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I let the dog out while talking on the phone with my friend in Tacoma. Two hours later I crawled to bed, exhausted after discussing the changes in television, sexism, and protesting in the past 50 years. Our conclusions we vaguely concrete. I slept soundly, my head pushed deeply into a pile of pillows, my boyfriend curling against me with one arm on my chest. The morning light woke me and my waking stirred my boyfriend. We chatted about dreams; I mentioned dreaming the dog ate all the food. My boyfriend asked, " Where is the dog?"I couldn't remember.
His lips are chapped and a red bump swells from his bottom lip. This is not the first time. The skin flaking along his upper lip distracts Nancy. She initially came to his office to discuss the Cap Table - would the shareholders be converting or did the Company intend to offer in any other states. Craig looked serious and studious and listened to her words, but Nancy began to dither, the progressive shedding of Craig's face disgusting her until she finally wrapped up her questions and waited for an answer, praying it would come fast so she could get away.
The birthday party was a success. The sprinkles on the cake melted into the frosting. The decorative candles were to be reused. The kids played pool in the partial shade of an awning. Some adults worked over a puzzle. Grandma wheeled around and asked pointed questions of the young adults. Reunited cousins chatted happily, comfortably reliving memories of snot flicking and Dutch ovens. Dogs wagged their tails and managed not to knock over the discarded plates with tempting scraps. The potato salad seemed endless. The deviled eggs were nearly gone. Eight pounds of exotic cheeses were devoured by hungry relatives.
Her basketball jersey read St. Agatha. She was five foot four with long brown hair and the side-glance of someone who knew all the women in magazines were surgically enhanced. Normal looking in every way, down on one knee, hand on hip with a ball stabilized at her forward-thrust foot, Carol was on her way to being just fine. I could envision her twenty years later, two active kids and yoga classes. She sits cross legged with other normal women, visualizing a tranquil pool radiating from her belly but the water grows choppy and soon big waves slap and splash.
Edith Piaf singing La Vie en Rose shadows my movements today. I consider the things I do; making coffee for the others, wear heels for the others, mince in a skirt for the others. The things I don't do; shave, smile, play subservient. I've been shopping the non-heeled shoe sections and leaving the last pot of coffee open so it gets cold. Spite and small changes are baby steps to my recovery. In another year I will be caught up on dental work. In one year my band will make our first album. Next year I will run in marathons.
I overheard this cell phone conversation today, details are changed: Dictionary? No, I've been using Inhume for _years_ now, man. I'd like to inhume the idea so no one will discover it or her husband was inhumed. See, it's no big deal. What's that? Oh yeah, yeah. Hey, did you know I got a job at the tuna factory? Guess what position. No, come on guess. Guess it! I'm not going to tell you, you have to guess. No. No. Hahaha, what'd make you think that? I'm a clerk! Yeah, I'm working in the head office, assistant to the manager.
Sitting, listening to Bessie Smith sing Down Hearted Blues, I mull over what it takes to sing - emotion, compassion, acceptance, centeredness in attitude and breath. This song transports me from my office desk, superimposes a shifting scene before my eyes. The white walls grow dark, are papered with patterned colors and curtains hang over the windows. I am sucking on a long, hand-rolled cigarette. Heavy smoke hangs low over the circular tables that fill the room. A waiter hands me a tea cup filled with XX hootch. A couple dance by the piano player, leaning into each other, fingers locked.
He's crazy for 60s Garage Rock. Boppy, shaky, frugging, rug cutting, sneaker-wearing, tapered pants having Garage Rock. His beat, grey Toyota Camry 4 door throbs with the sounds - harmonica, hand clapping, foot stomping, "walking in the rain/I'm full of pain/black clouds overhead/ oh I wish I were dea-ea-ea-ea-ead"His bangs in his eyes, his lips pursed, he's tapping the rhythm on the steering wheel and pushing the fuel into the intake valve, moving spark down the ignition wires to the distributor, speeding the rotation of wheels on the axle, coughing fumes out the exhaust. He would go back in time.
I spent an hour digging holes today. Planted: one Franken-apple tree, one late-blooming lilac. The Franken-apple is a thrill; gala, honey crisp, liberty, gravestein all grafted onto one root system. Who wouldn't spend fifteen dollars for something so gratifying? In two years the tree will more than pay for itself. The lilac is for covering up the neighbors. Rowdy high schoolers who will undoubtedly flunk out and have babies in their hideous mother's basement; some people are impossible to rescue. Pruning projects next: Japanese maple bushing in the front, horrible spiny thing with a large white plume must be reduced.
I don't fall in love so much as get really excited. It isn't the fantasy of a wonderful shared life, or even a wonderful shared experience; it's the fun of hearing someone's stories, finding out what tickles the fancy, and how that person can tickle mine. It's collaboration where fantasy plays no part without consent. He spanks my fanny, I yelp. A fair trade and exchange; I wrap the bull whip around his neck and he looks back at me cow-eyed. Only with equality can anyone find true happiness. Because when I shove it, he replies in kind, with love.
