I never did like boxes. They told me that I was good at playing the guitar, so I started writing. They told me that I was good at writing, so I started taking photos. They told me that I was good at taking photos so I fell in love with a smoker. It was alright at first. We smoked under the moonlight while everyone else was dancing. In parking lots. Sitting on walls. But I got tired of spending the money because I wanted to have beautiful hair and that had a price too. That was okay for a bit too except that he still wanted to smoke all of the time. We would be together, discussing fallout shelters or movie stars, and he would disappear for five minutes. And in those five minutes I was sure that I needed him there. He was always leaving me at the times I was most unsure of what I was saying or doing. So I secretly took it back up, but by then our schedules were off. He would step out the door right as I would walk back in. I missed him all of the time, and he missed me too, but mostly I think he missed the nicotine. It was a bonafide love triangle, but one of us was better at tempting him.

So now I have been love with the smoker for three years, and for the past three months we have not said many words to each other. A dark-haired man with a thin mustache approaches me and asks me to go to dinner, and I wonder if it is even worth it to refuse a free meal. The smoker is too busy, anyways. We go to a cheap restaurant and he proceeds to tell me about how the humidity in Florida feels so good on dry skin and how to make money in photography. The whole time that the thin-mustached man is talking I am thinking about the smoker.

One night the smoker and I sat outside in someone else’s backyard for three hours. It was dark outside, but he was still wearing sunglasses, and I was wearing a summer dress. The grass was wet and the stars were bright behind the clouds. He told me about how he felt when he lit his first cigarette, when he was thirteen. The flame in his hands was the most powerful thing he had held up until that point. I told him about how I sometimes worried that I was insane. He proceeded to tell me that he felt the same way, quite often, especially after a long walk. We decided to take a long walk of our own.

The thin-mustached man thinks that smoking is a terrible habit because he wants to keep his voice pleasing to all of his fans. His music, he believes, is cathartic to young people everywhere. He tells me this over lasagna and I decide that I hate him. He also tells me about a story he recently heard on NPR about the economy. The thin-mustached man is too arrogant and too boring. I get up and walk out of the restaurant. On the walk home through the park I see the smoker sitting under a tree. I walk past him and he waves. I wonder what has kept us apart these three months. He loves my beautiful hair now, and I love the way that his clothes smell faintly of tobacco, but we miss those things about each other in silence. I decide to turn around, and he is smiling at me as best as he can. I sit down. He wraps his arms around me and offers me his last cigarette.

The high school was empty except for the auditorium, where the lights were too bright on the stage where they sat. Any of the rooms were available for them (a high school is, after all, a public place) but the stage seemed more official for their business. This group of four men was laying grounds for executing another man the next Friday morning.

Bob led the discussion. He was a simple, balding man in his mid-forties. He had a plain wife and two plain children. His job was in a plain insurance office as a plain manager. Bob thought his life wasn’t too bad. Stanley was also a part of the discussion. He was a short gym teacher, with glasses and a large mustache. Stanley was on wife three, which added a whole slew of step-things into his life. Bill worked as a janitor at a hospital. He was a single man and enjoyed living by himself. Rounding out the discussion was Roger, an accomplished graphic designer. He thought in colors and shapes. All of these men agreed that something needed to be done, and that someone needed to die.

Bob, being a manager, initiated conversation.
“So umm, what exactly are we facing here?” he said, with little emotion. Bob wasn’t always the most clued in to problems, but he could try to lead.
“Well, I’m not sure, but it sure as hell needs to stop. We can’t let them keep destroying our land like this. I live in a nice part of town, but every day it looks more and more like the ghetto. My wife is getting anxious again, and heaven forbid I have to deal with that.” Stanley breathed this all at once, like he did most of his sentences.
“Is that the issue then? What exactly are we facing? Is it teenagers with spray paint? Is it gangs? Is it a bigger issue: corporations, the Wal-Marts’ and McDonalds’ of the world,” Bob asked skeptically.
“It’s all three! Listen, our air is getting polluted, and my gym classes complain about running outside. This used to be a small town, and now it is getting bogged down by businesses and teenagers and garbage and mass transit. It isn’t long before the gangs start to appear. Just yesterday I saw fresh spray paint on the side of library. This has got to stop.”
At this point Bill decided to pipe in.
“Yes, these are all concerns. But what is the root of this problem? I mean, yeah, this stuff is all coming in, but where from? Wherever that root is, THAT is what we have to stop. And I’m willing to do what it takes.”
“But does that really warrant murder?” Roger was vocal now. “There have always been different problems in our city, but does the fact that it is growing give us the right to execute a man? It’s not good, guys. We don’t want our hands tainted with red.”
“You’ve seen how it is though, with evening news, with revolutions,” exclaimed Stanley, “blood is what speaks to people! Would you rather have it be the blood of our children, shot in some drive-by. We gotta stop this influx of people, man. It’s bad for our system.”
“That still doesn’t make it right though.”
“But it’s the only way.”

