The Portable Junk Drawer

Jackie's handbag was like a junk drawer, objects of mysterious origin colliding with daily necessities in a harried archeological dig through orphaned pen caps, a jumble of keys, tokens and hair bands, loose coins and crumbs and ancient grocery lists, so many options for chapstick she could moisten an army, her well-cased phone. Bits of old nuts, dried up orange peel, and even a few pills, genesis unknown, held dirty promises of a relief too risky to attempt. Random makeup, caps to mysterious vessels, folded bills stuffed in ripped pockets, napkins scribbled with directions—it was her way of not having to deal with it, a place to put it all, a depository for when options or time seemed short. Cleaning it out never much interested her, but when she did it was plainly ineffectual, only a matter of time before the careful organization reversed itself. And, somehow, some of it never quite seemed to disappear: she barely saw the tiny shreds of paper anymore, gum and juice box wrappers, ubiquitous and unseen like confetti at a ball, and the ink from a pen, parts still roaming, had long since leaked and dried into a shimmering blue crust. Her sunglasses, too scratched to care about anymore, remained unsheathed and vulnerable, always at the bottom, always caught up on a strap or straw, clashing with the spoons and small toys required to tame her distractible toddler—or that is, when he still was one. Yet, this was not the only evidence of a life once lived: a bejeweled lighter and scraps from an ancient pack of cigarettes remained, tobacco dust thick and still clinging to anything with a texture. Last, but certainly not least, her large and unwieldy wallet, practically purse-sized itself, perhaps the only useful thing in the whole bag, worked to justify the entire load--and it floated on a sea of found objects, the shrapnel of life, her only art.

What to do on a hot afternoon

If you're naturally hot blooded, carry extra weight, or live in a place where humid stagnation is the norm, then you're all too familiar with the embarrassment of a glistening upper lip, leaking hair line, and a damp back and underwear. If heat is your enemy, sweat your nemesis, if the salty stick of your thighs is a familiar discomfort—then I have, bear with me, a most unusual prescription.

Ironically, the antidote to a hot body is a hot sauna, or better yet, a hot yoga class, where you bake yourself silly, liquid pouring from pores, drops falling like rain with hands and feet slipping, hair clamping down, where you'll leave as wet as the shower that comes afterwards.

You'll most certainly notice the changes. Though you'll leave a soggy mess, the air outside will feel instantly invigorating. You'll bathe in a comfortable breeze, and—refreshed and recalibrated—you'll find yourself calm, dry and cool for hours and even days afterwards. Suffering friends and family will post themselves in front of a fan, while your renewed temperature gauge reminds you that hot is only relative, that sweat can be your friend, and that peace can be found in a stilled air.

A week of writing prompts

11/22 - Stopping to look in a window
As I passed the shed, I stopped to look in the window and there, just visible through the dusty glass I could see it: a small scrap of paper tucked into the sill and I could even make out what it said: "The blanket we laid on when we watched The Northern Lights."

1/23 - When we left for...
When we left for Cambden there wasn't even time to grab cigarettes.

11/24 - Write about a bathrobe
Hesitantly, he slid the liquid silk kimono off his shoulders, and stepped daintily into the tub. 
"No more excuses, Dan—I'm really ready this time. I mean it." "Great," said Dan. Let's start with putting your nose in and blowing bubbles."

11/25 - Who could imagine
"Who could imagine a place where you can't get chicken wings?" said the pinkish American bellhop, shaking his head.
"Yes ma'am, the French are funny that way, especially about chicken." He opened a binder that held an assortment of menus, searching for one in particular. When he found it he handed it to them, but still seemed distracted. "Not where I'm from. You can get chicken wings everywhere. And they're cheap, too, sometimes even free with a pitcher of beer! Spicy ones, regular ones, all kinds." The man stared off into the distance as if he could taste the Frank's sauce. "But as for where to get the best Coq au vin, I highly recommend Le Cinq, just over on Avenue George."

11/26 - Write about back alleys
Back alleys are only good for three things: finishing cigarettes, stealing kisses, and running from bad guys.

11/27 - There is always more than one silence
When you've been in a relationship long enough you know that there is always more than one kind of silence.

11/28 - Write about being a long way from home
Dear Jon,

Can you send some socks? The moths got to mine and I only packed two pair. Planning on Damascus by the 20th. Civilization is sporadic these days so some more cash and few more packs of jerky and those cranberry things I like would be great, and an extra book to pass the time. Maybe a dirty magazine? You know how lonely the trail gets. You're the best. 

-Arctic Fox

The Exquisite Picto-Scriptography Machine

I wanted to make it by hand.

Over beers in a dark divey bar I insisted that my construction-savvy artist friend sketch it out for me on a napkin, and then made him promise to let me borrow his workshop to manifest it. When my father, a bit of an artist and furniture hack himself, happened to be in town on business, I coerced him into coming with me to said workshop to help cut and assemble the parts. And in a course of hours, with my friend popping in periodically to consult, we did indeed build it.

