It's what makes our ears and faces.

She’d heard somewhere that your body was always growing new cells. That after every seven years you had all new ones and all the old ones were gone somehow. It didn’t seem true. It prob’ly wasn’t, she’d thought, ‘cause seven is always the number in ‘ol wise tails Granny was always sayin’ to everybody. Seven years of bad luck, dogs being seven times as old and on and on. She’d put that thought out of her mind awhile ago.

She was at her desk, trying to sit up straight and really pay attention that time, when Mr. J. said it: ...and we are made of these cells. They are the building blocks of our bodies. Our organs, our skin and hair. She jerked her head to the side, startled. She hadn’t known that. She hadn’t known that’s what cells were for.

She paid as close attention as she could that time, watching Mr. J. stick tiny balls of blue Play-Doh on wire mesh while he talked. He took his hands away, finally. He’d made a lumpy ear. Cells are what makes our ears and faces, she thought in a glorious panic.

She stretched her legs up the steps of the school bus, searching the seats for the big kid who let her sit with him sometimes when his friend didn’t ride. She wanted to ask him if it was true. She walked down the aisle, tripping over snow boots and book bags, trying hard not to fall into anybody when the driver gave it some gas and pulled away too quick. She saw him in the very back just after she’d passed the girls who always blew air up under their lip and flared their nostrils when they saw her coming. His friend was with him. They were looking at a comic book, holding their hands over their mouths, laughing.

Standing in the aisle, one hand on the back of a seat, she started counting backward from nine. Two, she thought. And she felt something weird in her belly. She felt sort of sad for herself - the two year old she used to be that, over the past seven years, had gotten peed out or thrown up. Or however you lose the old ones. But she felt tingly, too. She started counting up from nine. Sixteen. She thought that was a really long time to wait.

The bus doors whooshed open. She tapped one foot on top of the other, waiting for Randy Harris to get all of his black instrument cases down the steps. She hopped out, tingling.

“They’ve got things called operations now, you know!” the twitty blonde-haired girl called down after her right as her feet were no longer touching the steps but hadn’t yet hit the snow.

She did know. It’s called plastic surgery, stupid, she thought as she shuffled toward her yellow house. She had watched a program on TV about it once when the normal Saturday cartoons weren’t on for some reason. All kinds of doctors were in different countries fixing little tiny babies’ faces. It only took an hour to fix them. The parents were all crying and thanking the doctors for fixing their babies’ faces. She had straightened herself up on the couch while watching it. She had felt a glorious panic when Mama had come into the room with one of her blue porcelain mixing bowls and sat down to watch it for a little while. She kept looking from the TV to Mama anxiously, but Mama just stared at the TV, rolling dough into little balls, looking as if she were about to sneeze. By the next night, when Mama still hadn’t said anything about it to her, she sort of figured she wouldn’t be seeing one of those doctors. Prob’ly cost lots, she’d thought.

But this - this was free. This was something everybody’s body does all by itself. And she’d just been to the doctor for her checkup and he’d prob’ly of noticed if her body wasn’t doing it, too.

It was too much to think about, math and cells at the same time. She pushed her problems workbook away from her at the kitchen table and wriggled her face up, watching Granny beating lumps out of the brown sugar bag with her bony hand. Granny never even finished fourth grade, she remembered, but still she might know.

“Granny,” she asked, “Do our old cells really die and then we get all new ones?”

Granny looked at her, wiping the back of her hand across her nose. “Lordy, and here I am just aimin’ to make a pie.”

She chewed her lip. Granny didn’t know anything, she thought. But then Bapa came out of the bathroom, a Time magazine under his arm, and before she could ask him the very same thing, he sat down at the other end of the table, kicked his feet up, and spoke without looking at her.

“Well, girl, whadya think that is you’re always pullin’ off yourself when you go and get burned up in the sun?”

She didn’t know if that meant it was true or not.

“Don’t you forget about that overnight you got tomorrow neither,” Granny said. “That one your mama fixed with Charlene’s girl. That’ll be a good time for you. Course, you gotta get your workbook done ‘fore then.”

She tossed from one side to the other in her bed. She’d decided after dinner that night that Bapa’s answer meant it was true. That we did get all new cells every seven years. And even though it was a long time to wait, she’d thought that you probably don’t get them all at once. You probably get some each year. Like one arm, then the other. And she’d figured that because her head was at the very top, she might get new face cells right after she got new hair ones. So, really, it was only two years. Eleven was a lot better than sixteen.

She tossed from one side to the other. She poked her finger into the hard, lumpy knot that stretched between her nose and top lip. She whispered to it, get new quick. She couldn’t sleep at all with the excitement of it getting peed out. She sat up and clicked her lamp on. She pulled her composition book off her night stand and rolled onto her stomach to write. She needed to make a list of things she’d heard help you grow and stay healthy. She needed to make the list and then do all those things on it and maybe it wouldn’t even take two years. She started writing numbers with periods next to them on separate lines. She put her pencil to her nose, poking the eraser around, underneath, on the hard part. She jerked it away, her eyes wide. She’d thought of the first rule. Don’t touch it, she wrote as number one. She’d heard that one about scrapes and burns and chickenpox all the time. She came up with five others. Good ones, she thought, like eating her vegetables, especially the carrots, and wearing cotton underwear so her cells could breathe. She thought she should come up with another to make it seven - so it would mean more by the number of them. She thought about what Bapa had said about her sunburn and after a long while she gasped with disbelief. You’re pulling your old burned up skin off, she thought. And she wrote that she’d have to get a sunburn as much as she could when summer came. She’d have to carry a washcloth in her bag though, she remembered, ‘cause Mama bought the really thick stuff last summer and it took a long time to wipe off.

The next evening she stood in front of the double sink in the upstairs bathroom at Charlene’s house. Her daughter, Allison, who was twelve and not as pretty as she had imagined her to be, was brushing her teeth. Allison’s eyes were fixated on her own reflection in the mirror. She fixated on Allison’s reflection, too. All through dinner at Charlene’s, and later, while she and Allison sat awkwardly silent in the rec room watching TV, she had fixated. Well, she’d decided just before Charlene sent them up to bed, Allison’s not as pretty as she thinks she is but she definitely looks like a normal girl. She’d decided that since her eyes were made of cells, too, she’d stare at Allison as much as she could and maybe the rest of the cells that couldn’t see would get a feeling for what a normal girl should look like. She wanted to help them grow right if she could.

“Ewww,” Allison groaned, catching her staring again. “Why do you keep staring at me all night long? You’re so gross.”

She darted her eyes away, down to the slippery water in the toilet. She raised her shoulders around her neck and shook her head real fast. Her nose began to burn.

Allison huffed, spitting toothpaste into the sink. “God, I am never gonna forgive my mother for this - totally making me spend the night with a freako.”

Charlene had called Mama right after she realized the crying wasn’t going to stop. Allison had stood there, her hands on her hips, scowling while Charlene wiped the tears and snot away with a hot, scratchy washcloth. The idea of staying all night in ugly Allison’s bed made her stomach flip and she was glad when Charlene stopped asking her about what was wrong and finally just called Mama to come get her.

When Mama came in her pajamas with her hair tied up in a mess of a ponytail and her coat unzipped despite the snow she started apologizing to Charlene over and over. Charlene smiled and whispered something to Mama that she couldn’t hear. Ugly Allison was already in her room sleeping.

Mama stroked her hair after they’d buckled their seat belts. She pulled her forehead down to hers and they rubbed noses - Eskimo kissing. Mama said, “Baby, it’s okay. I remember being scared to sleep in a strange house, too. It’s okay. When you’re a little bit older you won’t be.”

With Mama’s face so close she could see everything about it. The way her mascara was smudged just under her eyes and how the fuzz on her face was longer right in the dent of her cheekbones. There was nothing pulling Mama’s lip up tight and crooked, no deep crack under her nose like somebody cut her face in two right at that spot. It was just nice, soft skin like everybody else. She stared at the mole on Mama’s forehead. It was so big and brown, like a little brain hanging off her head. Having Mama’s mole right down in her face made her feel like she could stop crying. She let her shoulders fall, let out a quivery sigh.

They drove home quiet. Mama patted her butt on their way in the door. Granny was standing in the breezeway, her arms folded over her chest, looking scared. Mama gave her a smile and a nod so she stayed quiet. Mama went up to her room with her, pulled off her boots and coat for her. She leaned down over the covers to kiss her lips and pinch her nose playfully. She clicked off the lamp.

She sucked air in through her mouth, gurgling. She was sniffling a little, still. She couldn’t stop her teeth from rattling. She thought about Allison’s ugly face, then flipped on her stomach, buried her head under the pillow, and punched her mattress with her fist. She thought about Mama’s face, how close it had been. How it made her feel woozy and light when she saw it at Charlene’s door. She thought about the mole. How it had been there as far back as she could remember. How she used to pull on it when she was little and Mama would laugh at first, then get tired of it quick and snap at her to stop it.

That weird feeling in her belly came back all of a sudden. She reached around her head for the pillow and threw it at the floor. She rolled over, almost fell out of bed, in a panic. Clicked her lamp on. She went to her desk drawer, looking for her old scrapbook. She’s had it forever, she thought, as she flipped frantically through the pages. Forever. She thought, if a little mole so close to the top of Mama’s head hadn’t gone away after all that time then... She stopped on a yellow page. She looked at the photo of Mama holding her. She was wearing a diaper and didn’t have any hair yet. She pulled the picture up to her eyes and squinted. She saw it plain as day - a teeny brown spot just under Mama’s headscarf. It was smaller in the picture. It was like Mama had gotten new cells in that spot and they had just piled on top of the old ones. Like Mama hadn’t peed the bad ones out - nobody did. The new ones just pile up on the old ones and ugly things get bigger. Like Granny’s boobs. Like Bapa’s ears. That’s how you grow and get taller, she thought. All the piling up. It wasn’t carrots at all. It’ll just get bigger, she thought. Her nose burned. It was true.







