there is an elderly couple sitting through one of my classes. the woman is really cute and wears a neckerchief and the perfect amount of makeup for an older lady. her husband is scholarly with his glasses, and his pattern balding. he wears yellow sweaters. together they are darling and i am so happy about them.
the problem is, though, is that i am very uncomfortable for them, when the professor mentions the s-e-x word, which he does a lot because it is an english class. i am embarrassed to have a grandmother sitting in front of me since the whole time i am just thinking that i would like to cover her ears for her, since mine are turning red. there is something strange about someone so proper sitting near you when the professor is on a dirty tangent. i hope this woman drops the class, or at least doesn't say anything creepy back, because that would just make it worse.
what i am saying is that i feel like she is a guardian angel sometimes, sent to watch how far back we as american students have slid. and i hope my professor will realize she is there too and get slightly shocked and embarrassed that he is teaching a cute little grandmother about the terribly modern, sad reality of goings-on today.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Sunday, December 26, 2010
we left off under that tree. that cigarette truly had been the smoker's last. after that day i never saw him light up again. things changed fast. the thin-mustached man called for a few weeks but then disappeared as fast as he'd shown up. i acquired a dog, with big, bulging eyes, and ears that perked up every time i said a word. he followed me around the house and so i spent my time teaching him tricks. eventually he was able to shake and play dead. he was a charmer. on the weekends the smoker and i would take him to the park and throw the frisbee for a few hours. if there weren't too many people we would let him off of the leash and go nap under a tree for a bit. it was always nice waking up with the sunshine on my face, the backs of my legs damp from the grass. the smoker and i would take turn picking the grass out of each other's hair. on the hottest days we would go wade in the creek for as long as we could stand, until the days became nights and the police would make their rounds.
at some point we ventured out of our town and onto the open road. we ended up among miles of fields, where at night the crickets sung us to sleep and the fireflies danced around as far as the eye could see. we tried to catch some in a jar but it was always harder than it looked. after the dishes were done we would run out to the barn and sit in the window waiting for the sunset; it was always so beautiful through our eyes and especially through the lens as I tried to teach the smoker how to take photos. after the sun had set the fires were always warm and many times i caught him staring at me through the shadows and the glow. the night before the vacation ended the smoker took me out to a haybale and we lay there for hours watching the sky for shooting stars. i had never seen such beautiful skies in my life and wasn't ready for the night to end, so we stayed and talked until my teeth were chattering. the smoker got down and poked at the last of the fire to try to warm me up until it was dead and we retired to our separate rooms. neither of us were ready for that week to end but it had to.
back home we climbed a few more mountains, and spent late nights forging rivers and sitting underneath bridges. more often than not we would end up watching old movies from our childhood's passed. the smoker's hands would always shyly find mine until our fingers were interwoven. we made it through a lot of movies and memories that way.
eventually that summer of sun flares and beginnings became fall, though. i started becoming busy with school and new work opportunities. the smoker had classes too and so the times we saw each other were few and far between. there was a distance that didn't exist over the summer, and so he tried to bridge it with sweet messages for me to wake up to, or smile on the train, but things weren't quite the same. the leaves became golden, then brown, and one by one they fell off of the trees and onto the sidewalks. one night the smoker met up with me and tried his best to destroy the distance. on the long drive home he put his arm around me so that i could fall asleep on his shoulder. our hands clasped together for warmth as we walked along the dark path afterwards, the leaves always crunching under my boots. it was the last great night of the fall i can remember.
winter came with more of a bite. we stopped talking to each other altogether, citing lack of time, school, disapprovals as our reasons, but really we were scared to talk to each other, because we just wanted the simplicity of summer back. so when the smoker is ready, and when i am, i will be back under that tree, waiting. but, for right now, i have other business to tend to. and so does he.
it is a lot colder now than it was a few weeks ago, the last time i saw him. but winter is going faster than i expected.
at some point we ventured out of our town and onto the open road. we ended up among miles of fields, where at night the crickets sung us to sleep and the fireflies danced around as far as the eye could see. we tried to catch some in a jar but it was always harder than it looked. after the dishes were done we would run out to the barn and sit in the window waiting for the sunset; it was always so beautiful through our eyes and especially through the lens as I tried to teach the smoker how to take photos. after the sun had set the fires were always warm and many times i caught him staring at me through the shadows and the glow. the night before the vacation ended the smoker took me out to a haybale and we lay there for hours watching the sky for shooting stars. i had never seen such beautiful skies in my life and wasn't ready for the night to end, so we stayed and talked until my teeth were chattering. the smoker got down and poked at the last of the fire to try to warm me up until it was dead and we retired to our separate rooms. neither of us were ready for that week to end but it had to.
back home we climbed a few more mountains, and spent late nights forging rivers and sitting underneath bridges. more often than not we would end up watching old movies from our childhood's passed. the smoker's hands would always shyly find mine until our fingers were interwoven. we made it through a lot of movies and memories that way.
eventually that summer of sun flares and beginnings became fall, though. i started becoming busy with school and new work opportunities. the smoker had classes too and so the times we saw each other were few and far between. there was a distance that didn't exist over the summer, and so he tried to bridge it with sweet messages for me to wake up to, or smile on the train, but things weren't quite the same. the leaves became golden, then brown, and one by one they fell off of the trees and onto the sidewalks. one night the smoker met up with me and tried his best to destroy the distance. on the long drive home he put his arm around me so that i could fall asleep on his shoulder. our hands clasped together for warmth as we walked along the dark path afterwards, the leaves always crunching under my boots. it was the last great night of the fall i can remember.
winter came with more of a bite. we stopped talking to each other altogether, citing lack of time, school, disapprovals as our reasons, but really we were scared to talk to each other, because we just wanted the simplicity of summer back. so when the smoker is ready, and when i am, i will be back under that tree, waiting. but, for right now, i have other business to tend to. and so does he.
it is a lot colder now than it was a few weeks ago, the last time i saw him. but winter is going faster than i expected.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
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.
“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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
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.
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.
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