Spring Semester 2015 in 26 Snapshots

jaywalking for DD iced coffee at 7 AM Friday AMs
bus not coming, I walk a mile in gym shorts, eating can of Pringles
"you are the total package"
goobin' around on a double date over white clam shell sundaes
unexpected heartbeats in an audition I thought I was over-prepared for
wearing rain boots, eating a Potbelly sandwich, scrap of paper
the sunniest seat on the patio of the Art Institute member's lounge
students coming back late to the grammar quiz with greasy sacks
cold walks past sweet sixteen dresses in windows, dreading freshmen
sighing from the bar seats of SC
walkin' with my momma for some post-play hot cocoa
conquering the St. Patties jig in aerobic step and then steam rooming
improvising a song about burning a movie theatre down
stuffing a giant bag of Sour Patch Kids into my bra at the Gene Siskel
finally the poolside gossip with Hill, in cars with familiar faces
Bisque's. Enchiladas. With. Coke.
the pillar right behind the 77 stop
curly-haired teacher wriggling in red laughter on the one swivel chair
The Bachelor, lights dim, foil wrapper, empty apartment
making it through, but suddenly it hits, and I must cry, Bisque's there
toe tappin on the platform to "You and Me (But Mostly Me)"
dancing fool by the beer pong tables, by the DJ, under the fog machine
Tones Cones trip on a quiet grey Saturday with my dad
new tiny white office with fattest computer screen ever
Orange line ImprovNerd podcast listening
the endless wormhole of blue names

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.