*some notes:

I've said I have no interest in writing fiction. So I didn't. Until now. But just a little baby story - nothing grandiose.

Though this is fiction, I wrote nasty little Allison with a particular girl/woman in mind. I liked the way her name sounded in the story. I just decided to change the name when I posted it here and now, to me, the story doesn't seem right.

Consolation for Sorrow

Consolation for Sorrow

A few nights ago I got into my bed, closed my eyes, and laid wide awake. Typical. I was thinking about going back to my kitchen for red wine elixir when I flipped onto my other side and opened my eyes. My curtains were only slightly drawn. Through the opening I saw colored holiday bulbs across the street - tiny little pulses in the night. Without my glasses, all of the bulbs ran into each other and then into some more - a wondrously tacky apparition in the night. I felt heavy and soft. I sank down deep into my mattress and pulled my covers up over my ear. I might have giggled a little to myself. I heard Claire breathing steadily in her bedroom. I was so comfortable. Still, I didn't sleep, but my head quieted for awhile...

Every year, near the beginning of this month, something triggers that ever-so-gentle giddiness. Every year, when triggered, I float outside of myself just the smallest bit and the kindest of visions come over me in warm waves. This feeling, it is not generic peace on earth, nor good will toward men, nor joy to the world. It is much more selfish and exclusive than all of that. It is a soft, fuzzy rush unique to the month of December. And in January, when the once magical twinkling lights of holiday trees become a catalyst to four months of dirty snow, that rush is gone. Completely. Just like that.

But the rush, oh, it is all senses at once. Fuzzy colored bulbs. The smell of my furnace the first time it kicks on for winter. It is A Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack playing over and over again. It is the softness of Claire's hair done in two velvety french braids. The tree lights coloring her cheeks gold. It is catching her peeling the ribbons off of her gifts because she just can't help herself.

And the retailers just have it all wrong. They have it too fast and too flashy. Too bouncy and too smiley. Because December is hazy light blue and it is quiet and it echoes. It is slow. So very slow and sleepy. It is heavy like red wine and dark stout and eggnog and snow globes and the good silver and china. It doesn't smile so much as its eyes just half-close and its lips purse lightly and curl with contentment. I don't care how many tow-headed Stepford children Target lets loose in a sparkly winter wonderland - they just have it all wrong. December is much more simple than all of that.

And these kindest of visions are foggy and they are slow motion. They have me watching from the ceiling as if accompanied by one of the Ghosts of...
My mother's kitchen counters dusted with pastry flour and rolling pins, the windows fogged up from the heat of the oven. Claire in the backseat of our car giggling and pointing and squealing and downing chocolate milk well past her bedtime as we creep through neighborhoods just dripping with perfectly gaudy bulbs and inflatable Santas and motorized reindeer. Sweeping up cookie crumbs and stray tinsel every night. My sister's satiny gold hair against her green wool coat when she comes through the door on Christmas Eve. The way she always shakes her head to get the snow out before making eye contact, putting her bag down and cupping her mittened hands around Claire's face for a kiss. Eating fudge - the real kind - with afghans thrown over our legs. Ryan's overnight bag at my bedroom door - his polished shoes sticking out like wrapped candy. Getting up in the middle of the night just to turn on the tree lights for awhile. Old-fashioned plaid ribbons. The smell of pomegranates and cloves and caramels. And fire logs. And cheap, red taper candles.

_____________________________________

On Sunday I had to go to the office. I could not afford to not work my full forty hours with so many gifts to buy and events to attend. And Claire had to come with me. And I got anxious just thinking about it. She's had to come in with me before and I always feel so bad about it and she is always so good - so good that it makes me feel even worse.

But Sunday, I was particularly on edge - I was angry that work was keeping her from staying in her warm house in her warm pajamas on her warm couch with her warm blanket and Piggy and her Christmas lights and Howl's Moving Castle. Even so, I made her take a bath and I made her get dressed and I made her sit still while I braided her hair. And I made her eat all of her yogurt. And I made her put her dolls away and I made her stuff herself in her coat and her hat and her mittens. I made her get in the half-warmed car. I made her run as fast as she could from the parking garage to the office while I ran clumsily behind trying to lug my purse and two bags full of blankets and coloring books and movies and snacks and our little portable DVD player. And when she yelled, out of breath, "Mama, pweease carry me," I just told her to keep running because it was too cold and I only had two hands! And when we got to the door I swept her up and ran with her hanging uncomfortably off my hip up two flights of stairs so I could punch my code in before the alarm went off. And she whined as I ran because she had wanted to go up the stairs herself like a big girl. And I just ignored her.

I made her a bed out of the blankets next to my desk. I set up her movie player. I put out her snacks and her coloring books. And she was so good for awhile. But soon, she just got antsy like a three year old does. She wanted to sit on my lap. She wanted to go upstairs to the vending machine. She wanted to type on my computer. She wanted to sit on the tall chair at the cutting table. She wanted me to show her the snail in Max's aquarium. She wanted to go see the desk where Jen used to work... and then where 'Wiz' used to work. She had to go potty four dozen times. She wanted me to read her a book. And I just told her firmly that I had to work - had to make money to buy things we need. My body was tense. My tone was curt. I was angry that money and my own responsibilities kept her from her warm house on a cold Sunday afternoon. Angry that lack of money had actually made me irritable toward her. Angry that I was in no position to say, "Yes, baby, let's go home."

Finally, I packed up our things. It was getting dark. She was hungry. As we walked down the stairs together, bogged down by bags and purses and blankets, I thought, quite melodramatically, my God, this is a scene from a Lifetime movie. The trials and tribulations of a single working mother! How hard it is sometimes. And I wanted to put the back of my hand to my forehead and I wanted sympathy and I wanted some time to breathe. And I just wanted quiet. Every inch of me was tense and irritable and glib. Every inch.

Halfway home she stopped chattering. I looked in the mirror and found her little cheeks had gone fat and droopy and soft and rosy, her hat was almost covering her eyelids completely. She was breathing softly, sound asleep. She felt like a warm, fluffy pink marshmallow as I lifted her from her carseat. And as I put my hand on the back of her head and carried her inside, I felt all of the chemicals in my body slow down, stop, and reverse. She was like medicine. Sweet, pink, fluffy medicine. And I felt ashamed and silly and childish for my melodrama. For thinking I had it so tough. I know better. Everyday, I know better.

See, everyday I feel like I am cheating - not playing fair. When I am complaining about work or traffic or the straightness of my hair, I know better. But after loss or tragedy or injustice - these are the times I really hang my head and say, "I am cheating."

Cheating because I have medicine.

She is small and she is marvelous. And even as her hair is darkening with winter, she is brightening. Every day. Every day she works better and faster than liquor. Better than drugs - or therapy if you're the patient kind. Every day that I feel a little broken, her presence - her being - repairs. And I feel silly and childish and ashamed that I take it for granted sometimes. But, mostly, I feel like I am cheating because I have her - medicine. So many people just don't.

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It is actually possible to drive through the end of a rainbow. Really. On the afternoon of October 28th, I drove my car through the end of a rainbow. Honestly.

Of course, when I immediately called Claire to tell her what I had managed to do I threw a leprechaun into the mix for the benefit of added magic and wonder. However, my actual passing through a complete Roy G. Biv rainbow is absolute truth.

I have received mix reaction from others while recounting my amazing story. Some become astonished by the true magnificence of this occurrence. Some have just politely smiled and said, "That's neat." Some have challenged my reality, actually implying that this simply cannot be. And to those people I have said (well, not out loud), "You are dumb and altogether ignorant of science and I will do it again and have a photo taken by an unbiased third party as proper and irrefutable documentation and you will rue the day you doubted my ability to drive through rainbows." Some have just rolled their eyes to passively communicate their apparent feeling that I have taken my belief that life is "all rainbows and puppies" too far. Yet, sadly, I did not manage to encounter anyone who had done the same exquisite thing that I had done until...

A few weeks ago Erin and I were catching up over the phone and... SHE HAD DRIVEN THROUGH THE END OF A RAINBOW ON THE VERY SAME AFTERNOON THAT I HAD DRIVEN THROUGH THE END OF A RAINBOW! This information made me want to pass out. I mean, come on, I had driven through the end of a rainbow on the very same day that my best friend, whom I miss desperately, had ALSO driven through the end of a rainbow! Ultimately, I like to believe the *most giant rainbow ever - spanning from Seattle to Detroit - revealed itself for the purpose of two best friends finally finding... The Rainbow Connection.

_________________________________________________________

I want Claire to believe in magic because it's fun and silly and entertaining to me and little kids are just supposed to believe in that stuff. For a while I managed to convince her that I am ten times more magic than Santa Claus by way of normal mothering. Typical things like; hearing a rustling in the kitchen and calling out from the other room, "Claire, you better not be trying to get another cupcake," when, of course, she was trying to get another cupcake; telling her to get back in her bed and go to sleep when the door to her room was closed and I couldn't possibly know that she was in her floor playing with Thomas the Train who is so super cool because he loudly chuga-chugas and choo-choos; having the mind-blowing ability to grow more cereal just by adding milk to the bowl; somehow just knowing that snow will be on the ground when we wake up; turning soupy chocolate water into PUDDING! with my magic wooden spoon. And, of course, there is my show-stopping gift of removing my thumb! and rightfully attaching it to my hand without it hurting or bleeding or anything!

Over the past couple of months I started to notice that she wasn't really feeling the magic anymore. My child was suddenly choosing reason more often to explain the little things.

I was in the shower a few weeks ago when I heard the kitchen cupboards clanging about. Immediately I knew that Claire had pulled the chair up to the counter, climbed up onto it, and was attempting to retrieve the Halloween candy that I had taken right out of her little hands earlier that morning. I stopped the water, leaned my head out and yelled, in classic mom fashion, "Claire June, you get off of that counter this second before you bust your little head open." Immediately, she ran into the bathroom all mad and stuck her little head in the shower, snapping, "Mama, how did you know that's what I was doing?" I told her that I was magic and I know everything. She shook her head, put her little hands on her hips and said, "Huh uh, you just heard me bangin' when I almost fell down and that's how you know! You imn't magic!"

