Fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee

Please note: I will be registering for gifts shortly. Meanwhile, allow me to introduce Cecil.

Or try me.

Witch One Is Me?

You know I am running out of things to say when I start blogging about my dreams. But I woke up this morning and it took me a good five minutes before it started to come to me. I dreamt it had rained. I dreamt I woke up to a leaking apartment. There were puddles on the carpet, mold coming through in large black rings on the wall, and a roof that looked as if it were about to cave in. Maybe it was the episode of Lost I watched last night or maybe it was the collection of short stories I am reading about food, or maybe it was just the momentous amount of laundry I have been washing, drying and folding.

In my dream I was distressed. My apartment had finally become my home. I enjoyed no more than to lounge in its bath, cook in its kitchen, lie down on its carpet and stare at its stucco ceiling. I had laid claim to the space: taking down the proletarian supplied Venetian blinds and putting up the three-weekends-to-complete-curtain-project sewn by none other. I had changed the direction in which the refrigerator door opened, I installed a hanging pot rack, I frosted the window panes in the front door for privacy.

A home. The hearth. My little nest. The place where I repose. Where I wake up Sunday mornings, make coffee and get back in to bed to read. Where I can pull back the curtains and sit on the couch and enjoy the light poring in, the blue sky above my head, the birds freaking out in the trees just outside. At this point I would hate to move. After all the letting go of stuff—years accumulated—so that I could finally fit into this postage-stamp space, after all the living in boxes, things spread out between two cities, after all the shuttling between places, the driving hither and forth, the nomadic it's only temporary until I find my own place existence, I have finally arrived. And I'm not about to let a little crack in the surface kick me out.

Forgive Me Father

Smart Girl from To-Do List

I prolly spend more time thinking (and writing and oh, imagining) about relationship stuff than I should. I should prolly be out doing more important things like volunteering at the old folks home, reading the political articles in The New Yorker instead of skipping them, and repairing familial relationships instead of starting and stopping new ones with strangers. I should prolly quit obsessing about why the last man I dated did not fall in love with me. I should prolly quit flirting with the any and all online suitors who approach me. I should prolly I should prolly I should prolly.

This is not really a post. This is a PostSecret. Only it's more complicated than would fit on a postcard and I really should, ahem, write something even if I am dog tired, my eyeballs aflame, my knees wobbly and my face raw from razor burn.

I once dated a man. He was a man and not at all a boy and for that I was eternally grateful. It was not at all that long ago, although, its memory yellows from age each passing day. I once dated a man and not unlike me, he was a man who kept lists. He had a little notebook or two or three and in no particular order wrote lists both banal and weighty.

And ladies and gentleman, I liked to look through these notebooks.

They were everyday lists and I wanted to know the everyday man. At least, that's what I told myself. Groceries to buy, bills to pay, measurements, addresses, shorthanded ideas that yet remain locked in his mind. And they were scattered about, on the kitchen table, impromptu lists scratched onto receipts, scraps of paper that fluttered to the floor when I picked up my bags or brought in the groceries.

They charmed me. All of them. I tried to ascertain which were written before me and which after me. There were lists of books and movies many of which I had recommended. If they were written into the notebooks, they never made any kind of chronological sense. As a book, from beginning to end, they read like a puzzle.

And then I stumbled upon a list. It was a list about me. Sort of a pro and con list if you will. It was, like most of his lists, a short list. A mere five or six items. I never understood its formula. There was a check next to makes me feel wanted and I can't quite remember the other something like fun! There was no check next to communication or creativity. There was an awkward phrase about the ability (mine or his?) to evolve sexually for which I received no check as well. I couldn't tell if he had written the list the day before or months prior. I didn't know if the checks were like extra bonus points or if he really thought I was completely devoid of creativity. Whatever it meant, it was painfully clear to me I had not passed this particular test. I had only gotten two out of six check marks. And in the dozen or so little words written in blue ink onto the lined notebook paper, this archipelago of words scattered across the blank page, I read the story of our relationship in its entirety. And this story did not, as it turns out, have a happy ending.

The Date to End All Dates

Desiree Holman, Breath Holes

My date arrived at my door early Saturday morning. He arrived dripping wet, having just swam across the Pacific to reach my door. I handed him a towel, and he, in return, handed me an orchid. No ordinary orchid, this orchid flowered only once, took twenty years to mature, and bloomed for exactly twenty seconds. Let's just say, his timing was impeccable!

We watched as the precious flower bloomed and then withered and then produced an intolerable smell. Without batting an eye, or in this case, his long lustrous lashes which, he assures me, he has never tinted nor curled, he tossed the once-precious orchid over his shoulder. Toweling himself off, he waltzed through my doors, and caught me unawares as he grabbed me by the waist to a 4/4 polka. I nearly slammed the door in the face of the German polka band that trooped in behind him. Stepping on his toes—and those of all seven members of the band—he gratiously allowed me to sit out on the 5th polka. But, oh, they were a lively bunch! And dancing together in my small New York-style studio, they sure lifted my spirits—even as they knocked over my dead grandmother's Hummel figurines bequeathed to me on her deathbed.

