And so it begins. I need to write something for the Creative Nonfiction competition this year. At Stanford, they give out prizes for best undergraduate fiction story, best senior fiction story, best poem, and best creative nonfiction piece. The undergrad and creative nonfiction prizes both offer $1000 for first place. The senior prize is $2000 for first place. I will speak plainly—I need that money.
I've never written with a contest in mind, with money in mind. They key to winning, of course, is to forget about the money. It's just another deadline. So, that's how I'll treat it.
I think for the undergrad prize I'll use "Signed, The Repairman" and for the senior prize I'll use "How to Forget a Father." Last year I entered "River Road" into the undergrad competition and I didn't even place. That made me feel Shitty. If I can't even place competing against Stanford kids, how do I compete with people trying to get book deals? But here's the secret: book deals aren't about competing, they're about using shoulders and elbows to make room where you want it, and inviting people into that space. And there's room for everyone. Someone said in a book I liked, There's always room at the top. And I like that. That's good.
I'm at Jo's on South Congress. There's a song playing with violins and the singer is crooning, Sugar Man, Sugar Man, and hey, that's pretty good.
I hear "creative nonfiction" but what my brain really hears is "talk about Mom." That's one of the times I feel like it's okay to talk about it extensively. But, at the same time—who wants another sob story. I refuse to write a sob story—I will write a story first and if a person sobs second, then by God it's a good story.
I have this Last Memory of Mom before the Worst Memory. It's one of those memories you have to work on, like it was a house that needed to be built up, or a shed in the back that needs tearing down. It's costly and weighty and I feel it right Here, right There, and I don't think about it in waking life often but when I do I feel guilty and then sad and then a warmth settles in my chest because I know there's nothing I can do now and that feels Okay.
The Last Memory before the Worst Memory has to do with smoking.
I have to remember—damn it, Lucas. You're writing this for you and no one else so just be you on the page and create and think about it and if you see it well enough then they'll see and don't forget that.
The Last Memory before the Worst Memory—it has to do with smoking. I was in seventh grade and it's the last thing I remember about Mom before the morning she passed away. And I don't want to shock or awe because there's nothing awe-inspiring and there's nothing to gape at and nothing to cry or feel bad about—my mom passed away when I was twelve. There it is. Kurt Vonnegut said in his rules about writing stories—which I find hilarious, that Vonnegut of all people wrote rules (I think it must have been a joke, but Still)—that the reader should know as much as possible as soon as possible. He said to hell with suspense, that cockroaches should be able to eat the last pages of your story and the reader would still know how the story ends. So, this story begins when my mom was in a bad way with bi-polar disorder and pills, and it begins with the best mom in the world who does things with you like lie face down on the grass and saying We're hugging Mother Earth—things like that—and it also begins with her passing away from a blood clot in our bath tub, and me seeing it happen, and calling the ambulance, and to hell with suspense, and the story begins with me shutting down and Plugging In, as I like to call it, to the Internet and the television and living inside buzzing wires so I didn't have to live out the Worst Memory anymore. And our story begins with this, and my dad and I Making It Work, and having a lot of hard times, and him finding three years later the most wonderful woman who could never replace my mom but is the next closest thing, and this story begins with me loving her, and loving my dad, and hard times, and it begins with middle school and high school and being Plugged In and going to Stanford and slowly Unplugging and realizing all these things about what I had missed, and what I had kept my eyes from—things like the Last Memory, things like the Worst Memory. And this story ends with me typing this story as I sidle up to graduation day smooth and steady and wondering what will become of life.
Like I said, the Last Memory has to do with smoking. It's almost worse than the Worst Memory, which means I have my labels mixed up, but each of them have their own taste and the names seem to fit in a strange way, like when people say, I'm doing fine, thank you—which can very often mean, I'm not fine at all but I don't want to talk about it. The point is, just because something has the wrong label doesn't mean it's talking about the wrong thing. Because sometimes a wrong label tells you more than the actual thing does. (?)
And I feel myself resisting the memory and having to suss it out. Crane flies have been everywhere in our house. It's the spring rain that brings them. I love crane flies but on accident I keep killing them. They are so so fragile. They are everywhere in our house always glittering around the edges of my vision. I find them and I try to catch them and put them outside in the night, but all I do is crush their legs in the gaps between my fingers. Sometimes they die all on their own—on the counter they get stuck in thin slips of water until they drown. I want to say, Hey you're so stupid stop flying inside there's nothing good for you in here. But they're attracted to the light, or the air conditioner, and they have very small brains, and so I keep trying to rescue them and my success rate is about one half, and that's what it's like trying to suss out my memories.
Or maybe that's only half what it's like. I have another memory of smoking where my dad and mom were out on the porch and it was raining outside and they were there, sitting, and sitting. And Mom was smoking a cigarette, and I was out there to ask her something, and I saw her drag on that skeleton bone and I told her, You're going to get addicted again, and I said it serious like an adult even though I was only somewhere between seven and eight. And she said, I won't, and I thought, But you will, and then she did.
And three years later she was still smoking but then she was working the night shift in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Babies born with their intestines on the outside. Things like that. I am not kidding. And often babies died on her watch, and can you think of a worse thing for a person who was bipolar and whose father had just passed away and who was on medication and who was working the night shift and who was not lying on the grass anymore and saying, Here is Mother Earth?
And then is the time of the Last Memory when I was waiting for her to pick me up under the elm tree in front of my school. And I was eleven years old and I waited and waited and she was not coming, and I could have gone inside to the office and called her, because she was probably sleeping because of the night shift, which they called the Graveyard Shift—but I wanted her to feel guilty.
But now I can't help thinking about all the ways Mom died. There was That Time Mom Died by SCUBA Diving. There was a hungry shark and can you blame it? And there was a funeral at sea and we scattered poppy petals because they were her favorite, and Dad found and killed the shark one-on-one and he took a tooth and so did I and now we wear them around our necks and Dad's has carved in it, Bastard, and mine says, Shark Fin Soup. There was The Time Mom Died by Toaster Oven. She was getting my Bagel Bites out of the metal trap with a fork when all of the sudden, zap! And I do not eat Bagel Bites anymore, mostly because I have outgrown them.
Of course there was The Time Mom Died Falling Off the Merry-Go-Round, which does not need explaining, and The Time Mom Died by Frogs, which does, but is irrelevant. I remember The Skydiving Incident clearly, though Crossing South Congress Avenue on May 14th is still a little hazy because of all the buzzing buses everywhere, and then the one bus that whisked her under. I can count the ways Mom bit the dust. Trolley Fishing, The Backward-Falling Chair, Losing in a Duel, Saving Me from a Bullet, of course That Time She Rented the Wrong Movie on the Wrong Night, and then Death By Knives.
My mother died in so many ways. One thousand, I know, because I counted. And that's the mystery, and that's what I think about sometimes when it's quiet, because all those One Thousand Deaths are so much better than The One Death, and what about a little imagination? And I'm not delusional and I'm not delusional about anything, but why not make it something magnificent and spectacular, and why not make things up, and why not, and why not?
I was talking about the Last Memory, which is a memory about smoking, and how I was waiting to be picked up, and I waited for an hour under the cool shade of the elm tree in front of my middle school, and I didn't go into the office to call. And then I saw Mom's car at the light far away, and when it turned green I heard rubber cry out and I knew the tires were hers, and she sped toward me and I saw her inhaling and then throwing a cigarette out the window, and I knew it was Bad, and I didn't want her to feel guilty anymore.
I invented things when I was young.
(here, Infinite Telescope, or The Doppler Effect, or Time Travel...)
(more soon...)
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Ice cream social
I had an Adventure today.
I made good on my promise: I wrote a poem in Sharpie marker on a piece of paper that went, I am a stump / It's sad to see / At the very least / Please sit on me? and put it one my across-the-street neighbors' stump. I held it in place with a dandelion and a stone. It made me smile—it was Guerilla Poetry.
Fun things happen when you carry a ukulele around. I walked through my neighborhood down to Zilker Park, and on the trail next to the blue-green water under the bridge sat an Australian. His name was Simon. I said Hi and he said Hi and I asked what he was doing and he said reading and writing, and I said Hey I write too. And we got to talking.
Simon is visiting the United States until the end of May. Simon plays guitar some. He got to play at Antone's last night somehow with the house band, and he said he played just Okay but that the experience was much better than his playing. He said he got to play on the same stage as Stevie Ray Vaughn and I said That's true and then I offered him my ukulele and he played some blues. I wish I could play blues.
I forgot to mention that I've been practicing saying Hi and/or smiling at every person I see whether they look friendly or not. This means I often get rejected—this also means I am often surprised. Those surprises are to die for.
I got to Zilker Park and sat out on the big rock in the middle and the whole city was out playing in the grass. There were two soccer games going on—most of the players were a little overweight, but their feet were still light and they looked graceful with the ball at their laces. There were women sunbathing and I couldn't see their faces but skin is skin and I appreciated it. I played ukulele for a while and made up a new song based off C.W.'s chord progression—Am, C, G, F, and I was mostly picking and it sounded nice. Then I read the last 80 or so pages of The Perks of Being a Wallflower, which E.M. gave me for my birthday, and every time I came across her yellow underlining I felt like I knew her better. And I started underlining with blue. And sometimes our underlinings overlapped and it made green and that made me Happy.
I walked around Barton Springs road with half a mind for coffee and writing, but was sidetracked by an airstream trailer called Ice Cream Social. They were barely open because no one was out. I knocked on the glass and a woman I later learned was named Meredith slid the window open. I asked if they were open and she said they were, and I asked what her favorite thing was and she said salty caramel ice cream, and that she had just made fresh waffle cones, and I said, Yes.
Meredith was very friendly. She said her friend in the next-door Cajun food truck just got breast cancer, and that on Sunday they were going to have a big benefit brunch with old-timey Country Music and that the money would help pay for her friend's treatment. She invited me to come but I would be out of town by then, so I promised I would come for Sunday brunch when I got back to Austin. Incidentally, it was the best ice cream I'd ever had in my life—no kidding.
Walking back I saw a cool house that was three stories tall and red brick and looked out of place like there might be magic in it, and nearby a woman walked her tea-kettle-sized dog while jingling a bell she held between her fingers.