The following week my family was gathered in my parents' livingroom. Before we arrived, my mother hid a new princess doll in the end table Claire keeps her crayons and things in. We'd been there for awhile when we all started performing pretty shoddy magic tricks for her. She decided to show us a better magic trick but, apparently, needed some props. She went to the end table, opened the door and froze in awe at the sight of the princess doll. Her eyes got big, her lips parted, and with the softest gasp of disbelief she whispered to herself, "I just did a magic twick."

That moment of chance was filled with the most amazing magic I've ever witnessed. Better than her first steps or words or giggles. Better than any first. Better because she had, instead, regained. See, gradually -over time - she had lost a belief in something that was just too hard to believe in and, in an instant, she found it again. She believed it again. There was so much consolation in that moment. So much medicine.

___________________________________

I am clumsy. I fall up stairs. I walk into desk corners. And Claire, she's pretty clumsy, too. She's started to become embarrassed when she's clumsy in public. We'll be walking down a sidewalk holding hands and she'll be skipping like a crazy, then stumble and hit the cement with one knee before I lift her back steady. She'll turn a slight shade of pink, lower her eyes and slow to a walk. And I always say to her, casually, "Everybody trips, Bear. Ain't no thing." But still, she's embarrassed. Of course. But she's a kid and so she always starts skipping again and chatting about worms - and setting herself up. And she's a brave little three year old.

And she is my courage and she is my medicine. Because I am emotionally clumsy, too. I spill my guts without caution. And I offer up warm confessions that are usually met with blank faces and non-responses - indifference. And I don't mind it, really. And I don't intend on stopping, really. But I wasn't really like this at all before I had her. And so I feel like I am cheating. It's too easy for me, having her as medicine.
___________________________________

I really have no idea how large rainbows can span.

The Book of Numbers.

My name is Four. I am not green. Be careful who you tell, though. There is a girl you might know and I don't want her to know differently. I am not green, but she believes it anyway. And I don't want her to know differently because I am her favorite. And I think it's important to her.

Why green? I think it's because green is the earth. And the color of a jealous lover. And it's material. And it's naivete. But it's also the color of her mother's stone - and now her daughter's. Sometimes it's the color of her eyes. The first car she remembers her father driving. The color of the carpet she stained at fourteen. She was much too young. So it's her favorite. And so am I. And don't we always want to lump all of our favorites together - find how they are all the same? Mint chocolate chip ice cream - you like that don't you? She does - it's green. Pistachio dessert, too. I hear she favors BP gas stations, even. Might drive a little further just for the color of them.

She has a sister, like me. Mine is called Three. She's older, I guess. That's what makes me Four. But she's the baby, really. Her skin is still pink and she's spoiled and she's been coddled by my parents, One and Two. I love her, I do. But she is lollipops and hair ribbons and crocodile tears.

And this girl who thinks I'm green - she has a Five, like me, too. Don't we all have a Five? That boy who waltzed in late to class every day. He'd roll those navy blue eyes and you thought you must be the ugliest girl in the world by the way it made you feel to look at him. You'd make out with him in the darkest room at a party until his nasty friend Six - oh, that orange headed creep - found him out and dragged him off in a rush. Six's older brother, Seven, was always waiting in their muddy brown Camaro, smoking a cigarette with the window rolled all the way down, even in winter. They would always blow the juvenile party for some sophisticated college girls. And you'd stick around in that room for awhile, wiping the sloppy spit off your chin, tugging your shirt back down, feeling as muddy as that car. Feeling as blue as his eyes. Green as I'm supposed to be. Smelling of stale beer and bad pot and elation. When you'd finally come out, Eight was always waiting like a good friend does. Round as an eggplant, worried as a grandmother. He'd shake his head, open his arms and let you cry for a bit on the way to the Dunkin' Donuts. You'd listen to Eight talk about the boy he liked too for a little while, but your mind always drifted back to Five. Midnight blue Five.

I am Four and sometimes I feel green but I'm just not. How can I be green when my mother's hands are the color of butter and my father is white as clean sheets. But, then, how did Three get so baby pink? I guess I'm not really that far off from green. Aunt Nine has always been the color of forest trees. Nice smelling pines. Moss that grows over rocks. So maybe. But I don't want to be green like Aunt Nine - to never marry and live all alone! To have yarn quilts and outdated plaid furniture. Wood paneled walls. Cats shedding. Has dinner at her pastor's house every Sunday. I don't want to be green like Aunt Nine. She went deaf at fourteen. I don't want to go deaf like forest green Aunt Nine.

This girl who likes green. She is the fourth, too. And so I am her favorite. And so she would always wear my name when she played sports in school and call me out loud when there was a guessing contest. She thinks about me a lot more than most people, I think. And so I'd like to stay green for her - whether I really want to be or not. Just because it's important to her. And I know I'm really not that green so it doesn't confuse me about who I am to pretend. Don't we all pretend a little bit to please those we're important too?

My name is Four and I am not green. I just sort of had to tell somebody - but just be pretty careful who you tell. I don't want her to know differently.

If we are judged by the company we keep.

This is not another Tonight. But tonight the full moon was encircled by an overexposed rainbow against black night. It was hideous. And I was disappointed because this natural occurrence validated all of those horrible Wizards and Warlocks paintings I like to scoff at. All that was missing was a white unicorn with a topless woman riding past. And I am afraid to look out the window now for fear that I will see that as well.
_______________________________________________

I listened to a debate between a group of artists. I didn't have much to contribute - though I've thought about the topic a lot on my own - because I'm tired of trying to uncover the answers. Yet, still, I think about it. What is better: to do something first, or to do something better? To be authentic or to be thorough and skilled? I believe Authentic. Some do not. All that can be agreed on is that bad imitation is laughable. In art. In everything.

But what wasn't discussed is how our perception is changed by the order we receive things. When Garbage was popular I was not too interested because I already had Curve for years. A friend who did not have Curve loved Garbage. When I introduced her to Curve I was convinced that she would immediately recognize Garbage's rip-off factor as well as the overall superiority of Curve. She did not. She stuck with Garbage. Garbage was her Curve - simply because they were first to her.

When I am working, I am constantly afraid that I am ripping something off. That I am copying. That an inspiring memory of someone else's work is subconsciously coming through in mine. And sometimes people probably think I am ripping something off - that I am copying. I would much rather be authentic. But it's so damn difficult - everything's been done and I'm no visionary.

But, also, copycats tend to be louder, pushier, more popular.
_______________________________________________

I used to be fairly unreliable when something was asked of me. I would tend to offer more than I was really willing to give. But over the last few years, through good friends and a good daughter, I have overcome that problem for the most part. They taught me the reward in doing what you say you will, and the reward in saying no if you don't plan on following through.

And lately I've noticed that karma is paying me back for those earlier years. Because I've been trying desperately to follow through and I've been getting little help in doing so. What lesson is this? I want to believe it is: When you're trying to follow through but the person who asked you to do so is not offering assistance, give up. Give. Up.
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Gabe, Art Professor Extraordinaire, said that he loves fine art showings because of the anonymity and humilty the artists display during their "performance." I agree. I agree. I agree. So how does dear Gabe explain the artist who recently grabbed my ass at his own show and announced that he was "THE STAR!"? Simply, "that guy's a douche."

Grave digging

My nanny.

I know that when Bapa died everybody treated her like property. Her own kids. Dividing up the things and packing them up - away.

There are plenty of pictures of all the women gathered round the table with brown coffee mugs. In most of them all you see of my sister and me is the backs of our shiny hair half-covered by thick Marlboro smoke. My own mother can't tell which one of us is which because of the way the sun bleached my sister's dark hair strawberry. We colored with waxy crayons from the Big Boy at that table. Poked toothpicks into potatoes while they bragged about their money troubles, the floosies next door.

I know that she birthed five babies.
But I only knew two aunts and one uncle.
That baby didn't have a name, I don't think.

I know that she lied to say she was fourteen just so she could marry my bapa. And that she never could read. I know that Bapa's daddy was such a son-o'-bitch nobody bothered to investigate when he was found shot dead in a ditch. And that they all lived in a tent until my mom's little sister was born.

I wrote a Thanksgiving poem that rhymed so well she made me read it every year before we began.

We used to sit on her carpet and watch the ants circle the crumbs, carry them off. I hated it. I felt embarrassed to have a nanny and bapa like that - ants on their living room floor. The sunlight so hot through the picture window. And all she ever talked about to us kids was the squirrels stealing the bird seed. All we wanted to do was go up to the attic and look at Bapa's dirty picture books. She'd slap our arms when she'd catch us on the stairs. We loved her, I think. Sometimes she'd hug us good and hard.

I know that love was terror to her. I think I knew it even so young, lined up with all my cousins, our chosen switches in hand, waiting to get a lickin'. I know I can be as cold as her - as my mom - when I love enough to get scared about it. I know I'm glad Claire won't know her. I know I feel guilty about my gladness.

She had an endless supply of mason jars. Some with handles, even, for drinking sweetened ice tea. She pinched the tomato bugs in half with her bare fingers. She threatened to fire us up if we snapped her lillies. The bottom of her meat freezer was stained brownish-red from cow blood. When she made cocoa gravy she'd let us peel the hardened film off the top.

I know one day she said something about me being like my bapa in a whisper to my mother as I ate my chili. When I looked up, they were watching me, smirking. I don't know for sure, but I think it might've been about the way I hold my face too close to my plate. I've always been self-concious about it since. She told my sister once that she was the only grandkid who looked like the Indians we was. And I know my sister's been self-concious about that too.