“Alright, that is enough,” said an exasperated Bob, “we seem to have reached a stand-still. I myself don’t see how this warrants murder, or even who is responsible, but this is two against two so we’ll have to look at both sides.”

So they did. Through the night they debated. It was decided that Jeff, a congressman with three kids and a pretty wife was the cause of the problems. He was the one pushing for a bigger city. Jeff was letting these developers, these adolescents, these anyone’s move in. Jeff was the one that could probably help stop this, but he did nothing. In the end it was Bill, Stanley, and passive Bob against designer Roger. Roger, seeing in colors and shapes, didn’t feel the need to take a life based on ugly things like sidewalk space or money. But, being tired, and not liking Jeff anyways, he rationalized it. At least, if nothing else, red would add a splash of color to his dull days.

In Sherwood, Oregon
I went with both my parents
to a party at the neighbors.
It was a Christmas party.
The kitchen was
where all of the adults drank,
Rum and Coke, some kind of beer,
margaritas too.

We were upstairs
dancing to the Nutcracker Suite,
not caring about parents.
On the TV was the dull news.
And in the front yard were the
neighbors. Their party was
louder than ours and
and we could see them through the
windows, the people inside
drinking more than our parents.
We tried to sit still and
watch the anchorman speak.
“Santa is coming soon,
the reindeer were spotted
flying through Central Park
and they are coming West fast.”
We imagined them in the
air with all of the planes
carrying all of our toys.
He kept us riveted
with all of this magic.

Suddenly the adults
were with us upstairs
watching the window
looking at the neighbor house.
We thought they were looking for
the same Santa we just watched
but they were looking in those
bright open windows across
where the teenage kids were
drinking their beer too.
It was a magical,
secret event to them
because the alcohol
was served by a foolish adult.

We thought to ourselves: that our
parents were still just as young
as we were, just as thrilled by
the unexplainable as their
five-year old children.
We were the same people:
they just danced around the truth
while we danced around the room,
Nutcracker ballet.
In the darkness we spun,
them with their strong cool drinks
us with our tutus and socks.
Why were we both the same?
Why did we both love fantasy?
We were not ready to
become our own parents,
but yet we were watching
the evening news ourselves.
The next year we would be six
and go to kindergarten.
Why should we spend our days in
captivity like them?
We just wanted to dance,
round and around in circles
on the dirty playroom carpet.
We did not want to dance like them
around things that we did
not yet quite understand.

Write the love letter to Clark Gable. Forget that he is dead and gone. Remember the way that his movies made you feel. Dot your I’s and cross your T’s. Be done with this portion of your life. Don’t worry too much about your spelling because he will still be a gentlemen. Make sure that you put a stamp on it. Send the letter to the studio, and wait for a reply. Receive a reply saying he is dead. Don’t believe them, because they don’t know anything.

Ignore them when they tell you that you are crazy. Keep living your life the way you do. Let classic movies be your inspiration. Live inside of them if you have to. Aspire to be an actress, like the ones of old. Be inspired by Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly, Katherine Hepburn. Make conscious efforts to act like them. Perm your hair. Apply red lipstick—and do it liberally. Act dramatic at the tip of a hat.

Let your friends go to the movies without you because you can’t bear this new stuff. Try to show them the beauty of black and white. Teach them the joy of musical comedy. Make them watch Singing in the Rain with you over and over and over again. Don’t give up, girl, because one day they may just come around. Be okay with their laughter and concerned looks. Tell them that this is what you are passionate about. Tell them that this is your ballet, your scotch, your shopping, your infatuation. Convince a few of them that your dreams are valid.