I walked under the shade of elm and live oak trees on the way back to the house. Boys played little league and their dads yelled and their moms cheered with every ping of those aluminum bats. Two chubby boys, one bigger than the other, played catch outside the fence by themselves. They were wearing outfits. The bigger one said, Remember when he hit that pop fly out in midfield? And he threw the ball to the other boy, who said, Uh-huh, and threw it back. The big kid continued, And I ran out to catch it and I was like I'll never make it and then I did and everyone was saying things? The smaller one caught the ball and said, That was nothing.
I walked home eating the ice cream. When I got back there were three people hanging out on the front porch of the across-the-street house, and one of them, a woman in her late twenties with long brown hair and a nose piercing, was sitting cross legged on the stump.
I made good on my promise: I wrote a poem in Sharpie marker on a piece of paper that went, I am a stump / It's sad to see / At the very least / Please sit on me? and put it one my across-the-street neighbors' stump. I held it in place with a dandelion and a stone. It made me smile—it was Guerilla Poetry.
Fun things happen when you carry a ukulele around. I walked through my neighborhood down to Zilker Park, and on the trail next to the blue-green water under the bridge sat an Australian. His name was Simon. I said Hi and he said Hi and I asked what he was doing and he said reading and writing, and I said Hey I write too. And we got to talking.
Simon is visiting the United States until the end of May. Simon plays guitar some. He got to play at Antone's last night somehow with the house band, and he said he played just Okay but that the experience was much better than his playing. He said he got to play on the same stage as Stevie Ray Vaughn and I said That's true and then I offered him my ukulele and he played some blues. I wish I could play blues.
I forgot to mention that I've been practicing saying Hi and/or smiling at every person I see whether they look friendly or not. This means I often get rejected—this also means I am often surprised. Those surprises are to die for.
I got to Zilker Park and sat out on the big rock in the middle and the whole city was out playing in the grass. There were two soccer games going on—most of the players were a little overweight, but their feet were still light and they looked graceful with the ball at their laces. There were women sunbathing and I couldn't see their faces but skin is skin and I appreciated it. I played ukulele for a while and made up a new song based off C.W.'s chord progression—Am, C, G, F, and I was mostly picking and it sounded nice. Then I read the last 80 or so pages of The Perks of Being a Wallflower, which E.M. gave me for my birthday, and every time I came across her yellow underlining I felt like I knew her better. And I started underlining with blue. And sometimes our underlinings overlapped and it made green and that made me Happy.
I walked around Barton Springs road with half a mind for coffee and writing, but was sidetracked by an airstream trailer called Ice Cream Social. They were barely open because no one was out. I knocked on the glass and a woman I later learned was named Meredith slid the window open. I asked if they were open and she said they were, and I asked what her favorite thing was and she said salty caramel ice cream, and that she had just made fresh waffle cones, and I said, Yes.
Meredith was very friendly. She said her friend in the next-door Cajun food truck just got breast cancer, and that on Sunday they were going to have a big benefit brunch with old-timey Country Music and that the money would help pay for her friend's treatment. She invited me to come but I would be out of town by then, so I promised I would come for Sunday brunch when I got back to Austin. Incidentally, it was the best ice cream I'd ever had in my life—no kidding.
Walking back I saw a cool house that was three stories tall and red brick and looked out of place like there might be magic in it, and nearby a woman walked her tea-kettle-sized dog while jingling a bell she held between her fingers.
I walked under the shade of elm and live oak trees on the way back to the house. Boys played little league and their dads yelled and their moms cheered with every ping of those aluminum bats. Two chubby boys, one bigger than the other, played catch outside the fence by themselves. They were wearing outfits. The bigger one said, Remember when he hit that pop fly out in midfield? And he threw the ball to the other boy, who said, Uh-huh, and threw it back. The big kid continued, And I ran out to catch it and I was like I'll never make it and then I did and everyone was saying things? The smaller one caught the ball and said, That was nothing.
I walked home eating the ice cream. When I got back there were three people hanging out on the front porch of the across-the-street house, and one of them, a woman in her late twenties with long brown hair and a nose piercing, was sitting cross legged on the stump.
Monday, March 26, 2012
The Battle of Moon Crater Four
Us Skyboys fought well
Hurled great clumps of moon rock
Monsters by thousands
Stormed our sky docks.
A roaring great battle
The best of the age
Books written in ink
Will light me on their page.
We drove them away
Each tail between legs
Their terrible scales
Flashed bright with red rage.
We ate fat Moon Pies
Drank glasses of cheese
We partied all night
Until we were ordered to leave.
Out flew the last Sunboat
But I was hot under the skin
I relived the great Battle
While they sailed off on the Wind.
I beat all of the monsters
Down in Moon Crater Four
And now I'm alone in space
No one comes this way
Anymore.
Hurled great clumps of moon rock
Monsters by thousands
Stormed our sky docks.
A roaring great battle
The best of the age
Books written in ink
Will light me on their page.
We drove them away
Each tail between legs
Their terrible scales
Flashed bright with red rage.
We ate fat Moon Pies
Drank glasses of cheese
We partied all night
Until we were ordered to leave.
Out flew the last Sunboat
But I was hot under the skin
I relived the great Battle
While they sailed off on the Wind.
I beat all of the monsters
Down in Moon Crater Four
And now I'm alone in space
No one comes this way
Anymore.
Cosmic Humor
My friend E.M. gave me a book to read—The Perks of Being a Wallflower. It's lovely, Lovely. There is a moment when the main character Charlie is sitting around with all of his friends and everyone is just sitting there, getting it, and he says, "I feel infinite." That's good, that's a truth—and here, in Austin, I can feel slivers, shivers of that. Usually it's looking up at stars that does it for me. If I ever actually look I feel very small, and the world and space and the universe feels very big, and I feel like an ant on top of the Himalayas. The thing is, the world is big, and it used to scare me so much I didn't think about it. Now, I think about it in small sips. Let my brain open up to infinity in little bursts, and the bursts are so bright and so good that that scares me a little too, but it's so big and so grand that I have to love it, and I do, and I'm working to get to a place where I can taste it all the time always without shutting any of it out and I'm getting there and it's exciting and whew.
Which makes me think about people with Cosmic Humor. I like those people.
Three nights ago I slid down a piss slide. What I mean is—it was a piss slide. Someone had pissed on it. I was at the park with E.M. and her friends T.M. and S.P. We were howling at the moon, which is what you do at night in a park with friends. There was a twisty slide I had to go down, and I did, and I said, Damn that slide was wet! And it was. And I said, Hey E.M. come see—isn't my butt wet? So E.M., in her infinite generosity, came and patted down my butt. That's a wet butt, she said.
Meanwhile our howls had attracted a pack of prowling high school boys. I knew they were in high school because one time one of their voices cracked, and all the other times they were being Asshole Youths. Later, my friends told me that one of the Asshole Youths said, Don't slide on that slide, we pissed on it. I did not hear this, but I heard the word piss and I heard the word slide, and I then knew that my jeans were connected to the inside of one—or all—of these boys' bladders in a way I had not anticipated. In short—their territory had been marked.
But you know? I had to laugh. T.M., bless his soul, was livid for me. He is very soft spoken and only threw comments over his shoulder as we retreated to the parking lot, but he kept saying, I can't believe it, I can't believe it. I don't remember what S.P. said but I think she was trying to judge my reaction. I didn't know either of them well, but I think they were surprised that I laughed.
E.M. was laughing too because she has a Cosmic Sense of Humor. That's the whole deal—you look at yourself from far enough away, from a star in the milky way, from the edge of the universe, everything is Pretty Funny. Relationship shit. Family shit. School shit. Piss on my pants shit. I'm no damn saint and I get as rattled as the next person, but I'm thankful for those moments where my brain is in the right place and I can just laugh.
Then E.M. said a Thing, which was—I don't care if I slide down it, or you, and it's funny. But that's fucked up that they would piss on a slide that my little sister might go down.
And then it wasn't so funny anymore, because she was right. And that was a pretty fucked up thing they did. Because the park was at an elementary school. And if my ass hadn't slid that slide clean, hundreds of elementary-school students would have piss jeans—and there's nothing funny about that.
Well, maybe a little funny, but only if you're feeling a little Sadistic and a little Dark. And sometimes that's an okay thing, too. Those are the limits. Sometimes my stepbrother D.S. accidentally makes a joke about my dead mom and somehow, some way, we laugh. And I mean hard. And if I ever try to explain it to someone else it sounds sick. And we sound sick. And they don't get it. And I guess not many people really could. But it's funny because he's my brother and I love him and my mom died and he accidentally made a your-mother's-a-whore joke and I still love him and it didn't hurt my feelings so, pretty soon, the only option is to laugh hysterically because what else can you do?
And maybe we are a little Sick. But if that's Sick, Lord my Lord, I do not want to be Well.
Which makes me think about people with Cosmic Humor. I like those people.
Three nights ago I slid down a piss slide. What I mean is—it was a piss slide. Someone had pissed on it. I was at the park with E.M. and her friends T.M. and S.P. We were howling at the moon, which is what you do at night in a park with friends. There was a twisty slide I had to go down, and I did, and I said, Damn that slide was wet! And it was. And I said, Hey E.M. come see—isn't my butt wet? So E.M., in her infinite generosity, came and patted down my butt. That's a wet butt, she said.
Meanwhile our howls had attracted a pack of prowling high school boys. I knew they were in high school because one time one of their voices cracked, and all the other times they were being Asshole Youths. Later, my friends told me that one of the Asshole Youths said, Don't slide on that slide, we pissed on it. I did not hear this, but I heard the word piss and I heard the word slide, and I then knew that my jeans were connected to the inside of one—or all—of these boys' bladders in a way I had not anticipated. In short—their territory had been marked.
But you know? I had to laugh. T.M., bless his soul, was livid for me. He is very soft spoken and only threw comments over his shoulder as we retreated to the parking lot, but he kept saying, I can't believe it, I can't believe it. I don't remember what S.P. said but I think she was trying to judge my reaction. I didn't know either of them well, but I think they were surprised that I laughed.
E.M. was laughing too because she has a Cosmic Sense of Humor. That's the whole deal—you look at yourself from far enough away, from a star in the milky way, from the edge of the universe, everything is Pretty Funny. Relationship shit. Family shit. School shit. Piss on my pants shit. I'm no damn saint and I get as rattled as the next person, but I'm thankful for those moments where my brain is in the right place and I can just laugh.
