more wandering

Rome. A woman teetering expertly on high heels like needles. Expensive clothes, the kind of money you can smell. A dog lying on the sidewalk, dead until you look closely and see his chest rising, falling, slightly. Sleeping. In Rome, sleeping dogs lie everywhere.

Her footsteps quick and sure, an abrupt halt. Abrupt to me, because I could not guess her motivation. Deft motions as she reached into her shoulderbag, pulling a napkin from a table with her free hand. A can appeared from her bag. Dog food pouring into the napkin she laid at the dog's nose. Pat, pat on his head. Pat, pat on the can, getting the last of it out as the dog gulped from the napkin. Kneeling, she stayed kneeling while he ate.

He finished licking the napkin. She picked it up, tucked it into the empty can of dog food and disappeared. Quick sharp steps down the street. The dog did not look after her. I remember wondering if the two of them had ever met before. The dog put his head down, went back to sleep, and I could still smell her perfume.

That was Rome.

Except the Coliseum. There were cats there, regarding tourists coolly. Fat cats purring in the sun, obviously irritated when a human got too close. Don't bother me, pal, I'm enjoying the day. Besides, you don't even speak Italian. What would we talk about?

A right to be a little territorial, because maybe his relatives used to work there.

Pompeii, the old city, and skulls fused to rock. Touching everything, glad that this is Italy and not the States because here we would put everything behind glass. Behind closed doors. Protective railings and velvet ropes, but not there. There, they tell you attenti, they look at you with eyes full of meaning designed to cross the language barrier. You know better than to be disrespectful. People died here.

An Englishwoman chided me for smoking. I moved away and stood in the rain. But don't you know they all got smoked here?

St. Peter's Basilica, the scale too large to take it all in. My hand on a marble foot, a toe filling up my palm with cool. Young men in suits gesturing silently, making insistent eye contact as they urged us back. Back some more. Afraid I had trespassed until I saw the doors crack open. Huge wooden doors opening with a boom and smoke rolling out. I was sorry I was not Catholic. I was sorry I did not speak Italian, though I could not tell if it was Latin, especially when they started to sing.

I learned to answer with, "Sera," I learned the lilt at the end of, "Grazie." I sat on the steps of St. Mark's Square, where the pigeons had been and the orchestras still played, and I smoked. Two orchestras dueling like bar bands across the square. Everyone laughing. Wine. Was I carrying a bottle of wine? Come to think of it, when was I not?

I learned to say no in Italy. I learned to put on a mean face and not make eye contact with the vendors unless I wanted to deal. I learned I smile too much. I still smile too much. I yelled at a man in a train station who was trying to sell an umbrella, because he would not go away. He did not register my embarrassment, kept insisting. I shoved him away, immediately mortified at my own violence, but he did not notice. He walked away as though I had said no, thanks, and I learned that there was more of a communication barrier than I had assumed.

I learned that if I kept my mouth shut, some people assumed I was Russian. But I smiled too much.

I came back to the States and immediately wanted to leave again. Anywhere. Everywhere. I saw Paris and hated it, mostly. I saw Amsterdam and liked it, mostly. I saw Brussels and fell in love. A waiter in a dimly lit pub served me beer-soaked beef with gravy and chips. I drank Primus and relaxed until we realized we were going to be late for a train. Running across the Groot Markt with a belly full of beer and beef and more beer. Fat and sleepy on the train to some place I have forgotten now. A place with Dutch soldiers and checkpoints and chilling efficiency, a hangar, maybe.

It's been years now, and my passport stays with me, but it still manages to gather some dust. I thought of traveling the other day and realized I had separated it from my "Real Life" in my head. What happens here is real. What happens across the ocean, what is that? Is there a word for that? "Vacation" isn't quite the word.

Meh. Head full of guidebook Italian phrases and a vision of a shopgirl running down the street with furs stacked on her arms, tiny high heels on her feet, looking terrified. I know she was taking the furs to someone very important, but it still makes me smile to think that maybe she was running away.

hi. again.

