After watching Arthur des Pins's "La Revolution des Crabes", I was inspired to paint this cute little piece. If you get a chance, check out this animated short film-- you won't be disappointed.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Monday, February 07, 2005
Mermaids in the Sea
It seemed so hard.
To admit to myself the feelings that had been boiling in my belly. It reminded me of the huge pots of water grandmother would put on the stove to boil the crabs or the crawfish for Sunday lunch. When I was barely able to reach my grandmother's waist, clinging to her dirty apron, and my hair was tied in long pigtails, I would imagine a Tom Thumb miniature version of myself trapped in a pot, climbing on top of the reddening shell of a blue crab, trying to get away from the boiling liquid, but getting sleepy from the hypnotizing heat never to wake again....or at least that's how I wished those crabs met their fate, in a warm, relaxing bath, getting drowsy and then pitch black--but no pain. But in retrospect, that was much too idyllic and naive of a thought. I wondered what was worse, to be a crustacean or a human. I guess they were both on par with each other.
The waves lapped their tongues onto the shore to taste the sand, only to repel backwards from the saltiness. I sat there on the large boulder that we used to play on when we were little girls. The innocent times of when the gray clouds were brought on because she and I were witches casting spells on evil demons (not because it was supposed to rain.) When grandmother would wake us up at the crack of dawn to look for buried chests of gold and jewels (not to dig for clams for that week’s dinner.) When the seagulls were our loyal messengers gathering for their next mission, (not because the old beachcomber was throwing out stale pieces of sourdough into the wind.) When we were mermaids in the sea...
I had thought the situation up and down and decided that there was no good way things could end up. Someone would be hurt. I was going to be the martyr because it was my own fault for prying...for getting in the way...And if there was ever a decision of whether the gun should be aimed at me or her, I would willingly place the barrel against my own temple, pull the trigger, and fall into her arms, no question, before she could even let out a breath. There were so many times when I wanted to tell her that, but I was afraid she would think me too self-righteous.
I pulled my shawl tighter against my shoulders and wondered where she was. Earlier that morning, I had hesitated as I let the phone ring into my ear. I wondered if she could tell that I had unsuccessfully finished dialing her number for an hour before I could muster the courage to press the last 7th digit. She picked up after the third ring tone and seemed a bit startled that it was me. I told her to meet me at our old place and she agreed without a question. I was glad for that. She never made things harder than they had to be. I thought it best that I be the one to tell her. To let her know all that was, all that would never be.
I saw a dark figure against the edge of the tide about a mile off. I waved and she waved back.
Before I knew it, we were sitting on the boulder side by side looking at the sinking sun like a broken pirate ship slipping beneath the waves. There was a golden silence. No "hello's" or "how ya doing's." Fluff like that was obsolete for old friends like us. So then I told her.
The words fell out of me. Each word painfully pulled from my lips. Bricks that fell from my tongue only to crush onto my toes leaving me to wince at each sting.
But it was the only way to purge these troubled feelings that had formed between us. And I knew that if the rift were to grow any larger, I would lose her forever. And usually, the times when the truth is hardest to admit, is when its most necessary, the only cure for the self-inflicted wounds that had so naturally appeared on my body.
After I finished, I searched her face for some semblance of a reaction but all I saw were her glassy eyes looking far off into the distance. Her long lashes fluttered as a breeze wrapped around us but she didn’t even shudder at the chill.
I wanted to shake her. Make sure that she understood that the only reason I was saying the things that I did was because I felt she deserved the entire truth.
I didn’t even consider the possibility of losing her even after telling her this truth. All I could think of was the “before”, the veil that she had been under, the unmoving stage curtain that never allowed the show to begin. Because for so long we had all been living on the surface, in some kind of fantasy, a castle in the clouds made out of goose feathers. And it seemed to have gone on so long that it had somehow transformed into this hideous concrete reality. But I wouldn’t let her live in make-believe fortresses or walk on brittle sidewalks any longer.
Finally she sighed.
“I’ve missed you. Not just lately. But for a long time now. So many things have changed and…” I could see her clawing for the right words like she always did, trying to make things sound so storybook, straight from a novel. But it only made her seem more vulnerable. “…and, I guess I should have known all along. I was just not letting myself see it. Isn’t it amazing? The way you can fool yourself into holding onto something that’s not there, believing in some invisible safety net when you’ve already hit the ground, broken and bleeding. The power of desire, delusion….make-believe.”
She finally looked at me, and of all things, she smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile that simultaneously conveyed her resolute passivity and invariable forgiveness. “In the end, we’re all just a bunch of insignificant fools.”
I wanted to break down into hysterical sobs. I wished she had slapped me and run off into the distance, never to be heard from again. Or scream at the top of her lungs that she despised me with all her heart and she couldn’t believe that I had the audacity to call her my friend. Needed her to show me some semblance of anger…to justify my actions as wrong-doings. I wanted to feel her hatred for me that matched my own self-loathing.
So we sat there in silence not knowing what the days ahead of us would hold. Absorbing the words that had been exchanged between us. Me, wishing mine had hurt her more, and not expecting hers to have cut me so deeply.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Ocimum Basilicum
Harold looked at the terra cotta pots lined on his windowsill and closed his eyes really tight.
Grow. Please grow. Why won't you grow?
He clenched his fists tight. As if he were pulling the strings of fate, willing with all his might for the tiny buds he had planted to find the strength to open up and push their little nubs to reach the surface of the moist soil, revel in the cool spring air, and taste the sweetness of sunshine.
He had been told that basil was one of the easiest things to grow. And it tasted great, so why didn't everyone have a basil bush in their kitchen? Martha, from the gardening store, had assured him that it was easier than digging a hole.
Harold promised himself at that moment he would never trust anyone named "Martha" ever again.
He waited.
But like waiting for a pot of water to boil, it seemed like eternity for anything to happen. And that worried him. What if he had done something wrong? What if he had bought the potting soil that had too much fertilizer in it? What if he had packed the dirt in too tightly and the seeds were suffocating? What if he hadn't positioned the seeds in the optimum measured spatial areas recommended on the seed packet? What if he had overwatered it? Or underwatered it? He grabbed his spray bottle and squirted a mist of water and he watched the beads of liquid cling to the lumps of dirt and then vanish into the absorbant soil.
Maybe his prize winning green thumb that he had built up in his head was merely a quioxtic whimsy. He sat there imagining a dissected thumb with a putrid olive color wriggling next to the stubborn basil plants.
Suddenly, the terra cotta pots had been personified into bullyish heathens flinging their contents of soil in his face, laughing at his hand that now only boasted four sad fat digits.
The terra cotta plants had now sprouted squiggly black legs adorned with plastic garden clogs. And arms with heavy duty goatskin gloves on their oily hands. They weilded sharp pruners, pointy spades, and shiny loppers that dripped sinister plans for Harold. Harold leapt up but was tackled by the heavy yet reasonably priced pots. Why had he bought so many?
They pounced on his back tied his legs with hose. (Where did that hose come from?) They used gardening string for his arms behind his back. (Did Martha trick him somehow into buying gardening string?) They continued to torture him taking snips at his clothes and pruning his curly hair. He squeaked as each curly lock floated down before his eyes. Suddenly, he felt the pots going for his thumbs. They were going to chop off his thumbs!! He felt the sharp edges of the pruner slide around his right digit....
Then everything went black. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his kitchen floor. What time was it? How long had he been knocked out? He must have fainted from his daydream stupor.
In the process, he had tipped over all the pots save one small one in the corner.
And when he looked over the rim, he gave a small yelp of pleasure.
The first buds had begun to sprout to the surface.
He gave a sigh and cleaned up the dirt and broken pots that had been knocked over (or somehow miraculously lost their sinister powers. )
And though it was painful at first, Harold spent the rest of the night sewing back on his green thumb.
Grow. Please grow. Why won't you grow?
He clenched his fists tight. As if he were pulling the strings of fate, willing with all his might for the tiny buds he had planted to find the strength to open up and push their little nubs to reach the surface of the moist soil, revel in the cool spring air, and taste the sweetness of sunshine.
He had been told that basil was one of the easiest things to grow. And it tasted great, so why didn't everyone have a basil bush in their kitchen? Martha, from the gardening store, had assured him that it was easier than digging a hole.
Harold promised himself at that moment he would never trust anyone named "Martha" ever again.
He waited.
But like waiting for a pot of water to boil, it seemed like eternity for anything to happen. And that worried him. What if he had done something wrong? What if he had bought the potting soil that had too much fertilizer in it? What if he had packed the dirt in too tightly and the seeds were suffocating? What if he hadn't positioned the seeds in the optimum measured spatial areas recommended on the seed packet? What if he had overwatered it? Or underwatered it? He grabbed his spray bottle and squirted a mist of water and he watched the beads of liquid cling to the lumps of dirt and then vanish into the absorbant soil.
Maybe his prize winning green thumb that he had built up in his head was merely a quioxtic whimsy. He sat there imagining a dissected thumb with a putrid olive color wriggling next to the stubborn basil plants.
Suddenly, the terra cotta pots had been personified into bullyish heathens flinging their contents of soil in his face, laughing at his hand that now only boasted four sad fat digits.
The terra cotta plants had now sprouted squiggly black legs adorned with plastic garden clogs. And arms with heavy duty goatskin gloves on their oily hands. They weilded sharp pruners, pointy spades, and shiny loppers that dripped sinister plans for Harold. Harold leapt up but was tackled by the heavy yet reasonably priced pots. Why had he bought so many?