Then E.M. said a Thing, which was—I don't care if I slide down it, or you, and it's funny. But that's fucked up that they would piss on a slide that my little sister might go down.
And then it wasn't so funny anymore, because she was right. And that was a pretty fucked up thing they did. Because the park was at an elementary school. And if my ass hadn't slid that slide clean, hundreds of elementary-school students would have piss jeans—and there's nothing funny about that.
Well, maybe a little funny, but only if you're feeling a little Sadistic and a little Dark. And sometimes that's an okay thing, too. Those are the limits. Sometimes my stepbrother D.S. accidentally makes a joke about my dead mom and somehow, some way, we laugh. And I mean hard. And if I ever try to explain it to someone else it sounds sick. And we sound sick. And they don't get it. And I guess not many people really could. But it's funny because he's my brother and I love him and my mom died and he accidentally made a your-mother's-a-whore joke and I still love him and it didn't hurt my feelings so, pretty soon, the only option is to laugh hysterically because what else can you do?
And maybe we are a little Sick. But if that's Sick, Lord my Lord, I do not want to be Well.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
A collection of random things
No writing in a while makes me a sad man. Writing now, again—that makes me happy. Here are some Random Thoughts:
I came home and the house across the street was naked. A tree too big for arms sat and grew there my whole life. Now it is chopped down and there is only a stump left. I decided that I will write a note and put it on the stump. The note will go like this:
I am a stump,
It's sad to see.
At the very least,
Please sit on me?
Two nights ago I was Very Content—it made me feel like I could evaporate. No, not quite—I felt my molecules slowly separate, like they carefully shed their charge and drifted lazily away so I was just a collection of atoms in air.
I love crane flies but on accident I keep killing them. They are so so fragile. They are everywhere in our house always glittering around the edges of my eyes. I find them and I try to catch them and rescue them and put them outside in the night, but all I do is crush their legs in the gaps between my fingers. Sometimes they die all on their own—they drown themselves on the counter in slips of thin water. I want to say hey you're so stupid stop flying inside there's nothing good in here for you, but the air conditioning is on, and it is awful nice, and so I can't blame them.
I hated Making a Move. In high school—I could never do it right.
Hey man, you were with her last night? Did you make a move?
What, you took her to the movies? So did you make a move?
Dude, I made a move last night. You did? Yeah. You did? Yeah.
Because in high school how the hell are you supposed to know when to Make a Move, and how are you supposed to know when to go in for you first kiss, and how are you supposed to know how to use your lips and what Feels Good, and how are you supposed to, and how are you supposed to
High school was filled with a lot of How Are You Supposed To...?s My first kiss on the lips ever was with my friend C.W. It was in the script of a play. And I tried to play it cool because I'm a junior in high school and of course I've had my first kiss already. No—I was all sweat and butterflies, and I went in and pecked her on the lips and I felt weird and I was both thankful and sad. Sad because it had taken me until I was 17 to get my first kiss, thankful because it was C.W. and I love her and it's a Pretty Cool Thing that she was my first kiss. Plus, I knew to Make a Move, because it said in the script, He kisses her.
Are you ever with an insecure person and a Wishing Event happens? You find an eyelash, there's a shooting star, the clock turns 11:11—point is, they say, Make a wish. Everyone's done that. But have you ever been with an insecure person who loves you and they say, Make a wish, but what they really said was, Make a wish about me and about us, please. And then they ask, Did you make a good wish? But what they really said was, Did you make a wish about me? And that makes me upset and it makes me feel like my dreams have to be about another person and I don't like that. Maybe I want to make a wish about you, maybe I don't. But don't hijack my wishes.
I came home and the house across the street was naked. A tree too big for arms sat and grew there my whole life. Now it is chopped down and there is only a stump left. I decided that I will write a note and put it on the stump. The note will go like this:
I am a stump,
It's sad to see.
At the very least,
Please sit on me?
Two nights ago I was Very Content—it made me feel like I could evaporate. No, not quite—I felt my molecules slowly separate, like they carefully shed their charge and drifted lazily away so I was just a collection of atoms in air.
I love crane flies but on accident I keep killing them. They are so so fragile. They are everywhere in our house always glittering around the edges of my eyes. I find them and I try to catch them and rescue them and put them outside in the night, but all I do is crush their legs in the gaps between my fingers. Sometimes they die all on their own—they drown themselves on the counter in slips of thin water. I want to say hey you're so stupid stop flying inside there's nothing good in here for you, but the air conditioning is on, and it is awful nice, and so I can't blame them.
I hated Making a Move. In high school—I could never do it right.
Hey man, you were with her last night? Did you make a move?
What, you took her to the movies? So did you make a move?
Dude, I made a move last night. You did? Yeah. You did? Yeah.
Because in high school how the hell are you supposed to know when to Make a Move, and how are you supposed to know when to go in for you first kiss, and how are you supposed to know how to use your lips and what Feels Good, and how are you supposed to, and how are you supposed to
High school was filled with a lot of How Are You Supposed To...?s My first kiss on the lips ever was with my friend C.W. It was in the script of a play. And I tried to play it cool because I'm a junior in high school and of course I've had my first kiss already. No—I was all sweat and butterflies, and I went in and pecked her on the lips and I felt weird and I was both thankful and sad. Sad because it had taken me until I was 17 to get my first kiss, thankful because it was C.W. and I love her and it's a Pretty Cool Thing that she was my first kiss. Plus, I knew to Make a Move, because it said in the script, He kisses her.
Are you ever with an insecure person and a Wishing Event happens? You find an eyelash, there's a shooting star, the clock turns 11:11—point is, they say, Make a wish. Everyone's done that. But have you ever been with an insecure person who loves you and they say, Make a wish, but what they really said was, Make a wish about me and about us, please. And then they ask, Did you make a good wish? But what they really said was, Did you make a wish about me? And that makes me upset and it makes me feel like my dreams have to be about another person and I don't like that. Maybe I want to make a wish about you, maybe I don't. But don't hijack my wishes.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Chocolate, Baby
I just spent a lot of time talking to Chocolate the food server in my dining hall.
He always calls me Baby with that smooth jazz sway that makes me feel like I could pick up a trumpet and just go.
His given name is Daniel, but at work there were always too many Daniels, so he asked people to call him Chocolate. Why Chocolate? I did not ask. No one would call him that until one of the younger managers walked into work one day with a "Good morning, Chocolate," and then it was done.
I don't think the chicken tenders he was cooking cooked all the way through. I think I was distracting him.
Chocolate came from Mississippi with his then wife. His then wife's family came with them in an uninvited caravan and settled four houses down. They ruined the marriage. Chocolate said his then wife's grandmother told her she couldn't have any more kids after having had three, and one day she got her tubes tied without telling Chocolate. I don't know if that ended the marriage, but the way he talked about it, it might as well have been the Last Straw.
Chocolate has three kids. Two sons and one daughter. The oldest is 35, the youngest 21. They grew up with their grandparents, though I did not ask Why. I did not ask what they do, either. I told him about my two brothers, how Juan Carlos was a business man and Darren was a theater director in China. Baby, Chocolate said, your Momma must be proud. And I thought about reminding him that Darren wasn't blood related, and then telling him that Juan Carlos has a different mom than me, then I thought about telling him that actually my mom passed away and so it was in fact my step mom who was very proud. I said, "Yes, she is very proud of us."
When I told him I was a writer he was impressed. Chocolate is the kind of person who makes you feel good no matter what you say, and I had him stomping around on the kitchen's raised plastic mats, bent over from laughing at our jokes about Californian hospitality. In California, if two Southerners were to fly by each other like two ships in the night, the only words they'd yell to each other before careening off, laughing, would be, "The hospitality!"
Chocolate is married again, to a Latina woman named Maria. Chocolate was going to visit his son and his ex-wife one weekend and he asked if he could bring Maria with him. Sure, they said. Chocolate said that when his ex-wife saw Maria the claws came out. I laughed. What is that? I said. What is it about dating a woman of another race, and when your ex-girlfriend sees that she goes crazy? What is that?
Baby, said Chocolate, stomping the mats, That's called an ass whooping.
One time Maria told Chocolate to listen to the radio. 107.3, somewhere around there. It's a Christian station. Chocolate mentioned how good the Lord was and I felt myself recoil, which I thought was wrong of me, so I tried to ask him questions. He said he had a hunger in his skin that wasn't satiated by sex. I didn't exactly understand, though I kind of did. I didn't ask much about that.
Chocolate's been working for Stanford Dining for 13 years. I forget. Whenever I see Obama on the news talking about the working family I always think, Who? It's hard to see it when you're in school around a bunch of people who will be making six figures in a couple years. It's people like Chocolate and his wife, Maria, who just got a second job to help pay for bills.
Chocolate recently went to his wife and said, Baby, we're moving out of the apartment. Why? She said. He told her that they were wasting all their money and that she didn't have a retirement plan, which was true. Chocolate had bought an RV, with a flat screen television for his lady. He said they've saved up $4,000 already.
That's good money, I said.
Yeah and you know what, he said. Now I want to put it all into my '57 Chevy.
We both bent over and he stomped the black plastic mat and I held onto the metal counter top so I could let out a good laugh without losing my balance.
He always calls me Baby with that smooth jazz sway that makes me feel like I could pick up a trumpet and just go.
His given name is Daniel, but at work there were always too many Daniels, so he asked people to call him Chocolate. Why Chocolate? I did not ask. No one would call him that until one of the younger managers walked into work one day with a "Good morning, Chocolate," and then it was done.
I don't think the chicken tenders he was cooking cooked all the way through. I think I was distracting him.
Chocolate came from Mississippi with his then wife. His then wife's family came with them in an uninvited caravan and settled four houses down. They ruined the marriage. Chocolate said his then wife's grandmother told her she couldn't have any more kids after having had three, and one day she got her tubes tied without telling Chocolate. I don't know if that ended the marriage, but the way he talked about it, it might as well have been the Last Straw.