She told me another time that I shouldn't talk too much about the good things happening to me. My britches not fitting anymore. And since then I've always sort of thought I needed a man who could just keep me nice and quiet. Give me reason to not talk too much.

I know that, even still, when the women gather together we channel her way of talking. (Even, now, writing about her.) Calling the kids "little whippers" and leaving off the ends of words. Even me. But especially my mom. And I see the way the men look at us - like it's a worthless tribute. A wasted last-ditch effort for her kisses. I think it's just a way to say we all held those switches.

After she lost my bapa she just let them run her house down. And she refused my mother's sanity - her unconditional love. I was never really surprised about how easily I hated her after that. I think I probably always did - a little bit anyways. I think I might have always known about the way she raised my mother. How her fear would eventually allow them all to box my Bapa's memory up - away.

Once when my bapa was sick she had to drive my sister and me someplace. We were just kids. We buckled ourselves in the back and she went and sat in the passenger seat. We sat awkwardly silent for a bit until she jumped up, embarrassed, and went around to the driver's side. We were nervous as hell that ride. We giggled about it later to my dad.

My sister wouldn't go to her funeral. I only went so I could place my hand on my mother's back as she cried over the casket. Nobody else really spoke to my mom that day. They all had the little bit of money my bapa had saved in their bank accounts by then. They had it even before she was gone herself. They resented my mother for not wanting some too. They resented her for not taking his things away to sell right in front of my nanny. For not nodding along while they took her house from her. For not playing along for dirt. They hated that if Nanny and Bapa were really together again above he was yelling, "Earlene, you gone an' messed up with Elaine. She always was the only one who never asked for nothin' but love. Nothin' but love and you turned her out the door."

I know that my Bapa was good.

Sometimes when I watch a movie or read a novel about children who've had something bad happen I get a weird feeling for her. It's almost like I miss her. It's almost like forgiveness. But I don't know exactly what for. Just for her fear, I guess. For her ignorance. For that cold part of my mother. My sister. Me.

She never came to my wedding. We got a response in the mail with something scribbled in on the will attend line. My mom and I thought it might have been her - trying to write her name, afraid to ask one of them for help. I wonder sometimes if she put on one of the few nice dresses she had and tried to fix her hair up all by herself. If she sat on the edge of her bed with her black patten-leather purse in her lap - her matching shoes - in the back room of my aunt's house. If she sat in her own pride all night while her good daughter's baby grew up. I wonder sometimes if my mother wouldn't have cried in the same way over her casket if she would have just come to that church.

I know my mom didn't belong to her the way the others did. I know that I must not have belonged to her hardly at all, then. It's a hard thing to sort out. I felt so much love from her and I felt so much distance. And I blame her easily for the detachment inside of my mother - and my mother for mine. And I feel this forgiveness, but I'm not sure for what exactly. For her fear of losing? For living life best she knew? It's been so easy to blame her and then just put her away.

It seems I've taken her out now. Over ten years have passed and I've taken her out to cry for. For what exactly, I'm not sure.

I know that there is a photo of her with my cousin on his prom night in one of my boxes. There is a genuine tenderness in her face. A sincere warmth and comfort. When I look at it I easily remember what the soft fuzz of her face felt like against my cheek. Her bedroom. The rumpled towel that hid her cigarette box in the bathroom. How she fried us catfish in her trailor in Florida. The chintzy christmas ornaments she bought for us from the Avon catalog. The way she loved us so much it turned into terror.

We used to go everywhere together.

Tonight: blustery and hollow. Tonight I thought, now this is winter. Tonight seemed like the stars should have rested just a few feet above the ground. And I mean that in the most removed way because I find nothing romantic or idealized about it. Tonight I gathered my collar around my neck where a scarf should have been and I swore I heard someone yell my name, and yet I didn't turn around. And I mean nothing romantic in that either.

Tonight *someone far too young to even consider said he recognized me from MySpace and that he appreciated my seriousness. I thought about how Ryan was always accusing me of being too serious for my own good. And I was displeased because they both have it all wrong. Because I am not serious. Because, really, it is that I want badly for the metaphysical world to take itself more seriously. For the universe to obey its own cliches of karmic law. And so, this desire is misinterpreted as seriousness.

Tonight I was impressed by Margaret Atwood's musings on orphans and also of animals reclaiming their identities. When the bear renounces the names we've assigned him in language, the world ends.

And of orphans, from "Orphan Stories" The Tent by Margaret Atwood:

ii) Orphans have bad experiences in barns, in cellars, in automobiles, in woodsheds, in vacant fields, in empty classrooms. It's because they're so tempting. It's because they're so damaged. It's because they're so scrawny. It's because they're so easily broken. It's because they're so available. It's because they're so erotic. It's because no one will believe what they say.

Tonight I thought about two people who have authority over me. How neither are particularly artistically gifted. How neither seem to think in the abstract. Neither have ideas. How both are motivated by money and so easily swayed by general consensus. Tonight I thought about how one is of no threat to me at all and how the other is terrifyingly dangerous. Dangerous because she is simply unaware that she is not artistically gifted. That she does not have ideas. How she does not understand. How she is so easily swayed - how she is motivated. Tonight I thought how the universe could redeem itself by just placing her at a used car salesman's desk tomorrow morning. Tonight I thought about just how much damage we do to people when we take on a role that doesn't suit us. How much damage I did.

Tonight I thought about bees again.

Tonight I thought about James Frey. I thought about how his only mistake was to not tell Oprah to go fuck herself.

Tonight Chan Marshall's cover of Naked If I Want To came on as I was reading and I had an urge to tap my foot. But, you know, that song doesn't even begin to lend itself to toe-tapping. I wondered why this urge? Because I wanted the people across from me to see that I knew this song and loved it and that somehow, that would help define me for these strangers who didn't much care? And I immediately likened myself to the girls at Ani DiFranco concerts who sing along too loudly to prove to you that they are, in fact, the hardcore fans. But how the real hardcore fans tend to just keep as quiet as they can and listen. (Tonight, I thought about how I subconsciously chose to write Chan Marshall here rather than Cat Power. And I'm winking at you right now. And I will also admit that until about a year ago I used to pronounce her name phonetically.)

And of keeping quiet and just listening. And of admitting that I've been feeling quite pious lately. And of taking on roles that don't suit you. And of swearing to hear a (familiar) voice calling my name again: I met someone awhile ago who was very much himself at the time. And I was very much playing a role that didn't suit me. And I've noticed lately, with sadness and disappointment, that he is now playing a role that doesn't suit him at all. Keeping company with people of less than desirable character - The Vapid. Turning into Them. And because I knew him previously, this new identity seems more intensely shallow, placating, ugly and meaningless than it would if I had just met him tonight. But the reason it disheartens me is not really about him, it is this:
I spent a very long time working toward the goal he seemed to have achieved back then. And to see him give it up so easily makes me insecure about my own ability to hold onto it. This disappointment is much like my mother and the humiliating (I thank God for them) rules she imposed on my sister and me as teenagers. We were not allowed to shave our legs, wear makeup, pierce our ears, or wear nylon stockings, heels or above-the-knee skirts until we were in our late teens (much, much later than the rest of the girls.) And her reason was that we do these things to please men. Women are not meant to be wasting time pleasing men. But, then, just weeks ago she suggested, out of the blue, that I get breast implants. Everything I knew was sucked away. Will I give in, eventually, too?

Tonight I wondered if he still takes me places, even just sometimes. Because I still take him everywhere.

Tonight, on my way home and again as I've read this over, I realized why I might be called "serious." Why I might be interpreted as a Know It All. Or pious. Sanctimonious. Or just plain rotten. I realize why it might have brought that person a bit of joy to call me on my hypocrisy in a Blogger comment. And it doesn't bother me too much. And, oddly, it is sort of relieving. Because Jen, Erin, my family, Kate, Josh, my coworkers, but mostly Claire (if she knew what it meant) would most-likely put "serious" at the very bottom of my list of characteristics. Tonight I thought, if I did not seem serious here I might not be the one to break into ridiculous song on deadline day. I might not laugh until I snort when Erin tells me stories of Jerry the Granite Guy. Or convince Claire that Mr. Squirrel called and invited himself to dinner again. Or giggle with strangers when I've stumbled on the sidewalk. Make goofy jokes and talk about my new trouser shorts for far too long. If I weren't serious here, I'd have to be serious there. And I don't want to be serious there - so I am not. But I can see how they might think I would be. And I guess I don't blame them.

Tonight I wondered why I think serious is so bad.

* You know I'm not being rotten. You're lovely. But how foolish you'd make me look.

What is left when you've done everything else? Tricks. Tricks.

Sometimes, when I have a very specific and urgent idea for a piece but not a clue how to translate it onto board, I will hold modeling clay in my hands and mindlessly knead it while staring out the window. It works most often than not. A trick a professor taught me years ago. One I believe a lot of painters use.

And now with writing. I will think about a very specific and urgent idea I want to explain but not have a clue how to articulate it. And so, I will write something of distant relation. A rant or an anecdote or a simple paragraph. It has been working most often than not.

Yesterday morning I wrote a short blog about pretension - of mine and that of others calling themselves artists. And it was honest but it was not the main idea that has been beating me over the head each morning when I wake up.

That main idea is this: I have been begging the universe for nearly a year to help me discover art that floors me. That blows my mind. Confuses me. Horrifies and mystifies me. Makes me disagree. But eventually causes me to clench my fists with jealous anger - "Why didn't I ever think of that?!" And no. I couldn't find it. I've seen some lovely paintings demonstrating considerable skill and discipline. Plenty of amazing pieces that have moved me and plenty that have not. Some new takes on old ideas. Some new ideas executed in old ways. I have not been floored. (And I certainly have not been flooring anyone myself.)

And I realized, even from the beginning, that the only art capable of flooring me would be that which spoke to my selfish and immediate interest. Of discovering the purest (or most acceptable) form of manipulation of reality and figuring out how to mock that in an absurd way. Not to be a pretentious bitch - just because it happens to interest me right now. And it doesn't make sense. But it does.