We assembled and then disassembled the apparatus in such a way as it could be packed, shipped and eventually put back together—this time on my own, halfway across the country—with nothing but grit and a few power tools. It'd be a dirty, scrappy task, in an environment that could only be described as hostile, and I'd probably hate doing it. 

But since I sometimes do things I hate, and often think of myself as scrappy, and certainly don't mind getting dirty: there it was. An ugly, silly thing that I kinda loved a lot. 

The project was based on a simple parlor game known as an "Exquisite Corpse" or "Telestrations," though I've heard it referred to by a number of oddball names including "Eat Poop Your Cat," (which is what my weirdo friends and I call it) and have seen variations that include a physical board game. The best description I can think of would be if you took the general skill set of "Pictionary" and crossed it with the simplicity of "Telephone," and sprinkled it with the unpredictable whimsy of a seance. In my opinion it's best played with a small circle of buddies gathered 'round a cozy fire using a pile of loose scratch paper. It's a whole lot of damn fun. 

This, on the other hand, was a wooden structure roughly five foot tall holding up a large bolt of drawing parchment in the middle of a dry salt flat in Nevada. The players were a group 65,000 costumed freaks, and fun wasn't really on the table: there were no winners, no losers, and barely a point. 

It was Burning Man 2005, the aforementioned build conditions were blinding heat and powerful whiteouts, and the project was none other than The Exquisite Picto-Scriptography Machine. 

This festival and why I was there are stories for another time, but the machine itself (loosely and inaccurately named, though it did have moving parts) was whole-heartedly and painstakingly made (and in the spirit of the event, also burned), board by board, entirely by hand. 

But also I wanted people—friends and strangers—to use their hands when they encountered it, to touch the thing and hold materials that left marks on their fingers, to put pen or charcoal to paper, to work the makeshift hand-crank forward and back and when finished, to step away and admire their handiwork. I wanted them to be as committed to this trivial activity as I was to planning it, pouring over the game's instructions and guessing at what others had left or where the ditty would go, because in reality, I had as little idea about that as they did. 

If you're still trying to picture it: in your wanderings, you'd happen upon this Exquisite Picto-Scriptography Machine (a bit unremarkable in appearance and small in stature compared to the geodesic domes and blinking art cars and buzzworthy artifacts around it—but hopefully nonetheless intriguing) where a large easel displayed either an illustration or bit of descriptive text. Instructions invited you to create, based on what came prior, a drawing or a sentence of what you see and to advance the canvas forward for the next person. You can see how this giant game of words and pictures could turn sentiments into nonsense, and nonsense into hilarity. Though, ironically, this version of Finish the Story didn't really let its participants in on the joke.  

So... what?  Who was it fun for, why the effort? 

I wanted to feel fulfilled in the company of other artists in a scene where it was expected to create art of your own. And in terms of a low risk social experiment, I also wanted to see what would happen.

But mostly I wanted to to birth something (mostly) myself, from start to finish, however clumsily, like shooting myself out of a cannon: bold, brave and fast, no skill required, closing my eyes and not caring where I landed and as long as I didn't fall flat on my face and die, I'd consider it a huge fucking success. 

Perhaps then, there's a bit of merit as to why this festival's lesser known slogan is "Bad art, good stories..."

Feng shui

House plants. I kill them. Every time.

But the thing is, they almost always trick me into thinking I won't. They have this uncanny, almost sentient way of knowing exactly how long to stay alive, often a substantial period—weeks, months, even years!—in order to falsely lure me into complacency. So long in fact that I get comfortable in my success, cocksure, occasionally investing in even more house plants that eventually, most certainly, meet the same fate. They die.

But before they do, man, they thrive! Lush, bushy foliage convince me of a nascent green thumbery, a newfound knack for interior gardening that had, clearly until now, eluded me. Those other plants? Duds, lemons. But this one, this little beaut, this gorgeous, hearty thing, it will be the plant that LIVES!

How considerate it is, allowing me this fantasy, along with the time and space to master its exotic, finicky ways: the need to water just enough with the exact right cadence, and letting me fall in love with the way it goes just so with my decor.

But then I notice a slight tinge. Just a hint of color, the tip of one leaf, hardly a bruise, and dread descends. No, no, no, not again! I think. I was so good this time! I watered it! There was ample window light! I didn't even go on vacation! 

To anyone else this plant might look very much alive, a picture of health, but I know what's coming. It'll take months for that yellowing to spread but slowly, surely, some flesh-eating plant plague takes over and the drying, cracking, and shedding begins. From there it's only a matter of time. Often, I don't wait for the rest; I put the poor thing out of its misery and dump the whole clump in the trash, dirt and all, woefully mourning my efforts and vowing more diligence with the next attempt.

So what is a girl to do? When does this dying begin? Is it when the last leaf falls...or when that tiny malaise first sets in? Is it, as I have before feared, upon the first missed watering? Or what happens after, when an over-saturation tries to make up for lost time, the fussing and over-plucking that follows an unintentional, momentary lapse in attention?