Chocolate has three kids. Two sons and one daughter. The oldest is 35, the youngest 21. They grew up with their grandparents, though I did not ask Why. I did not ask what they do, either. I told him about my two brothers, how Juan Carlos was a business man and Darren was a theater director in China. Baby, Chocolate said, your Momma must be proud. And I thought about reminding him that Darren wasn't blood related, and then telling him that Juan Carlos has a different mom than me, then I thought about telling him that actually my mom passed away and so it was in fact my step mom who was very proud. I said, "Yes, she is very proud of us."
When I told him I was a writer he was impressed. Chocolate is the kind of person who makes you feel good no matter what you say, and I had him stomping around on the kitchen's raised plastic mats, bent over from laughing at our jokes about Californian hospitality. In California, if two Southerners were to fly by each other like two ships in the night, the only words they'd yell to each other before careening off, laughing, would be, "The hospitality!"
Chocolate is married again, to a Latina woman named Maria. Chocolate was going to visit his son and his ex-wife one weekend and he asked if he could bring Maria with him. Sure, they said. Chocolate said that when his ex-wife saw Maria the claws came out. I laughed. What is that? I said. What is it about dating a woman of another race, and when your ex-girlfriend sees that she goes crazy? What is that?
Baby, said Chocolate, stomping the mats, That's called an ass whooping.
One time Maria told Chocolate to listen to the radio. 107.3, somewhere around there. It's a Christian station. Chocolate mentioned how good the Lord was and I felt myself recoil, which I thought was wrong of me, so I tried to ask him questions. He said he had a hunger in his skin that wasn't satiated by sex. I didn't exactly understand, though I kind of did. I didn't ask much about that.
Chocolate's been working for Stanford Dining for 13 years. I forget. Whenever I see Obama on the news talking about the working family I always think, Who? It's hard to see it when you're in school around a bunch of people who will be making six figures in a couple years. It's people like Chocolate and his wife, Maria, who just got a second job to help pay for bills.
Chocolate recently went to his wife and said, Baby, we're moving out of the apartment. Why? She said. He told her that they were wasting all their money and that she didn't have a retirement plan, which was true. Chocolate had bought an RV, with a flat screen television for his lady. He said they've saved up $4,000 already.
That's good money, I said.
Yeah and you know what, he said. Now I want to put it all into my '57 Chevy.
We both bent over and he stomped the black plastic mat and I held onto the metal counter top so I could let out a good laugh without losing my balance.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Johnny Victory will have a story
I heard a radio show today about a guy who, when he was a teenager, was in a car accident that left him in a coma. His buddy's truck flipped and rolled and rolled. His buddy flew out the window. His buddy just got a few scratches, no problem. Our guy, Ian, his ribs were shattered and they punctured all sorts of important things and there was plenty of blood in places blood didn't belong, and he had a 1% chance of living but he lived anyway.
He was in a coma for a while, unresponsive. Another thing about our guy Ian was that he flew planes. Since he was a baby he was fascinated with planes, and he took lessons every weekend from a pilot named Johnny Victory. When he was in a coma his parents played him the theme song from Top Gun, which always makes me think of nicknames like Maverick and Iceman and Goose, and now I'll think of Johnny Victory—what a name.
In addition to the theme song from Top Gun, Johnny Victory made a cassette tape that was a flying lesson. It walked the listener through all the checks, led them through everything to get the plane up and out. And our guy Ian's parents put that cassette tape in a Walkman, and they put those Walkman headphones on their kid, and Ian just listened and listened and in the radio show Ian says that he heard everything—the Top Gun theme song, the flight lessons, his parents talking to him, the doctors asking him to respond.
There's no point. Ian, the kid whose chance of recovery was one in one hundred, he lived, and he made a full recovery, and he still flies planes. That's a Good Thing.
The whole point of this is that I like the name Johnny Victory and Johnny Victory deserves his own story and I think I'll write it.
He was in a coma for a while, unresponsive. Another thing about our guy Ian was that he flew planes. Since he was a baby he was fascinated with planes, and he took lessons every weekend from a pilot named Johnny Victory. When he was in a coma his parents played him the theme song from Top Gun, which always makes me think of nicknames like Maverick and Iceman and Goose, and now I'll think of Johnny Victory—what a name.
In addition to the theme song from Top Gun, Johnny Victory made a cassette tape that was a flying lesson. It walked the listener through all the checks, led them through everything to get the plane up and out. And our guy Ian's parents put that cassette tape in a Walkman, and they put those Walkman headphones on their kid, and Ian just listened and listened and in the radio show Ian says that he heard everything—the Top Gun theme song, the flight lessons, his parents talking to him, the doctors asking him to respond.
There's no point. Ian, the kid whose chance of recovery was one in one hundred, he lived, and he made a full recovery, and he still flies planes. That's a Good Thing.
The whole point of this is that I like the name Johnny Victory and Johnny Victory deserves his own story and I think I'll write it.
Friday, March 16, 2012
A declaration
I am standing here at my computer in my underwear and I am bristling with ideas.
What a powerful thing it is to put words on a page—to guide thoughts and help someone create images in their mind.
A declaration:
To hell with an MFA. Okay, step back—MFAs can be good, I think, the point is I don't need one.
I've been sitting here thinking I'll work for a couple of years, write in my free time, get better at writing, then when I'm in an MFA program—that's when I can really get down to business.
No. I reject that. That's Wrong. See, I can start all of that now. Why do I need to wait two years before I start taking myself seriously? Like all the writing between now and then is just child's play, just fodder so that when the real writing begins I'll have a leg to stand on.
No, the real writing can and will and does start right this moment.
Reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Wikipedia page got me thinking of all this. Everything Is Illuminated started as a senior thesis. As an undergrad. I am an undergrad. Why can't my writing be just as urgent, just as focused, as his was?
I'm having a moment of, Damn it, if you can do it, so can I. This is good, this is a good moment to have.
The point is I don't need to piddle around with my writing, biding my time until I've had enough life experience for an MFA.
There's no set path for a writer, but there's some kind of path and, for me, that always involved taking time off, doing an MFA, applying for the Stegner Fellowship, teaching, then maybe, at the end of all of that, maybe I'd have a manuscript that was halfway decent and salable.
Screw that. This is my declaration:
*I refuse to wait for my writing to simply happen.
*I refuse to twiddle my thumbs.
*I pledge to devote myself to my writing.
*I pledge to take my writing seriously while not taking myself too seriously.
*I do not need an MFA to make me into a writer.
*I already am a writer.
*I have enough tools and knowledge to start writing in earnest now, this very moment, this second, this moment in time. There is never a better time to start than now. There is never a more important sentence than the one I'm currently working on.
*I pledge to write new stories.
*I pledge to be honest in my writing.
*I pledge to only write about the things in which I believe.
*I pledge to not be cute.
*I pledge to kill my (literary) babies.
*I pledge I pledge I pledge I refuse I pledge, God damn it, from this moment on—writing Matters.
What a powerful thing it is to put words on a page—to guide thoughts and help someone create images in their mind.
A declaration:
To hell with an MFA. Okay, step back—MFAs can be good, I think, the point is I don't need one.
I've been sitting here thinking I'll work for a couple of years, write in my free time, get better at writing, then when I'm in an MFA program—that's when I can really get down to business.
No. I reject that. That's Wrong. See, I can start all of that now. Why do I need to wait two years before I start taking myself seriously? Like all the writing between now and then is just child's play, just fodder so that when the real writing begins I'll have a leg to stand on.
No, the real writing can and will and does start right this moment.
Reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Wikipedia page got me thinking of all this. Everything Is Illuminated started as a senior thesis. As an undergrad. I am an undergrad. Why can't my writing be just as urgent, just as focused, as his was?
I'm having a moment of, Damn it, if you can do it, so can I. This is good, this is a good moment to have.
The point is I don't need to piddle around with my writing, biding my time until I've had enough life experience for an MFA.
There's no set path for a writer, but there's some kind of path and, for me, that always involved taking time off, doing an MFA, applying for the Stegner Fellowship, teaching, then maybe, at the end of all of that, maybe I'd have a manuscript that was halfway decent and salable.
Screw that. This is my declaration:
*I refuse to wait for my writing to simply happen.
*I refuse to twiddle my thumbs.
*I pledge to devote myself to my writing.
*I pledge to take my writing seriously while not taking myself too seriously.
*I do not need an MFA to make me into a writer.
*I already am a writer.
*I have enough tools and knowledge to start writing in earnest now, this very moment, this second, this moment in time. There is never a better time to start than now. There is never a more important sentence than the one I'm currently working on.
*I pledge to write new stories.
*I pledge to be honest in my writing.
*I pledge to only write about the things in which I believe.
*I pledge to not be cute.
*I pledge to kill my (literary) babies.
*I pledge I pledge I pledge I refuse I pledge, God damn it, from this moment on—writing Matters.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
JSF is an author and So Can You
Just got back from Jonathan Safran Foer reading... thoughts swirling... need to get this all down.
JSF is intensely devoted to his work. He is intensely literary. I don't know that I want to be that, necessarily, but what can I get from that? That this man puts all of himself behind his work. You get the idea he lives and breathes his work... that his work suffuses every atom of himself. When he interviews he's boring, when he talks he is slow and measured and heartbreakingly intellectual... and he is a man who writes. He gets stuff done. He wrote Everything Is Illuminated right after graduating (undergrad or grad?), and I'm thinking, God damn it, this guy believes in himself, he takes his own work seriously, he labors over it, believes in it, sees its potential.
Don't know if I want all of that. The believing part, though—I am, starting this very instant, going to do that more. Believe in my own work, see its potential, and work toward that potential. JSF is a great author who does great work... and I think it's because he believes so intensely in his own ability. I will, starting now, borrow that intensity of belief from him.
Thinking...books...could I write one? And what would it be? I'm thinking of this blog, I'm thinking of all these snippets of things. These moments in time. Short story collections don't sell. But The Things They Carried sells. Is TTTC a novel? To me, it's a collection of short stories... I guess you'd call it a series of interconnected stories. But, really, it's just a bunch of different attempts to get at some sort of truth. Attacking this thing called war from many different angles, different perspectives, different times... that, to me, is not daunting. That, to me, sounds fun. That is something I could do. What about? Subject matter... of course... the death of a mother. That, for me, is the heart. When I say that I think, Won't readers think, Oh great, another novel about a dead parent. That's my biggest hang-up about all this. Does anyone really want to read about that? About all of these depressing things? But isn't there beauty in it?