The idea that no matter your acute expertise in Photoshop, even an untrained eye responds negatively to an altered photo. But, wait, even a unaltered photograph alters reality. Even if taken with a spotless lens in the bright sunlight. What you see through a lens is not really real. There are too many copies involved and with each one, "real" things are lost and "false" things are gained. The film itself is not capable of retaining the integrity of the initial image. The photographer is biased based on past experience when developing the film - takes license to dodge and burn and add on a few extra seconds under the light. The paper. Chemicals. The clean water rinse. Altering, altering, altering. And digital photos - pixels, RGB, display monitors. What I see on my screen and what you see on yours is wildly different.

And we all know this. And we all know that we are always altering reality. Obviously on a large scale with construction and traffic and the digestion of animal flesh. But even on a small scale by placing our feet on blades of grass. Inevitable - and grossly interesting to me now. Because what is reality? Is it the initial image your brain receives or is it the final photo on paper or computer screen? Can an infinite number of absolute realities spring from one moment? Not a new concept at all - it's been explored in so many ways for so many decades.

So why am I just obsessing over this now when The Matrix is so passe? Fuck, I don't know. Maybe I've tired of the new Urban Outfitters at Somerset. But I think it is more: Throughout the past few years I have become very good at fooling myself (even while quite aware that I am doing so and actually intending to do so.) Convincing myself of things that are not real. But, I think, if they are real to me, then they are real. And it is easier for me to believe in the ridiculous than it is the plain truth. I like the absurdist view better. I understand it more easily. The closest thing to reality bores the shit out of me. But not everyone is like me. It seems a lot of us want the closest thing to reality - even in art. Is it really more right to believe in something that is slightly askew than wildly embellished? What, exactly, is the difference if neither is real? No one remembers a fight with a partner the way it really was. They each have their own very different version of reality. And neither is really real so why is one usually more believable than the other when each are told to a third party? The one you believe tends to be the one without "obvious" embellishments. Yet they are both embellished. So both should be rejected.

So, similarly, why is a photo of plain 'ol me sitting on my couch well received on MySpace, but a collage of a dozen me's in black and white, high contrast, gaussian blur ill received? Why do people inherently reject that wildly embellished photo, yet accept me in my living-room, moles, smeared eye makeup and all? Why when the couch photo isn't "reality" at all, either? My natural haircolor is strawberry blonde, and my eyelashes are white rather than black and I'm certain I probably had makeup on to cover dark circles - and I use Collagen cream to correct fine lines. And I have a few capped teeth. So - not even close to reality, really.)

So then, also this - if we subconsciously reject digital photo manipulation but accept "organic" manipulation, how will we respond to a photo that looks digitally manipulated but is not? What if we use "real" items like gauze and vaseline and even spit (can you get more organic than that?) to manipulate the image of reality before it passes through the lens? Are these items less real than the camera itself? No. Are they more "real" than adjusting levels, saturation and brightness/contrast in Photoshop? I don't know. The art that explains that is the art that will floor me.

And it doesn't make sense. But it does. Because Saturday evening I discovered a book that did not answer, but asked the very questions I have been trying to ask if only my scattered brain could articulate. It included a large collection of photographs that trick you into believing they've been altered in a very primitive retouching program when they have not. And others that look representational - but have actually been severely doctored. Some that look so unbelievably flat and dull that you assume they've been taken under flourescent lighting - yet they've been taken outside in midday with no filters or additional lighting. And each one of them was equally disturbing to me, but none were to Claire (who has not been conditioned to deny the unreal yet.) And only the ones that look digitally altered (but weren't) were disturbing to my mother and sister and brother-in-law.

Finally. This book, it floored me. Confused me. Threw me down a flight of stairs. Made me feel completely incapable of understanding anything. And I am so happy for it. And I want to put it away before I've gone mad. And before it convinces me that "purists" have nothing important to say. Before I begin constructing high contrast bodysuit filters to wear to the grocery store and attempting to pixelate my flesh as a social experiment. (With what purpose, I've still no clue.)

(And this is just my own opinion at the moment of purists - and it may very well change by the time I fill my coffee cup again - but I am beginning to see (when I wasn't really able to before) what a friend of mine told me years ago. I was ignorantly insulting the work of an artist who painted a canvas black - you know the one. I claimed his work was taking up room in galleries where real art should be displayed. And my friend calmly told me he believed these modernists were showing a natural progression with this work. They had made their way through formal training, painted in the classical sense for years, mastered their discipline, and were now using their medium to explore IDEAS. That's what accomplished artists paint - IDEAS. And I'm beginning to see now that purist rules and prohibitions are meant for students - to keep their noses to the grindstone. To learn the basics of aesthetics and to practice, practice, practice what will please the masses so that years from now they will be given respect when they present a red square on an otherwise blank canvas. Much like Picasso earning respect for his Cubist work only because he was a brilliant representational painter first. You must master your discipline BEFORE you go getting ideas. BEFORE you use your work to express those ideas. And I realize now that I haven't even begun to really study the basics and I've gone and gotten ideas.)

Of night and light and the half-light.

The most adored memory I have of my childhood is just a feeling, really. There is no particular day that it impressed me and there is no specific reason. Just a warm, recurring feeling experienced throughout my childhood. It is that feeling (and how it's intensity has sadly faded) of falling asleep in the backseat of a car that had been in motion for what seemed forever then came to rest in a chilled garage. Of being wrapped in my father's jacket and carried to my bed. The feeling of my mother's hands on my skin as she gently tugged my clothes off and slipped my nightgown on while I half-slept. The yellowish glow of light from the hallway. My father's low murmurs as he tucked my sister into her bed in the next room. The gurgle of the humidifier. My mother placing a small, flowered Dixie cup of water on my nightstand. The smell of clean sheets and real vanilla beans on my dresser. My father's weight easing down beside me on the mattress, trying not to wake me as he whispered his goodnight. Two soft kisses on my forehead and the gentle creak of my door shutting behind them. Bliss. Warmth. Safety.

I haven't felt that in years. That warmth. That half-drunk bliss. I haven't felt that safe in years.

Monday night I left work and drove through the fattest of raindrops listening to a song a friend of Kate's wrote about a story I had told. I was too lost in that song and I missed my exit. I was three miles past it. I got off the expressway with the intention of getting right back on toward home when my gas light came on. I pulled into the nearest station, ran in, and came back out to find the only man, besides my father, who had ever made me feel that warm-half-drunk-blissful-safety sitting in the car parked next to mine.

I was surprised to see him at this station. It was much too far from where reason would place him. But only a part of me was surprised - another part thought it made a lot of sense. And his casualness about it all was both upsetting and comforting at the same time. He asked about my father. He liked my earrings. He remarked that he was sickened by the smell of grilled meat from Bennigan's down the street. He would see me later.

Ryan was the only man who rubbed my earlobe as I fell asleep on his lap. Who brought me orange pop and a giant chocolate bar whenever I didn't feel well. The only one who knew how to climb into bed in the middle of the night without frightening me. The only one who took care of me without me asking or even hinting for it. The only one I ever really wanted to take care of. We had such a beautiful romance in college and after we parted I always thought of him as the "one who got away." We re-met just a couple of years ago. We recently tried and failed to rekindle our romance. The last time I spoke to him was painful. We were both so angry that we just weren't who we used to be - we didn't "have it" anymore - that we took it out on each other and we shouldn't have.

But running into him by such random Chance didn't make me feel like Fate was trying to bring us together again, really. That possibility - that want - is certainly gone. But it did reinforce this overwhelming desire I've felt lately. Wanting to take care of someone the way I used to take care of him. The way he took care of me. But not just anyone. (Someone.)

Lately I've been shutting myself in, baking gingerbread and blueberry muffins. Carefully washing dishes by hand instead of cramming them in the dishwasher as I typically would. Thoughtfully constructing handmade cards and well wishes. Wrapping up silly gifts and sending them off to loved ones in different parts of the country. Buying bottles of red wine and fresh jams and guest towels. Spraying fig around the house, wiping down the counters, lighting candles, putting on coffee and nice music in case someone were to stop in to visit. I would want them to feel most welcome. Lately I have spent most of my free time daydreaming about making someone else feel warm and safe and happy.

I read a blog today written by someone I don't know who proclaimed that she wasn't about to do anything for a man that he could do himself. I laughed a little bit at myself because of this "sweet little housewife without the husband" role I've succombed to lately. Generally, I am fiercely independent. I have my own career, passions, goals, friends. I have my own home and take out my own trash. Mow my own lawn. Single mother. I am a modern woman by all accounts. So months ago I would have agreed with her statement. I would have thought to myself, Self-sufficiency please! I want to be with a man who doesn't want (nor expect) me to do those things. And now - now I say, I want to be with a man who doesn't expect me to do those things, but whom I want to do those things for. Now I couldn't have disagreed more with her declaration.

I do. I want to do things for a man that he could easily do for himself. I want to turn the lamp on for him as he reads. I want to warm up his car on a freezing January morning. Make him coffee and warm apple pie for no reason at all. I want to fold his laundry and tuck it neatly into his dresser. Run hot water and soap over his plate. Sweep crumbs from his breakfast tray. Not for any man - for the right man, of course. And not because I want something in return, but because these little things are like small, flowered Dixie cups of water and the rubbing of earlobes. They make you feel warm and blissful and safe. And it could be just a phase I'm in - like the ones an ex used to label my "baby fever" periods. Or it could be me feeling hopelessly romantic. Maybe that I am feeling unsafe, unwarm, unblissful myself.

But it could be happiness, too. Feeling safe, warm and blissful myself. Wanting to share it. Wanting to make someone feel as if they are being carried to their bed on a cold winter evening wrapped in a spice scented overcoat. Soft hands on their skin. Soft light and whispers in the other room. Fresh water for drinking within arm's reach. Gentle kisses on their forehead. Half-drunk bliss.