Or, worst of all, my deepest anxiety: could it be sooner, the very first moment I bring that damn, ill-fated vine across the threshold of my home, the second I reach for the flora in the supermarket, still plucky and hopeful, unwittingly doomed for an abridged life of interment?

Despite my cruel, murderous tendencies, I remain committed to the cause: airy feng shui.

You're in a hotel room...

You're in a hotel room and the whole thing has gone sour.

Your partner is sitting, staring in the dim light with a hollow look, your captive laid out on the bed, having passed out much earlier than planned. Now moving about or making any noise is out of the question, as you can't afford to wake him, it's far too dangerous.

Getting him settled had been a whole deal, too. He complained a lot, but that was to be expected. But more than that he was loud about it: there was yelling, screaming, it was all you could do to keep him quiet. What if the neighbors heard? This was hardly an expensive hotel, the walls were thin and sound carried.

At one point he'd gotten himself so worked up he got an inexplicable bloody nose, of unknown origin, though it'd been a difficult car ride, so who knows? You didn't intend to be rough with him, that was never in your plan. But there'd been a lot of resistance, he fought you the whole way. Maybe he got injured during the transfer, it was hard to say. Everything happened so fast.

And speaking of fast, that was probably where things got off track. The decision to leave was pure impulse, but you didn't have to bring him along. Good or bad, there was always another way. But as always, money was a strong motivator, plus it was risky leaving him behind. This wasn't your first rodeo.

But even seasoned pros get rattled, make mistakes. And you definitely left some things behind. You just weren't expecting all this...unexpected. Your partner said it'd be a short trip, a quick joy ride out of state. But now it seemed so rash, so foolish. So amateur.

You settled on a hotel just outside the capital, and did what you could to keep a low profile checking in. Starving, you passed the hotel restaurant and, tragically, the hotel bar, but you knew better than to even try. Besides, you needed your wits about you, especially with this one. He was just too clever. And fast.

On top of that, you neglected to bring all the right tools for the job. Normally you'd have more options, several more forms of restraint, and even some entertainment to pass the time. Now, alone in the darkened room, tense and exhausted, your ward breathing softly beside you, time was definitely not on your side. What were you going to do now? Turn back? It was far too late for all that.

Why, oh why, hadn't you planned this better?

You turn to your partner, and mouth that you're going to try sneaking out to the lobby. Maybe they had a gift shop that carried Children's Tylenol, or maybe a toy he could teeth on if he woke up again? And while you were at it, I mean, this was supposed to be a fun trip, and it was only 7 o'clock. You left your book and Ipad at home by mistake and TV was out of the question so... what the heck else were you going to do? Surely your partner could watch the kid sleep for an hour or two. Heck, maybe you'd treat yourself to that drink after all.

You slip out, silent as an assassin, and breath a sigh of relief as you finally escape the dark prison of your hotel room. You skip the gift shop, closed anyway, and instead head straight for the bar for a much needed, and frankly earned, nightcap.

Beyond the confines of language

Once, fifteen years ago, meandering down a dirt path during a sunset filled moment in a foreign country, after days of solitude and reflection, and with nothing to occupy my mind but my mind itself (rare these days, in our always-connected world), I looked up at the blossoming sky and drew a fast breath.

The sky was an indescribably shade. There were layers of colors in that spectacle that to my limited eye could only be called "blazing sunset," but on canvas, even with the most succulent of oils or sophisticated of cameras, I knew could never be replicated. My soul said aloud, of its own accord (to the crickets and Howler monkeys should they have been listening, though surely not, as I think we were all busy watching in awe):

"There is no name for that color."

I have thought of these words many times since, and repeated them ad nauseum as an intimate and personal mantra, my secret magic with the Universe, whenever nature's bounty catches me visually off guard. In fact these words are more of a stand-in now, a proxy for when something is far too much, far more than a human could possibly know or experience; some inferior fraction of larger whole.

When I think back to its origins though, that exact, nameless hue, on that specific night, scorched forever to memory, that maybe only me and the butterflies could see, or those with a truly present and transcendent state of mind, I stood in a stupor until the color had finally dissolved into a quite spectacular, if ordinary, pinkish orange. Changed, I went on my way.

Swim

First, a cruel push into the unknown, his small lizard brain shutting down breath as he plunged below the surface, surviving or perhaps remembering, thrust once from, and then into, a liquid world. Wide-eyed and sputtering he emerged, and this is when knowing began.

Then it was explored, this stuff that makes wet, a way to wash, comfortable at home. A game too, dunking mouth and nose, kicking one foot and then two. Surprise! There are more kinds of water, big ones and blue ones, puddle ones, salty ones. Floating seats and arm floats, the battling of noodles and balls. Holding and clinging first to momma, then to the side wall, like a quivering mouse, like a sucker fish. Kicking revisited, with purpose now: get mommy wet, faster like running, behind you like Superman. Blowing bubbles, a master skill all its own, practiced above and below, blowing like the wind, out like a birthday candle, ho hum, hum, hum. Laying back, relaxing, head on mommy's shoulder like a pillow now, looking up at beams and clouds. Then work, two tasks at once, blowing while kicking, walking not falling, motorboat faster and faster. Dunking by accident, then on purpose, jumping. Circles with arms. Overconfident, scolded, no running. Paddle like a dog, like a beaver. Diving.