They pounced on his back tied his legs with hose. (Where did that hose come from?) They used gardening string for his arms behind his back. (Did Martha trick him somehow into buying gardening string?) They continued to torture him taking snips at his clothes and pruning his curly hair. He squeaked as each curly lock floated down before his eyes. Suddenly, he felt the pots going for his thumbs. They were going to chop off his thumbs!! He felt the sharp edges of the pruner slide around his right digit....
Then everything went black. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his kitchen floor. What time was it? How long had he been knocked out? He must have fainted from his daydream stupor.
In the process, he had tipped over all the pots save one small one in the corner.
And when he looked over the rim, he gave a small yelp of pleasure.
The first buds had begun to sprout to the surface.
He gave a sigh and cleaned up the dirt and broken pots that had been knocked over (or somehow miraculously lost their sinister powers. )
And though it was painful at first, Harold spent the rest of the night sewing back on his green thumb.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Any Given Weekend
Why were thoughts of Sick and Twisted animations running through my head?
Why was my usually straight hair, now curly?
Why was my Scrabble game gone?
Why was cold dim sum sitting on the coffee table?
Why were cracker crumbs all over the car?
Why were there melted Junior Mints in my purse?
Why was a French film with no audio playing on my laptop?
Why were my thumbs sore?
Why were tiny Krystals chicken burgers in my refridgerator?
Why were all my basil plants wilted and dead?
Why was my head throbbing?
Why was my usually straight hair, now curly?
Why was my Scrabble game gone?
Why was cold dim sum sitting on the coffee table?
Why were cracker crumbs all over the car?
Why were there melted Junior Mints in my purse?
Why was a French film with no audio playing on my laptop?
Why were my thumbs sore?
Why were tiny Krystals chicken burgers in my refridgerator?
Why were all my basil plants wilted and dead?
Why was my head throbbing?
Thursday, January 20, 2005
The Family Business
This is for the souls who happen to wander in. Wander into the place where many shy away from yet few are rewarded for their boldness... loyalty...... curiosity. The second home for those with first homes. The scarred souls who don't think, just take...but we forget and forgive.
To the woman who is the queen of caskets. Buying lotto like they were penny-candies and she has a sweet tooth. Asking about the family (or do you have business on your mind?)...Yes, we have shimp chips today...but sorry no more grape soda.
To the man with the slow step and salt and pepper beard. He calls my twelve-year old sister "ma'am" and reminds me of a simpler time when people thought a little longer and hearts were a bit stronger and being polite was a standard.
To my dad who likes to listen to the news loud so he can hear the newest immigration stories and asks me if they get rid of all the immigrants who will pick the strawberries?
To the ghost of the past who cut my uncle's ear with a broken bottle. Robbing, pilfering...cowardly fool. Let your ski mask become your Iron Mask, to adhere to your face so you will never have to show the shame of your dirty visage.
To the funny woman who comes in to ask for money. But my mom says no. And the funny woman says why. And my mom says because she has too many taxes to pay. The funny woman replies with Everybody gotta pay taxes--this America! And then my mom smirks with Well, then that makes me Mrs. America! And they share a mutual laugh.
To all the hungry souls who come in and order who only want my mom to cook for them. Who ask my mother to make the same thing that they ordered last time because they cannot remember the simple words of "chicken fried rice." Who tell me that she is the best cook ever and that they go no where else to get their food. How sometimes they drive an hour out of their way to our little shop and how they were craving egg rolls and sweet and sour chicken on Sunday but we were closed. But do they know how the compliments are all washed away when I hear you talk on your phone to your friend to ask them what they want to order only to hear, "What kinda Japanese food you wanna order?"
To Christopher and Fatboy who are both under 8 years old. How they cried to my mom when their mother was taken away by the cops and they wiped their tears on my mother's apron crying, "I told them not to take my mom away but they wouldn't listen!!"
To the opaque stanger who walks in for a "brown bag special" and doesn't think about anything other than his next quick fix and how for $3 bucks, that's a bargain.
To the tired mother, whose husband died at the hands of her father now in jail, whose daughter tried to cut her life away at the seams of her wrists. She has a twitch in her eye, a limp in her step, and a wrinkle in her heart, yet still hopes to hit it big tonight. One more QuickPick! We make sure to always stock her favorite soda--Diet Big Red.
To Ellie Bellie and Peas and Carrots who even though they complain of slavery, they still stand behind the counter like stoic statues smiling ready to give you the correct change.
To the hopeful entreprenuer who would always watch Nancy cook because he liked the exotic feel of Chinese food and would always ask questions. Is that some kind of Chinese spice? No, for the seventh time, it's just salt.
To the midnight burglar whose plan to break into the bricks through the air conditioning vent and didn't account for his wide waist and it took three policemen to wriggle him out of the vent hole and throw him in jail for 72 hours only to be out again waiting...waiting.
To my older sister--how do you do it? In one day, she was asked out on a date, proposed to twice, and asked to go on a holiday cruise all by different men.
To the landlord lady who will finally put my mother's name down on the title. My mother's sweat, tears, blood, and more tears widdled down to mere ink on sheets of thin paper. But no, to her it is her determination branded in stone.
To the woman who is the queen of caskets. Buying lotto like they were penny-candies and she has a sweet tooth. Asking about the family (or do you have business on your mind?)...Yes, we have shimp chips today...but sorry no more grape soda.
To the man with the slow step and salt and pepper beard. He calls my twelve-year old sister "ma'am" and reminds me of a simpler time when people thought a little longer and hearts were a bit stronger and being polite was a standard.
To my dad who likes to listen to the news loud so he can hear the newest immigration stories and asks me if they get rid of all the immigrants who will pick the strawberries?
To the ghost of the past who cut my uncle's ear with a broken bottle. Robbing, pilfering...cowardly fool. Let your ski mask become your Iron Mask, to adhere to your face so you will never have to show the shame of your dirty visage.
To the funny woman who comes in to ask for money. But my mom says no. And the funny woman says why. And my mom says because she has too many taxes to pay. The funny woman replies with Everybody gotta pay taxes--this America! And then my mom smirks with Well, then that makes me Mrs. America! And they share a mutual laugh.
To all the hungry souls who come in and order who only want my mom to cook for them. Who ask my mother to make the same thing that they ordered last time because they cannot remember the simple words of "chicken fried rice." Who tell me that she is the best cook ever and that they go no where else to get their food. How sometimes they drive an hour out of their way to our little shop and how they were craving egg rolls and sweet and sour chicken on Sunday but we were closed. But do they know how the compliments are all washed away when I hear you talk on your phone to your friend to ask them what they want to order only to hear, "What kinda Japanese food you wanna order?"
To Christopher and Fatboy who are both under 8 years old. How they cried to my mom when their mother was taken away by the cops and they wiped their tears on my mother's apron crying, "I told them not to take my mom away but they wouldn't listen!!"
To the opaque stanger who walks in for a "brown bag special" and doesn't think about anything other than his next quick fix and how for $3 bucks, that's a bargain.
To the tired mother, whose husband died at the hands of her father now in jail, whose daughter tried to cut her life away at the seams of her wrists. She has a twitch in her eye, a limp in her step, and a wrinkle in her heart, yet still hopes to hit it big tonight. One more QuickPick! We make sure to always stock her favorite soda--Diet Big Red.
To Ellie Bellie and Peas and Carrots who even though they complain of slavery, they still stand behind the counter like stoic statues smiling ready to give you the correct change.
To the hopeful entreprenuer who would always watch Nancy cook because he liked the exotic feel of Chinese food and would always ask questions. Is that some kind of Chinese spice? No, for the seventh time, it's just salt.
To the midnight burglar whose plan to break into the bricks through the air conditioning vent and didn't account for his wide waist and it took three policemen to wriggle him out of the vent hole and throw him in jail for 72 hours only to be out again waiting...waiting.
To my older sister--how do you do it? In one day, she was asked out on a date, proposed to twice, and asked to go on a holiday cruise all by different men.
To the landlord lady who will finally put my mother's name down on the title. My mother's sweat, tears, blood, and more tears widdled down to mere ink on sheets of thin paper. But no, to her it is her determination branded in stone.
"So can you?"
"So can I, what?"
"Picture having a relationship with her?"
The thought hadn't really crossed my mind. When I found someone I was interested in, all I knew was that I enjoyed being around that person, no matter what gender. A relationship, no matter what kind or on what level, by any other name would still be a relationship. Sometimes, I think humans can be too picky, or in this case, judgemental. But I guess, many would say that I am not that type. I've thought many a time about that sentiment and would either shrug or say "Fuck you" with my middle fingers held up in the usual rebellious solitary fashion but that's all in my head. I'm not the burly, butch lesbo type. But there was one time where I wanted to beat two teenage girls up for looking at my shoes too hard and laughing....but anyhow.
Kaleigh just so happened to be a girl. I couldn't help that she was the type of person that got under my skin.
I looked at my friend who had posed this reasonable question yet with underlying homophobic tones and I answered, "Sure, I guess."
"Really?" he replied in unneccessary disgusted fashion.
"I don't know..." I trailed off.
I continued drinking my mamosa and hoped the subject would pass. Is this proper brunch conversation? I looked around. To the left was a mother with her two children making a mess with their fruit bowls. To my right was an elderly couple drinking coffee and looking into the distance contemplating more worldly pleasures. I regretted ever bringing Kaliegh up. Now maybe our relationship would be jinxed!
