New York Conversation

I have a friend in New York who is one of those telephone friends. We can talk for hours about the most random things, but it is a disembodied relationship. I haven't seen him for years, even though I sometimes find myself back east. Well, we have our own complicated history and one or the other always threatens to come out for a visit. There have been some near visits: a note scrawled on the porch, a voicemail retrieved a few hours too late, an apology after the fact. Sometimes the absurdity of it hits me. And I just have to laugh. If I were to write a screenplay (and totally fictionalize the conversation) here is what one would read like.

He: Not many people know this about me, but I used to have a collection of stuffed animals-
She: Laughing. Do you realize how funny that sounds? Laughing some more. I mean, didn't we all?
He: Well, I was really into them. I had, like, an army of them. And I was really into being equitable.
She: Equitable?
He: Like, I rotated each night who got to sleep next to me. I didn't want any of them to feel left out. And then when I was in 6th grade I started having friends come over. And they'd throw them around. Kinda make fun of me. But there was nothing I could do. Like, I had to just go along with it. Cuz I needed the friends. And then one time we moved and my stepmom just through them out. All of them.
She: Parents are always doing that. She prolly thought you were too old or didn't think boys should play with stuffed animals.
He: Yeah, but she never said anything like that. I mean, they were just gone. She never liked me. I think it was her way of getting back at me.
She: I had this Snoopy doll. It was all ratty. I used to chew on it's nose so all the stuffing was coming out. And then one day my mom said she was going to give it a bath. And then she came back and said he fell apart in the wash. I got a new Snoopy. After a while, it became my Snoopy. But then months later I found the old Snoopy in the closet. There he was. And he was fine! Years later, I am still trying to piece it together. Why would she do that? There must be so many stories out there like that. There must be so many stuffed-animal mysteries still waiting to be solved.

What is it about parents who think they can make executive decisions like that? Like finding an exact replica of the guppy that died, lying about an embarrassing stuffed animal, or insisting the twelve-year old boy stop playing with his Baby Mary Jane? We all have our shameful secrets. Kids just wear theirs on their sleeve.

May I Borrow A Light?

Fire. Heat, light and flame. Always a crowd pleaser. Entire festivals devoted to its name. It ignites. It burns. It undulates. It changes the air around us. It melts. It warms. It cooks. It kills. It casts its spell on us. We know how to start it but not always how to put it out. Soot, smoke, and ash. We sing about it. We use it in ritual, in death, on a birthday cake in celebration. Friction, flint, and spark. We use it to talk about love, about passion, about sex. We do not know all of its alchemic powers.

Our world began in fire. Our myths explain that we stole it from the Gods. It is said that because of our need to contain fire, we built our first homes around it. Indeed, we have spent a good portion of our history trying to control it. Firearms, fireworks, firefly. Some would say it protects, some would argue it destroys. We associate it with the devil himself. There is no end to the power, to the mystique we give it. We are drawn to it. As a family, as a community, as the couple lying on the bearskin rug. It the heart of our home. It is the center of our belly. It is the beast in our loins.

Mesmerizing You

I had composed an entire post in my head last night when tossing and turning in bed, listening to the lonesome whistle of the train blow, but, of course, I lost it now. I am pretty sure it was damn profound, though, and probably would have changed your life.

Instead, I offer up this video. I could watch the tide rise and fall on this walkway forever. It'd be a great place to do some timelapse and I pledge to come back with one.

I am going away from the computer this weekend, away from work, away from my house, away, away.

TEFKAFE

TEFKAFE enjoying a cupcake

Favorite Ex has responded that he does not, in fact, appreciate his moniker. When asked why he did not like to be referred to as Favorite Ex, he could not put a name to it, other than to repeat I don't like it over and over. He also took offense to being quoted in the blog. He would like it to be known that he does not believe he ever used the word zingers in conversation with me whether by telephone, email, text message, instant message or in person.

I showed Favorite Ex—who will now be referred to as The Ex Formerly Known As Favorite Ex—a first draft of my creative non-fiction piece for the Modern Love column. Not surprisingly, TEFKAFE was unencouraging. Sex and the City and Oprahesque were two unkind phrases I heard. In fact, if you are a woman and a writer, there is possibly nothing more damaging one can hear other than possibly invoking the name of Bridget Jones and her goddamn diary. I guess TEFKAFE did not understand the non-fiction aspect of the piece as he kept saying things like that never happened!, you did that? and I can't imagine him saying that. TEFKAFE has always been a tough critic, but at least he read it from beginning to end and I guess that's saying something. Just not sure what.