The polka band took a rest on my fold-out sofa bed—politely taking their shoes off as per my request—and my date preceeded to the kitchen where he had plans to wow me with the culinary secrets of his Armenian-Mexican ancestors. Again his elaborate preparations, the three crates of cooking utensils, and the bags and bags of groceries—along with the sudden appearance of his ninety-year old Armenian grandmother—impressed me greatly. After an hour or so, he took time out from the rolling of the grape leaves and the crushing pomegranategranite seeds, to court me in the bathroom—now the only room in my apartment in which there was enough room for us to sit. Delicately taking my foot into his hands—and dextorously maneovering around the toilet bowl—he gave me the most exuisite foot massage of my life! Too bad when the accordian player swung open the door to use the bathroom, he gave my date a concussion which forced him to lay low for a bit.

While the rest of us ate and his grandmother told the most entertaining dirty limericks—albeit in another language—my date reposed in the bath tub. By midnight, we thought we ought to check in on him...

dreams deferred

Show me the child at 7 and I will show you the man.

I've been watching the 7-Up series (that BBC documentary series that followed a variety of wee Brits from differing social classes every seven years) in preparation for the latest release, 49-Up. Who was I at seven? I don't remember much. It wasn't one of those break out years. I was in second grade. I had had the same teacher Mrs. Chase, for first and second. Second grade felt safe. Felt like I was getting into the swing of things. It was in second grade that I realized I would be in school for a long, long time. Six more years here and then four years after that. It felt unfathomable. It was the same time I began to grapple with the concept of forever. It would keep me up at night. At night, I always slept with the my door cracked open, the light from the hallway shining in. I lulled myself to sleep with the sounds of late-night television. It was comforting: a muffled laugh track, Johnny Carson fading into the distance. Just as I was about to drift away the thought would come to me: what happens when you die? The answers the nuns gave never satisfied. Heaven seemed nice enough. But nice enough for an eternity seemed like hell. Time would just go on and on. There was nothing before it and nothing behind it. I would hold out for as long as I could and then I would hear myself screaming, MOOOOOOMMMM!

It was our ritual.
What happens after you die?
You go to heaven.
And then what happens?
You are with your loved ones: your father, your grandmother, me.
And then what?
And then you are happy. You do what you want. You don't think about time. You look down at earth.
And then what?
That's it. You're in heaven forever.
What happens after forever?
Forever never ends. It just keeps going on.

I tried to imagine it. I tried to imagine being seven forever. Or doing something I really liked like swimming forever. I tried to imagine the longest amount of time I could and then doubling that and then doubling that. It made me uncomfortable. Like practicing my scales. It made me feel scared and nauseous at the same time. Whether it was heaven or a cold plot of dirt made no difference in my mind.

When I was seven I received my first communion. I remember wearing a frill-less eyelet dress when all the other girls got petticoats and frills. I remember taking it very seriously. I remember rehearsing how to walk down the aisle. I remember holding my hands together very carefully. I remember learning how to do the rosary. I remember my Miniature Stories of the Saints. I still have it.

When I was seven my grandmother got sick. My mother was her only daughter and it meant I never saw my mom anymore. She lived at the hospital and I lived at the babysitters. When I did go to the hospital I did not recognize my grandmother. When she came out she had to wear a wig and she still did not look like my grandmother. I overheard conversations about wounds and infections and surgeries. I remember my mother on the phone a lot. Frustrated, exhausted and, above all, sad.

At seven I was quiet. I lived inside my head. I did not need a lot of attention. I was not used to big families. I was not used to being around other kids. I wanted to be a martyr. I loved to read about the saints. I wanted God to accept me. I wanted to make my mother happy. I wanted to please my teachers. I wanted to be good.

I am not sure how different I am. I no longer want to be a saint. And I no longer believe in heaven. But the thought of eternity still humbles me. And sometimes, I am still afraid of the dark.

Getting to Know You

Val Britton, Ways to navigate through what we've built and what we've destroyed

How do you put together all those disparate pieces to make a whole? We talk on the phone and I try to imagine what he looks like listening to me: is he sitting down at the kitchen table or lying down on the couch? Does he doodle abesentmindedly? Do his fingers drum in front of him? From what he shares, I try to make sense of it all: a father who has died, a brother who is six years older, college in Boston, time spent in Santa Cruz. I fit together a timeline in my head and then realize it's all wrong: it was two years ago he left Boston, the pet dog is actually a labroador. I wonder if he does the same. I picture a man explaining himself over the phone, over the miles of distance between us and the image I have is soft, shifting and elusive.