Of distant relation.

That feeling of wanting to taking care of someone (Of Night and Light and the Half-Light) - if you know me well, you will know I don’t mean to say that is all I want to do. Certainly I want to continue my mothering of Claire, my career, my painting, my coffee dates with friends. Of course. But can’t I do both? And I certainly don’t mean to say that I want to take care of someone who won’t take care of themself. That’s the whole appeal - doing something for someone who would have done it anyway. But now they don’t have to and isn’t that really just the nicest feeling? When you were on your way home thinking Oh, shit, I’ve got to remember to bring my garbage can back from the road to the house and you find, when you arrive home, that someone has already done it for you. (Thank you again, Erin.)

And that feeling of wanting to take care of someone. Sure, you’ve probably experienced that urge too. Yes. But I find it particularly inspiring and relieving because after I had Claire I really believed that I would never want (nor have the energy) to take care of anyone but her. My patience for adults (men) was cut short. I thought why would I want to wash a grown man’s dishes when I can devote that extra attention to my beautiful daughter instead? I think now, as Claire is growing up too fast, I have struck a nice balance. I am devoting every second of my time to her - and somehow pleasantly making time for others as well. I no longer see other people I love as a distraction from her. And that is a nice feeling.

And I am also grateful for this feeling because it is quite hard to give without strings. To give without potential resentment. And there are no strings to speak of, no resentments that I can foresee. And that is a nice feeling, too.

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I am addicted to a particular album right now. I will not tell you what it is because I want it to be MINE for a little while. (This excludes Erin, of course, because she always lets me in on her fabulous secrets.) There is one song on this album that didn’t do anything for me the first few listens. I didn’t dislike it - it just didn’t stand out because it is such a comfortable, melodic tune. However, the other night I was slowly pouring evaporated milk into my pumpkin mixture as the recipe specifically instructed and I realized this: Throughout the song he sings, “My love...” in the chorus. But during the bridge/chorus, he sings her name there instead - and it sounds almost exactly like “My love.” And I thought that to be incredibly heartbreakingly romantic and clever and just everything. Naturally, that is my favorite song on the album right now.

And speaking of that feeling of wanting to take care of someone - in a different song he sings the lyrics, “She cooks me food...” And I thought that to be an incredibly romantic line as well.

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My mother told Claire early this summer that she had spotted some deer in the cornfield behind their house and that there was a baby deer in this group...herd...flock...whatever. So Claire immediately became obsessed with seeing this baby deer. And each time she visited my parents she insisted that they go leave corn, blankets and a bottle in the field for her baby deer. And even after months without a single baby deer sighting, the obsession continued to grow. She started calling Mary, one of her babydolls at home, her baby deer. And then Juliette, our cat, became her baby deer. And when she returned home from Thanksgiving with her dad, I became her baby deer. ”Oh it’s okay, Baby Deer. Don’t be afwaid. Your momma’s here.” And after learning that I am the baby deer now, my mother, who I suspect is still angry with me for allowing Claire go out of town with her father on Thanksgiving, gave Claire a bowl full of dried corn kernels to feed to her baby deer. And then she sent an enormous baggy full of them home with us “so Claire’s baby deer wouldn’t be hungry.” So, needless to say, I have had about three tons of hard, dry, filthy corn kernels shoved into my mouth over the past few days. Tomorrow I am taking Claire to the Disney store to purchase a Bambi stuffed animal. And I will cut a hole in this poor thing’s mouth if I have to so as to no longer endure the fois grois style feedings my child fancies so well. (And as much as I dislike mouthing dry, hard, dirty corn - I am heartened that Claire has this innate desire to take care of someone too. Claire has the sweetest nature. She is just kind and polite and tender. And if you know her, know that you are so very lucky. But also know that you have contributed to her kindness and sweetness and, in turn, she and I are so very lucky.)

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(Please know that I am not making fun of anyone but myself here. There is nothing funny about this except my inability to put things in perspective when I have floated off to LaLa Land. And it’s not funny even, but pathetic of me really.)

Kate - bless her cold, black heart - is a tough love friend. Yes, even more tough love than I. And she will put up with none of my idealist fantasies or whimsical musings. When I confessed to her years ago that I had begun bumping into strangers just so I could offer a genuine apology because no one seemed to offer an apology anymore when they bumped into you and I wanted to start that human kindness trend up again, she told me that I was completely insane and that someone was going to go balls-out on me one day.

So, I should have known when I recently brought up the subject of a homeless man I had gotten to know. Well not really gotten to know, but became familiar with. Anyway, I was telling her about how I just felt this overwhelming compassion for him and ... (that whole thing about wanting to take care of someone.) She put her hand up, shook her head in disbelief and said, sternly, “You have your crush face right now. What the fuck? You have a crush on a homeless guy now?”

I told her that I did NOT have a crush on a homeless guy. But what if I did? So what? Just because he’s homeless doesn’t mean he’s not human. And he wasn’t like some old man. He was our age and he was attractive and...

“Fucking A, Courtney. You know I have compassion for homeless people too but let’s be frank here and agree that homeless men just aren’t really in the dating pool. Like dinner and a movie with you is on his list of priorities right now?! Fucking crush on a homeless guy. Are you telling me this to make your fucked up crush on Randy Travis seem more acceptable?”

And yes, he certainly has other concerns and I was too far off in LaLa Land. But, then, I remembered a professor I had in undergrad who had told us that he had been homeless for almost ten years before he managed to get back on his feet. And during the time he was homeless he met his wife - who was not homeless! So, maybe dinner and a movie would be...

(And, no, I don’t like Randy Travis’ music but he just seems so sweet. Like he would hold my face with both hands when he kissed me. And he’s tall.)

To the left of the Round Room is the Hyacinth Room.

Everything happens again. I want these words burned into my skin.
I like phrases and lyrics like this. Excerpts that seem simple and easy when ripped from their context. If you’re looking for an unmarked place...there’s no such place. And, I can see a bed and make it too. But especially, I miss my beautiful friend.

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I officially cannot sleep. Ever. It is bothersome, but... I was lying awake in bed the other night and turned onto my right side to gaze out the window. The shadow of trees, streetlights and the poles of my awning formed an inkblot painting. It was a giant ant walking through thick blades of grass. I wondered why I saw it so clearly, then realized I hadn’t taken my contacts out.

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Claire talks in her sleep. Mostly jibberish. The other night she clearly said, “Juliette (our cat) cut my hair and put on some purple ribbons so it looked nice and pretty.” That gives me such relief. My daughter, my only real love, is peaceful.

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I am sleepy now, but I know better than to get back into my bed and put out the light. I will lay awake. I will not sleep. I sat down at my computer feeling as if I had to write just one more time before my perspective changes. And I’d like to document the difference.

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Erin and I decided it should be government mandate that everyone keep an active log of their personal “truths” that become public record when you turn sixty years of age. Because, haven’t you just killed yourself - stayed awake at night and ripped your own flesh off - wondering what the answer really was? Did they really love you? Were they using you for something? Were they just scared? What did she really think of that gift? This way, there is hope that you will know the truth one day. Even if you were too chickenshit to ask then. Even if you felt lied to. If you find yourself still wondering these things as you’ve reached your golden years, you can access Jane Jones’ Personal Truth documents. AHA! She did sleep with Professor Smith to get that A! I knew it! Or perhaps, sadly, Yes, you were just a fine distraction.

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I cannot really explain the entire circumstance regarding the next decision Erin, Jen and I made weeks ago. I will write a false explanation that is similiar enough to work. Nasty Person was convinced that Nice Person was seeing someone behind their back. It was decided in a fit of giddy chatter that Nice would HAVE to pull up to Nasty’s house with Boris (an inflatable sex-doll-man) strapped in the passenger seat. When Nasty came to the window of the car, Nice would hit the play button on a tape recorder in plain sight. The tape would play what was clearly Nice’s voice trying to talk like a man. “Oh, hey, you must be Nasty. Nice to meet you, I’m Boris...” and then you would hear the static of the blank tape running. As Nasty and Nice had a bizarre fight about Boris, his tape recorded voice would blurt out random things like, “I like pears,” and “You catch the game last night?” As you can see, the three of us like to confront important issues of trust, suspicion and jealousy in the most childish way possible.

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Every time I take a vacation I try to make it a self-improvement retreat. Last year I learned how to relax in the most common way. I am a city girl. I find skyscrapers, shiny steel and concrete breathtaking and I want to scale the buildings and pound the pavement until my body collapses with exhaustion. When I am on vacation I am typically bouncing on the bed above my sleepy companion at 6am yelling, “Get up! We’ve got five days to cover an entire city! Let’s go, go, go, go, gooooooooo!!!!” And I do (go, go, go, go, goooooooo!!!!!) But last year, that was the year I learned to lounge poolside in a bikini with a Mai Tai, a book not meant for reading, and a towel over my face. It was delightful.

So I’ve just returned, this week, from a roadtrip. A vacation, I suppose. There were many reasons for it, but the most important for me was this: Courtney, you’ve got to live in this world.

I realized that for years I have been teetering on the edge of Henry Dargerdom. And for years I have suffered terrible disappointment because of my own great expectations. A chronic daydreamer, I am. A handsome man glances at me in the grocery store and by the time I’ve reached the frozen foods section I have already imagined our courtship, our engagement, our lovely wedding and Claire holding her new baby brother. By checkout we have grown old together and are sipping Mint Julips on our front porch watching the grandkids roll around on our ivy covered lawn. And fuck if I’m not almost crying, seriously, when I’m actually pulling out of the parking lot without him - my husband.

So, yes, get away. Have no expectations. Take everything at face value. No assumptions. No “intuition.” No reading too much into it. Do not expect. Do not imagine. Just don’t think about anything you can’t see, hear or touch. And I feel changed. I do. Because there was no letdown. No disappointment. Everything was as it should have been.

