around telling ghost stories in the little tatami room. I told everyone how I am weirdly very interested in ghosts and hoped to see one one day. I got back to my room a little shaken. Nothing happened. The next day I was feeling bothered by something, so I go out a spiritual textbook to find inspiration. I opened it to a random page and stuck my finger down. It landed on a sentence that read "Ghosts are not real".

That winter while I was staying at my dad's apartment I spent most of my days doing the same stuff: scrapbooking, going o the gym, writing, watching movies. I was alone a lot while dad was at work--camped out on a futon usually. Well, one day I thought I heard someone at the front door knocking. I was watching a movie. I tensed up for some reason. It stopped and no one was there. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw the door open. I looked and it hadn't. I turned my head to the side and then back to the door where the door was open and a young man in running shorts was standing there. I panicked, blinked, and he was gone. The door was closed. I know that sounds non-sensical. All I can tell you is what I saw.