Small and granular tasks—unique but meaningfully related, like grains of sand on a beach—a boy learns to swim.

At the end of a journey: a riddle

At the end of a long travel experience we often say we need a vacation from our vacation. You know those trips: disrupted sleep schedules, uncomfortable quarters, too-crammed schedules, the inevitable overindulgence in rich foods and booze. You come back heavy, exhausted, spent, dreading the day you have to do it all again. What is it about a trip that sucks the juice right out of you?

Then there are those rare and enriching journeys, so often from our youth, that do the opposite: you sleep and then sleep some more, you move your body in new ways, you eat weird stuff, you hike it all off in nature. You have time to journal. You eat exotic fruits. Refreshed, tanned to the color your skin was meant to be, you come back brimming with tales and plans to do it all again soon.

What's the difference between the two? What changed between then and now? What brought about this quantum leap?

I'll leave this puzzle open, ready for the solving, a one word answer, for the all-too-knowing to complete.

Spoken, and unspoken hunger

This political season, I hunger only for this: that the 2016 election and its resulting nomination of Donald J. Trump for president brings about such an outcry, such a flood of distemper, that the uprising against hate and oppression and the demand for love, tolerance, and bi-partisanship builds into an unavoidable, leveling tsunami of change. Rest assured the levies will break; we are simply feeling the gathering pressure.

Of course, the above is a sentiment that is mostly unspeakable. It's too optimistic, too whimsical, too far off in the distance. Much damage can be done while we await some kind of revolution, for this is a restless, boiling sea. But on the other hand, it might well be the opposite: this tempest is upon us, the storm too close to see. We are in a dustless cyclone of mutiny, bound for Oz, passing through a dark cloud we won't recognize until we pop out the other side.

A hard freeze

It was an aching cold. The boy wanted to go out and see about the traps, but there was a cardinal sitting on the branch, staring at him—no way was he going to disturb it. The color was striking, the moment silent, breaking the spell seemed impossible. Who would move first?

After three frozen seconds, the bird quivered its feathers and startled the boy from his reverie. Shaking his head clear, the boy realized he'd just felt an entire three months go by, in that exact spot, as if their fates were sealed forever.

Three minutes of contemplating this vision, and tired from setting traps that failed to yield, the boy relaxed and rested there, considering carefully this bright and luminous creature, this bird who failed to fly south, who remained, rigid, considering him back, still as a frozen pond.

Three hours later and then three days of a hard freeze, both boy and bird sat silently, neither moving to breathe. In fact neither drew a breath at all, for the frost had set in quickly; the boy had fallen asleep, and the bird had finally starved in place.

Three months later, after that hard freeze thawed, the sun warmed and melted the ice that covered them both. Who would move first?  The spell, refusing to break, let nature take its intended course.

The dream

They were hiring a new nanny. The day started as a series of interviews and turned a into a day long marathon of endurance: unforeseen antics and distractions meant there was only a position for the last competent man-or-woman standing. Dangerous challenges included a tree falling on their house, their crafty toddler darting away and getting lost in a crowd, and the children—there were more of them by then—starving in an apocalyptic desert. This bizarre casting call for a new childcare provider began to to unfold much like an episode of Survivor, replete with a love interest (her handsome neighbor) revealing his distrust for certain characters, confessional style, in a gesture of strategy and solidarity. To which she got to repay him with white hot looks of gratitude, and the promise of a potential future make-out, in the off camera of her mind.

Relics of a distant past

There was a time when I believed, quite strongly, that one's memories are made up entirely of the physical objects one leaves behind. Mementos from your travels trigger you like a trip cord; a dusty box of relics spill out memories like old coins. Photos especially, printed on paper, are real imprints of your experiences. Evidence of you, there, with that tree, that outfit, that expression you hated at the time, but now, just now, it's the only expression you ever made on that day and thank god for it. I think about this as the world changes, so that photos are now but wisps of cloud, VR replaces physicality, and souvenirs, trinkets, and objects, whose sole purpose are memory and place, have become passé. With more ways to document and remember, there is so little to touch and hold. Will the lines of memory and experience blur so it'll be easy to relive our pasts? Or will memory get buried like a newsfeed, like an ancient city encased in dust, layer upon layer of of new encounters building up until there's no way to chisel in?

The blue pool of water

For Jenny's entire life, from the time she was a small child, she loved to dive deep deep deep into blue pools of water, where life was muffled, where sound lost all context, where she was free to be entirely herself. She loved the silence, the escape, the complete calm that came over her as her hair floated around her, as her legs lifted of their own accord, as she let tiny bubbles escape her lips like a ticking clock, keeping time until she had to go back to the world. As Jenny got older, she learned how to stay down longer and longer—first lessons, then dive team, then swim training, and finally extreme endurance competitions—and she felt as if the water were her second, and better home. This is where she could think thoughts that were only hers, where voices, so loud and offensive, went away. Above ground she felt  heavy and burdensome but in the water her body was bouyant and small, it slipped through waves like liquid through a sieve. The pool was where her secrets were kept, even those too ugly to think; in the pool they were safe to pull out and turn over, pound with repetition, wear down with pulling and breathing that always got Jenny places other than here. For her whole life there was nothing else in that water but her, and she occupied it like air clings to a tree.

