Flannel Coat

Putting away clothes piles last night--
Bisque has dubbed me "Piles" because little stacks
of my stuff accumulate all over our apartment.
Piles of sweaters on the ground by my half of the bed,
piles of papers next to the couch, piles
of candy wrappers on the kitchen table, it goes on.
So putting away a pile last night your flannel coat
fell on me from the back of the closet.
It is blue checkered. You lent it to me
when I was 20 and never took it back. I quite liked
it and paired it with my daisy slip-ons.
The next year we disagreed about a girl's short story
in Advanced Fiction Writing. In the story some girl
was talking to an ex-boyfriend and told him she still
wore his old band tee to bed. You said, "That's weird,
you would never wear an ex's clothes after you
broke up." I said, "I would if I liked the clothes!"
It's my flannel coat, and I don't remember you
in it. I wear it, me. This was the first time in years
I thought about
where it came from.

Remember This Of All

Felt-tipped markers for lists. Lists of prison lit, revisions, screenplays to grade. A freshman with thick brown curls props his skateboard against the door, shares his script about bombs dropping on his Lebanon home. He was 14. 9 AM Playwriting gang.

Spent office hours in the heart of campus. Sunshine. Reading interviews of The Wooster Group. About their 2002 production. I was 14 then? Fast. Don shorts for a night scoot to Flour's cottage in the hip neighborhood. We walk the sidewalks and talk about her break-up. It's raw, it's red. Emotional equivalent of reaching for that last handful of M&Ms and realizing you already ate it. "I remember that," I think, but there's a sheen over those histories. It's good to be here. She squeezes my arm. "That's him." The boy happens to be bicycling by. I hear her heart plop to the road.

I am so happy lately. There are reasons, but there are always reasons. There are also always reasons not to be. I don't know why the scales have tipped one to the other, but they have. And I am grateful. It's not always this way. I thank everything. "Remember this," I tell me, "this."

Why can't you see the sky isn't green anymore?
Why don't you know what I need on these shores?

Stick to Your Deal: Part I

"Stick to your deal" is a loaded phrase in improv. Practically it means if you come out on stage with a Southern accent, you better still have that accent when lights are pulled. Philosophically it means be interesting in and of yourself. Your scene partner might explode with some huge initiation, and, yes, you should cling on and support, but the scene will be flat if you're just a mussel on the boat. People use this metaphor for everything, but when the plane's going down, you put on your air mask first and then the passenger's next to you.

The darkest cove. Something was off with my ex-boyfriend. It was a lousy week. I asked, "What? You want to take a break?" And he shocked me. He didn't disagree. I shoved my face into my pillow. He got up and I started to cry. He paused in the doorway. And I know he felt bad for me. But he didn't come back. He didn't even turn around. He stuck to his deal, and it was probably one of the kindest things he ever did for me.

Fall had just begun. This is not what senior year of college is supposed to feel like. I was carved of my insides, but even then I knew how it could have gone. Who knows how many more weeks, months (years?!) of that "off"ness. I'd cry, he'd stay. He'd stay, I'd cry, and so on forever.

Treat Yo'Self 2012

Breakfast & Lunch Berries

Last week I decided that partially in honor of new music coming out and partially grieving my Chicago trip, I would have Treat Yo'Self 2012 yesterday. It wasn't too bonkers indulgent, but I did--
1. Wear my favorite pair of underwear and shorts.
2. Go on a long, relaxing run.
3. Buy fresh blueberries for lunch and Chipotle for dinner.
4. Have to grade, but I ate pretzel M&Ms while doing so.
5. Buy new Aimee & Kanye.
6. Get a pedicure.
7. Had a good improv rehearsal with my lady troupe.
8. Go to bed early.

Last week when I was scheduling my pedi, I thought, "I have no problem justifying this. This is a nice thing. I'm generally frugal, and I haven't gotten a pedicure in about two years." But for some reason I thought of Rye--my fellow second-year playwright with two itty bitty kiddies. Man, he is for sure not planning "Treat Yo'Self" days. He is planning How-Will-I-Possibily-Finish-My-Homework-And-Change-All-the-Diapers Days.

Every once in a while, I feel like single people get a bad rap. Yeah, there are ups and downs, but right now it's really nice to be tethered to nothing, to spend an entire day--the day of my choosing--pampering myself. I remember the first time Kay and I broke up in college, although I was still bruised, feeling an unquestionable bounce when after play rehearsal one night, Rex asked me to go to the pub, and I realized I had no one to check-in with. It was the light at the end of the tunnel--a light that shines on me now, like a high-powered spot.

No man is an island,
no man is a fool.

Driveway's Clear, You Pray for Silence

I love this bedroom. The one I'm in and the one pictured--which was my bedroom in the fall of 2009--the first time Kay and I broke up. In these rooms I learn to be lonely and like it.

On Saturday I came home at midnight with a headache. No roommates were home. I had accidentally not really eaten all day. I took my box of Ritz crackers up to my room. I was my nurse. Get into a tank top, wet a washcloth, lay still, say a prayer of thanks.

I remember those first nights in Fall 2009--those nights of "No one even knows what I'm doing." I expressed this concern to Muff, who told me to call her and let her know when I was going to bed. I took her up on it. A few times. But I didn't really need to be accountable. I needed to know I could.

I texted her this week. Even though it was 3 AM her time. I let her know--I'm going to sleep, and someone should care. Because I am a living person, and for a while, I won't be conscious. PLEASE SOMEBODY CARE--there's an urgency in realizing you could die in your bed, and no one might realize until three days later.

I think that's right. Sometimes I don't see the roomies for a week straight. My sister would say, "Hey. It's been a while..." but what could she do? Who would she be able to call to check up on me? Chelle would probably call. If I missed rehearsal, she might come over. If someone was home, they'd come to my room and...

I have this wonderful, just wonderful, memory of that 2009 room. It was a Friday night and I was just writing a letter at my desk holding my hamster in my lap.

Today I woke up lonely, and now its midnight, and all sorts of things have happened to let me know I'm loved. Impromptu hellos from no fewer than seven--not an exaggeration--seven faraway friends. I sure liked those lil hi's, but I didn't gulp them down. This is good stuff here on my own.

Letters to Noelle--
marked up cardboard boxes fell.
I fell with them.
Crushed like them.

Mulan Fireworks

10 PM on Saturday
October 22. October's almost gone--
I can't believe it.

I was cozied into my blue flannel,
that once belonged to Kay.
Brownies in the oven, batter splotches on my shorts, I sat
clicking at my Theatre History mid-term, books of Stanley Fish and Philip Zarelli filleted,
splayed, across the kitchen table.

October's almost gone.
This afternoon I was reading Isabel Allende
poolside in my two-piece and sweating slow
while my sister and father wore sweaters to purchase pumpkins
in rural Illinois.

October's almost gone. It's
my elementary school classmates in puffy Bulls jackets,
miniature Snickers bars, a Girl Scout overnight in Eagle Cave.
It's walking back from Marine Fisheries senior year
with a cup of hot chocolate in my hands. Nip nip
with fresh break-up wounds.
"My love for you feels like the fireworks at the end of Mulan,"
Kay told me when I had visited him seven months into our relationship,
and then POP BANG FIZZLE FIZZLE FIZZLE.

October's almost gone.
And then November will be.