And life posed its first test just days after I arrived home. I met a man who took me on one of the best dates of my entire life. No kidding. And before he arrived I thought, don’t even think about what he’s going to wear. Don’t even think about anything until it’s right there in front of you. And even when he immediately asked to see my work (honestly no man has ever asked that before and I’ve always thought it to be fucking unbelievable) I passed the test. I actually passed. And, you know, this world can be really nice when you’re actually in it.

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And speaking of Henry Darger and of words I want burned into my skin and of how want and expectation can ruin you: He wrote of his stubborness (and want and expectation), I will not even stand for a snowless winter.

It may take twenty years for her to see that I did fight. The best I could. Painfully silent.

I was so young. My sister's hands were fumbling around my lap, searching for the seatbelt. Not even two miles down the road - it seemed like we were in the backseat for hours. Wondering why my mother was angry with us. The three of us, small children, stood on his lawn staring at each other. His enormous dog. White with mis-shapen grey patches. I didn't know what sort of dog he was then. I didn't even know there were different sorts. Even now, I don't think I want to know. It would be easy - but I like not knowing, still. Our mothers were crying. Embracing over cardboard boxes. We didn't know what we had done to make them so sad. He had a blue baseball cap on. I never saw him again.

The ride home was quick. My mother ushered us into the house and didn't speak to us the rest of the day. She served us lunch with swollen eyes. She snapped at my father. She had lost a good friend to distance. It is grievous to say that, tonight, I know exactly.

We did nothing. The hurt of great loss (for my mother - for me) disguises itself as anger. Coldness.

And, now, I just want to be left alone.

Loss reminds you of itself. The many forms it has come to you in in the past. Reminds you that you will see it again. And over again. Until you become it.

Something seems wrong. Vitamins are making me ill. Sleep is making me tired. Ginger turns my stomach. The five o'clock sun is so fucking intrusive. I heard someone declare their love of autumn today and I didn't care. My writing has changed. I don't even mind if you understand anymore. Someone has snipped the wrong wire.

Loss. What have I already lost? The sensation of tiny elbows jabbing my womb. Six pounds of grace against my chest. Coos. The elation of first words, steps and giggles. Diapers. There's no need for them anymore. A big girl. She was just my baby - just yesterday.

And what more is there? What did I lose that morning, just days ago, when she sat on my hip and I allowed myself to be belittled - right in front of her? To be made small - so much less than she needs me to be. Will that be her telling memory of my character? Will she wonder, as she grows, why I didn't defend myself? Why I didn't fight? What did I lose that morning? But rather, what did she? And if it's nothing lost for me, but instead that someone else, it is still excruciating. To know that she has lost - already. I can play and sing and give her clean sheets. But I cannot protect her. And so I know why my mother didn't speak to us that day.



I just want to be alone. To enter Pollock's quiet nest. To smell it's lavender. To close my eyes and imagine the soft fuzz on her arms changing to feathers. At dawn Sunday morning. On a rooftop. She will flash through the hazy sky and circle our home. Claire will wait each week by her bedroom window for just a glimpse of this white bird. The one who sent her a soft, red heart. And when she sees she will return to her bed. And it will be their secret.

Fear the overpass.

While it might seem odd, pedstrian overpasses have much to do with my earlier blog regarding my wonderful Wednesday. I can't explain why, because it's just a gut feeling - abstract and bizarre. But, trust me as I tell you another story.
Monday morning I was driving into work, and just as I got downtown I looked up. The sky was a comforting periwinkle/grey, the sun almost looked like the moon through the haze and I saw an image that has burned itself deep into my subconcious. A pedestrian overpass. Through the chicken wire I saw a sillouette of a man hunched over a wheelchair, pushing his friend slowly through the crisp morning. It was a beautifully haunting image.

Tuesday Bjorn and I were having a really nice conversation over lunch and he told me that he had painted a series for a show with an overpass, truckstop related theme. We talked about what sort of meaning those images have. His meaning seemed so succinct. I was inspired.

I began thinking about my own ideas of pedestrian overpasses and was disappointed in myself because my reaction was fear. I've been fearful at times that someone would drop something off of it as I drove under, or that I would witness someone hurling themselves to the ground, and sometimes, if I'm stuck under one in traffic, I have a fear that it might collapse on top of me. Anxiety and fear.

So, yesterday as I drove to Ann Arbor, cars on 94 came to a screaming halt - I had to slam on the brakes! My heart raced for at least a minute or two afterward, but Claire didn't seem to notice. Her deep, sleep was undisturbed. We sat motionless in traffic with just the low beauty of Pinback to calm me down. Suddenly I heard from the backseat "Walk, walk, walk." I glanced in the rearview mirror, saw those big, chocolate eyes wide open and the tiniest little finger pointing to my right. I smiled at her, happy to play the game, and followed her finger. A man dressed in black walking across a pedestrian overpass. Hmm.

Erin and I talked about them last night. Her feelings were purer - much less affected. She saw them as a metaphor for enlightenment. The chaos of the masses traveling here and there at insane speeds, trying to go to meaningless places for meaningless reasons. And the man and his friend on the overpass - well, they had risen above that and had a destination so important that they would travel there by foot - slowly with focus. And the wheelchair bound friend - an even more intense representation because his handicap made him slower - but surer. I think that's a beautiful way to look at it. But, then, Erin is a beautiful and intuitive woman.

Pedstrian overpasses. Don't be surprised if you see them as my next series. I think they might be the most beautiful inspiration, next to Claire, that I've had in some time.

I miss my beautiful friend

Every so often my dear, beautiful friend, Joshua, pops into town. Oh, he always looks so fetching, always has many compliments, always brings New York-style excitement and always, always, always greets Claire with a kiss on the lips, a toss in the air and a sweet, sweet rendition of Sparklehorse's "Gold Day." What a beautiful man.

But this trip home was on account of a sad occassion so Claire and I made the trip to Ann Arbor prepared to mourn. BUT, instead of allowing us to sit dutifully by his side in solemn silence, he whisked us off to see a clairvoyant. The three of us - the heart-of-gold sinner, the sad and harmless ladybug and the innocent - off to face our futures.

Well, good futures indeed. No fame, no fortune but full, loving lives ahead. Sounds good, uh-huh. Well, wait - she's sensing an alarmingly overwhelming source of hate, jealousy and negativity forcing it's way into my life via a white, boxy machine with bright headlights. (So, those close to me are saying - AHA! Of course!)

But Claire, my magical, floating toddler, is apparently quite gifted in a visual sense. And that was funny because we just recently had her tested for a photographic memory. So, I guess that's that.

So, she told us beautiful things, heartbreaking things, and just down-right ridiculous things. But, she didn't tell us the most useful of things - mainly involving a fabulously funny lunchtime fiasco involving plum sauce, an enthusiastic cherub, a doting mother's white coat and a $45 dry cleaning tab.

Ah, but we had a beautiful night listening to Mia Doi Todd, sipping cheap champagne, decorating the Christmas tree with sugar cookies (which was really dumb because Claire danced around it saying "cracka!" and pulling them down randomly for bites), and keeping Claire up as late as possible for her first Vogue photo shoot.

We slept snug.

The drive to the airport this morning was much too short and much too sad. I miss my beautiful friend.

One who draw heart in January.

At midnight on New Year's Eve, Jen found herself in the middle of a kiss sandwich. Sure, it's pure comedy now, but at the time she just shrugged her shoulders and peered out from between the two of them at me with utter defeat in her eyes, silently asking me - and the forces that be - "Why?"

Ah, it's just a kiss sandwich. It cannot be explained.

This morning I was walking out of the coffee shop, head in the clouds, and found myself on the concrete in one swift motion. Tripped right over the most obvious yellow divider curb. I picked myself up and laughed with slight embarrassment, but felt pretty good about it because no one seemed to see me - oh, except for the guy coming right toward me. The same guy who dumped me for being too much of a "daydreamer." Kiss sandwich.

Met a guy a couple of weeks ago who made me laugh, made me think, quoted Nietzsche, dressed well...whole package. Talked on the phone, emailed some lovely poetry and exchanged ideas on philosophy. When I had my fill of the heavier things and asked him more personal questions like what he enjoyed doing in his free time, what music and movies he was drawn to he emailed me a very formal advisement to see the attachment for answers to my curiosities. It was an autobiographical statement for his graduate admission ap. Kiss sandwich.

Had an open package of homemade breads for my deceased friend's mother on the passenger seat of my car that I planned to send off that day. Ran into the drugstore to buy KY Jelly and condoms for a naughty pack for my recently engaged girlfriend. Threw the bag into the open box as to not clutter my already cluttered car. Made a mental note to take out the bag before mailing. Later that night went to gather all of the things for the naughty pack. Kiss sandwich.

So, to all the dumpers of daydreamers - here is a little something I have learned in my almost thirty years of living an unorganized life. No one wants to read about how you paid your bills on time or got there twenty minutes early. There is no humor in balancing your checkbook each night or taking the smart route home each day. No one will laugh about you folding your socks neatly or avoiding that obvious yellow divider curb. Life is just more delightful when you find yourself stuck in the middle of a kiss sandwich.

So, girls, here are some more kiss sandwiches we've found ourselves in that I would never dare post, but god do they crack me up...

Pumpkin - Kiss sandwich
"I have a cyst..." - Kiss sandwich
"I'll adopt a pet." - Kiss sandwich
Assface - Kiss sandwich
"I've got to check on my fungus." - Kiss sandwich
Sprawling naked like he owns the place - Kiss sandwich
"This could be big." - Kiss sandwich
"Uh oh! Mama poo poo." - Kiss sandwich
"Sandy...Cindy. Jesus!" - Kiss sandwich
Crying over a chocolate birthday cake - BIG F.*%ING KISS SANDWICH

Well I can be sentimental now too.

I've always loved that deep blue in the sky when you can't figure out if it's early morning or late evening. The color that confuses clocks and makes me stop what I'm doing just to walk outside and wonder if it's day or night - and wonder whether there is a difference. It's the blue that colors my strangest dreams.