Don't confuse my response of "I don't know" for sexual confusion though. Sexual confusion is just an excuse, I think. My response was merely a reflection of my own self-doubt and lack of self-esteem. If only they sold them in bottles at the corner store.
The marketing posters would say, Steam up your life with a bottle of Self-Esteem now! Buy one, get the next bottle half off for a limited time only! Mmmm....steamy! They'd sell like hotcakes.
We had met in this History of Dinosaurs class. Kaleigh was from Slovenia, a post-grad student taking the class for fun. I was trying to get my degree in paleontology. Did I think it would increase my chances of landing a role in Jurassic Park 5? Maybe...maybe not.
I remember she and I were the only minorities. We had hit it off right away. Clinging to eachother like we were the only albino squirrels in the bunch. Maybe, it was the comfort of knowing that we had more cultural depth in our blood. Maybe, it was her adorable Slovenian accent. Or maybe it was her big brown eyes.
We hadn't really had any deeper conversations than the goings on of class or the surface of our lives. And we'd only seen eachother outside of class on a day when the professor wanted to treat the class for a beer or two at the local pub. He even threw in some nachos, what a sweetheart. I remember when the class was beginning to disperse, I got nervous, said a hurried goodbye, and headed straight to my car and went home. What an idiot!!
But on the last day of class, my heart was ripping at the seams because the thought of this being the last time of seeing Kaleigh was too much for me to bare. No more exchanging notes. No more laughing at the professor's train conductor hats. No more moments of exhileration when she touched my hand to get my attention. It was time to go and I was going to accept it, this was life and life could be at times, for lack of a better word, a bitch. I slowly pulled on my backpack and was ready to say my parting adieu's when Kaleigh turned around--
"Hey, are you gonna be in town for awhile? Let's exchange numbers and maybe we can hang out?" My heart which had had a burnt out light was now shining with a 100 mega-watt bulb. How quickly the tides change! And how excruciatingly easy she made it sound. To just "hang out." Exchange numbers. Maybe it really was that easy...but something in my mind always seems to add extra layers of hardship. I think it's human nature. When things seem too easy, you have to be suspicious.
We exchanged numbers and I was on cloud 9 nonethe less.
I was tired of my french toast. Finishing off my mamosa I decided to leave my friend there alone and solitary like how he had made me feel questioning my relationship.
Somehow I found myself in front of her apartment. Could I? Should I? Would I?
After a debate with myself, I ended up calling Kaliegh and setting up a movie date. I walked up and she let me in.
As I sat in her apartment, a foreign fantasy land of new hopes and possiblities, I noticed the little garden of pots on her windowsill. There was one pot of yellow daffodils that had come into bloom and I thought--Hmm...I thought daffodils would be much bigger...
"Picture having a relationship with her?"
The thought hadn't really crossed my mind. When I found someone I was interested in, all I knew was that I enjoyed being around that person, no matter what gender. A relationship, no matter what kind or on what level, by any other name would still be a relationship. Sometimes, I think humans can be too picky, or in this case, judgemental. But I guess, many would say that I am not that type. I've thought many a time about that sentiment and would either shrug or say "Fuck you" with my middle fingers held up in the usual rebellious solitary fashion but that's all in my head. I'm not the burly, butch lesbo type. But there was one time where I wanted to beat two teenage girls up for looking at my shoes too hard and laughing....but anyhow.
Kaleigh just so happened to be a girl. I couldn't help that she was the type of person that got under my skin.
I looked at my friend who had posed this reasonable question yet with underlying homophobic tones and I answered, "Sure, I guess."
"Really?" he replied in unneccessary disgusted fashion.
"I don't know..." I trailed off.
I continued drinking my mamosa and hoped the subject would pass. Is this proper brunch conversation? I looked around. To the left was a mother with her two children making a mess with their fruit bowls. To my right was an elderly couple drinking coffee and looking into the distance contemplating more worldly pleasures. I regretted ever bringing Kaliegh up. Now maybe our relationship would be jinxed!
Don't confuse my response of "I don't know" for sexual confusion though. Sexual confusion is just an excuse, I think. My response was merely a reflection of my own self-doubt and lack of self-esteem. If only they sold them in bottles at the corner store.
The marketing posters would say, Steam up your life with a bottle of Self-Esteem now! Buy one, get the next bottle half off for a limited time only! Mmmm....steamy! They'd sell like hotcakes.
We had met in this History of Dinosaurs class. Kaleigh was from Slovenia, a post-grad student taking the class for fun. I was trying to get my degree in paleontology. Did I think it would increase my chances of landing a role in Jurassic Park 5? Maybe...maybe not.
I remember she and I were the only minorities. We had hit it off right away. Clinging to eachother like we were the only albino squirrels in the bunch. Maybe, it was the comfort of knowing that we had more cultural depth in our blood. Maybe, it was her adorable Slovenian accent. Or maybe it was her big brown eyes.
We hadn't really had any deeper conversations than the goings on of class or the surface of our lives. And we'd only seen eachother outside of class on a day when the professor wanted to treat the class for a beer or two at the local pub. He even threw in some nachos, what a sweetheart. I remember when the class was beginning to disperse, I got nervous, said a hurried goodbye, and headed straight to my car and went home. What an idiot!!
But on the last day of class, my heart was ripping at the seams because the thought of this being the last time of seeing Kaleigh was too much for me to bare. No more exchanging notes. No more laughing at the professor's train conductor hats. No more moments of exhileration when she touched my hand to get my attention. It was time to go and I was going to accept it, this was life and life could be at times, for lack of a better word, a bitch. I slowly pulled on my backpack and was ready to say my parting adieu's when Kaleigh turned around--
"Hey, are you gonna be in town for awhile? Let's exchange numbers and maybe we can hang out?" My heart which had had a burnt out light was now shining with a 100 mega-watt bulb. How quickly the tides change! And how excruciatingly easy she made it sound. To just "hang out." Exchange numbers. Maybe it really was that easy...but something in my mind always seems to add extra layers of hardship. I think it's human nature. When things seem too easy, you have to be suspicious.
We exchanged numbers and I was on cloud 9 nonethe less.
I was tired of my french toast. Finishing off my mamosa I decided to leave my friend there alone and solitary like how he had made me feel questioning my relationship.
Somehow I found myself in front of her apartment. Could I? Should I? Would I?
After a debate with myself, I ended up calling Kaliegh and setting up a movie date. I walked up and she let me in.
As I sat in her apartment, a foreign fantasy land of new hopes and possiblities, I noticed the little garden of pots on her windowsill. There was one pot of yellow daffodils that had come into bloom and I thought--Hmm...I thought daffodils would be much bigger...
Monday, January 17, 2005
My Love Affair with Verne Troyer
We met at a posh party in NYC. His manager knew my manager and thought we should meet because Verne had always wanted to meet me for reasons I will not disclose--the sly dog. We'll just say he liked reading some of my books.
It was quaint at first. We chatted about how I got into my writing and how Verne was tired of playing freaks in Austin Powers or goblins in Harry Potter. The business had so much bullshit swimming in it, he thought maybe he should just settle down and become a yoga instructor. Then the alcohol started flowing through our veins and we stumbled to the pool.
At first glance you wouldn't think him much of an athlete. But at a paltry two feet-eight inches, he can swim like a dolphin on steroids. I, being a drunken fool and a weak swimmer, ended up falling into the heated pool and Verne had to jump in and save me. He's my little life saver, my little turtle.
I don't know how I got back to my apartment that night, but I did and with Verne's number scribbled in permanent marker on my left ankle. How could I not call him and thank him for not letting me drown. (Or had he planned it all out all along?) haha Paranoia makes you think of crazy shit. But you can't really put one past minature midgets.
It was a hard courtship. People would think that he was my baby and the first thing that came to my mind was, "You, fucker, you think I look old enough to have a baby that age? You, cunt."
Verne would ease my hostility and we'd go have a gelato. He always knew how to pull my heart strings.
I'd miss him when he was gone for his acting gigs. He told me that an Austin Powers 4 was coming out and wasn't going to let another two foot eight hard ass take his gig.
"Mini Me is mine, " he'd sometimes scream in his sleep. "Mini Me is mine, you pig fuckers! You can't take it away!" I couldn't sleep for weeks but then I got used to it.
But one day he was completely outraged when he heard rumors of who the next Austin Powers girl was going to be. "If they even put Paris Hilton five feet from me, I will shit rocks! I won't work with people like her. It's an outrage. We have to uphold the respectability of the Austin Powers movies. Goddamn those Hollywood cunts. This is bullshit."
When he met my parents, I knew it would be weird--to say the least. And I knew the first thing my mother would think would be--
"What? A white guy?"
But she got used to it and they became best friends afterwards. They still go play bingo together every Wednesday at the local recreation center. She told me in secret that she thinks of him as her "lucky troll doll."
When we moved in together, I wasn't sure how it was going to work because he needed tiny closets and tiny hangers and tiny desks and tiny drawers. I felt like I was in a Barbie playhouse.
When most people see us, they gasp, gawk, or guffaw. It took awhile for me to get used to it. I almost got to the point where I didn't think it was worth the trouble. But then I would look down into his baby blue eyes and hold his stubbly fingers and realize, wild horses couldn't drag me away.
It was quaint at first. We chatted about how I got into my writing and how Verne was tired of playing freaks in Austin Powers or goblins in Harry Potter. The business had so much bullshit swimming in it, he thought maybe he should just settle down and become a yoga instructor. Then the alcohol started flowing through our veins and we stumbled to the pool.