Tim O'Brien says that he dives into this huge pile of shit called War and tries to find some beauty in it. It's diving into this enormous mess and trying to salvage something. Couldn't I do that? Couldn't I dive into my mom's death and salvage things?
Wouldn't want it to be too sentimental. That's always my fear with this stuff—too sentimental, too this, too that—really, though, did that ever get anyone anywhere? Write your things, if it's too much cut back—but don't cut back before you've written the damn thing.
To me, that sounds like all sorts of heaven. Going at my mom's death from different angles. Tackling it with different pieces. Working around it, coming at it from under, the side, looking at it from up close, from far away.
Read TTTC and see how O'Brien does it? That could be good.
I also think of Vonnegut. Telling stories in these very small bite-sized chunks. Think Slaughterhouse-Five. Think any novel by Vonnegut. All these small chunks—that appeals to me, I think I can do that. These short little bursts of things... these short little bursts that, when you step back and look at them, are a Whole Thing.
And that's it. Wow those thoughts flew out of me, and I'm excited about these ideas. That maybe this blog-style writing isn't necessarily in vain. And I could have stories, and poems, and pictures, and I could have these what if things, like my What about an infinite telescope?
What if it was a boy's diary? What if I assume the character of a person trying to make sense out of all these things. A person who just throws all of these different things at this problem trying to make sense, trying to figure something out, trying to get something out of it.
Gets to the heart of: what am I interested in writing? What really captivates me? I love what if questions. I love bending reality. I love magical realism. I mean, we could tell false stories about what didn't happen. I love those, like in ELAIC at the end when Oskar talks about what it would be like if 9/11 played out in reverse, or when he invents things like the singing tea kettle, or the underground skyscraper that holds dead people. I love suffusing a text with those elements—it creates possibility. Best to do that early—show the reader the ropes—in my world, these are the possibilities, in my world, these things can happen, in my world, you have to be ready.
Read TTTC, read SH5, read ELAIC. That should be my spring break homework. Yes.
And let those ideas run.....~~~~
and run~~
and run~~~
JSF is intensely devoted to his work. He is intensely literary. I don't know that I want to be that, necessarily, but what can I get from that? That this man puts all of himself behind his work. You get the idea he lives and breathes his work... that his work suffuses every atom of himself. When he interviews he's boring, when he talks he is slow and measured and heartbreakingly intellectual... and he is a man who writes. He gets stuff done. He wrote Everything Is Illuminated right after graduating (undergrad or grad?), and I'm thinking, God damn it, this guy believes in himself, he takes his own work seriously, he labors over it, believes in it, sees its potential.
Don't know if I want all of that. The believing part, though—I am, starting this very instant, going to do that more. Believe in my own work, see its potential, and work toward that potential. JSF is a great author who does great work... and I think it's because he believes so intensely in his own ability. I will, starting now, borrow that intensity of belief from him.
Thinking...books...could I write one? And what would it be? I'm thinking of this blog, I'm thinking of all these snippets of things. These moments in time. Short story collections don't sell. But The Things They Carried sells. Is TTTC a novel? To me, it's a collection of short stories... I guess you'd call it a series of interconnected stories. But, really, it's just a bunch of different attempts to get at some sort of truth. Attacking this thing called war from many different angles, different perspectives, different times... that, to me, is not daunting. That, to me, sounds fun. That is something I could do. What about? Subject matter... of course... the death of a mother. That, for me, is the heart. When I say that I think, Won't readers think, Oh great, another novel about a dead parent. That's my biggest hang-up about all this. Does anyone really want to read about that? About all of these depressing things? But isn't there beauty in it?
Tim O'Brien says that he dives into this huge pile of shit called War and tries to find some beauty in it. It's diving into this enormous mess and trying to salvage something. Couldn't I do that? Couldn't I dive into my mom's death and salvage things?
Wouldn't want it to be too sentimental. That's always my fear with this stuff—too sentimental, too this, too that—really, though, did that ever get anyone anywhere? Write your things, if it's too much cut back—but don't cut back before you've written the damn thing.
To me, that sounds like all sorts of heaven. Going at my mom's death from different angles. Tackling it with different pieces. Working around it, coming at it from under, the side, looking at it from up close, from far away.
Read TTTC and see how O'Brien does it? That could be good.
I also think of Vonnegut. Telling stories in these very small bite-sized chunks. Think Slaughterhouse-Five. Think any novel by Vonnegut. All these small chunks—that appeals to me, I think I can do that. These short little bursts of things... these short little bursts that, when you step back and look at them, are a Whole Thing.
And that's it. Wow those thoughts flew out of me, and I'm excited about these ideas. That maybe this blog-style writing isn't necessarily in vain. And I could have stories, and poems, and pictures, and I could have these what if things, like my What about an infinite telescope?
What if it was a boy's diary? What if I assume the character of a person trying to make sense out of all these things. A person who just throws all of these different things at this problem trying to make sense, trying to figure something out, trying to get something out of it.
Gets to the heart of: what am I interested in writing? What really captivates me? I love what if questions. I love bending reality. I love magical realism. I mean, we could tell false stories about what didn't happen. I love those, like in ELAIC at the end when Oskar talks about what it would be like if 9/11 played out in reverse, or when he invents things like the singing tea kettle, or the underground skyscraper that holds dead people. I love suffusing a text with those elements—it creates possibility. Best to do that early—show the reader the ropes—in my world, these are the possibilities, in my world, these things can happen, in my world, you have to be ready.
Read TTTC, read SH5, read ELAIC. That should be my spring break homework. Yes.
And let those ideas run.....~~~~
and run~~
and run~~~
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Dust dust dust
I don't feel the rush to write today, that yummy energy that comes with juicy ideas . . . but I've got to do it anyway. I have ten minutes before I have to get ready for class and, damn it, I'm going to keep myself sharp . . . always keeping myself sharp.
Here are some thoughts.
Ash Wednesday is a funny day. I never know about it until I see people with greasy grey crosses etched in their foreheads. For a moment I almost say to them, Hey, you've got something just—there. I imagine rubbing it off with a singular, hard stroke of my thumb. Then I realize, and I think Oh, that's nice, that's pretty cool—And isn't it a great thing that your religion gives you this one day where everyone can do face paint?
I remember catching moths when I was young, until one day someone said to be careful. Be careful, they said. If you rub the dust off their wings they will no longer be able to fly. I imagined a magic, invisible powder coating the moth's papery pinions and when I caught them I was gentle. I would cup them in my hand and feel their fluttering little bodies dusting my palms and I would tell them to be still—don't rub it off, you won't be able to fly anymore.
I feel like I'm building images for later. Or for now. Who knows what they're for? And are they any good? And what are they worth? And how much could they really be worth, me sitting here ten minutes before class tossing them up lazily on the page in a few quick strokes. One day, I hope to be like Picasso. Once a woman asked Picasso for a sketch. He said, Sure, and after he had sketched something up he told her it would cost $10,000. The woman was astounded, said, But that didn't even take you five minutes! Isn't $10,000 too much for five minutes of work? And Picasso said, My friend, it took me thirty years to learn how to do that in five minutes.
One day I want to be like that. Which will take practice. Which will take effort. Which will take a lot of episodes of me sitting down to write when I don't want to for the sake of getting better.
Here are some thoughts.
Ash Wednesday is a funny day. I never know about it until I see people with greasy grey crosses etched in their foreheads. For a moment I almost say to them, Hey, you've got something just—there. I imagine rubbing it off with a singular, hard stroke of my thumb. Then I realize, and I think Oh, that's nice, that's pretty cool—And isn't it a great thing that your religion gives you this one day where everyone can do face paint?
I remember catching moths when I was young, until one day someone said to be careful. Be careful, they said. If you rub the dust off their wings they will no longer be able to fly. I imagined a magic, invisible powder coating the moth's papery pinions and when I caught them I was gentle. I would cup them in my hand and feel their fluttering little bodies dusting my palms and I would tell them to be still—don't rub it off, you won't be able to fly anymore.
I feel like I'm building images for later. Or for now. Who knows what they're for? And are they any good? And what are they worth? And how much could they really be worth, me sitting here ten minutes before class tossing them up lazily on the page in a few quick strokes. One day, I hope to be like Picasso. Once a woman asked Picasso for a sketch. He said, Sure, and after he had sketched something up he told her it would cost $10,000. The woman was astounded, said, But that didn't even take you five minutes! Isn't $10,000 too much for five minutes of work? And Picasso said, My friend, it took me thirty years to learn how to do that in five minutes.
One day I want to be like that. Which will take practice. Which will take effort. Which will take a lot of episodes of me sitting down to write when I don't want to for the sake of getting better.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Clever plans and wishy washy brains
Yesterday was strange. I spent all day in front of the television watching soccer. This was my soccer day, the first day of the MLS season, and I'd planned it. All day, soccer. I deserved it. You know? I didn't like it. Being in front of the television all day made me feel like a zombie. When I'm watching television, or playing video games, or on the computer surfing the internet, I'm not exactly living life.
That got me thinking about myself as a kid. After Mom died I Plugged In. I plugged into my computer, I plugged into my television, I plugged into my video games. I Plugged In and the rest of the world dripped away and I put my reality inside a box. Who I was shifted from a place in my heart to a place on my screen, on the Internet, in the stories of video game characters . . . it was a coping mechanism, and I did what I had to do. Still, it made me sad to realize I had lived so much of my life like that. It's scary how quickly and thoroughly I removed myself from life, and how long my spirit lived inside those buzzing wires and electronic switches.
I watched some performances from Def Jam Poetry yesterday. I hadn't watched any in a while, and it got me excited to write and perform again. I was watching those, and I was thinking about the shows I've seen on campus, and I thought to myself, I can do that. I can do that, and I can do it well, and I'm not a poet but I can perform, and I'm not a poet but I can write. I'm going to give it a shot.
Life? Lately... from Heidi and my breakup until a week or so ago I had been struggling with intense longing. Not for Heidi... for friendships, and for one in particular, one I wanted very badly. And it just wasn't happening. You know? Not all people have to be Best Friends. That's the way life works. Still, I wanted it, I wanted it so much I thought about it all the time, and now it sounds more like Love than friendship, but I think I'll split the two and call it Infatuation—which it was. I was infatuated. Puppy love.