Fog so thick it feels like it has substance and secrets and it's tempting you into something. Snow and fog and the lightest tapping of rain. And that amazing blue.

It was between evening and morning when we left work last night. So warm, so blue and foggy and thick. Even with the gauche casino lights seeping in, just serene. I rolled my window down, sipped my coffee and lit a cigarette. I pulled out onto Lafayette with an album about driving playing low through the speakers. Without really deciding anything, I was driving too - in the opposite direction of home.

Driving meant possibilities but the familiarity of my kitchen, my bed, my toothbrush just meant safety and comfort. I drove because I had another good day, I felt good and I wanted to make it last. I drove because I haven't gotten in my car late at night without crying, or stalking or wondering whether life would be better for her if I just took my hands off the wheel in a long time.

I thought about sitting on a barstool in Detroit Sunday night when a Protest Song took me by surprise, eyes closed, to a porch in Ann Arbor on a muggy summer night. A time, years ago, when I was lonely and sad and wantful. "For those who fight sleep." I thought about how funny it is when you think you're the only one who hears the music right. How I HAVE held you closer than you could imagine...flying from my hands. I thought about how things can be, simultaneously, so true and so melodramatic. How beautiful it is when the pain's not part of the memory anymore. Like childbirth. God, I know it hurt like hell, but how bad was it again? And you hope you've learned to either be well prepared for it next time, or get the epidural because you're certainly not going to give up on the end result because you might hurt for it.

I drove to a neighborhood near the lake and parked on the side of the road. Stepped out into a mud puddle. Brick tudors and iron gates. Nicely trimmed hedges and that amazing blue glow from televisions in darkened bedrooms. Snug under their covers watching Conan, worried about packing lunches. Dinner with the in-laws. Keeping score. Resentful about money. I wanted to invite them to walk with me down to the lake under a better blue, but I really just wanted to be alone.

I thought about my miracle in her big-girl bed with her fierce protector just feet away from her. How her smile has gotten so bright. How stunning she is in unimaginable ways. What a gift of purpose I've received. I kicked some rocks, noticed how dirty my boots were getting, but kept walking and sipping and smoking and smiling just because.

I thought about how lazy it is to assume. How I don't want people in my life to assume. I want them to know. I want to know. I thought about turning 30 and the sense of justification it gives me. Like I am qualified now, somehow, to have opinions and beliefs. I've earned the right to wander through rich people's neighborhoods in the middle of the night. To ask for what I want. To experience a birth of confidence - real confidence based on ugly love and heartbreak and dry spells and drama and failure. I have the right to be serious about silliness but about grievances too.

I thought about my cats meowing for food at home. How they've been with me for seven years. Seen too many men come but always go. Have walked across the floors of four different homes to their water dish. Scratched up a dozen different party dresses. Watched curiously as I sobbed, face down on the floor. Pricked up their ears in horror as I fell face down in the toilet, drunk out of my mind. Snuggled me as I read quietly. Ran from me as I laughed hysterically and danced around in a fit of giddiness. Their gentleness with Claire. Their annoyance with her. The way they snuggle at the foot of my bed together or sit in the window and chatter at birds.

I thought about how easily I fall for someone and how quickly I backtrack once I've gotten their attention. How many times I've convinced Erin and Jen I was "super in love" in the past year. How many times I was just looking for a distraction. How I'm probably just looking for one now. I thought about sitting at The Raft, nervous and insecure. Thought about driving to New York in the middle of the night in silence and how in love I was. I thought about how peculiar it is that we allow some animals to run wild through our neighborhoods but if we see other animals, we put flyers up for them. How weird mushrooms are. How funny it is that we need alcohol to enhance ourselves. Thought about my past and tried to imagine my future. Thought about how I'm actually genuinely relieved to not have a Valentine this year. Thought I might actually like to keep it that way for a while.

I couldn't even see the water because of the fog. I could feel it tingling on my skin. I sat down in the mud, yawned and sipped cold coffee just feeling the water and knowing it was there. I sat for a long time just because I had another good day and I felt good.

I am bored. It is fitting that you pay.

A few months ago Jen, Erin and I verbally explored, in great detail, the idea of dating sponsors. Perhaps if single people had someone to guide them, much like an AA sponsor, through the humiliating and painful experience of "dating" the number of restraining orders issued in this country would decrease dramatically. My dating sponsor would be incredibly bored 363 days out of the year.
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I have fond childhood memories of Red Lobster. Hush puppies, rice pilaf, popcorn shrimp and my lovely paternal grandmother. It was "very expensive" and, therefore, a big treat. I hadn't been there in over 8 years. Believe me, I wanted to go back - shamelessly order the Admiral's Feast and a refreshing Lobsterita. But my ex hated seafood and said RL was ghetto. We never went.

I secretly wanted to go all of the time. "Where do you want to eat tonight?" RED LOBSTER!!!! "Uh, umm...Pizza Kitchen, J. Alexanders, Sweet Lorraine's, Margarita's, pizza in? Wherever...it's cool." NO. NO. NO!! RED LOBSTER!!!!!

Jen and Erin took me last week because they have the seafood lover in them as well. I ate several cheddar biscuits, cole slaw, a substantial portion of seafood fondue and an entire platter of deep-fried seafood with french fries. Less than one hour later we found ourselves, bloated and greasy, on Erin's couch drinking coffee, eating Bill Knapps' chocolate cake and watching The Witches of Eastwick. I have not been hungry once since that night.
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I was sitting outside having a cigarette today, staring off into space again. My contact popped out of my eye, did a semi-flip and, amazingly, popped back in. After such a terrifying split second (it's my last pair of disposables!) I reached for comfort in haste. I ended up blowing smoke out just as I put my cup to my lips. I inhaled the smoke, spit coffee all over myself and the shock of it popped my contact out again.
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Do I ever want to be the kind of woman who thinks she's super rad for drinking whiskey rather than wine, has a perpetually vulgar mouth, makes unfortunate choices regarding musical selection, can't get that dang spelling thing right, readily shows off her breasts, and makes fun of other women for being, well, sophisticated?
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Erin was watching some documentary on soldiers in Iraq. She said their captain told them, just before embarking on a mission, "Be polite, be professional, be ready to kill." That is my new dating mantra.

Gun jumpers.

My mother, sister and I are all educated women. We all hold graduate degrees. We are extremely intelligent, dumb women.

Years ago, my sister spent a few weeks trying to figure out why the light in her stove would come on when the door was open, but turn off when she closed it. She wanted to see her food cooking! She sat on several occasions with her nose up to the door, wondering how to get the light to come on. It finally dawned on her that there was, in fact, no window in the door.

Months ago my mother made a cheesecake. My father had cut himself a piece - no one else had had any yet. She was doting about how he had cut the perfect piece - not too small, not too big. She wanted everyone to have a piece precisely that size, but she just couldn't figure out how to cut them. She dragged him into the kitchen to show us how big to cut it. He looked at her, shook his head in disbelief and said, "Cut it the size of the hole."

A few days ago I was disappointed to find that my cute little ceramic salt shaker was empty. I needed to refill it. Oh, but how? There was no screw top? Am I supposed to submerge the thing in a bucket of salt and press the granules into the tiny little holes? Fill a syringe and shoot the salt in? Could the little artsy ceramic salt & pepper shakers my mother bought me in a fancy art gallery really be one-time-use shakers? Well, fuck it. I threw it in the trash. It hit a glass jar and shattered. The little plastic removable cap from the BOTTOM bounced around a couple of times and settled on the top. As it bounced, it sang to me "You stupid idiot. La la la la."

Poor Claire. Her father is truly a brilliant man, yet there is just no escaping the Wilcox women dumb gene.
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My medium is oil. Claire can not be around the paints, varnishes, flow enhancers, turpentines. I fear she may sprout a third ear or grow glass hair. Since her birth, I set up studio in my basement. To accommodate color and light issues, I am forced to keep the lights off, with one single flood light directly behind me. This makes for a terrifying scene. It took me months to become comfortable with this arrangement. I am a scaredy-cat. Eventually, creepy noises became comforting. Moving shadows became inspiration. And the thick yellowish spider who travels from corner to corner spinning webs has become my friend, Rose.

Well, certainly I am thankful I have conquered my silly basement fears, but now I am worried that being a basement dweller is affecting me in undesirable ways.

Last night I was lying in bed, my eyes shut tight. No colors! Typically, rich colors swirling around my head is a lovely sight to see as I drift off to sleep. But, no colors tonight. Just pure, deep black. I panicked. Am I blind? Am I dying? Is it the Nyquil? Have I lost all creative inclination? No colors! "Quick, think of a face, a bird..." Suddenly, Rose appeared. I smiled, my eyes still shut. "Oh, Rose. How nice to see you." I think I dreamt about her too.
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Jen inadvertently invented half-chaps last week. It is a fucking hilarious story. I really wish I could tell it to you and still remain close friends with her.
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Claire's hands look like mine and her legs, too. The rest of her is an incredibly authentic and stunning mix of her immediate family. She is my child. Mine. But, also, no one's. Herself. Sweetness. Just pure. It hurts to think about her. Her voice is so small. Like a squeak you're not certain you really heard. When she says "peeease" and "hanku" and "coose me" I want to put her back in my womb to keep her safe.

It is the most violent love I have ever felt. Violent because I would, in all sincerity, rip the flesh off of someone's bones and squeeze their organs to mush with my bare hands if they ever tried to hurt her. If you cannot understand why that sort of love is the most pure and the most beautiful, please do not have children.
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Liz thinks an internal soundtrack would be advantageous for all of humankind. I agree wholeheartedly. She also pointed out that it would be necessary to adapt your soundtrack when on vacation in order to properly experience the whole of the culture.

Liz is flying off to Paris tomorrow. Please, Liz, do not bring pictures or gifts back. Bring us back a playlist of your internal soundtrack.