"Tickets please,"the fat man in the orange vest held his hand out sweepingly indicating everyone in the trolley car must offer proof of payment. I briefly glanced from my book, chagrined, gave him a sour look directed at his barrel chest, and pulled my wallet out just long enough to flash my monthly pass. I somehow felt I was entitled to never show it, as though he would just know that I always had a pass, as though there were a poster at the metro station with my name on it to indicate I was on the obeys-the-law list.
Trisha will be late today. She is tending to her cold. Since Thursday she's been ill. In 2005 the Chinese President, Hu Jintao, postponed his visit to Seattle, in order to oversee Hurricane recovery. In The People's Daily newspaper it is reported that Hun Jintao told Japanese officials that China will discuss balance so long as they ban any visits to the Yasukuni Shrine, a shrine in honor of Japan's WWII war criminals. "Criminals to whom,"Trisha questions from her comfy chair, a tissue to her nose. Elected in 2003, he doesn't instill her trust, looking like a distorted Uncle.
"Gorgeous synonym for Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬ËœFeeling Alive',"said Jenny. "Ya' think?"agreed Belle. Belle swept her hair behind her shoulders but it wasn't long enough and drifted around her face again. Jenny nodded and rubbed her eyes, conspicuously removing the moist of tears just cresting over the lip of her lower eyelid. She did not realize her lachrymal glands generated the moisture, slicking over her vitreous body and all the component parts surrounding it; cleansing her cornea. Instead she was embarrassed, ashamed, and unaware of the complex blend of emotion and automated response to her environment. Belle asked, "Ya' want another milkshake?-
I know that both of you have a desire to resolve this matter and put it behind you, and I hope that that can be accomplished. What is it they say about art? Squint your eyes and take ten steps back. Yes, that should do nicely in this situation. Fold your arms as you are genetically inclined and stand back, your dominant foot kicked forward so your weight is on the other leg. In that pose you should reach the perfect perspective for a resolution. In your spare time you might consider inserting feminist propaganda into magazines such as Elle.
He's sleeping upstairs, curled into his pillow. His dog keeps his head on the edge of the bed, standing, waiting for master to wake. He has been out all week. Like a tom cat drawing trouble to himself, he gets seduced by events. Like a cowboy, he straps his hand to the bull and rides. He shows off. He gets on stage and performs; an artist. The pay is negative, each event draws more money from his wallet but he loves it and I love him for it. It is his late nights and early mornings that turn me on.
As a child I used to fear that my tongue would swell until I'd stop breathing. My mother told me stories of her allergy to bees. Honey would seal her mouth, lips petulant with heavy breaths. I'd lie in bed at night feeling my tongue expand, thickening into a batter, a paddle wedged between my cheeks. Sweating dreams with panting as my tongue stuck out, white and chalky, the buds cold with waiting. Sometimes my fingers and toes itched themselves into grotesqueries as well. One time I cried in my sleep, waking, my eyes were glued shut with crusted saline.
There was a double rainbow as I drove through Washington toward Oregon. The full spectrum was flush for both and I caught myself dreaming of the gold, considering what people must have thought before they figured out light refraction - circular arcs of color prism into visible wavelengths. Thank Newton for realizing that no two people will see the same rainbow. Additionally, my thoughts and associations drift divergent from what others consider at their simultaneous sight. My folks, the island, feet first and the cold Pacific shooting into my nose; saying we'd marry if we never met anyone else: drag queens.
In rolled up cotton sleeves and an askew necktie, he carries a gallon of milk into downtown's tallest tower; a temple of commerce and industry. I can smell the grease of fresh baked pastries as I follow him through the lobby to the elevator bank. Two plastic grocery sacks disclose one box each of Fruit Loops, Cocoa Crispies, and Honey Bunches of Oats. The cereal is stacked on top of a pink pastry box; the plastic is warped and distended by cardboard corners. The milk jug looks heavy in his hand. He keeps lifting it more than he has to.
Long day and almost no time to drink, fortunately, though, I found a minute to nip from the bottle I put behind the sugar sacks that the boss keeps stacked beside the dough mixer. My family thinks it's great that I work in a bakery. They expect cast-offs to be delivered to every family function. Greta gets disgruntled; my early departure wakes her enough to change her dreams. From soaring, grazing tree-tops, diving into luminescent pools visited by deer and satyrs, the scenes change to black clouds, snowy gusts and ropes anchoring her bare feet to concrete. She prefers ÃƒÆ'Ã‚Â©clairs.