Speaking of TEFKAFE, he is coming out for a visit next month. And bringing his new girlfriend. Supposedly, they're mad for each other, or some such nonsense and for the first time since, well, since we stopped going out, I will have to share his presence with another. Sure, I am happy for him, and yes, it's about time (six years!) and I bet she is wonderful (he has great taste in women), but, I am just not sure I am up to the challenge. You know, what with being recently d-i-v-o-r-c-e(d) and all. It's bad enough I hardly ever get to see him since he lives on the opposite coast and now instead of hunting down obscure Chinese Islamic food in the Sunset with me, he's going to be busy giving her a tourist's welcome to his old stomping ground.

At least I know for the week or so he's around I'll eat well. I'll probably see some good movies. I'll snort out loud and choke on whatever I happen to be eating/drinking. I'll walk a lot. I'll get into 3 or 4 heated arguments. I'll damn him at least once. And then, as soon as he leaves, I'll be checking Jet Blue for flights back east.

The week(end) in pictures

The Artist and I went to as many garage sales as was feasible this weekend. We visit one geographic area at a time and this weekend was allocated for none other than the new sleepy town in which I live. What you learn about a town from it's garage sales is astonishing. OK, well, surprising in any case. And what did I learn about my new sleepy town from this weekend's garage sales? I live in a town where someone will not only try to sell a bar of Irish Spring for $.50. not only try to sell half-used bottles of nail polish for $.25, but try to sell a perfectly good box of tampons—ok, maybe opened and ok, maybe used a couple and then cleverly taped the box shut—for an undisclosed price.

I made a pact with myself to make it to the Beltline Railyard this weekend. What's the Beltline Railyard, you might ask? It's 22 acres of railyard that's been abandoned by the railroad company that once owned it and is in some kind of legal limbo with the city who would like very much to purchase it. And what that means to us, is that it is an undeveloped wasteland slowly being reclaimed by nature, smack dab in the middle of the city. And what that means to me, is that it is an interesting place to explore. Now 22 acres is not a lot. You can't really get lost in it. But the only beings I encountered on my entire walk was a confused raccoon and some kids at the adjoining park yelling at me to not graffiti (I wasn't). Because it was dusk and the light was perfect, I snapped, like, a bizillion pictures. What could be more photogenic than rusting metal with pampa grass growing through it, all cast in an orange-y dramatic light? Besides the busted-up shopping carts, the dumped car batteries, and enough railroad ties to line your driveway, the highlights included an old demolition derby car covered in graffiti with a few cement blocks thrown on top for good measure. But the real find of the day was a metal sign, the colors reminiscent of a pepsi can, squashed into a perfectly wonderful hemisphere of sculpture, now adorning the walls of my new apartment.

Which takes us to Sunday. And a walk through the local coastal marsh. As one of my I-have-a-million-different-projects-I-am-working-on experiments, I have taken a vow, an oath, to ask one stranger, one question every day. Today's dialogue went something like this:
me: Is that a catfish?
him: Catfish. 22 inch!
me: Wow. You caught that right here?
him: Yes. Right here. 22 inch!
We were both impressed. (Photo not provided.)

Which brings us to Sunday afternoon. The day the Matthew Barney exhibit closed and the day everyone and their mother (including me) opted to (finally) check it out. I skipped the exhibit itself to stand in line for sixty minutes for the one hundred and forty five minute film that had an entirety of five lines of dialogue. I can't really say it was enjoyable, but then that is not why one goes to see a Matthew Barney film (even if this one features wifey Bjork.) You see a Matthew Barney film so that you have something to talk about. But since I went alone, I had to wait until exiting to call my friend in New York, who it turns out hadn't even seen it. All I can say is that it made me want to each sushi and gave me a headache (although the coffee and empty stomach could, chances are, have more to do with the headache than Bjork's score.)

Which closes my weekend with: the phone conversation. I told Favorite Ex that I was trying to write a creative non-fiction piece for the NYTimes Modern Love column as per The New Friend From Residency's suggestion. I told him that what I was writing about was Ex Numero 4. Not, as I had thought when I began writing, Numero 5. He asked if he was to be included. To which I replied no, I didn't really go back that far.

C'mon, he said, you can cough up a coupla zingers about us.
I can't even think of any.
There's gotta be something.
It's a 1200 word article! And I am writing about break-ups. Ours was nothing!
I want our relationship to be immortalized in print!
Well, you did have that annoying habit whenever you came over of pointing out all the things that you thought belonged to you. Like six years later.
That's perfect. Work it in.