Kitchen-sink cooking

Some of the best meals I've made in my life were co-opted from others, taking scraps of this, and scraps of that, and re-combining them into "new" dishes. Leftovers from restaurants are packaged to go only to reappear the next day, dressed casually in a new outfit: shards of Thai vegetables folded into a scramble (to make a dish "breakfast" simply crack an egg over it), taco bits and black beans turn into hearty salad toppings, and plain white Chinese rice (who doesn't end up taking a container or two of that home?) become milk porridges, fried rice stir-fries, and leftover "mashups" (a veritable kitchen sink of one-pot meals. Let's call it.... a rice-or vegetable-based slurry?). Homemade savings,  too—whether last night's mashed potatoes, uneaten turnips or broccoli, or yesterday's stale bread and vegetable soup—can be refreshed by combining it in some manner with the protein de rigueur: grilled chicken and ta da! Enchiladas, mystery casseroles, and thick melange stews. Even sauces, yes, an explosion of flavors held in tiny containers, become inspiration for entire dishes in my kitchen. They get dumped and stirred into just about everything I make, the surprise ingredient that is often even a surprise to me.

Hurry up and wait

Have you ever heard the phrase, "Hurry up and wait"?

I first heard it in the context of hollywood film production, a culture obsessed with timing: clocks, schedules, call times, breaks, lunch hours. There is a desperate need to rush, as in, you are expected to run, run red lights, keep pace, never go over on time. Do not be a minute late to make up. And then, the director will need to have a discussion, change their mind, change their lens, that leaf to the left is not popping, we need a new lighting package flown in from Italy, we need to do that take again. And again. And again. This means everyone: talent, crew, and vendors, standing by in the wings, perched on the edge of whether to rush or perch again, in a cycle of absurd stop 'n go. You must move like your life depended on it, being on time, just so you can stand in line, sit on your mark, and shiver in the cold as you wait wait wait to do your part.

I feel the same exact way about traveling. You must sprint, sweat, speed in order to be in the exact right place and time to be assigned your next mission, to be dispensed the information critical to the journey: your gate has changed, the flight's been delayed, there's a terrible traffic jam. You must suffer intolerably at travel's hands while he carelessly loses your luggage, sends only one shuttle bus for a too-large crowd, and fails to show construction on the outbound bridge. You, the star of this travel farce, are acting out scenes in real time, about losing your luggage, getting caught in thunderstorms, and misplacing your passport. To the uninitiated it might seem foolish that your airport shuttle dispatcher insists you call them back once your checked bags are in hand, instead of sending a van now, right after you've landed, the exact right amount of time prior to arriving in passenger pick-up.  But for those who understand the paradox of hurry up and wait, it is for some reason cosmically critical that the driver finishes their coffee, looks up terminals, and gets caught in traffic before he can meet you. For you must pay for your diligence; the weight of the world is upon you as you shiver in the cold and wait wait wait for the lot of them to do their part.

Hangnail

I remember small debts, owed to others, and carry them around like a currency. If I owe a friend a drink or a co-worker $10 from lunch, I'll obsess over it until the matter is sufficiently resolved. Also, and conversely, the small debts owed to me (like the running tally of how many days my husband hasn't unloaded the dishwasher). I'll worry it like a wort until the scales of justice are righted, my rain checks and IOUs repaid, my debt hangnail removed. 

However, it seems to me that when the circumstances are important or the stakes high—like a significant sum owed, a strict due date, or the handshake made to a loved one—I'm careless, I forget, bungle it...break promises.

Why? Is this self-sabotage? Not seeing the forest for the trees? Distractibility mixed with a healthy dose of tit-for-tat obsessiveness? Why is my debt filed to memory in the exact converse order of how meaningful it is to me? 

Instead of sweating the small stuff, letting the big stuff float by unsupervised—I'd much prefer that I neglect and forgive what's of little consequence in order to more fully commit to memory, and priority, what in life matters most.

Waiting

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Nov 9 - Write about waiting

Waiting is to fun as a fast food burger is to a 5 star Michelin restaurant. 


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We took it to go

A lifetime of melancholy part two: how it feels

When your thoughts and faith and expectations are floating about, groundless and buoyant in the sky, and then get popped like a plucked balloon. When you think you're safe in the out zone, but a playground ball hits you in the face, knocks your jaw, sucks your wind, and leaves tracks. Like an anxious tick, like worrying a hangnail, like an old and suffering hip. Like not getting to drive or even ride shotgun; as usual, you're relegated to the back, forced to to stare wistfully out the window, tracking yellow lines in pavement, just along for the ride.

A lifetime of melancholy part one: a recipe for disaster

There are surefire ways to fall into a numb despair.