It's exciting to be infatuated. Touch and taste and sound and emotion got amplified twice over and I felt very alive. Also, my brain was invaded every second by daydreams—playing out scenarios, thinking about things I would say, things I would do, how I would win love. This is what I like to call Useless Thinking.
I had this great idea. I was sitting on the fourth floor stairwell in Meyer Library. It's a big, carpeted stairwell, and at the time every floor was closed except the first. If the first floor door were locked, I would be trapped in the stairwell. This got me thinking, and I hatched a Clever Plan.
Say I get trapped in the stairwell. Say I'm locked in until morning. Say I call this person and she comes. Behind the door, so close to me, separated by a simple slab of milled tree, she sits. And there we stay awake and we talk, and we pass notes under the locked doors, and we press our backs against each others through the wood, and we tell each other secrets, and why not? What would you say if you were trapped for twelve hours with nothing to do but keep each other company? I think special circumstances like that can change two people's relationship in profound ways. Ever been on a misadventure with someone? Ever gotten lost? Ever had to fight and claw with another person? You can't help but get close—it's in our biology, swirling remnants of our time as hunter gatherers, protecting each other from Wild Things. You're on an airplane about to crash—what do you say to your friend sitting next to you? That you love them? That all this time you've loved them in secret? And as far as telling them goes it took the prospect of death to get the guts. In the stairwell with our backs against the wood with our backs against each other's I would stay awake. And after a while I would whisper, "Are you asleep?" and she would say no, and I would tell her I love her. And then the next morning when the doors are unlocked it would be seeing her for the first time.
Yeah, it's a Clever Plan, and Clever Plans never work. Yeah, these are Silly Notions. Yeah, they're just fun tricks of the brain and don't mean anything. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
So? It's good to think about these things. Think about this: if this were your last day on Earth, what would you say to a person? What would you say if you didn't have the luxury of time? And why not say that thing now? And why not show your hand? And why not play your love on the table?
Anne Lamott talked about this in her excellent book on writing, Bird by Bird. She said to spend it all. Shoot it now. Give everything, right now—don't hold back. If you think of a great line and have the urge to save it for later, that's a sure sign that you should use it now. She says, you will always think of more good lines. She says, a good line is only good if you use it now.
It's true. And it's also true with people. You see someone at a party you've wanted to meet for a while. You go back in forth in your mind. Should I, shouldn't I, what will happen, what will they think of me. It's the Wishy Washy Brain. That indecision—I take it now as a sign. Just like in writing. It's a sign that now is the time to do this. If I'm apprehensive—perfect! Now you know without a shadow of a doubt that if you do it now you're doing it right. If I ever have the thought, "this can wait until later," that's a sure sign that no, it cannot.
How do you get to know someone deeply? It's been so long since I've tried. I feel rusty, out of practice. Do I still know how to make a person feel safe? Do I still know how to imbue trust in a person?
Open up, open up—and when you're very open, open yourself more still. And be kind. And be gentle. And respect the Nature of Things.
That got me thinking about myself as a kid. After Mom died I Plugged In. I plugged into my computer, I plugged into my television, I plugged into my video games. I Plugged In and the rest of the world dripped away and I put my reality inside a box. Who I was shifted from a place in my heart to a place on my screen, on the Internet, in the stories of video game characters . . . it was a coping mechanism, and I did what I had to do. Still, it made me sad to realize I had lived so much of my life like that. It's scary how quickly and thoroughly I removed myself from life, and how long my spirit lived inside those buzzing wires and electronic switches.
I watched some performances from Def Jam Poetry yesterday. I hadn't watched any in a while, and it got me excited to write and perform again. I was watching those, and I was thinking about the shows I've seen on campus, and I thought to myself, I can do that. I can do that, and I can do it well, and I'm not a poet but I can perform, and I'm not a poet but I can write. I'm going to give it a shot.
Life? Lately... from Heidi and my breakup until a week or so ago I had been struggling with intense longing. Not for Heidi... for friendships, and for one in particular, one I wanted very badly. And it just wasn't happening. You know? Not all people have to be Best Friends. That's the way life works. Still, I wanted it, I wanted it so much I thought about it all the time, and now it sounds more like Love than friendship, but I think I'll split the two and call it Infatuation—which it was. I was infatuated. Puppy love.
It's exciting to be infatuated. Touch and taste and sound and emotion got amplified twice over and I felt very alive. Also, my brain was invaded every second by daydreams—playing out scenarios, thinking about things I would say, things I would do, how I would win love. This is what I like to call Useless Thinking.
I had this great idea. I was sitting on the fourth floor stairwell in Meyer Library. It's a big, carpeted stairwell, and at the time every floor was closed except the first. If the first floor door were locked, I would be trapped in the stairwell. This got me thinking, and I hatched a Clever Plan.
Say I get trapped in the stairwell. Say I'm locked in until morning. Say I call this person and she comes. Behind the door, so close to me, separated by a simple slab of milled tree, she sits. And there we stay awake and we talk, and we pass notes under the locked doors, and we press our backs against each others through the wood, and we tell each other secrets, and why not? What would you say if you were trapped for twelve hours with nothing to do but keep each other company? I think special circumstances like that can change two people's relationship in profound ways. Ever been on a misadventure with someone? Ever gotten lost? Ever had to fight and claw with another person? You can't help but get close—it's in our biology, swirling remnants of our time as hunter gatherers, protecting each other from Wild Things. You're on an airplane about to crash—what do you say to your friend sitting next to you? That you love them? That all this time you've loved them in secret? And as far as telling them goes it took the prospect of death to get the guts. In the stairwell with our backs against the wood with our backs against each other's I would stay awake. And after a while I would whisper, "Are you asleep?" and she would say no, and I would tell her I love her. And then the next morning when the doors are unlocked it would be seeing her for the first time.
Yeah, it's a Clever Plan, and Clever Plans never work. Yeah, these are Silly Notions. Yeah, they're just fun tricks of the brain and don't mean anything. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
So? It's good to think about these things. Think about this: if this were your last day on Earth, what would you say to a person? What would you say if you didn't have the luxury of time? And why not say that thing now? And why not show your hand? And why not play your love on the table?
Anne Lamott talked about this in her excellent book on writing, Bird by Bird. She said to spend it all. Shoot it now. Give everything, right now—don't hold back. If you think of a great line and have the urge to save it for later, that's a sure sign that you should use it now. She says, you will always think of more good lines. She says, a good line is only good if you use it now.
It's true. And it's also true with people. You see someone at a party you've wanted to meet for a while. You go back in forth in your mind. Should I, shouldn't I, what will happen, what will they think of me. It's the Wishy Washy Brain. That indecision—I take it now as a sign. Just like in writing. It's a sign that now is the time to do this. If I'm apprehensive—perfect! Now you know without a shadow of a doubt that if you do it now you're doing it right. If I ever have the thought, "this can wait until later," that's a sure sign that no, it cannot.
How do you get to know someone deeply? It's been so long since I've tried. I feel rusty, out of practice. Do I still know how to make a person feel safe? Do I still know how to imbue trust in a person?
Open up, open up—and when you're very open, open yourself more still. And be kind. And be gentle. And respect the Nature of Things.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Ghost calls
Today was an Off Day. I'm blaming it on the full moon. Now I will howl at it...
...
I opened my window and howled and it felt pretty okay. What's the deal?
Sometimes I get ghost calls. I look at my phone and see it's my ex-girlfriend and I start feeling Off. Things rush back. I put down my phone and continue working, or playing ukulele, or whatever it is I'm doing that isn't Talking to my Ex. A while later I'll have a message and when I check it I hear minutes of far-away voices.
I always listen to the messages all the way through. What if she were in danger and I was the only person she thought of to call, and I will only be able to help her if I listen hard to the garbled voices on the other end? So that's what I do. There's never any message.
Like I said, it's a ghost call.
I ran into my ex-girlfriend at Olives today. I've been wondering how long it would take for us to run into each other, and I thought it might happen at Olives, and it did, and I wonder if I accidentally willed it to happen. I saw her come through the door, saw her see me, saw her almost turn around and leave. I said hi and waved. I tried to be friendly and cordial. She did not seem capable, so I stopped talking to her and focused on my breathing and closed my eyes and then focused on ordering my food. As I was leaving I turned around and said goodbye, and left, and she followed me out.
She said sorry and asked if it was weird. I said, Yes, it is weird. We were both going the same way so we talked for a bit. She's been doing a lot of things for herself lately and has lots of interviews and I was happy to hear that. I was also happy to not spend more time talking than was needed.
She asked me how I was. I said, Very good. I told her I was writing a lot. I said, I'd better go.
She said, Your birthday's coming up.
The small hairs on my nape jumped. Yes, it is, I said. I knew she was trying to get me to say something about my birthday, about how I wanted to see her, about how I would save a slice of my day for her.
I did not say anything about my birthday. I said I had no plans. I did not say I would see her. This was me doing a good job of Protecting Boundaries.
Before we parted ways she asked again, Was this weird?
I said, Yes. Because it was weird and I wasn't going to lie.
She said, Why?
I thought, Why the fuck do you think, we haven't talked since you tried to wrangle me into the relationship again and you're trying to wrangle me into things right now, and it's just hard to see an ex-significant-other right after breaking up, and isn't that something everyone knows?
I said, Well we haven't talked since the break-up, so it's bound to be weird.
I could tell she wanted some sort of unsaid promise that things would get better between us. Giving those promises wasn't in my heart, so I didn't give them. That was me doing a good job Protecting Boundaries again.
Afterward, I felt off. Cold shivers. Need to take a shower. Bad juju. Fingers poking at stitches. Just—yuck.
Maybe that's why I've felt off today. I'm not sure. I'm happy if I'm happy, I'm happy if I'm sad, I'm happy if I'm lonely—because I'm feeling something. Now, I feel very blank, and that is something I do not like. Blankness has no energy. You can't do anything with blankness.
The best thing to do, I think, is to just let it go. I feel blank. Tomorrow, I will not feel blank. Two minutes from now, I may not feel blank. So, It's Okay.
I don't like Ghost Calls. I don't like Unexpected Run-Ins. Damn.
...
I opened my window and howled and it felt pretty okay. What's the deal?