Sorry Favorite Ex, you are another story entirely.

I didn't

JIMMIE DURHAM
The flower of the death of loneliness

This morning the light was all shiny in my apartment. The place felt like home. I made coffee and sat on my couch and looked around. Saturday. I didn't have a plan. I could do whatever I wanted. Whenever I wanted. I read. I made breakfast. I debated going to the gym. I did some dishes. I watered the plants. I stayed in the same clothes in which I had slept.

I felt content.
In the way a woman who can do whatever she wants, whenever she wants, does.

I felt content and, for the moment, happy.
The way you do when you are single and life is just much less complicated. Much less tumultuous. The highs more even and the lows less deep. I generally go to bed at the same time, wake up around the same time. I don't plan too far into the future.

I didn't envy my friends with kids. I didn't wish to fall in love. I didn't pine for anyone.
I didn't want to talk on the telephone. I didn't care to check my email. I didn't mind being alone.
I didn't need anyone.

And, alone in my newish, smallish apartment, considering the future that lied ahead of me, and considering the obstacles I would no doubt have to face, and pondering my ability to stick to my guns, I felt pretty damn good.

The Break Up Film

It's ironic that I first came upon the idea of The Break Up Film during my last relationship. Now that I've, ahem, broken up, it seems appropriate that I drag that idea (kicking and screaming) from the nether regions of the closet. It's a project that is near and uh, not so much dear as piercing to my heart. Perhaps you can be of some assistance.

The Pitch

We all know that breaking up is a painful process: our hearts are torn, our emotions a mess, and our lives suddenly void of meaning. After the immediate shock and the logistics of the parting, there are still the smaller issues to contend with: what to do with all the detritus of the relationship?

The Break Up Film invites people to tell the stories of these more tangible objects. Whether or not it's burning birth control pills in a beach bonfire, painstakingly labeling each artifact as if for museum curation, or consuming all existing love letters after tearing them into bite-sized pieces, we have all devised rituals to bury the pain of the relationship. There are the wreckers, the returners, the hoarders, the desperate-to-hang-on-ers, and the ones who simply walk away like a snake shedding it's skin.

Tell me (caseyinmudville@gmail.com) your story.

The Single Girl's Guide to Staying Single

Wonder Woman, Emy Calucin

Decide in moment of incandescent illumination to depilate my legs. Pull out highly-recommended-self-waxing-kit-gathering-dust-in-bathroom-cabinet and precede. Legs hairy enough to confuse Diane Fossey. Warm wax as instructed, self-inflict pain as instructed, marvel at leg smoothness. After finishing one leg, realize not enough wax strips to depilate other leg. Walk around for two days with one leg hairy, one leg not. In vague kind of way, as in when at Trader Joes or in line at bank, look for wax strips. In defeat, shave other hairy-as-an-ape leg.

Spend hours, okay days, roaming aisles of dreaded Swedish manufacturer of cheap put-it-together-your-damn-self crap in search of storage solutions for new apartment one fourth size of last. Compulsively buy, sheepishly return, rinse and repeat. New apartment one-fourth-size-of-last remains in boxes because can't settle on fucking bookshelf! that won't fall apart when placed with, uh, books.

Log in to online dating site where nearly one-year old ad languishes like remaindered book on bottom shelf at back of store. Ambivalence + pain x regret=hasty retreat.

Decide in another unique moment of incandescent illumination to take moonlit walk on beach walking distance! from new apartment. Silhouetted figures engage in romance languages. Small dogs attack. Sneaker confronts tar. Fog rolls in. Rain ensues. Moon no where to be seen.

Read first book by highly-acclaimed, young (relatively), male author taking up significant amount of (now) scarce bookshelf space. Forced to look up vocabulary words at alarming rate. Alarming rate invokes feelings of ignorance, stupidity, and patheticability in reader. Read about central male character's fling with college student while professor at esteemed college. Wonder why never had such encounter when student at college. Wonder were to be professor if fling with college student would happen. Consider switching professions. Ignore unknown vocabulary words. Fall asleep with light on. Loose place in book.

How do you say goodbye?