Go to Zygote in my Coffee and click the chick.

(yay me!)

brass knuckle bouquet

"I was just wondering, about the wedding?" I watched downtown flash by. Jess was driving.

"Yeah?"

"I was just thinking, do you think it's possible to do a curb-check in pumps?" I bit my lip but couldn't stop myself from laughing.

She rolled with it, laughing uproariously. "Bite the curb! Bite the fucking curb!"

We piled out of the car, still laughing while she wondered out loud whether it made her a bad person to be thinking such things.

I tried to take the blame. It was, after all, my idea. I was the one considering the advantages of spike heels when it came to severing spinal cords, and wondering whether I had the fine motor skills or the luck required to place my heel just so. Especially in the midst of what was bound to be some excitement.

Honestly. If this were a movie, I'd get to throw one good punch. And the audience would totally agree with me.

This is real life, though, and we have a certain obligation to not get blood on the flowers at the wedding of two people we really care about.

There's the rub.

i'm not asleep but my phone does not believe me.

I was working in a record store on Halloween. Zombies crawled all over the store, but I was a car-crash victim. For some reason my costume was not working for me, so I stepped outside, peeled off my bloody clothes and wrapped myself in a big white towel.

I came back inside, dodging a huge psycho-killer who brandished his bloody knife at me, and I helped a lady find the Christian rock section. She was carrying her five-year-old daughter who was dressed like a princess.

It was all business as usual. The cash register was dinging until my coworker, a giant teddy bear, kicked the cord out of the wall. Then we had some peace and quiet. Except for the zombies and their moaning.

My towel was unbelievably snuggly and warm, unbelievably white. Marvin Gaye started to sing and everything was perfect. But Mr. Gaye kept singing, and something about the scene started to seem surreal, and I opened my eyes because my phone was ringing and I was wrapped up in my white sheets with a couple of cats sprawled on my feet. Pressed a button and Marvin Gaye stopped singing. Let's don't get it on. Let's talk.

He doesn't seem to realize today isn't the day for getting it on. But I'll let him keep singing about it. It makes him happy. It makes me happy, too.

shivery shiv-shivaree

It's a bit like a hostage situation, except we all have Stockholm syndrome and we're all carrying weapons.

And we all have a tendency to back slowly away.

I cleared my hands like I was back in the cage

(no, I was never in there long)

palms out, breathing more out than in.

Cleared the mask, quick breath out and pull in.

Flashes from flashes and we're all going back.

There doesn't seem to be a plan, just these uneasy alliances and a tendency to turn on each other.

So you put a wall behind you. You talk about firing blind like it's a good thing.

I keep thinking of why soldiers carry A2's these days. Foxholes full of panic and fully automatic rifles.

Things have changed.

Which is why I can walk out with my hands on my head.

(I liked this one too much to just leave it on MySpace.)

brain garbage

We affect each other's lives just like currents in water. Toss in a stone here, stomp in the mud there. Pull up a stump.

You can bleed in it, too, but I don't recommend that for saltwater like this.

Seaweed waves.

Shockwaves.

Seaweed keeps waving.

Fish camouflaged to look like rocks eye the real rocks nervously.

The real rocks are starting to smile.

You only have to be able to kick.

therapist artistry

Forgiveness came easily to me, once.

I don't mean "once upon a time." I mean once. One time.

Generally speaking, I am quite fond of my grudges. Even the grudges that make me feel sick. Especially the grudges that make me feel sick.

I can't explain it any better than that. But I can tell the story of the one time I can ever recall deciding to forgive someone, and having it work out.

I went out drinking with friends. We had a great time and I was taking it easy. Getting happy, but not blotto. My friends wanted to go to a different bar, and for whatever reason, I wanted to stay.

As I was deciding what to do--have my friends take me back to my car, or go with my friends to the bar I didn't like--in walked another friend of mine.