Sometimes I get ghost calls. I look at my phone and see it's my ex-girlfriend and I start feeling Off. Things rush back. I put down my phone and continue working, or playing ukulele, or whatever it is I'm doing that isn't Talking to my Ex. A while later I'll have a message and when I check it I hear minutes of far-away voices.
I always listen to the messages all the way through. What if she were in danger and I was the only person she thought of to call, and I will only be able to help her if I listen hard to the garbled voices on the other end? So that's what I do. There's never any message.
Like I said, it's a ghost call.
I ran into my ex-girlfriend at Olives today. I've been wondering how long it would take for us to run into each other, and I thought it might happen at Olives, and it did, and I wonder if I accidentally willed it to happen. I saw her come through the door, saw her see me, saw her almost turn around and leave. I said hi and waved. I tried to be friendly and cordial. She did not seem capable, so I stopped talking to her and focused on my breathing and closed my eyes and then focused on ordering my food. As I was leaving I turned around and said goodbye, and left, and she followed me out.
She said sorry and asked if it was weird. I said, Yes, it is weird. We were both going the same way so we talked for a bit. She's been doing a lot of things for herself lately and has lots of interviews and I was happy to hear that. I was also happy to not spend more time talking than was needed.
She asked me how I was. I said, Very good. I told her I was writing a lot. I said, I'd better go.
She said, Your birthday's coming up.
The small hairs on my nape jumped. Yes, it is, I said. I knew she was trying to get me to say something about my birthday, about how I wanted to see her, about how I would save a slice of my day for her.
I did not say anything about my birthday. I said I had no plans. I did not say I would see her. This was me doing a good job of Protecting Boundaries.
Before we parted ways she asked again, Was this weird?
I said, Yes. Because it was weird and I wasn't going to lie.
She said, Why?
I thought, Why the fuck do you think, we haven't talked since you tried to wrangle me into the relationship again and you're trying to wrangle me into things right now, and it's just hard to see an ex-significant-other right after breaking up, and isn't that something everyone knows?
I said, Well we haven't talked since the break-up, so it's bound to be weird.
I could tell she wanted some sort of unsaid promise that things would get better between us. Giving those promises wasn't in my heart, so I didn't give them. That was me doing a good job Protecting Boundaries again.
Afterward, I felt off. Cold shivers. Need to take a shower. Bad juju. Fingers poking at stitches. Just—yuck.
Maybe that's why I've felt off today. I'm not sure. I'm happy if I'm happy, I'm happy if I'm sad, I'm happy if I'm lonely—because I'm feeling something. Now, I feel very blank, and that is something I do not like. Blankness has no energy. You can't do anything with blankness.
The best thing to do, I think, is to just let it go. I feel blank. Tomorrow, I will not feel blank. Two minutes from now, I may not feel blank. So, It's Okay.
I don't like Ghost Calls. I don't like Unexpected Run-Ins. Damn.
The world from seven miles up
Around campus there are sewer caps that bottle up secret caverns. When I pass, I hear far away water crackling on stone deep underground. Little explosions under my feet that no one notices.
This is true. Have you heard them? I want to pry open one of the sewer caps and go exploring, see what mysteries lie underground. See what hidden things lie in these caverns. See what treasures have been stowed away.
In my head I invent an entire network of spiraling caves, connecting campus like a knot of roots shoring up a tall redwood. I think, if I can follow the sound of the crackling water down into just one of these caves I will be a made man. I could spend an entire morning lolloping through the veins of this place, pausing to listen up through the sewer caps, hearing what my peers' conversations sound like mixed with dirt and underground air and water on stone.
What about smoke coming from people's eyes? When I was young I told Mom I could tell she loved me because, when she looked at me, pink smoke streamed from her eyes. If I could have a superpower I would be able to see this smoke. Pink for love, dark blue for sad, green for calm, red for lust. The more intense a color, the more intense the emotion. If there's grey smoke the person is feeling nothing at all. This means I would always know what people were feeling and I could know what they felt about me and it would be my little secret. And I could understand people. And I wouldn't work my brain so hard trying to figure out, What the hell do they like me or not?
This is true. Have you heard them? I want to pry open one of the sewer caps and go exploring, see what mysteries lie underground. See what hidden things lie in these caverns. See what treasures have been stowed away.
In my head I invent an entire network of spiraling caves, connecting campus like a knot of roots shoring up a tall redwood. I think, if I can follow the sound of the crackling water down into just one of these caves I will be a made man. I could spend an entire morning lolloping through the veins of this place, pausing to listen up through the sewer caps, hearing what my peers' conversations sound like mixed with dirt and underground air and water on stone.
What about smoke coming from people's eyes? When I was young I told Mom I could tell she loved me because, when she looked at me, pink smoke streamed from her eyes. If I could have a superpower I would be able to see this smoke. Pink for love, dark blue for sad, green for calm, red for lust. The more intense a color, the more intense the emotion. If there's grey smoke the person is feeling nothing at all. This means I would always know what people were feeling and I could know what they felt about me and it would be my little secret. And I could understand people. And I wouldn't work my brain so hard trying to figure out, What the hell do they like me or not?
This is from a poem I like by Anne Sexton called "The Fury of Overshoes":
Under your bed
sat the wolf
and he made a shadow
when cars passed by
at night.
I love that . . . under your bed / sat the wolf. The most important thing comes last, builds anticipation. I could learn from that.
What about a tower seven miles tall shooting off earth like a giant vine? There is a small old man living in an open room at the top and everyone knows if you can make it there you will learn the secret to Life, the Universe and Everything.
There was a young, brave, and headstrong girl who was determined to get to the top and learn the secrets to Everything. For months she climbed, through storms and high wind, through hunger and thirst. Sometimes pelicans would bring her water in their huge mouth pouches. Sometimes buzzards would bring her raw, festering meat—because that is what they liked and they wanted to give her only the best. Two miles from the top, the air was thin and her breath came heavy. One mile from the top, she could barely fill her lungs.
After six months of climbing the tower, the girl finally reached the top. She was near death. When the little old man saw the young girl he hurried over and gave her what little food and water he had. After she had recovered, the girl said, "I have climbed for months, and I have been hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and cold, and I haven't had a good deep breath in such a long time. I want to know the secrets of Life, the Universe, and Everything."
The old man smiled and turned away. He walked to the edge of his room and looked out. And he just stood there, looking out, completely ignoring the young girl. So she scrambled up and put her face close to the old man's. "You have to tell me—I came all this way . . . Why won't you say anything? Why won't you tell me?"
The old man, without looking down, said, "I am telling you."
And the girl didn't understand, but after a while she followed the old man's eyes. The girl looked out. And the girl saw the world from seven miles up, and everything looked so small and so large at the same time, and the young girl asked for a chair but the old man had already brought her one.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Naming Things
Lately I've been writing some words capitalized. Why? I guess I stole it from The Tao of Pooh. The reason I stole it is, I think, a good one.
Sometimes it's helpful to name things. I am, like most people, afraid of Unknown Things. What better way to make something familiar than to give it a name? If there's a name for something it doesn't seem as mysterious. So if you feel desperately lonely and sad you can say, I'm in a Lonely Place. That makes it seem better somehow. Here we are in Lonely Place—it's just a place, like a dot on a map, and you can drive away as soon as you like. You're not stuck there forever.
Somehow giving things names makes them solid in my brain. They now occupy a space. And whenever something was given a name in The Tao of Pooh, I always had this experience—oh, that thing that's been buzzing around my brain my whole life, that's what it's called. There's a name for this feeling, and other people have thought about this too, and other people have been here too, and I'm not Alone.
And isn't that nice?
Sometimes it's helpful to name things. I am, like most people, afraid of Unknown Things. What better way to make something familiar than to give it a name? If there's a name for something it doesn't seem as mysterious. So if you feel desperately lonely and sad you can say, I'm in a Lonely Place. That makes it seem better somehow. Here we are in Lonely Place—it's just a place, like a dot on a map, and you can drive away as soon as you like. You're not stuck there forever.
Somehow giving things names makes them solid in my brain. They now occupy a space. And whenever something was given a name in The Tao of Pooh, I always had this experience—oh, that thing that's been buzzing around my brain my whole life, that's what it's called. There's a name for this feeling, and other people have thought about this too, and other people have been here too, and I'm not Alone.
And isn't that nice?
Citrus-stained hands
I have a list of things I want to write about for the blog. I add to it when I think of things, then as I write I remove those things. It's always growing and shrinking, growing and shrinking. It feels good to add, it feels good to subtract. It makes me feel like my mind is breathing, in and out, in and out.
I had a sad thought yesterday. I was thinking about friends, friendship. My sad thought was, What a Bust. What a Total Bust. All those boats that were waiting so eagerly at the dock have gone. People are already in their groups, people are content. And wouldn't I be?
Senior year, three months left, there's not enough time to make any lasting friendships. I'm going to end my Stanford career with no lifelong friends. It's over. Done with. Sayonara. Get over it.
Like I said a while back, I'm working on not saying "but." As in, "I was sad yesterday about friendships, but I'm going to ride this bitch until the end so now everything is All Good." That's not the way. It devalues the sadness I felt. That sadness was and is real. The point is—that's okay, that's Good, feeling things is good. So, instead, I'll say:
"I was sad yesterday about my lack of true friends and how I will probably leave here with few if any lifelong connections and, you know what? I'm still going to ride this bitch until the wheels fall off."
Now that's what I like to call a Statement.
How does one ride this bitch until the wheels fall off? Ha! I have to laugh at that sentence. Ahem. How does one? Well, I think I do it by still trying as hard as I can to make friends. Yeah, it may blow up in my face. Yeah, I may get rejected. In fact, I probably will—because think about it. Me and Cora and Emily and Jack. We're close as close could be. Would we just add some random guy to our core group, this thing we've worked on for years, this intricately balance organism, on a whim? Hell no. So I get it. I understand that. And I'm still going to try.
I'm going to put myself Out There. I have already—I wrote an open and honest letter to a friend because I wanted to put myself Out There, and that was a Very Good Thing, and it made me feel Good to write it. I'm asking lots of people to hang out with me and most of the time it blows up in my face. You know? The best piece of advice, the best saying Dad ever instilled in me, was the mantra—Fuck It. Really, truly—Fuck It. Not in a bad way, not in a way that washes your hands of life—in a way that relieves the pressure, in a way that let's you off the hook. You tried. It didn't work. Fuck it. Try again.