Become your own personal antique. Shop at thrift stores for old furniture. Display knick-knacks of your great-great grandmothers with pride. Dress like a flapper girl, or a hardworking mother during the war. Don’t take their criticism. Revel in the past. Let it shape the way you think. Pick up mannerisms from the movies that you watch and carry them around with you. Really get into your role. Become classy so that you will be respected. Keep reaching for your goal of Hollywood Star.

Push yourself until you are exhausted and poor. Spend hours crying and trying to memorize lines. Be rejected at auditions because you are too ‘old-fashioned’. Don’t give up. Look for a job that is closer to your dreams. Only do the cocaine when someone else gives it to you. Get too skinny because that is what they want. Learn to play the piano or sing. Have relationships with men that don’t make sense when they talk. Live the life of a star without yet being one. Get a feel for it.

Go to one final audition, even if you haven’t slept for a week. Sing, dance, and fake a smile for as long as you are screaming on the inside. Hear them promise a call back. Sit at home, drinking Jack Daniels and waiting for the phone to ring. Get a call saying your rent is long overdue. Give up all hope. Contemplate suicide. Hear the phone ring again. Pick it up. Hear his voice, Clark Gable himself, asking you to come back to the studio for a second audition. Breathe a sigh of hopeful relief. Slip into madness.

he found her, again, staring up the clouds. he rolled his eyes and thought to himself, is waiting for her all the time really worth it? she was always stopping to stare at the things he thought were mundane: clouds, grass, trees; things of that nature. he was like, duh, it is only just nature, it is everywhere, but she still wanted to stop. sometimes he would be walking along, talking to the air next to him when he realized that she was still fifteen steps back, pondering a brick wall or even a twig. whenever he asked her she would just respond,
"well, it would make a good photograph. it is all about those moments, paul."
paul never liked that response because photographs weren't important to him. they were just paper, is all. and besides, a photograph couldn't speak, or let you feel the sunshine it contained. he just didn't get it. plus, delia didn't even own a camera.

he waited a long minute before delia spotted him, skipped over, and absentmindedly looked into his face.

"the sky is just really gorgeous today. i think i would like to live in it."

paul had no idea what that meant, so he grabbed her hand and walked her down the street. he attempted conversation, but things had been rough lately.

"so ummm, how are things going with your new roommate?"

"oh, you know, terrible. it's like, 'hey, i just want to be able to go to bed by midnight', but she just like, is cutting off her hair in the sink all the time, and so i am never able to brush my teeth. there are bags under my eyes now. and i keep wondering how she still has hair left to cut off."

"well, alright. that sucks. what about work?"

"oh, you know, that's terrible too. my boss is always whining about how her husband works too late, and because of it her child is out of control, and because her child is out of control she smokes, and because she smokes she can't breathe. and because she can't breathe it's a never-ending cycle. i just want to say, 'hey, drink instead. you might lose inhibition but at least you won't cough so loud at work. or get rid of the kid'."

"well, there has to be anything good going on in your life, right?"

at this point she took her fingers from his and turned to face him directly, her eyes pleading with him,

"you know what paul, no. absolutely nothing. i want to run away all of the time lately. i stare into the sky and dream of flying away, to basically anywhere. absolutely i am sick of it here. we used to be adventurous, paul. we did, and you know it. now there is nothing."

paul didn't know what to say to this, so he stared at her for a moment. finally a thought crossed his mind.

"so you are saying not even i am good enough? damn, delia. i don't know what to do about this anymore. is it even worth me trying to fix it? everything is depressing, or stupid, or awful. i don't know what to do for you."

"i am saying where is your adventure in your soul? like, why don't you find beauty in things, too? why don't you want to take photos, or hop into a freezing lake, or travel the world? we used to have dreams, didn't we? i haven't given up on mine, and i feel like, stuck, because you have given up yours."

"i never said i gave up. the thing is that i worry about you! i have to make money to do those things, i can't just pack up and 'fly into the sky', i have to pay for our dreams. my adventure for right now is loving you in this busy city. but lately you are making it seem like that is not good enough."