The ingredients are always within reach. A bit of not asking for what you want, a dash of not doing all you can. Two tablespoons of bad luck. Large handfuls of laziness and denial. Sprinkle with complacency and mix together in a large pot filled with obligations and you will have a shit soup, a broth of misery you'll drink every day for a very long and lonely winter.

A lifetime of melancholy part one: a recipe for disaster

There are surefire ways to fall into a numb despair. The ingredients are always within reach: a bit of not asking for what you want, a dash of not doing all you can. Two tablespoons of bad luck. Large handfuls of laziness and denial. Sprinkle with complacency and mix together in a large pot filled with obligations and you will have a shit soup, a broth of misery you'll drink every day for a very long and lonely winter.

A lifetime of melancholy part two: how it feels

When your thoughts and faith and expectations are floating about, groundless and buoyant in the sky, and then get popped like a plucked balloon. When you think you're safe in the out zone, but a playground ball hits you in the face, knocks your jaw, sucks your wind, and leaves tracks. Like an anxious tick, like worrying a hangnail, like an old and suffering hip. Like not getting to drive or even ride shotgun; as usual, you're relegated to the back, forced to to stare wistfully out the window, tracking yellow lines in pavement, just along for the ride.

Ho Hum

Would the human race be better off viewing the proverbial glass half-empty instead of full?  

We all know that negativity has its downsides. We're no fun at a party. We're glum and depressed, we quibble and grumble and nitpick the details, we overreact, and our cynicism--chronic, pervasive--means we will sour you and 

For those of us with a glass half-full, we're oh so delightful to be around. Our disposition, if slightly out of touch, is warm and generous. Our permanently stretched smiles offer syrupy platitudes, and a lighthearted buoyancy keeps us afloat in blinding, sunny idealism.

Is it better to burst with life for a short window with an explosion of marvelous beauty, only to bloom out and die? Or is it better to be a slightly wilted flower, unappealing to flower-gatherers, unappetizing for grazing predators, but whose muted blossom goes on and on, to stay and witness the garden's long and miraculous splendor? 

Perhaps it would be b;/l''''''''////etter for the human race to see the world as glass-half-empty? 

So for all you grouches, eyores, and grinches out there: perhaps the Earth would prefer a lifetime of a realist's melancholy over a dreamer's blind naivety. 


you sour the mood.No one likes a grouse. We grumble and complain, We're prone to depression and  and when you speak your truth, people call it grumbling. and 

Then there are some of us who go through life with a sunny disposition, blinding idealism and ebullient sweetness that makes everyone and everything for all time seem okay, permanently stretched smiles with syrupy  lightheartedness, joyful buoyant ebullient upbeat stunningly naive and but  out of touch with reality, permanent grins on their face to 
We love milk and drink lots of it, and when it's gone we we want us and all our friends to have more. There's plenty of delicious milk for everyone. Right? RIGHT? 

Before the guests arrive

Before the guests arrive there is always motion, a blur of washing linens and tucking in sheets, scrubbing tile with solvents, the airing of rooms and the burning of scents. There are last minute trips to the fish market and wine store and pie shop, the chopping of firewood and dusting off chairs. What breakables stay out for display and which get shut away get considered, while topics of conversation, safe or to be avoided, are discussed. There are cuttings of flowers and placing of lemons in fruit bowls, the setting of bread to rise on the counter. Gnats are caught in traps. Then it's time to stack the books and fluff the cushions, stuff items in closets, watch nerves and tempers flair. Rushed noses get powdered. Babes wiped clean. And finally, when the guests pull into the drive, there is the inevitable sweeping of wayward crumbs under the rug.

Walking meditations

Photo by Charles Smith

There's the kind of mediation that looks like sitting still, in a quieted and sunlit room, eyes closed, mind empty, where peace and serenity fall from on high. 

And then there's the kind that happens while moving, walking through solitary streets at night, thinking many thoughts with a busy mind, setting your soul out to wander towards a destination or not, where peace and serenity are gathered like daisies and found with purpose in the boulevard.

I prefer the latter when possible, finding myself on certain days (inexplicable when they arrive—it could just as easily be in the snow packed winter as the dog days of summer) that I cannot fathom putting my body underground to catch the subway or into a stuffy, moving box just to sit in traffic. And so if I have the time, and sometimes when I don't, if I have comfortable shoes and energy to burn, I walk. For the exercise, solitude, the meditative properties, and for the ability to both listen and receive.

What happened between one moment and the next

In one moment to the next, in the time it takes for

—a caterpillar to inch, his fingernails need cutting
—a butterfly to land, his pjs, he's outgrowing
—a leaf to fall, he's out crawling and walking
—a swallow of fruit, he's just trying to be understood.
—a ball to bounce, he's off running and jumping
—a window to shatter, so many rules he's out breaking
—a car to change lanes, he's getting a grounding
—a pull of a pipe, he's just trying to be understood.
—a bud to burst open, doesn't have a date for the dance, is skipping
—an acorn to fall, is touring colleges to which he isn't, or is applying
—a snap of a fly trap, he's off with his friends, his girlfriend, he's leaving,
—the crack of a thunderstorm, I'm just trying to be understood.
—a snowflake to land, a nice woman he'll marry
—a baby to cry, she'll soon be carrying
—a bubble to burst, he'll want more from this life, tries not worrying
But then he'll blink one day too, and all will be understood.