Above all, I want citrus-stained hands. I want to eat bitter fruit and sour fruit and sweet fruit and fruit that's too green and fruit that's too brown and I want to eat spotted fruit, and I want to eat it all and get sick and eat it all and feel good and when I leave this place be able to say with wide eyes, "Now wasn't that something."
I had a sad thought yesterday. I was thinking about friends, friendship. My sad thought was, What a Bust. What a Total Bust. All those boats that were waiting so eagerly at the dock have gone. People are already in their groups, people are content. And wouldn't I be?
Senior year, three months left, there's not enough time to make any lasting friendships. I'm going to end my Stanford career with no lifelong friends. It's over. Done with. Sayonara. Get over it.
Like I said a while back, I'm working on not saying "but." As in, "I was sad yesterday about friendships, but I'm going to ride this bitch until the end so now everything is All Good." That's not the way. It devalues the sadness I felt. That sadness was and is real. The point is—that's okay, that's Good, feeling things is good. So, instead, I'll say:
"I was sad yesterday about my lack of true friends and how I will probably leave here with few if any lifelong connections and, you know what? I'm still going to ride this bitch until the wheels fall off."
Now that's what I like to call a Statement.
How does one ride this bitch until the wheels fall off? Ha! I have to laugh at that sentence. Ahem. How does one? Well, I think I do it by still trying as hard as I can to make friends. Yeah, it may blow up in my face. Yeah, I may get rejected. In fact, I probably will—because think about it. Me and Cora and Emily and Jack. We're close as close could be. Would we just add some random guy to our core group, this thing we've worked on for years, this intricately balance organism, on a whim? Hell no. So I get it. I understand that. And I'm still going to try.
I'm going to put myself Out There. I have already—I wrote an open and honest letter to a friend because I wanted to put myself Out There, and that was a Very Good Thing, and it made me feel Good to write it. I'm asking lots of people to hang out with me and most of the time it blows up in my face. You know? The best piece of advice, the best saying Dad ever instilled in me, was the mantra—Fuck It. Really, truly—Fuck It. Not in a bad way, not in a way that washes your hands of life—in a way that relieves the pressure, in a way that let's you off the hook. You tried. It didn't work. Fuck it. Try again.
Above all, I want citrus-stained hands. I want to eat bitter fruit and sour fruit and sweet fruit and fruit that's too green and fruit that's too brown and I want to eat spotted fruit, and I want to eat it all and get sick and eat it all and feel good and when I leave this place be able to say with wide eyes, "Now wasn't that something."
Monday, March 5, 2012
Tata
My dreams have been speaking to me lately. I'm dreaming so much every night, and I'm writing down my dreams, and I'm remembering them. I always feel my best, my most creative, my most healthy, when I'm dreaming every night.
Two nights ago I dreamt about Tata.
Our family is at the beach, like always, and there is a long, quiet swell. I'm holding onto a string attached to a kite, being drifted out to sea. Tata's swimming and diligently smoking a cigarette. I drift slowly toward her, and I think about how everything is smooth and easy, and when she sees me she asks in English, "What are you doing?"
I take a second to think of the words. "Estoy volando," I say.
She smiles and I can tell she understands me, fully—her brain is not yet touched. Her eyes look strange—milk has seeped through the outer edges of her iris and is just now encroaching on her hard, black pupils.
"You want some?" She holds out the cigarette.
"Why not?" I take a slow, thoughtful puff, and I know I'm holding it wrong. She shows me how men in Cuba smoked.
"Your uncle did it like this." She takes a deep, deep drag and lets the smoke spill away, then she chases the escaped grey sinews with her open mouth and sucks them back in again. "We used to go crazy for that," she said.
Later we are on the phone and she says she knows why people are afraid to let her be near their children. She says she understands. That breaks my heart. "Is it hard?" I ask.
"Who is this?" she asks, looking at me. I'm on the tip of her tongue.
"Lucas. Tu nieto, Lucas."
"Lucas." She nods her head, like she had known all along. "I understand, it's just sad."
That is how my dream went. I got an email from Dad a couple days ago—Tata's MRI came back negative. No brain cancer. No stroke. Thank God.
The doctor said her cognition will improve as the chemicals from the chemo leave her body, and that's a relief. How much of our Tata will be left?
Two nights ago I dreamt about Tata.
Our family is at the beach, like always, and there is a long, quiet swell. I'm holding onto a string attached to a kite, being drifted out to sea. Tata's swimming and diligently smoking a cigarette. I drift slowly toward her, and I think about how everything is smooth and easy, and when she sees me she asks in English, "What are you doing?"
I take a second to think of the words. "Estoy volando," I say.
She smiles and I can tell she understands me, fully—her brain is not yet touched. Her eyes look strange—milk has seeped through the outer edges of her iris and is just now encroaching on her hard, black pupils.
"You want some?" She holds out the cigarette.
"Why not?" I take a slow, thoughtful puff, and I know I'm holding it wrong. She shows me how men in Cuba smoked.
"Your uncle did it like this." She takes a deep, deep drag and lets the smoke spill away, then she chases the escaped grey sinews with her open mouth and sucks them back in again. "We used to go crazy for that," she said.
Later we are on the phone and she says she knows why people are afraid to let her be near their children. She says she understands. That breaks my heart. "Is it hard?" I ask.
"Who is this?" she asks, looking at me. I'm on the tip of her tongue.
"Lucas. Tu nieto, Lucas."
"Lucas." She nods her head, like she had known all along. "I understand, it's just sad."
That is how my dream went. I got an email from Dad a couple days ago—Tata's MRI came back negative. No brain cancer. No stroke. Thank God.
The doctor said her cognition will improve as the chemicals from the chemo leave her body, and that's a relief. How much of our Tata will be left?
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Recipe for a Tasty Life Stew
They are getting Tata an MRI to check for brain cancer. The cancer in her lungs is mostly gone, but now her mind is worse than ever. Dad said he and Shakti were driving Tata home and Tata looked up in the front seat and asked Shakti, "Where is Carlos?" Dad, behind the wheel, one foot away, said "I'm here, mother." And things like that squeeze on my heart and make me angry at doctors and chemotherapy and my aunt who won't listen and keeps pressing for more, more. Mostly, I feel sadness trickling to my fingertips and to my lips and I think, I don't want to see any of this.
I think after Mom died I just don't want to be around it anymore. On the phone I told Tata, "Te quiero para la luna y al regreso," and that made her happy, and I told her I would come visit over spring break, and she liked that too. I don't know if I can.
One part of me I'm ashamed of says, She doesn't even remember you promising her you'd come, you don't have to go.
A different part of me says, She's your grandmother and it's your duty to see her and support her right now. She needs all of us.
A part of me that's softer says, Do what you can, love as much and as fully as you can, and don't fault yourself for the things you cannot give.
I like this third part of me.
Dad said in an email that he was feeling old, beat up, and tired. When Dad is sad it hurts me in my bones like the growing pains I had as a kid. You lie awake at night and the growing seizes your thighs and your calves and your bones and bears down. And there's no mark—that's the worst part, there's no mark to show how it hurts like hell. There's just the silent sound of muscles spinning out, growing longer.
I wish I could scoop him up. I am young and strong and I have opportunities and abilities and I want to make his life easier. I want him to be able to stop seeing clients and to stop having to deal with all their heavy shit. I want him to be able to take care of his plants in the way he taught me, to be able to spend all day with his hands in dirt—if he wants to. I want to help him do this, I do not know how, I do not know if I can. I want to write a New York Times Bestseller so I can have enough money to retire him. This is what I'd call Putting Too Much Pressure on Yourself. This is what I'd call The Wrong Way to Look at Things. It's still something that often and regularly wiggles its way into my thoughts. It also means that I love my dad very much, and that's a Good Thing.
Not every person wants to be my friend. This should have been an Obvious Thing. Now I know, now I am Learning. Now I am not spending energy trying to force friendships that aren't happening. This is also a Good Thing.
I've started reading poetry.
I've been thinking about writing a lot.
I am allowed to look at women again and I forgot how beauty can make your heart jump and make your words come out stupid and I love that.
A new chapter of life, everything feels new, I can do what I want, when I want, I don't have to check in with anyone. My time is my own.
I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.
I think after Mom died I just don't want to be around it anymore. On the phone I told Tata, "Te quiero para la luna y al regreso," and that made her happy, and I told her I would come visit over spring break, and she liked that too. I don't know if I can.
One part of me I'm ashamed of says, She doesn't even remember you promising her you'd come, you don't have to go.
A different part of me says, She's your grandmother and it's your duty to see her and support her right now. She needs all of us.
A part of me that's softer says, Do what you can, love as much and as fully as you can, and don't fault yourself for the things you cannot give.
I like this third part of me.
Dad said in an email that he was feeling old, beat up, and tired. When Dad is sad it hurts me in my bones like the growing pains I had as a kid. You lie awake at night and the growing seizes your thighs and your calves and your bones and bears down. And there's no mark—that's the worst part, there's no mark to show how it hurts like hell. There's just the silent sound of muscles spinning out, growing longer.
I wish I could scoop him up. I am young and strong and I have opportunities and abilities and I want to make his life easier. I want him to be able to stop seeing clients and to stop having to deal with all their heavy shit. I want him to be able to take care of his plants in the way he taught me, to be able to spend all day with his hands in dirt—if he wants to. I want to help him do this, I do not know how, I do not know if I can. I want to write a New York Times Bestseller so I can have enough money to retire him. This is what I'd call Putting Too Much Pressure on Yourself. This is what I'd call The Wrong Way to Look at Things. It's still something that often and regularly wiggles its way into my thoughts. It also means that I love my dad very much, and that's a Good Thing.
Not every person wants to be my friend. This should have been an Obvious Thing. Now I know, now I am Learning. Now I am not spending energy trying to force friendships that aren't happening. This is also a Good Thing.
I've started reading poetry.
I've been thinking about writing a lot.
I am allowed to look at women again and I forgot how beauty can make your heart jump and make your words come out stupid and I love that.
A new chapter of life, everything feels new, I can do what I want, when I want, I don't have to check in with anyone. My time is my own.
I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.
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