"You look like my ride home," I said to him. He agreed, and we grabbed seats at the bar to continue drinking.

But not a lot. Not blotto. Just happy.

Third or fourth gin and tonic, I asked my friend to watch my drink for me while I went to the bathroom. Because I'm smart, and I don't just leave my drink unattended.

Finished my drink and ordered another, and the room started spinning. My friend said it was time to go home, and he helped me stagger out of the bar.

My house. I reached for my keys at the front door, and the world went sideways. My friend scooped me up and carried me inside.

It gets a little hazy after that. I slipped in and out of consciousness. I remember him pulling my boots off. I remember feeling warm and happy. I remember being incredibly sleepy. I remember my friend picking my head up by the hair so he could, essentially, fuck my mouth.

I remember not being able to stop drooling. Not being able to sort out in my head what was happening. Choking a little when he came in my mouth, but not being able to do much more than cough, softly.

I remember waking up the next morning feeling like a slut. And remarkably hangover-free, considering how terribly drunk I had been.

It took me three days to tell any of my friends. When I finally did, their reactions were almost identical to one another. And I actually felt relieved to hear them say that no, I wasn't a slut. Yes, I had been drugged. And would I like him quietly murdered?

No, I didn't want him murdered. I didn't want him anything. I wanted to forget he had ever existed, let alone had ever been someone I trusted.

But I lived in a fairly small town, and our paths were bound to cross again eventually.

Months later, drinking in a club (interestingly, the same club I chose not to visit during the previously mentioned evening), I was laughing, making my way across the dance floor. Heading for the bar, getting another drink. I stepped to the edge of the hardwood floor, and time stopped.

The smoke hung heavily in the air. The strobe lights stayed on. The music paused in a sustained buzz. Dancers froze.

My future unfolded in front of me like a choose-your-own-adventure book. I weighed my options. Did I want to punch him in the face? Did I want to drag him outside and give him a piece of my mind? Did I want to run back to where my friends were, point him out and let the biggest, burliest guy in the bunch take care of him? What to do?

Time was kind enough to stay paused until I settled on an appropriate response. I smiled and let it go. Just like a wish. He turned, saw me, smiled back. He held out his hands, and I took them. He kissed my cheek, asking how I'd been. I kissed his cheek and told him to have a good night.

I can't explain why it was easy. It just was. It taught me nothing about future forgiveness. It just lifted off me, and I felt like I could breathe again as soon as the weight of the anger was gone. Or maybe it's the smoke that chokes me when anger burns. I don't know.

So. That was the last time forgiveness ever came easily to me.

But it did come easily, once.

apologies for the last post

I was too hard on that guy.

We're going to get married and have babies.

Fat babies.

To the Gentleman Seated on the Deck at Doe's

I overheard part of your conversation today. I don't know if you recall, but I was the girl walking past on the sidewalk while you smoked a cigar with your--I don't know, clients? Buddies?

Now, I am a difficult person to offend. I won't even say I'm offended now.

But really, staring pointedly at me while loudly proclaiming, "That's good stuff, right there!"

Really, sir.

You are old enough to be my father. Easily.

You also outweigh my actual father by a significant amount.

So if I have Daddy-issues, I'm not going to resolve them with you.

You're too fat.

Women like me? We laugh at men like you.

Hope your cigar was tasty. Hope it tasted like victory over your high cholesterol, thinning hair, expanding gut and disappearing penis.

No, seriously. I hope you had a wonderful night. Then I hope you dropped dead.

If your ghost haunts me for wishing ill upon you, I won't mind so much. Ghosts aren't really FAT, per se.

Ta!

sundays are always busy...

Happy things!

*The bitchy neighbors are finally speaking to us again. In fact, the gentleman across the street expressed sympathy when a huge dog chased my feeble old cat this afternoon. Moses (the cat) got out of it with nothing more than a scratch on his nose and some broken claws. He's old.