A woman once wrote that there is a difference between being honest and telling. Where honesty is pure, telling expects results. It's true. There is an agreement between the teller and the tellee. There is a bond. Listen to me and your rewards will be bountiful! The gift of friendship, the promise of concern, the hope of caring. They are, at worst, Hallmark sentiments. But at best, they are all we really need.

My National Lampoon Style Family Camping Trip

a covey of quail
a cast of hawks
a gang of turkey
a murder of crows

These my friends, were only a few of the cast of characters from last weekend's camping trip. We might add to that list: Swedish Death Metal couple, Frisbee golf throwing enthusiasts, poker-playing-while-Classic-Rock-listening-and-Jack-Daniels-drinking neighbors, angry fisherpeoples without any fish and exactly one meandering tarantula.

This was a camping trip 35 years in the making for never had the entire family camped together. I arrived two hours after my dad who was in the process of thoroughly staking down his tent. Even though he had gotten explicit directions from my sister not to stake down his tent until she had arrived and even though the ground was hard enough to tap dance on, none of this deterred him from battening down the hatches. He excitedly showed me all his new and unnecessary purchases: an Eddie Bauer blanket, a shiny red hatchet, a foldable cot, an inflatable mattress, a suitcase-sized bag of batteries, enough snacks to feed the local middle school, an assortment of lures, rods and bait and, most importantly, a tent purchased for my birthday. In the flurry of product and the disposal of packaging I asked him where his sleeping bag was. Oops! I could tell from the way he was ignoring me that he was starting to have one of his panic attacks. We better call my sister before she leaves. Dad, are you gonna call her? Dad? He continued to stand face flushed, sweat beading on his forehead. I stopped bothering him and sat down to wade it out.

No sooner had I collapsed into the collapsible Sports Mega Chair™ recently purchased from REI, than I recieved a sharp blow to the knee. What the? A fluorescent Frisbee lay on the ground beside me, it's owner conspicuously absent. As I sat rubbing my knee and writhing in pain and as my dad, now awoken to his senses, dialed my sister, the Frisbee-wielding maniac jogged over to apologize. Yeah, your site's right next to the course. Come tomorrow this place is gonna be a sea of Frisbee golf players. It's a pretty serious sport. He jogged off from whence he came, a backback full of colored Frisbees whats significance remained a mystery to me, in tow.

Within minutes our neighbors cranked up their radio. Man, I love this song! a voice barked. To one of Classic Rock's unarguably most shining moments, our neighbors sang along to some Lynrd Skynrd: Ooooh that smell. Can't you smell that smell. They were well into the Coors and, at four, were beginning elaborate 'cue preparations. Case, hey, there's a tarantula. My dad voice was calm. What? He pointed to the ground—the ground right next to our tents—as the biggest and hairiest arachnid I have ever seen ambled by. As the tarantula rounded the corner, I noticed a series of holes in the ground. Another Frisbee-wielding maniac, backpack hanging off his shoulder, jogged by. Oh, yeah, a tarantula. He's early. They usually don't come out until October. I inquired if the hillside holes had perhaps anything to do with their housing. Yeah, they burrow in holes just like those. But don't worry, they're harmless. Not only was our campsite in the middle of a treacherous Frisbee fly zone, but we had parked it on top of a row of tarantula condominiums. We better not tell my sister.

We were, as it turns out, camping not only with our family but with about a hundred other families, many of them in recreational vehicles, some of them with generators, all of them with way too much stuff and most hoping to have the kind of outdoor experience where neither they nor their offspring were ever bored, remained relatively clean, and were always safe from danger. Danger being any experience in nature without the right Coleman endorsed product.

The thing is that my family is fun. We crack jokes. We out-crass one another. We make do with what the good lord has pawned off on us. When my sister and brother-in-law arrive, dinner is well into the making. Although it takes over an hour for our kabobs cook, and although the spicy papadums I brought make everyone choke, we sit by the fire and season our coats with the smell that proves we have been "camping".

Our neighbors smoke a bong and begin a game of cards. Steve Miller. Joe Cocker. And of course Fleetwood Mac. They argue about the hands: two pair totally beats three-of-a-kind, they incorrectly call games: dude, let's play texas hold up. And then, they get really really mad at each other. Scary mad.

Quit calling my hand.
You got a flush and you don't even see it.
This is my hand. I'll play it how I want to play it.
You can't even count your cards. You have a flush!
Do YOU wanna play this hand?

This goes on forever. The smart or smart-er one keep calling the dumber one's hands. At least, we think, they are entertaining.

How long have you been playing this game?!
I play every Friday. For five years.

It's a shocking discovery. They seem to barely know the rules. Midnight fast approaches and they show no sign of retiring. My sister has brought earplugs enough for everyone and, at this point, we eagerly accept her handouts like free posters at a BoysIIMen concert. Earplugs in place, Thermarest underneath me, and flashlight beside me, I sleep though the night. The following night, however, will make this night look like a relaxing day at Burke Williams.