The night we saved ourselves

"Last night a DJ saved my life." 

This stunning name of a late disco throwback-turned-club song by Indeep, was, for at least one night of my life, the difference between going home alone, depressed and unsafe, to staying for what was the late and groovy after hours of a warehouse party in the late aughts.

It was the time in the night when the dance floor had cleared but for those still riding a high, the couches were full of snuggling piles, and the DJ had put on music to smooch to. Ladies with elaborate costumes had removed them, or those wearing nothing at all robed up.

The music still had a beat, but compared to the pumping sweaty throbs that proceeded it, this was smooth, it had soul. The DJ seemed to be saying that we didn't have to go home yet, but the night was slipping.


House of Yes photo by ellgeeBE 

Bouncing from dance floor to bar too many times that night, I was still tipsy and needed to clear my head. Though nearing 4am, I was still wide awake due to the acid that never kicked in, but a bit low because I didn't have any more cocaine to make up for it. So I made my way over to a couch and began to wonder how I'd get home. I knew I was in Bushwick, but that was about it. I had come with a friend who'd driven but left early; I assured her I'd find a way home. But now I'd have to ask someone how to walk back to the train, there was no more cash to call a car. 

But first, I needed to remember where I'd hid my stuff. My chunky cellphone and change purse were in my coat, but I'd already checked the usual spot, behind the speakers. What pile did I leave my stuff in this time?

It was then that I noticed the DJ. It was hard to say how, but his movements seemed short and precise, sort of...busy. Or busier than he should be at 4am, when the night's jams should be on the downslope. Normally about then a DJ might be wrapping a cord or two. Not studying lists, laying plans.

I knew this, and other things about DJs, because I was an observer of the craft. Nine times out of ten I was the dancer positioned right up front at a party or club, closest to the DJ booth and speakers, where the beat blasted and the bass rattled your teeth. I like it there because I was never interested in dancing for others, with men, for women, to a leering crowd. I danced for one person and one person only—and that was the DJ.

I danced so he—or sometimes it was a she, it didn't matter—would know that I "got" them. I was the channeled puppet on the other end of their beat strings, the muse they needed to take that beat higher. And so it was that I often danced in a crowd of similarly minded, show-offy type fans in the front.

On this experience, I knew exactly what a DJ looked like who had no intention of stopping.

Instead of walking out the door I headed to the bar and bought a water. I kept my coat on and perched on the edge of a couch. A gorgeous queen in a luscious, draping tutu who'd taken her wig off sat next to me. My hand hovered on the button to my jacket. I should really get going.

But then...

A beat and a base line. An electric guitar layered on top, then a smooth voice.

"I was sittin there bored to death, and then with just one breath...."

I didn't recognize the song at first, but took my coat off just the same. I couldn't help it. I didn't just dance for the DJ of course, I danced for myself too, always had. It was my version of church, a trance like state, where my body took over, makeup dripped, demons were exorcised. Drenched, spent, I loved the feeling of collapsing after a long night of straining my body.

That was, until the next morning, when I cursed the lifestyle around it: the late nights, lots of drinking. And, I hated this part, closing time, when I couldn't remember where I'd put my stuff, or been responsible enough to plan a way home. But at this moment, with this song, I could push it all aside. What mattered was now.

"Last night a DJ saved my life!"

When the hook hit the crowd, still surprisingly sizable, they erupted in jubilation. Piles unfolded from the couches and sprung back to life. Dancers set down their last beer. There were cheers.



House of Yes photo by Nicole Disser 

That night the DJ played a nine minute version of that song, followed by two more disco remixes. For another hour and a half the dance floor became a space to fight over again, where the crowd, small but mighty, were baptized in sweat and bottles of water dumped on our heads after an impromptu bar back handed them out for free from a cooler.

The sky was pink and the birds chirping when I found my stuff and made my way back home. I thought about what sort of night I would have had before that touch of intuition, before the DJ decided we weren't done, before the beat dropped. What I lacked in sleep right now, I'd gained in a the spiritual reverence for what a good, face melting stint on the dance floor can do.

So while there's no telling what was in the alternate universe, I'll always maintain that a DJ saved my life that night, as they probably save a life every night. Not from a broken heart, as the song says. But from ourselves.

The unmarked box

It came in the middle of the day, when the mail wasn't due for another hour. A sharp knock on the door announced its arrival.

Through the curtains Nancy anxiously waited for the delivery man to leave, as she'd specifically requested no signature. The thought of having to explain or make excuses about the package's unusual size or heft felt wrong, intolerable.

But there was no question what it contained. Nancy had been anticipating this moment for weeks. Now that it was here, however, she felt a bit shy. She held off.