*Jess bought a bed! Yay! There will be a bed-jumping party later this week, when the bed is actually delivered.

*I raked leaves like a crazy person today. Yes, that means I raked the side of the house and spat while spinning in circles. When that got boring, I got to work and hauled 10 huge bags of leaves to the curb. Because I rock. I totally owned those noob leaves.

Regular-ass things that don't get asterisks:

I'm wondering if this is a good time in my life to take a vow of celibacy. I mean, wouldn't it be better to wait until I'm old and gross? Older and grosser, at least? But I've been tossing the idea around. For fun.

Hm. I thought I had more stuff to say than that.

Nope.

honestly amused

It smells like zombies in here.

I've encountered one too many music snobs for today. Just one. Just barely over the top, and I'm done.

See, I don't ask about your music so that you can show me the light.

I like lots of things, and I prefer to keep an open mind. I'm constantly looking for new music. It's not my life; I'm not musical, myself. But I like a steady supply of aurally pleasing sounds, especially when I am at work.

It's music. It isn't an IQ test or a moral code or a definition of me or you as people.

Or maybe it is, to you.

Maybe there are just too many pedants in my life.

Maybe I invite it. I default to wide-eyed nodding.

But here's a hint: that's my default face for when I'm bored.

whose house are you haunting tonight? really.

I sometimes catch myself mid-hallucination, staring at a stranger, alarm all over my face.

I put the wrong faces on the wrong heads, and I see the wrong people.

It only lasts a second, but it's an uncomfortable second.

I can do the same thing with cars.

It's almost a gift, my ability to fool myself.

It's better when it's organic. It's better when I don't expect it. I can do it on purpose, squint and look through the smoke and in the dim lights, yeah, I can imagine that person is someone else.

But it's better when it's not on purpose. The effects are better. I've turned around in a parking lot and seen such a reasonable facsimile of my dead mother, it's instantly reduced me to breathless tears, even as the person (not my dead mother) passed and I stood there, wishing I knew what to do with my hands.

I had the common sense to pretend I was looking for something in my purse and turn slightly away.

But I didn't have the willpower to stop sneaking glances, seeing if the illusion would come back.

I'm sure it will freak someone out someday, if it hasn't already. And really, how does one explain it? "I'm sorry, you just look so much like my dead mother. Except she didn't have sideburns like yours. Or any tattoos. Is that a tire iron?"

It's not just my dead mother. It's sometimes people who are very much alive, which makes things a bit tricky. That's another tough one to explain. "I'm sorry I didn't say hello to you. I thought I was making you up in my head. Yes, I know I looked right at you."

It's enough to make me stay in the house for long stretches of time.

But they're always there when I break down and leave.

amnesia

Half of all the guitarists I've ever known--I think that's a safe estimate--have had something written on the backs of their guitars.

I don't remember what yours said.

I can remember glimpses of guitars owned by people I barely knew, but I can't remember yours.

There was a time I had you memorized, like I'd stayed up all night studying for a test.

I guess it's true what they say.

puzzled

I have a question.

Is there such a thing as good fan-fiction?

Is that an oxymoron?

I mean, I don't want to make fun of a thing I know nothing about.

Wait, yes I do. But I'm troubled. I've stumbled across a few examples of this, erm, genre recently, and I wonder if I'm just not smart enough to get it, or if these, erm, writers, actually take this stuff seriously.

It sort of takes me back to when I was five, and I would put She-Ra, Princess of Power, into strange marriages with Ken and G.I. Joe. Because Barbie was a harpy.

So maybe I get where people are coming from. But I still haven't found any good fan-fiction.

bright little shiny thing (public service)

Here's an idea. Click the link off to the right. The top one, maybe. No, not NaBloPoMo. I mean, click that, too.

But the one I'm talking about right now is Something Awful. Click it.

And see if you don't laugh until you cry, too.

...

...

...