I was going to write all about my last night in Wyoming. About my trip to the cowboy bar in Sheridan where the ice water is free, an 8 foot 4 inch long rattlesnake skin hangs behind the bar, and hundreds of cattle brands are burned into the rustic wood logs lining the bar. Where the Wurlitzer would play were they to turn off the football game on the TV, where Jim Crumbles sits at the bar, his ass close to sliding out of his pants, but his white hair as neatly braided as Willie's and where Glen Getter, age 29, claims to be an eligible bachelor as of approximately two weeks ago when he got his job pumping for Coal Bed Methane and when he finally got a place of his own.

But here I am stuck in Phoenix, en route home, having missed a connecting flight, and suddenly dreading my apartment with its boxes still unpacked, a discouraging lack of storage space and a newness I haven't yet decided if I like.

Sigh.

I guess adding to my meloncolia is the fact that I just finished a really good book and there's something so disappointing for me in that moment. The moment you close the book and realize there are no more pages, no more stories, no more time to be spent with the characters in whose lives you have just become so engrossed. The moment you have to say goodbye forever. Well, let's just say, I am getting accustomed to that moment.

Add to that the fact that I am no longer officially designated as an artist as my residency is over.

Add to that the fact that I have just left a place I really liked and really liked the way I felt there.

Add to that the fact that it's turning fall and there's all those back-to-school sales in the stores and the light's suddenly much more yellow and the air is sharp and crisp and the leaves are starting to turn and for reasons inexplicable to me, all that makes me unbearably sad.

Add to that the fact that I am returning to my normal life and I don't yet know what that is or what it means or where normal really fits into any thing in my life anyways.

How do you say goodbye? To the season, the story, the place, the person, the reasons we once thought were right?

Attracted to Light

Doug and Mike Starn, Attracted to Light D

They told me I should make sure I wake up early and see the dawn before I leave. And so, this morning I did. It was all rosy glow and bambis in the alfalfa fields and big pink sun peeking through the low morning fog bank. It was crisp, clean air, the kind that makes my lips cracked and my nostrils dry enough to bleed. Sunrise is always less dramatic than sunset, but just knowing that you're one of the few witnessing it makes it pretty damn, um, well, special.

Walking around at midday, I realized I just never get sick of looking at the plains no matter how dried up and scourged it seems. All that yellow and brown, and then the place where those two colors meet. The smell of sage each time the wind stirs which, on a day like today, ain't that often. All that scrub and barbed wire and rocks so sun-baked you keep thinking you see bone. All that agony and expanse and then, like fireworks, the bluest sky above it all. I could never get sick of looking at all that distance. The worst that could happen is that I would fall in.

That is to say, it's been good for my heart. Poor scarred and mended heart! I have taken it out often, bloody and pulsing, to examine. I have compared it to other hearts, some with less scar tissue and others lumpy with disease. I have hurtled it onto the highway at night, wishing for it to be driven into the ground. I have shoved it under my pillow hoping that that might help me sleep. I have swallowed it, pummeled it, hidden it and retrieved it. I have foisted it onto others who have seemed sympathetic. The kind ones simply hand it back; the cruel ones, well, we know what they do with hearts. But still. It flutters. Like the moth toward the light.

Roadside Attractions

click on photo or here to watch

Deep West

I've been immersing myself in the literature of this country. Stories and poems full of extremities, solitude, pride, the aching blue of the sky and a dark, haughty sense of humor. I can already feel my departure coming upon me and I want to let go of none of it. Every little star in the sky, I want to remember, absorb, and carry it back home. It is a place I know I will return.

Birds Too Fat To Fly by David Romtvedt

John tells Margo she is placid.
She worries he secretly means bland.
But one bright fall day she saw
a group of eagles—Golden and Bald—
feeding on a carcass. They
were like vultures, so full
they couldn't leave the ground.
They lurched up and down
the hillside relearning the lessons
of their youth. They were,
Margo told me, "Birds too fat to fly."
And laughed, "What a great phrase -
think of Trouble, Harold and Penelope
alone together on winter range
and when we go to get them,
we have to coax them in, shake
cans of oats and promise them endless
warm barns and clear fresh water
and no saddles." It's a game.
I say the sky is the sky
too blue to believe. "Come on,"
Margo sweetly taunts, " You can
do better than that." And throws me.
Cold too bitter to breathe.
Draws too deep to defend.
Erosion too aged to erase.
Grass too gone to green.
She really laughs at that last
and names the whole: "Ranching
too disastrous to deny."
But who cares -
happiness too holy to humble
and life too lovely to lose.
She puts her arms around me
and stands placidly, motionless,
whispers in my ear,"Birds
too fat to fly..."