She used the word Parabolas to describe the arch of water shooting from under a car tire and over a curb. I was forced to look it up. It's been years since encountering a work I had to look up. The last word I looked up was Propitiatory which is useful in regard to putting oneself back in good graces with another. The mathematical language of Parabola, with the intersection of cone and plane in reference to points on a line, at first put me off. Then I saw the madness of her unsubtle gesture; two people in a car.
A girl with blonde hair faintly pinked with dye plays concertina on the corner; making it look much harder than it is by stamping foot, rocking head and hunching shoulders. Her shrunken Catholic schoolgirl uniform makes all the scruffy boys and gentlemen in suits stair. She sings with low density yelling, misusing her powerhouse as though it is her first time on the street. A girl friend with baggy pants and an upright bass case stands supportively nodding and watching. This friend stands ten feet distant, indicating she is not part of the show, she, thus, is ignorable by comparison.
My father came to town, visiting the way fathers do, refusing the guest room because he is up all night and only buttermilk will calm him. He brought three things with him: a giant slab of corned beef, a small archaic fan operated electric keyboard, and a book about fuck machines. My boyfriend immediately ran away with the book. While my father loaded the corned beef into the oven I tried to operate the keyboard, my outlet of choice had no charge and as the keyboard gave me flash backs to failed childhood organ lessons I put the keyboard aside.
I've known these boys only for about a year. They are all a bit older than me, four or five years, and it shows: pudgy, contented, solvent, families begun or just starting, marriage rings worn into the fingers groove. They are good guys, easy going, fun-loving, and they love to hang out and joke around. Scott gets called Scoot-scooter. Scoot, like the hicks they grew up with would have said. Throaty, slack-jawed, irreverent, and dumb; they all grew up in the country with stoned, uneducated, inbred truck crashers. In the land of the Merry Pranksters, their peers didn't tip cows.
He spoke about the clincher: how to hook the audience and keep them glued to the topic. Fact, fact, fact, and pause to reflect. Point, point, point, moment of query. He demonstrated this without overtly pointing it out. He cued an older episode in which a man had had a trained bull, so well trained that it was in movies and the special guest at children's birthday parties. The bull died and the man had a clone made of it. The clone was exactly the same until its fifth birthday, on which day it attacked the man. Pause to reflect.
And then I thought, Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬Ëœwho does he think he is?' Her sweater was draped over the chair I was sitting in, the smell of perfume rubbed into my hands as I touched the armrests. Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬ËœHe must think he's something special.' I watched him shrug off his blazer and adjust his tie. Ãƒâ€šÃ¢â‚¬ËœWhat a dope.' He sat in the chair opposite me and leaned forward, making eye contact, "We're going to win this one. I'm certain of it."I nodded. Temple walked in the conference room; his hair slicked back, penny loafers. How many times did I have to tell him?
Her workspace is ugly except that she is in it. Her hair is short, spunky, and her smile is huge as she looks out to the hall. Jerry is there, leaning against the frame of her doorway. He points his index finger at her as he delivers the punch line to a joke. Jane laughs. She's sitting on a green yoga ball, her legs gripping and active. On her desk are a laptop, a book on W.C. Fields, and an old shoe. Jerry congratulates himself on his joke and heads down the hall to tell it again. Jane maneuvers around.
I was on the lawn behind our ranch-style house, stretched out, looking at the stars. As a child the stars seemed closer, they had personalities, Greta and I would track the events of the lives on other planets. We thought every star was a planet with a population much like our neighborhood. Of course they looked and talked like us. There were duplicate Greta and Evangeline types. When a star expired, shooting across the sky, we imagined how the people must have screamed and wet their pants. Talk about an eventful day, we giggled, wonder if they saw it coming.
A personal statement is supposed to brief the reader, in no uncertain terms, what you are about and what you intend to do. If I know myself in and out and if I am aware of what the personal statement could do for me as far as admission to a graduate school, why do I insist on complicating matters by weaving in quotations and statistics? My personal statement has become so impersonal as to discuss the ramifications of television on society at large, the habits of my cube-mate, and how my schizophrenic mother tampered my ability to translate the world.
The grounds of the university were invaded. Jeremy was pissed. It was Saturday morning, easily 8 am though he wasn't sure because he'd thrown his clock into his closet after the alarm failed to wake him in time for class. He could hear people yakking away, nailing wood, and buzzing power tools ... it was keeping him awake. His eyes felt like powdered eggs and his lips were pulpy with new skin. Why on a Saturday morning would anyone be building on the greens? Jeremy rolled over, pulling his blanket over his head. Outside, the medieval players built a city.
She placed the decorative bricks in a line, hoping to get a sense for the size of the circle she wanted to place in her yard. The grass was lumpy and the bricks canted at awkward angles. She dropped one brick over there and another next to it. The next brick fell from her hands and nearly landed on her foot. She muttered to herself, not moving her lips in case a neighbor was watching. She was always so discrete. She didn't want anyone to know that she hadn't mapped the project out in advance. No one was watching her.
The Tip Jar