At first glance you wouldn't think him much of an athlete. But at a paltry two feet-eight inches, he can swim like a dolphin on steroids. I, being a drunken fool and a weak swimmer, ended up falling into the heated pool and Verne had to jump in and save me. He's my little life saver, my little turtle.
I don't know how I got back to my apartment that night, but I did and with Verne's number scribbled in permanent marker on my left ankle. How could I not call him and thank him for not letting me drown. (Or had he planned it all out all along?) haha Paranoia makes you think of crazy shit. But you can't really put one past minature midgets.
It was a hard courtship. People would think that he was my baby and the first thing that came to my mind was, "You, fucker, you think I look old enough to have a baby that age? You, cunt."
Verne would ease my hostility and we'd go have a gelato. He always knew how to pull my heart strings.
I'd miss him when he was gone for his acting gigs. He told me that an Austin Powers 4 was coming out and wasn't going to let another two foot eight hard ass take his gig.
"Mini Me is mine, " he'd sometimes scream in his sleep. "Mini Me is mine, you pig fuckers! You can't take it away!" I couldn't sleep for weeks but then I got used to it.
But one day he was completely outraged when he heard rumors of who the next Austin Powers girl was going to be. "If they even put Paris Hilton five feet from me, I will shit rocks! I won't work with people like her. It's an outrage. We have to uphold the respectability of the Austin Powers movies. Goddamn those Hollywood cunts. This is bullshit."
When he met my parents, I knew it would be weird--to say the least. And I knew the first thing my mother would think would be--
"What? A white guy?"
But she got used to it and they became best friends afterwards. They still go play bingo together every Wednesday at the local recreation center. She told me in secret that she thinks of him as her "lucky troll doll."
When we moved in together, I wasn't sure how it was going to work because he needed tiny closets and tiny hangers and tiny desks and tiny drawers. I felt like I was in a Barbie playhouse.
When most people see us, they gasp, gawk, or guffaw. It took awhile for me to get used to it. I almost got to the point where I didn't think it was worth the trouble. But then I would look down into his baby blue eyes and hold his stubbly fingers and realize, wild horses couldn't drag me away.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Devoted to this Day
Decided to walk instead of taking the bus.
Let the cold wind's kisses make my cheeks blush.
Said hello to seven strangers.
Smiled at three babies in strollers.
Gave a homeless man all the coins I had.
Apologize to another homeless man for having no more coins.
Dropped seven rolls of film off to be processed.
Felt the squishy goodness of four loaves of bread at the grocery store.
Enjoyed the "Lounge" exhibit at The ArtHouse downtown.
Read Time Magazine from cover to cover.
Thought about the verses in this poem.
Wrote them down in my "Idea Book."
Walked to the site of next season's MTV's Real World in Austin.
Stood in front of a historical church for 10 minutes, appreciating its architecture.
Smiled at the sound of gravel under my shoe as I walked to the bus stop.
Talked to the man next to me on the bus about Terry Macmillan.
Answered the phone when my little sister called to chat.
Listened to some relaxing Brazillian music.
Ate sponge cake and strawberry jam for lunch....
Let the cold wind's kisses make my cheeks blush.
Said hello to seven strangers.
Smiled at three babies in strollers.
Gave a homeless man all the coins I had.
Apologize to another homeless man for having no more coins.
Dropped seven rolls of film off to be processed.
Felt the squishy goodness of four loaves of bread at the grocery store.
Enjoyed the "Lounge" exhibit at The ArtHouse downtown.
Read Time Magazine from cover to cover.
Thought about the verses in this poem.
Wrote them down in my "Idea Book."
Walked to the site of next season's MTV's Real World in Austin.
Stood in front of a historical church for 10 minutes, appreciating its architecture.
Smiled at the sound of gravel under my shoe as I walked to the bus stop.
Talked to the man next to me on the bus about Terry Macmillan.
Answered the phone when my little sister called to chat.
Listened to some relaxing Brazillian music.
Ate sponge cake and strawberry jam for lunch....
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Bubble Bath
She lay there in the tub of warm water and bubbles and imagined things.
She liked to turn over on her belly and submerge her head under the water and pretend she was a spy on a secret mission for the CIA. Her team members had all been taken out by the opposing ganglords of Tanzania. She had said a quick prayer for them but had no time to salvage their bloody bodies. She had to let them flow down the Zambezi for heaven to take their souls and the crocodiles to take their flesh. She was on a mission that must be completed or the very sancitity of the world would be at risk. She was now wading in a swamp headed towards the headquarters of the dreaded Tanzanian Syndicate. She scoffed at the eels that slithered against her skin. Though she was alone, she knew no fear. She was on a mission to find out the secret plans and nothing was going to get in her way.
She gasped for air and lifted her head up. She opened her eyes and the bubbles ran down her face.
She liked to pick up a cloud of bubbles and bury her face in it. It felt like swimming in a pond of fairies and pixies. Their silvery rainbow wings brushing against her cheeks. She was the ancient Elven princess who was being given a festival by her followers. The land of the fairies and pixies were honoring her for her extraordinary powers. They had enjoyed 1000 years of peace in their lands and the surrounding sanctuaries. They danced with leaves in their hair and dreams in their hearts. She felt the sheer happiness surrounding her and for a moment she almost felt like she was suffocating from so much love.
She let a snake of bubbles run down her calf.
It looked like melting marshmallows. She imagined that this is what it was like to be in a cup of hot chocolate. Wading in complete and utter warmth. The steamy goodness curly-cueing around her with an aromatic scent of pleasure. It penetrated her soul and she wished she were hot chocolate flowing through the body of a cold-blooded mortal being the object of warmth that brought so much comfort to his long day of cold icy snow. The melted marshmallows sticky on her skin was always her favorite part.
It was time to get out now. The water was getting cold.
As the water drained away, she lay still on her back. Still as a corpse. The air kissing her wet skin made her shiver and goosebumps appeared on her arms and legs. As if she were a long forgotten memory of someone's past crime now resurfacing after the police got a tip to dredge the lake. The water slowly being sucked away revealed the naked wet body of her. The cops were dumbfounded and weren't sure whether or not they would be able to figure anything out at the autopsy. But though her lips were blue and her limbs frozen, her eyes cried out, "Listen to me....hear my secrets."
She liked to turn over on her belly and submerge her head under the water and pretend she was a spy on a secret mission for the CIA. Her team members had all been taken out by the opposing ganglords of Tanzania. She had said a quick prayer for them but had no time to salvage their bloody bodies. She had to let them flow down the Zambezi for heaven to take their souls and the crocodiles to take their flesh. She was on a mission that must be completed or the very sancitity of the world would be at risk. She was now wading in a swamp headed towards the headquarters of the dreaded Tanzanian Syndicate. She scoffed at the eels that slithered against her skin. Though she was alone, she knew no fear. She was on a mission to find out the secret plans and nothing was going to get in her way.
She gasped for air and lifted her head up. She opened her eyes and the bubbles ran down her face.
She liked to pick up a cloud of bubbles and bury her face in it. It felt like swimming in a pond of fairies and pixies. Their silvery rainbow wings brushing against her cheeks. She was the ancient Elven princess who was being given a festival by her followers. The land of the fairies and pixies were honoring her for her extraordinary powers. They had enjoyed 1000 years of peace in their lands and the surrounding sanctuaries. They danced with leaves in their hair and dreams in their hearts. She felt the sheer happiness surrounding her and for a moment she almost felt like she was suffocating from so much love.
She let a snake of bubbles run down her calf.
It looked like melting marshmallows. She imagined that this is what it was like to be in a cup of hot chocolate. Wading in complete and utter warmth. The steamy goodness curly-cueing around her with an aromatic scent of pleasure. It penetrated her soul and she wished she were hot chocolate flowing through the body of a cold-blooded mortal being the object of warmth that brought so much comfort to his long day of cold icy snow. The melted marshmallows sticky on her skin was always her favorite part.
It was time to get out now. The water was getting cold.
As the water drained away, she lay still on her back. Still as a corpse. The air kissing her wet skin made her shiver and goosebumps appeared on her arms and legs. As if she were a long forgotten memory of someone's past crime now resurfacing after the police got a tip to dredge the lake. The water slowly being sucked away revealed the naked wet body of her. The cops were dumbfounded and weren't sure whether or not they would be able to figure anything out at the autopsy. But though her lips were blue and her limbs frozen, her eyes cried out, "Listen to me....hear my secrets."
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Friday, January 07, 2005
A Brief History of Bonn's Bagel Factory
(Continuation of Big Shoe, Small Shoe/Brik-a-Brak)
1945
"Honey, I can never finish a whole bagel. They're just too big for me. You want the rest of this."
"But you're pregnant. You should be eating up everything in sight! Don't you want the baby to be big and handsome like me?"
Aurora laughed. "But then everyone would know, it's not yours." They both laughed. Aurora sighed. "I know, I know...I'm just not feeling good right now."
Kenneth Bonn looked at his petite wife and smiled. Her belly was just beginning to show. Aurora pushed her plate towards him.
Aurora smiled at him while he ate the bagel sandwich. "You know what they should do? Make mini bagels and make sandwiches out of those."
"I think they do have mini bagels, dear." They both started laughing. It was a calm, peaceful Sunday afternoon and the two were having lunch after church. They had never been to Charla's Diner before but always noticed a long line winding out the door. It wasn't too bad, except for the large bagels.