"and lately i am wondering why we are having this conversation in the middle of a beautiful park, when i could be taking photos of things like that dog."

"delia, you are living a life that isn't there. you don't have a camera. you are focusing on what isn't happening. besides, who needs a silly piece of paper? i don't get it. "

"well, i don't get you. you don't see beauty like i do. you are always worried about everything, like, what if your bank account overdraws, or what if your car breaks down, but me, i like the little things. sometimes there is more beauty in just one blade of grass than a whole life of love."

"delia, that is ridiculous. and it makes no sense."

"well, you make no sense. and i think we need to take a break for at least three days until i can compose my thoughts."

so she left, and paul was left thinking the is it worth it to wait? questions again. except, now he had some other things to address. like: true, delia was more pessimistic than usual lately, but was he really doing things he wanted to do? he remembered the nights they would drink a bottle of wine and sit in her backyard. they would get tipsy and talk for hours about what they were going to accomplish in the future. it was probably the future by now, but was he stuck?

three days went by, and paul continued to work and think. one night, though, he got home from an especially rough day. his boss had announced that they were downsizing, and, though he was keeping his job, he was getting triple the workload, but with the same salary. his thought was, okay, really, this is the most bummer week ever. he unlocked the door and went to grab a book to unwind. as he was reaching up to the shelf, though, something fell on the floor. he bent to pick it up, and was surprised to find his own face staring back at him. it was a photo, from the year before, of him and delia at a party. a friend had taken it and given it to him, and not wanting to be rude paul had kept it. he didn't see the point of it, because they were always together anyways, but he kept it all the same.

tonight, though, the photo affected him. he looked at it and for the first time noticed the colors. blues, greens, the purple of delia's shirt, the blue of her eyes. he noticed a sparkle in his eyes (and hers) that he hadn't noticed as of late. he noticed warmth, something he thought a photo couldn't radiate. a whole story unfurled before his eyes, and he was wondering why it was beautiful. his heart started to ache and swell with a feeling that made him nervous. delia was right, probably. so the typical thing to do would be to apologize. and he wanted to, he wanted to be brave for her, and to let her know he supported her dreams and stuff, and had his own, too, but he worked the next morning. the photo went back on the shelf for the night.

the next morning paul woke up, happier than usual. he drank his boring coffee, and drove his boring car to work. on his desk, where he'd sat for the past three years, was a letter in familiar script. it was from delia. she had to write it, she said, because she was really going to do it. she had to get out, and she didn't think he was ready. so it was goodbye, or something, until he was ready for her. he crumpled up the letter and sat down resignedly.

but he didn't give up. he decided to do something different. he gave it a week, got anxious, and bought a camera out of frustration, hoping for easy remedy. each day he took a photo of himself trying something new. he would mail them to various addresses, old homes where delia grew up, roommates she still kept in touch with, family members that he knew well. he also took photos of the little things that she would often stop to stare at, even though he still didn't see the beauty. he did this for three months before he heard anything from her.

the third month, paul got a letter. it was simple: i miss you still, i think. meet me and let's try to discuss our lives. he gathered up all of his photos and printed them off, one by one, on business cards. they met again at a park. her skin was more tan but her eyes were not as bright. she looked tired.

"so where have you been?"

"well, everywhere i thought would be great. you know, the ocean, the desert, the forests. but something was just off, like, when i was there, it wasn't true adventuring. it was more like running away."

paul didn't know what to say to this, because she looked so sad, and his heart broke for her all over again, and he saw, for the first time, an image he never wanted to see again but thought he had to capture. so he pulled out the camera, and snapped a photo. delia was shocked.

"oh, yeah, when you were gone i bought this. and i sort of took these for you. and i guess you can have it now, since you love this stuff."

he showed her his photos, increasingly embarrassed because none of them had soul, like the last one. but something changed in her. she looked up at him with her sad eyes, but there was a hope brimming inside of them.

"let's leave again. together. please, try this for me once. look at what you just did try for me. i want more moments like this, without interrupting roommates or city life. i can teach you. and you can tell me the stories i am ready to listen to again."

paul thought about it, and this time he was ready to try again, even though he knew it would be a long time before things were really fixed. he nodded yes, and handed her the camera so she could capture the moment.