She wanted to look just right for the occasion. Both comfortable, but intimate. After all, if Nancy got her way, and let's be honest, she probably would—then they'd go straight to bed. Nancy slipped on her favorite silk robe and drew the blinds shut. She triple checked the doors.

Life would be different now, with a partner. Someone who would listen, and offer support. A real relationship, even if wasn't exactly "normal" by most standards. But what the heck did normal mean, anyway? Discretion would be paramount of course, but she was no stranger to secrecy. Nancy's late-in-life realization that she was more attracted to women was only half the story.

Flushed, excited, Nancy finally got up the courage to unpack the crate. And when she removed the styrofoam protecting Angelica's head, it took her breath away.

She was just as she had been ordered, every detail to spec. Lush pink silicon lips, real human hair styled into a punky bob. Her shape, exactly Nancy's type, held supple breasts and yes, anatomical parts correct, detailed and delicate. She was outfitted in the standard issue tank, stockings, and flirty skirt, but it was her eyes, soft and understanding, and her lovely, welcoming mouth that Nancy felt herself falling in love with, already forming words and sentiments in the husky, sweet voice in her mind.

Her fascination with dolls began early in life, but grew to a nerdy enthusiasm well beyond childhood. And as she got older, her affection for female bots and dolls (or as they were called when they became more life size and sophisticated, Gynoids), was for decades, a source of shame.

It was only after divorcing her second husband and moving out on her own, her career stable, that she felt more comfortable exploring the fetish. It was not long after that dating, even lesbians, in all its banality, began to feel pointless.

After all, dolls were people without any of the unpleasantness of their organic, flesh and blood counterparts. A synthetic would never lie to you, cheat on you, or criticize you. They were always in the mood for what you wanted to do, never had to get in the last word. For all practical purposes, it was the ideal relationship.

A few smaller, more experienced dolls had introduced Nancy to the scene, but she always had her eye on the end-game: a deep and loving relationship with a gynoid synthetic human. She had already accepted that few in her life would take the partnership—and if things went well, inevitable marriage—seriously. But she had no choice, she was ready for the next step. So for six months, she saved. And now Angelica was here.

Nancy pulled her girlfriend gingerly from the unmarked box, changed her into a more comfortable outfit, and poured them both some coffee. They had most of the rest of the afternoon to get to know one another, and the rest of their lives to be in love.


photo by Hans Bellmer

Not my home

How does one know when you belong to a place?

Is it a feeling like love? Does it come in a rush, a flush of recognition, like the first time you lock eyes with your soul?

Or is it a more growing affection, subtle and sneaky, so that when you wake up one day you feel like you're whole?

Were you born with this feeling? Did you inherit this earth? Does a sense of it pull you back like a tide?

Or are you tethered to it, a burden, by obligations, blood, and time?

Maybe it's nostalgia that grows and keeps you, like moss on a tree. Or perhaps it's just the place you landed, after floating adrift on the sea.

Perhaps you're home changes season to season, this year's nest to roost. You'll move to where the grass is greener, but hang your hat under a temporary roof.

Maybe it's the feeling of kinship you need, attachment to your flock. Or the landscape itself that possesses your skin, your bones, your teeth—the mountain to your rock.

For some home is no place at all, but simply where they build their fire. Because warmth doesn't need need a hearth of brick and stone, it's not just where we retire.

It's where familiarity and family breed belonging, and time builds trust. A place can change you like love does, or simply kick you out if it must.

It's tough to say what it is about a setting that becomes part of you, but what I know, is that while you figure it out—it often becomes so.

What is love?

I have heard it said, in a quote about the heart, that "Love is what you've been through with someone." 

I was impressionable at the time I read this, and I've thought about this phrase many times since. In just a few words, I have found many a meaning, and I continue to find more over time: 

The first, is that love is not some magical property, it is more an equation of intersecting time and proximity. Familiarity breeds affection, and given enough of it, you can get through just about anything, with anyone. 

The second is that what you've been through—the ups, the downs, the waterfalls, the roller coasters of life—that's all there is. Relationships are but one one knot tied to another, an embroidery that is detailed and beautiful (and yes, even time consuming!)

The third, is "what you've been through" could be as simple as living in a group or under the same roof, for even a few days time. This sort of intimacy, simple cohabitation, if it does not drive you off altogether, will most certainly draw you closer. 

The fourth is that it's the hardships and triumphs in life that tie you to others in a way that smooth sailing, or easy contentment, will forget. Days blend together when life is boring, but when things get interesting, time can stand still.

It also means, to me, that love does not have to be about one person, or embody one space in time. Love in all it's contexts is not simply family or mate. You go through many things, with many people, and if you're lucky, most of them will intertwine.

Finally, this simple sentiment, introduced to me so long ago, has taught me that all these things, and every single encounter, contributes to how you feel about a person and they of you, for better or worse, for as long as you know them. 

So if given the right nurturing, if that feeling doesn't grow in lightness and in love—in true and genuine connection, even when a person's burden is heavy—then I'd say your heart is a cold one and your love is nothing to bring home. 

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