Kenneth coughed.
"Hon, are you ok?"
He coughed some more. Lettuce and cheese spilled out of his mouth and his face flushed red.
"Kenneth! Somebody help! My husband is choking!"
A crowd gathered and a burly man tried giving him the Heimlich maneuver. A worker rushed to call an ambulance.
But the man's thrusts were not helping the situation. It just made Kenneth cough more and now his eyes were bulging out of their sockets. All of a sudden, Kenneth, went limp.
"Oh my god...Ken...someone...Please help him..."
***************************************************************
"I'm sorry, Ms. Bonn. You don't have a case here. It was an accident and no fault lies with Charla's Diner. I don't know what to do for you. I'm sorry for your loss."
Aurora pursed her lips and closed her eyes because she didn't want to cry like she did in front of the five other lawyers she had talked to prior to this appointment. She slowly stood up and left.
***************************************************************
The funeral was small. Kenneth's family only consisted of his father and his step-sister. Aurora's family was all in Maine and they couldn't make it down. Some of the local townspeople were there to give their condolences. Charla Moore, the owner of the diner, was there too.
"Honey, I'm so sorry. I can't believe this happened. I...I...don't know what to say..." The tears rolled down her cheeks.
Aurora felt nothing. She looked at the woman with apathy and walked away.
***************************************************************
At night, she would lie awake missing Kenneth so much she thought she had been hit by a train. Sometimes, she'd go to the restaurant where her husband had choked to death and just look at the glass windows, the wooden door, the green striped awning and weep. She hated them. Them? But who? It wasn't the employees fault, was it? The owners? Charla Moore? No. The managers? Aurora had a burning feeling inside of her....she needed to blame someone. One night she noticed the lot across the street was vacant and it was for sale.
****************************************************************
After six months of saving, planning, and bank loans Aurora had enough to buy the lot across from Charla's Diner. She built Bonn's Bagel Factory and made her specialty mini bagels which was a big hit with the town. Charla's Diner was run out of business within two months.
****************************************************************
Aurora had a healthy, 8-lb baby. She named him Kenneth Jr. Kenneth would grow up not knowing a father. But he was still successful in his pursuits. He married a gorgeous interior designer and they had a daughter. They named her Lara.
1945
"Honey, I can never finish a whole bagel. They're just too big for me. You want the rest of this."
"But you're pregnant. You should be eating up everything in sight! Don't you want the baby to be big and handsome like me?"
Aurora laughed. "But then everyone would know, it's not yours." They both laughed. Aurora sighed. "I know, I know...I'm just not feeling good right now."
Kenneth Bonn looked at his petite wife and smiled. Her belly was just beginning to show. Aurora pushed her plate towards him.
Aurora smiled at him while he ate the bagel sandwich. "You know what they should do? Make mini bagels and make sandwiches out of those."
"I think they do have mini bagels, dear." They both started laughing. It was a calm, peaceful Sunday afternoon and the two were having lunch after church. They had never been to Charla's Diner before but always noticed a long line winding out the door. It wasn't too bad, except for the large bagels.
Kenneth coughed.
"Hon, are you ok?"
He coughed some more. Lettuce and cheese spilled out of his mouth and his face flushed red.
"Kenneth! Somebody help! My husband is choking!"
A crowd gathered and a burly man tried giving him the Heimlich maneuver. A worker rushed to call an ambulance.
But the man's thrusts were not helping the situation. It just made Kenneth cough more and now his eyes were bulging out of their sockets. All of a sudden, Kenneth, went limp.
"Oh my god...Ken...someone...Please help him..."
***************************************************************
"I'm sorry, Ms. Bonn. You don't have a case here. It was an accident and no fault lies with Charla's Diner. I don't know what to do for you. I'm sorry for your loss."
Aurora pursed her lips and closed her eyes because she didn't want to cry like she did in front of the five other lawyers she had talked to prior to this appointment. She slowly stood up and left.
***************************************************************
The funeral was small. Kenneth's family only consisted of his father and his step-sister. Aurora's family was all in Maine and they couldn't make it down. Some of the local townspeople were there to give their condolences. Charla Moore, the owner of the diner, was there too.
"Honey, I'm so sorry. I can't believe this happened. I...I...don't know what to say..." The tears rolled down her cheeks.
Aurora felt nothing. She looked at the woman with apathy and walked away.
***************************************************************
At night, she would lie awake missing Kenneth so much she thought she had been hit by a train. Sometimes, she'd go to the restaurant where her husband had choked to death and just look at the glass windows, the wooden door, the green striped awning and weep. She hated them. Them? But who? It wasn't the employees fault, was it? The owners? Charla Moore? No. The managers? Aurora had a burning feeling inside of her....she needed to blame someone. One night she noticed the lot across the street was vacant and it was for sale.
****************************************************************
After six months of saving, planning, and bank loans Aurora had enough to buy the lot across from Charla's Diner. She built Bonn's Bagel Factory and made her specialty mini bagels which was a big hit with the town. Charla's Diner was run out of business within two months.
****************************************************************
Aurora had a healthy, 8-lb baby. She named him Kenneth Jr. Kenneth would grow up not knowing a father. But he was still successful in his pursuits. He married a gorgeous interior designer and they had a daughter. They named her Lara.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
F.Y.I. Regarding Snoring...
I'm sitting in the library after a week of being cooped up in my apartment. I wasn't forced to stay in my apartment for a non-stop string of 118 hours straight by any dictatorial means, it was merely from shear laziness. How awful is that? Mighty awful...mighty.
But I did get a good amount of reading and studying done. But that can be cancelled out by the good amount of television watching I did as well, so whose to say which side of the coin is luckier, eh? I might have stepped out to check my letterbox but that doesn't count because I don't even lock the door when I step out to check my mail which could be dangerous. I read somewhere about some serial rapist around here who would sneak into girl's apartments when they left the door unlocked because they were just throwing trash in the rubbish bin or some other mundane task like that where you wouldn't even give a second thought of anything violent happening if you were just meandering away 20 meters or so. But then when they came back, woops, to their astonishment a rapist was there to pillage them. How awful is that? Mighty awful...mighty.
Let that be a lesson to all females (and males, perhaps!) reading this to always lock your doors when you step out no matter how close or far you might stray.
Anyhow, I digress.
I am in the library which is deliciously empty because the term has not started back yet (not till January 18, the lucky undergraduate bastards!) and there's not a trace of university life other than the hopeful librarian at the circulation desk, the brunette professor with the thick rimmed glasses chatting with her Internet lover, the grad student whose fallen asleep and me who should be studying for the GRE's but my muse decided to climb onto my back so I have no other choice but to give it a piggy-back ride, yes?
Let's go back to that grad student whose fallen asleep. I cannot see him because I am tucked away in the corner in my cublicle, but I can hear him. His snores are bellowing out like he's trying to wake the dead. Or maybe attract some wild boar. Either way, where most people would find this distracting and annoying, I find it quite amusing and am grateful for him because if his melodious drones weren't permeating (GRE Verbal Rocks!) my ears and brain, I might find myself asleep as well (and I've been told that I snore, too!)
So this sparked my interest and I decided to learn some more about why people snore and so where else to look but embarassingproblems.com Hey, that's really a site, don't knock it. I know a few of you have wandered there in your darkest hours seeking insight and refuge. Don't try to deny it.
So what's the million dollar question for today? You guessed it. Why do people snore? Simple enough, all you had to do was ask.... :) I know you've been dying to find out.
When we're not sleeping, the muscles of the throat hold the throat open, so that air passes in smoothly as we breathe. When we are asleep, these muscles relax and the throat sags inwards, causing air turbulence, particularly as we breathe in. Snoring occurs when the roof of the mouth (soft palate and uvula - the uvula is the piece of tissue that dangles at the back of the throat), and sometimes the base of the tongue as well, starts to vibrate intermittently as a result of excessive turbulence. (Interestingly, astronauts hardly ever snore in space, because without the pull of gravity, the throat and tongue will not sag in.) [Reference: http://www.embarrassingproblems.com/pages2/snore1.htm]
Isn't that interesting? And even more so are the list of things that heighten your chances of being a snorer which I have assembled as follows:
But I did get a good amount of reading and studying done. But that can be cancelled out by the good amount of television watching I did as well, so whose to say which side of the coin is luckier, eh? I might have stepped out to check my letterbox but that doesn't count because I don't even lock the door when I step out to check my mail which could be dangerous. I read somewhere about some serial rapist around here who would sneak into girl's apartments when they left the door unlocked because they were just throwing trash in the rubbish bin or some other mundane task like that where you wouldn't even give a second thought of anything violent happening if you were just meandering away 20 meters or so. But then when they came back, woops, to their astonishment a rapist was there to pillage them. How awful is that? Mighty awful...mighty.
Let that be a lesson to all females (and males, perhaps!) reading this to always lock your doors when you step out no matter how close or far you might stray.
Anyhow, I digress.
I am in the library which is deliciously empty because the term has not started back yet (not till January 18, the lucky undergraduate bastards!) and there's not a trace of university life other than the hopeful librarian at the circulation desk, the brunette professor with the thick rimmed glasses chatting with her Internet lover, the grad student whose fallen asleep and me who should be studying for the GRE's but my muse decided to climb onto my back so I have no other choice but to give it a piggy-back ride, yes?