You're welcome.

subdivision

This little wooden box used to sit on her dresser. Now it holds earrings, and it travels around the house to different rooms while my sister and I get ready to go places.

The black bowl. God, I don't remember. I know Jess brought it home, but I can't remember when.

When is important, these days.

The iron. That's an easy one. Bought that a couple of weeks ago when the old iron broke. The lamp was purchased a couple of months ago.

The ceramic vase was my dad's. He used to keep his paintbrushes in it, and that's why it's empty now. Don't look in it--it's pretty gross in there. Clumps of old paint.

What else is on the desk--well, obviously, there's this computer. A few years old, so it's in the set marked "before she died."

I don't know why everything has to be divided. It just does.

What else is on the desk?

Camera. After she died. Nail file. Before. Necklace. Before. Spray bottle. After. Oh, and there's Mom. I forget she's there. She's so quiet these days. Seems like, if we're going to keep her around, we should find something other than that plain black plastic box.

I smile a lot when I talk about her, to let people know that I'm okay and they're not going to have to get their shirts wet. I still get sucker-punched every now and then. Today, for instance. A grocery store check-out line, scanning the chocolate, and right above the candy was a rack of magazines, and there was a copy of Woman's Day. She used to read that, and I don't remember what was on the cover. Probably something about decorating, thirty little ways to say "thank you," what your kids are really learning at school. I don't know. I looked away, thinking please, please, nobody look at me right now, because I'm standing here with empty hands and my eyes full of tears for no goddamned reason, and if someone asks me what the hell is wrong with me, I'm going to start bawling right here in the supermarket, and just please, nobody look at me, because I don't want to do that today.

So I guess Woman's Day goes in the "before" stack and the "after" stack.

deeply invested in the shallow end

I've flirted with lots of gods. God, gods, Gods. Whatever you like.

Even tried a long-term commitment once. Oh, I never became a nun. But I did get "saved." Whatever that means. It was a long time ago.

Never got baptized, though, so I don't know if I got saved all the way.

I think me and that particular God, we never quite got past foreplay. I was very young, and my head was easily turned, and Buddhism, agnosticism, atheism--they all had my number and a tendency toward drunk-dialing.

Jesus loves me, people say, even with a Christlike case of blue-balls.

That's lovely and all, but I wonder if Jesus would go with me to my childhood home. If I only get to take one, I may decide to go alone. Whatever lives in that house, it might just beat some Jesus ass.

And I'd hate to be responsible for Jesus getting staked.

Dear Sir,

I do not think you understand how very in-demand I am.

While I appreciate the compliment you tossed from the cab of your truck, and you're terribly kind to point out one of my finest attributes, I must decline your tempting offer.

You see, I have a couple of cats waiting, and without me, they would not eat.

Sure, it's entirely possible that I could die alone and they would eat me, but that does not disprove my previous point.

I have dishes to wash, as well, and voicemail to check when my hands aren't dripping suds.

I have a terribly, terribly busy life, you see, and while I am flattered by your attention, I must be on my way.

I certainly don't mean to be rude, but, see,

I do not think you understand how very in-demand I am.

the harder i resist the cure...

I never planned to sell my soul. I told you I'd do anything, and I heard your name in songs, and I couldn't escape the feeling of expectation. But I never really wanted to sell my soul. I never signed a contract.

I said a lot of things. People do, in bed. It doesn't make them true, but it doesn't make them lies. No matter what your storybooks have led you to believe, truth is a transitory thing. So is love, if you want to get down in it.

It's like giving birds flags to carry. It's watching something beautiful, knowing the second you turn away, it's gone.

You can make the scene ugly. You can shoot down your avian flag corps. You can watch the scene for the gore and the tragedy you injected instead of letting things unfold.

I'm not here to tell you what to do. I can tell you that the view is beautiful from my front porch, but I'm not going to tell you what yours should be. I have no right.

But I will remind you that I never sold you my soul.