Let's go back to that grad student whose fallen asleep. I cannot see him because I am tucked away in the corner in my cublicle, but I can hear him. His snores are bellowing out like he's trying to wake the dead. Or maybe attract some wild boar. Either way, where most people would find this distracting and annoying, I find it quite amusing and am grateful for him because if his melodious drones weren't permeating (GRE Verbal Rocks!) my ears and brain, I might find myself asleep as well (and I've been told that I snore, too!)
So this sparked my interest and I decided to learn some more about why people snore and so where else to look but embarassingproblems.com Hey, that's really a site, don't knock it. I know a few of you have wandered there in your darkest hours seeking insight and refuge. Don't try to deny it.
So what's the million dollar question for today? You guessed it. Why do people snore? Simple enough, all you had to do was ask.... :) I know you've been dying to find out.
When we're not sleeping, the muscles of the throat hold the throat open, so that air passes in smoothly as we breathe. When we are asleep, these muscles relax and the throat sags inwards, causing air turbulence, particularly as we breathe in. Snoring occurs when the roof of the mouth (soft palate and uvula - the uvula is the piece of tissue that dangles at the back of the throat), and sometimes the base of the tongue as well, starts to vibrate intermittently as a result of excessive turbulence. (Interestingly, astronauts hardly ever snore in space, because without the pull of gravity, the throat and tongue will not sag in.) [Reference: http://www.embarrassingproblems.com/pages2/snore1.htm]
Isn't that interesting? And even more so are the list of things that heighten your chances of being a snorer which I have assembled as follows:
- have a small jaw and narrow throat and/or a large uvula
- drink alcohol or take sleeping pills
are overweight, particularly if you have a fat neck - breathe through your mouth rather than your nose
- smoke
- sleep on your back
- eat a large meal before bed
- have relatives who snore
- have a round-shaped head rather than a long, thin head. (Sleep and Breathing 2001;5:79-91).[Reference: http://www.embarrassingproblems.com/pages2/snore1.htm]
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
5-Year Old Anxiety
I tipped the glass of kool-aid over and was worried that mom would notice. I placed two paper towels on the spill and watched as the red crop circles formed on the once white fibers. Maybe she wouldn't be as nice as last time. This time she might trade me with the village barter for some Chinese spices or a bag of corn kernals to make a stress bag.
So I went ahead and grabbed my knapsack. I had no other choice but to run away. I decided that I should bring eight days and eight nights worth of food so I tiptoed to the kitchen and filled my Rainbow Brite thermos with more of the dreaded kool-aid that put me in this predicament in the first place. There wasn't much else in the fridge other than a head of lettuce (which I hated and I didn't want people to mistake me for a rabbit) and I didn't think I should touch Dad's pickled vegatable collection because those are his prized treasures.
So what else was I to do but ask my sister what she thought would be a good foodstuff that wasn't perishable. She told me to bring candy and said I was in luck. For one dollar she would give me her whole stash of sweet tarts. I thought it was a deal that only came along in a blue moon so I broke up Mr. Curlytail and counted out one dollar in pennies and made the transaction. I packed the candy away in my knapsack along with one pair of underwear, an umbrella, my cabbage patch doll, and a picture of my family (at that time it was just four of us). I told my sister I was going and she just said goodbye and I regretted breaking Mr. Curlytail into so many pieces.
It would be a long journey. Out the backyard door all the way to the corner where the grass was long and tall. No one would find me there. I would stay there and maybe see how many times my picture would come up on the milk carton. But where would I find the money to buy milk cartons. That means I have to dig through people's garbage for empty ones. Gross.
My stomach was hungry. I took out my thermos and poured my Cabbage patch doll a cup of kool aid as I drank straight from the thermos. I took out the pack of candy my sister had given me and sorted it out by colors. I ate the orange one and immediately spit it out. It tasted like gasoline. I realized that my sister had given me Easter egg dye tablets and sighed for being so naive. She would never have given me so much candy for just a dollar. Now what?
I waited for probably five hours (in reality, it was only thirty minutes) and mom comes out to the yard and says that dinner is almost ready and to come in and wash up and I shouldn't be sitting in the tall grass because that's where the ants are and I hate itchy bites.
She must have not noticed the spill or maybe aliens had touched down and taken the spill as corroborative evidence of human dietary habits. The latter was more beleiveable so I made a promise to always say a blessing for green martian men when I said my prayers before I went to bed.
I packed up my knapsack and held my cabbage patch doll tight. I put them on top of my bed just in case I spilled something at dinner that night.
So I went ahead and grabbed my knapsack. I had no other choice but to run away. I decided that I should bring eight days and eight nights worth of food so I tiptoed to the kitchen and filled my Rainbow Brite thermos with more of the dreaded kool-aid that put me in this predicament in the first place. There wasn't much else in the fridge other than a head of lettuce (which I hated and I didn't want people to mistake me for a rabbit) and I didn't think I should touch Dad's pickled vegatable collection because those are his prized treasures.
So what else was I to do but ask my sister what she thought would be a good foodstuff that wasn't perishable. She told me to bring candy and said I was in luck. For one dollar she would give me her whole stash of sweet tarts. I thought it was a deal that only came along in a blue moon so I broke up Mr. Curlytail and counted out one dollar in pennies and made the transaction. I packed the candy away in my knapsack along with one pair of underwear, an umbrella, my cabbage patch doll, and a picture of my family (at that time it was just four of us). I told my sister I was going and she just said goodbye and I regretted breaking Mr. Curlytail into so many pieces.
It would be a long journey. Out the backyard door all the way to the corner where the grass was long and tall. No one would find me there. I would stay there and maybe see how many times my picture would come up on the milk carton. But where would I find the money to buy milk cartons. That means I have to dig through people's garbage for empty ones. Gross.
My stomach was hungry. I took out my thermos and poured my Cabbage patch doll a cup of kool aid as I drank straight from the thermos. I took out the pack of candy my sister had given me and sorted it out by colors. I ate the orange one and immediately spit it out. It tasted like gasoline. I realized that my sister had given me Easter egg dye tablets and sighed for being so naive. She would never have given me so much candy for just a dollar. Now what?
I waited for probably five hours (in reality, it was only thirty minutes) and mom comes out to the yard and says that dinner is almost ready and to come in and wash up and I shouldn't be sitting in the tall grass because that's where the ants are and I hate itchy bites.
She must have not noticed the spill or maybe aliens had touched down and taken the spill as corroborative evidence of human dietary habits. The latter was more beleiveable so I made a promise to always say a blessing for green martian men when I said my prayers before I went to bed.
I packed up my knapsack and held my cabbage patch doll tight. I put them on top of my bed just in case I spilled something at dinner that night.
Lifelong Struggle for Haiku
(Attempt #1 [Ambiguous kigo, overdone theme])
Rain of tomorrow
Erases tears of today
When will I move on?
(Attempt #2 [Lacks kigo. Good attempt])
Waking from slumber
The sun shines brightly outside
No light in my room
(Attempt #3 [Kigo relative to U.S., first line needs adjustment, change "watch" Ln.2, onomatapeia?])
Popcorn, sticky sweet
Perfect time for Oscar watch
Shh, movie begins
(Attepmt #4 [No kigo. Weak second line])
Get out of my head
And on to the blank paper
Words, my friend, my foe
Rain of tomorrow
Erases tears of today
When will I move on?
(Attempt #2 [Lacks kigo. Good attempt])
Waking from slumber
The sun shines brightly outside
No light in my room
(Attempt #3 [Kigo relative to U.S., first line needs adjustment, change "watch" Ln.2, onomatapeia?])
Popcorn, sticky sweet
Perfect time for Oscar watch
Shh, movie begins
(Attepmt #4 [No kigo. Weak second line])
Get out of my head
And on to the blank paper
Words, my friend, my foe
Monday, January 03, 2005
Sestina for Mom
Mom really wanted that piece of land.
The one out there in the country
where there's a pond and lots of trees.
Dad agrees and then we even get cows
and some emus because a farm always
has to have those two things.
But even though we were content, things
were bound to happen with that land
because the volatile good times always
lead to an insidious mess in this country.
Nothing ever lasts, but at least Mom had the cows
and she always remembers the tall, solid trees.
So sad how one’s dreams can become ephemeral trees.
Nothing can assuage his taste for avaricious habits.
Then Dad says no more hay and saltlicks for the cows.
And it’s now a bargain chip, no longer a piece of land.
Mom doesn't like how Dad is in this country.
But he says it’s for the best, loves us always.
Mom threatens she'll hate him for always
if he takes away the solidness of all those trees.
She needs a sanctuary of calm from this country.
And she's tired of working and his betting things.
Mom is scared Dad will gamble away the precious land.
I even remember having to burn one of the cows.
Some might think it is trite, the thought of cows
but if you knew how much it meant. She always
dreamt about that freedom in that peace of land.
But dad went ahead and sold those tall, solid trees.
Because he was thinking of other things
like how to make money in this capitalistic country.
Mom wonders what she hates more: him or this country
I remember, at the auction, selling all the cows
and selling all the beloved emus and acre things.
I will remember the sight of Mom crying always,
the cut on her legs like slashes on those solid trees.
A distant memory in her mind of that faraway land.
Now we live in an empty country with no trees.
And mom always has to hold on tighter to her things
with the memory of burning cows in a desiccated land.
Sunday, January 02, 2005
New Year's Resolution
Dear XXXXX
I know it's been a while since the last time we've talked. I don't know if you would say it ended on a good note or a bad one but aquaintenances like us do not linger on the past. It's just not our style. The friendship that we have leaves room for hiatus but always the hope of a rekindling, no? You know that I am here in the background smiling and you are somewhere in the foreground where I can't quite see. But the presence of you and me is always mingled somewhere in the roses. That's why I like it--no self-righteousness, no expectations, no pressure.
A lot has happened since we've last talked and I'm sure you have had a lot of that thing called "life" happen to you on your side of the world. And if something exciting has happened, I would love to hear all about it. Maybe not now because there wouldn't be enough time in a letter. But maybe too little for a phone call. And I get nervous talking on the phone, you know that. I was always the laconic one that brought out your loquacious disposition. Or was it the other way around? Ok, ok, I'll stop trying to use all those big words. You know every little idiosyncracy. Don't worry. You don't have to say a word. I know you are enjoying life and I can honestly say that I am content too. Maybe not at the happiest I could be. Sometimes life gets hard and it is more opaque than you'd like it to be. But I like to think that there's more in store for me. More than meets the eye when I see my life through convoluted glass. The best for me is yet to come. And I wish the same for you. Isn't it crazy the situations we find ourselves in? The decisions we make that make us question ourselves? So much left up to the wind but we always try to hold it in our palms when all that happens is air slipping through our fingers.
As you can see, its a new year ahead of us and it's that time where we think and reflect on our lives and what we've accomplished, our goals, our successes, our foes, our loves (or lack there of...) I don't want you to write back. God, no. I only want you to take in my words, soak them in and just realize that there are moments in my life where you wander in. Sometimes more frequently than you might think. A familiar stranger that dances across my stage and know that I am applauding you, good friend. Where once before it was just you and me in that empty auditorium. Now life has filled the seats with many pristine patrons and inimical idiots. But even though now I am sitting in the back and all you see is the large mass of crowds before you. Remember, I am in that crowd, watching you and applauding.
A reminiscent friend,
xxxxx
I know it's been a while since the last time we've talked. I don't know if you would say it ended on a good note or a bad one but aquaintenances like us do not linger on the past. It's just not our style. The friendship that we have leaves room for hiatus but always the hope of a rekindling, no? You know that I am here in the background smiling and you are somewhere in the foreground where I can't quite see. But the presence of you and me is always mingled somewhere in the roses. That's why I like it--no self-righteousness, no expectations, no pressure.
A lot has happened since we've last talked and I'm sure you have had a lot of that thing called "life" happen to you on your side of the world. And if something exciting has happened, I would love to hear all about it. Maybe not now because there wouldn't be enough time in a letter. But maybe too little for a phone call. And I get nervous talking on the phone, you know that. I was always the laconic one that brought out your loquacious disposition. Or was it the other way around? Ok, ok, I'll stop trying to use all those big words. You know every little idiosyncracy. Don't worry. You don't have to say a word. I know you are enjoying life and I can honestly say that I am content too. Maybe not at the happiest I could be. Sometimes life gets hard and it is more opaque than you'd like it to be. But I like to think that there's more in store for me. More than meets the eye when I see my life through convoluted glass. The best for me is yet to come. And I wish the same for you. Isn't it crazy the situations we find ourselves in? The decisions we make that make us question ourselves? So much left up to the wind but we always try to hold it in our palms when all that happens is air slipping through our fingers.
As you can see, its a new year ahead of us and it's that time where we think and reflect on our lives and what we've accomplished, our goals, our successes, our foes, our loves (or lack there of...) I don't want you to write back. God, no. I only want you to take in my words, soak them in and just realize that there are moments in my life where you wander in. Sometimes more frequently than you might think. A familiar stranger that dances across my stage and know that I am applauding you, good friend. Where once before it was just you and me in that empty auditorium. Now life has filled the seats with many pristine patrons and inimical idiots. But even though now I am sitting in the back and all you see is the large mass of crowds before you. Remember, I am in that crowd, watching you and applauding.
A reminiscent friend,
xxxxx
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Confessions of An Airplane Neurotic
Being on airplanes freak me out. Not because I am afraid of heights. No. That's not it at all. It's just the strangest things take place 30,000 feet above ground. My mind starts racing a mile a minute and I get awfully neurotic. It's not natural for humans to be up that high.
The worst thing that can happen is that you are assigned to the middle seat. It's probably the closest to Hell you can get because you are confined to looking at the sad little head rest in front of you because you can't look out the window because then the person who is actually sitting next to the window will think you are staring at them forcing them to look at their sad little head rest or stare out into the clouds. And you don't want to look at the person sitting in the aisle seat because that would force them to look down at the aisle and the aisle lights could blind them. That would just be down right rude. I wouldn't want the guilt of causing someone's blindness on my head, would you? I don't think so. I already have enough to answer for when I arrive at the pearly gates.
I had to sit in the middle seat one time as I was flying home from some point across the Pacific Ocean. A 12-year old Asian girl sat next to me. She had the honor of the aisle seat. Oh, the aisle seat. You, lucky, lucky girl. Did you request that precious jewel or was Fate just on your side that day? When the angels colluded to give you a 14-hour plane ride of comfort and relaxation while the drones of Hades plotted my demise? Sleep on, little girl, enjoy the gentle touch of Destiny's palm while you can.
The freedom to get up whenever you want without having the imposition of tapping the person next to you on the shoulder and putting on puppy dog eyes, pouting your lips, and nodding your head towards the back of the plane and giving a "Sorry, buddy, but can't you see I really gotta go #1" sorta look. I wonder if everyone is as edgy as I get when I am on the plane. I hate having to go to the bathroom on planes because it's like getting up in the middle of the crescendo of a symphony or something like that. Maybe like getting up in the middle of a crazy cool action movie and the hero is blasting away at the bad guys or in the middle of a crazy sexy love scene where you realize these two people really should be together...or maybe getting up in the middle of your sister's wedding where the best man is giving his toast and you scream out, "I think I have to pee!! But don't mind me...keep going." I'm just neurotic. I sat in place for God knows how long and I kept saying to myself, "Come on, lightweight, you only have 7 more hours to go. Your bladder can handle that." But of course, I cannot. It's just not humanly possible, people.
Back to sitting next to this 12-year old Asian girl. She has conveniently fallen asleep and I contemplate how long she'll be taking a nap until I can go to the bathroom. I hate waking up people especially strangers. Because how many other occasions would you have to wake up a stranger? Only on an airplane when you have to go to the bathroom and maybe the next morning after a hard night of clubbing and tequila shots.
Oh, here comes the stewardess with the refreshment cart. Oh, if I go to the restroom, I'll miss her and I won't have the courage to ask her for a drink on my own because I'm sure she'll cast me a look that says, "You should have been in your seat, Miss Apples. You'll just have to wait until the next round of refreshments." And I've never been one of those people to push the "Request for Personal Service" button. That tiny ding that goes off and you think, "What does that loser want? Can't you leave the flight attendants alone. They work hard enough. All that pointing and coffee pouring, don't you know."
So I stay. Oh, what do I want to drink? What do I want to drink? This is always a big decision because you always want to get your money's worth so that means alcohol or fruit juice. But you don't want to be the lush with a tray table full of tiny vodka bottles and a glazed look in your eye as you become the airplane booze bum. When the flight attendant asks whether you want chicken or beef you get into a fist fight with her because your alcoholic veins want a thin crust pizza with pepperoni and extra olives. That would be a scene for sure.
"Chicken or Beef?"
"Pizza!! I want pizza...pepperoni and olives, don't you know?"
"I'm sorry Miss Apples but your choices are chicken and beef."
"I thought I told you I'm going to have the thin crust pizza, lady! Perk up your ears!"
"Miss Apples, calm down. I'm going to have to give you the chicken then."
"What the hell? I'm the customer! I want pizza! I can smell it baking back there. You attendants just want it all for yourselves, you selfish bastards!!"
So fruit juice then? But that seems so kindergarten. So you want soda? But then sometimes they don't give you the whole can and pour you half from the can and save it for the next poor soul who wants Diet Pepsi too. So water? But that seems like such a waste. You can get water anytime. Get a 7 up. Or a ginger ale. That sounds fancy...like a mature adult of drinking age who knows their boundaries.
"What drink can I get for you, ma'am?"
"Ginger ale please."
"Oh I'm sorry we're out of ginger ale."
Dammit!! Foiled again. I'll never fly this airline ever again! Ok, quick-- think!
"Umm..ok...7 up."
Dammit, no!! You should have gotten an apple juice. 7 up is too fizzy.
So now here I am with a cup full of fizzy soda and I still have to go to the restroom but now I have to finish the fizzy soda before I can get up. And since when do they start giving us pretzels instead of peanuts!! Look at the situations you put yourself in!! Goddammit!!
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Thirty minutes. Ok, I have to go. I shake her once. Shame on you. I shake her twice. Shame on me. Nothing. I swear I nearly rip this girl's arm off but she still doesn't respond. What, did she take a bottle of sleeping pills or something? Worse yet, maybe she's narcoleptic. How sad. Now I feel sorry for being upset at a person with a physical disorder. But now I can tell people I met a 12-year old narcoleptic. Stop making jokes, you have a bladder situation on your hands.
I look over to the old man sitting in the window seat. I expect some look of sympathy...some expression of condolences because surely he had to have noticed my attempts to shake off Mr. Sandman's dust from this girl. But he gave me a quick glance and looked back down at his Skymall catalogue. Maybe he thought I was looking out the window and was startled to see my eyes meet his. What a cad. So what else was I left to do. I unbuckle my seat belt and climb over this girl. How embarassing. I felt like everyone was watching me. As if I was the in-flight entertainment.
"Look, honey, put on your headphones. The movie is starting. Oh its that one with the narcoleptic who always sits in the aisle seat and makes the person sitting next to her dreadfully uncomfortable. The best part is whether or not the person climbing over the narcoleptic's bladder explodes as she's crawling over the girl only to find out that one bathroom is clogged up and the other already has three people waiting in line for it!! What a comedy. Oscar gold for sure!!"
Anyhow, I make it to the tiny restroom and do my business. It embarassingly takes a few minutes for me to figure out how to flush and when I step out, the old lady waiting after me gives me an irritated look as if I stunk up the bathroom. Come on, lady, that smell was already there!! Blame the fat man in G21 who ordered the rubbery beef stroganoff, not me!!
Hopefully, I would have thought the 12-year old Asian girl had awoken or at least shifted in her sleep. I tapped her on the shoulder. I shook her shoulder. I wanted to slap her or maybe pour some hot tea in her lap but then that would make me the wrong one. That's the paradox of this situation and of society. Come on, a smoking gun doesn't give you all the details....
So once again I have to climb over her and I am hoping my bladder can last the final hours of this trip. Was the destination Texas or Purgatory, I forget?
I buckle my seatbelt and give a sigh of relief. I shake off those last few moments and decide to have a nice read of my anthology in peace and solace.
Oh great, now the sleepy bear awakes from hibernation. The girl shifts. She opens her eyes. Draws her knees up to her chest and turns in her seat. And the next thing I know, she has wedged her toes under my thighs for warmth.
Where am I? Is this happening? Who is this child who thinks she can use me as some kind of human heater? Do I look like a pair of socks? She continues sleeping and I don't know what to do. Obviously if I try to wake her, she won't respond. This truly is hell.
At least she doesn't have long toe nails and is wearing socks. And now, its easier for me to pass by her if I need to go to the restroom because I don't have to crawl over her legs. See, I'm not that pessimistic.....only 6 more hours to go....
The worst thing that can happen is that you are assigned to the middle seat. It's probably the closest to Hell you can get because you are confined to looking at the sad little head rest in front of you because you can't look out the window because then the person who is actually sitting next to the window will think you are staring at them forcing them to look at their sad little head rest or stare out into the clouds. And you don't want to look at the person sitting in the aisle seat because that would force them to look down at the aisle and the aisle lights could blind them. That would just be down right rude. I wouldn't want the guilt of causing someone's blindness on my head, would you? I don't think so. I already have enough to answer for when I arrive at the pearly gates.
I had to sit in the middle seat one time as I was flying home from some point across the Pacific Ocean. A 12-year old Asian girl sat next to me. She had the honor of the aisle seat. Oh, the aisle seat. You, lucky, lucky girl. Did you request that precious jewel or was Fate just on your side that day? When the angels colluded to give you a 14-hour plane ride of comfort and relaxation while the drones of Hades plotted my demise? Sleep on, little girl, enjoy the gentle touch of Destiny's palm while you can.
The freedom to get up whenever you want without having the imposition of tapping the person next to you on the shoulder and putting on puppy dog eyes, pouting your lips, and nodding your head towards the back of the plane and giving a "Sorry, buddy, but can't you see I really gotta go #1" sorta look. I wonder if everyone is as edgy as I get when I am on the plane. I hate having to go to the bathroom on planes because it's like getting up in the middle of the crescendo of a symphony or something like that. Maybe like getting up in the middle of a crazy cool action movie and the hero is blasting away at the bad guys or in the middle of a crazy sexy love scene where you realize these two people really should be together...or maybe getting up in the middle of your sister's wedding where the best man is giving his toast and you scream out, "I think I have to pee!! But don't mind me...keep going." I'm just neurotic. I sat in place for God knows how long and I kept saying to myself, "Come on, lightweight, you only have 7 more hours to go. Your bladder can handle that." But of course, I cannot. It's just not humanly possible, people.
Back to sitting next to this 12-year old Asian girl. She has conveniently fallen asleep and I contemplate how long she'll be taking a nap until I can go to the bathroom. I hate waking up people especially strangers. Because how many other occasions would you have to wake up a stranger? Only on an airplane when you have to go to the bathroom and maybe the next morning after a hard night of clubbing and tequila shots.
Oh, here comes the stewardess with the refreshment cart. Oh, if I go to the restroom, I'll miss her and I won't have the courage to ask her for a drink on my own because I'm sure she'll cast me a look that says, "You should have been in your seat, Miss Apples. You'll just have to wait until the next round of refreshments." And I've never been one of those people to push the "Request for Personal Service" button. That tiny ding that goes off and you think, "What does that loser want? Can't you leave the flight attendants alone. They work hard enough. All that pointing and coffee pouring, don't you know."
So I stay. Oh, what do I want to drink? What do I want to drink? This is always a big decision because you always want to get your money's worth so that means alcohol or fruit juice. But you don't want to be the lush with a tray table full of tiny vodka bottles and a glazed look in your eye as you become the airplane booze bum. When the flight attendant asks whether you want chicken or beef you get into a fist fight with her because your alcoholic veins want a thin crust pizza with pepperoni and extra olives. That would be a scene for sure.
"Chicken or Beef?"
"Pizza!! I want pizza...pepperoni and olives, don't you know?"
"I'm sorry Miss Apples but your choices are chicken and beef."
"I thought I told you I'm going to have the thin crust pizza, lady! Perk up your ears!"
"Miss Apples, calm down. I'm going to have to give you the chicken then."
"What the hell? I'm the customer! I want pizza! I can smell it baking back there. You attendants just want it all for yourselves, you selfish bastards!!"
So fruit juice then? But that seems so kindergarten. So you want soda? But then sometimes they don't give you the whole can and pour you half from the can and save it for the next poor soul who wants Diet Pepsi too. So water? But that seems like such a waste. You can get water anytime. Get a 7 up. Or a ginger ale. That sounds fancy...like a mature adult of drinking age who knows their boundaries.
"What drink can I get for you, ma'am?"
"Ginger ale please."
"Oh I'm sorry we're out of ginger ale."
Dammit!! Foiled again. I'll never fly this airline ever again! Ok, quick-- think!
"Umm..ok...7 up."
Dammit, no!! You should have gotten an apple juice. 7 up is too fizzy.
So now here I am with a cup full of fizzy soda and I still have to go to the restroom but now I have to finish the fizzy soda before I can get up. And since when do they start giving us pretzels instead of peanuts!! Look at the situations you put yourself in!! Goddammit!!
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Thirty minutes. Ok, I have to go. I shake her once. Shame on you. I shake her twice. Shame on me. Nothing. I swear I nearly rip this girl's arm off but she still doesn't respond. What, did she take a bottle of sleeping pills or something? Worse yet, maybe she's narcoleptic. How sad. Now I feel sorry for being upset at a person with a physical disorder. But now I can tell people I met a 12-year old narcoleptic. Stop making jokes, you have a bladder situation on your hands.
I look over to the old man sitting in the window seat. I expect some look of sympathy...some expression of condolences because surely he had to have noticed my attempts to shake off Mr. Sandman's dust from this girl. But he gave me a quick glance and looked back down at his Skymall catalogue. Maybe he thought I was looking out the window and was startled to see my eyes meet his. What a cad. So what else was I left to do. I unbuckle my seat belt and climb over this girl. How embarassing. I felt like everyone was watching me. As if I was the in-flight entertainment.
"Look, honey, put on your headphones. The movie is starting. Oh its that one with the narcoleptic who always sits in the aisle seat and makes the person sitting next to her dreadfully uncomfortable. The best part is whether or not the person climbing over the narcoleptic's bladder explodes as she's crawling over the girl only to find out that one bathroom is clogged up and the other already has three people waiting in line for it!! What a comedy. Oscar gold for sure!!"
Anyhow, I make it to the tiny restroom and do my business. It embarassingly takes a few minutes for me to figure out how to flush and when I step out, the old lady waiting after me gives me an irritated look as if I stunk up the bathroom. Come on, lady, that smell was already there!! Blame the fat man in G21 who ordered the rubbery beef stroganoff, not me!!
Hopefully, I would have thought the 12-year old Asian girl had awoken or at least shifted in her sleep. I tapped her on the shoulder. I shook her shoulder. I wanted to slap her or maybe pour some hot tea in her lap but then that would make me the wrong one. That's the paradox of this situation and of society. Come on, a smoking gun doesn't give you all the details....
So once again I have to climb over her and I am hoping my bladder can last the final hours of this trip. Was the destination Texas or Purgatory, I forget?
I buckle my seatbelt and give a sigh of relief. I shake off those last few moments and decide to have a nice read of my anthology in peace and solace.
Oh great, now the sleepy bear awakes from hibernation. The girl shifts. She opens her eyes. Draws her knees up to her chest and turns in her seat. And the next thing I know, she has wedged her toes under my thighs for warmth.
Where am I? Is this happening? Who is this child who thinks she can use me as some kind of human heater? Do I look like a pair of socks? She continues sleeping and I don't know what to do. Obviously if I try to wake her, she won't respond. This truly is hell.
At least she doesn't have long toe nails and is wearing socks. And now, its easier for me to pass by her if I need to go to the restroom because I don't have to crawl over her legs. See, I'm not that pessimistic.....only 6 more hours to go....
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