Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Sunday, September 1, 2013
Jefferson (Short Fiction)
My soul mate is ninety-four years old, but when I was born he was just eighty-five. His name is Jefferson and he lives in the old people home where I take my piano lessons. Mama says a soul mate is the person who understands you even when no one else in the world can. I asked if Daddy was her soul mate and she says No, no, you're right, I guess I haven't met mine yet and then I say I'm sorry and she laughs and says Oh no Annie it's not because of you but that's not what I mean, what I mean is I'm sorry she hasn't met hers 'cause I've met mine and she says Oh really and I say Yes, yes I have his name is Jefferson and he's ninety-four years old. Then Mama laughs and says He's older than your grandpa and I say how old is grandpa and Mama's quiet for a moment and I can tell she's doing math in her head and then she says I guess he's eighty-nine, and then we're at the old people's home and I get out of the car and say Bye Mom and she says Aren't you forgetting something and so I get back into the car so she can give me a kiss and I say Gosh Mom you're so sentimental and she laughs and says Where are you learning these words and I say Jefferson! and run away from the car.
I'm a little late to my lesson and Ms. -- you say it Mizz not Miss, says Mom, there's a difference -- Tapoltsky is waiting for me and she has the metrynome running already, 65. When I have trouble with a stanza and Mizz Tapoltsky is telling me Again, again, do it again, Jefferson is there and he gives me a smile like he knows it's not that I don't know what to play it's just that my fingers aren't moving the way I want them to. And when Mizz Tapoltsky says Annie have you even been practicing I can hear Jefferson laugh 'cause he knows I've been practicing, 'cause I promised him I would and 'cause he told me that if I do my fingers will grow long and speedy.
After lessons Jefferson and I drink cans of Sprite while I wait for Mom to come pick me up. Jefferson asks me what I like to do in my free time and I tell him I like playing on my iPad and he says if I keep doing that my eyes are gonna go blind. I ask him what he likes to do and he says he likes to listen to audio books and talk to pretty girls and I narrow my eyes at him and say What pretty girls you been talkin' to and he says Just you, sweetheart and I laugh. I ask him what he was like when he was my age and he says he liked girls and I say You like the pretty ones? And he says Of course I liked the pretty ones, I liked all of 'em, but none of 'em as much as I like you. I tell him about the boys at my school, They don't like me at all, I say, they call me fat and lame and Jefferson laughs and says You just gotta give 'em time and I say how much time and Jefferson raises his eyebrows and says Give 'em eighty years and I say But I don't have that much time and Jefferson laughs and calls me precocious and I ask him what that means. It means you know more than you should and I say Well then you're precocious too.
Sometimes we just sit there sipping our Sprites quietly and then when we reach the end of the can we slurp sounds at each other until one of us laughs, and then we both do, and then sometimes a nurse will come by and say Stop that, Mr. Jones, I guess because they're worried the tubes in his nose are gonna fall out or something, but I don't think it's such a big deal because one time one of them did fall out and Jefferson just stuck it right back in and said Good as new! and that made us laugh some more.
But your soul mate should be someone you don't just laugh with, we talk about life things too. One time I asked Jefferson about Mrs. Jefferson Jones and where was she and was she his soul mate and he says Yes, yes she was, and I know that when adults talk about people like that, all past tense, you're not supposed to ask anything more so I shut up but because Jefferson is my soul mate he knows I want to hear more. We met when we were just a little older than you, and I say Really? And he says Really, and he says How old are you anyway and I say I'm fifteen and he laughs and says Now I know you're lyin' and I say Okay I'm nine and he laughs. Don't rush it kid he says and then he grins at me and I can see where his gums change colors and I say I don't need to rush it 'cause I already found my soul mate and he says Oh really who's the lucky guy and then I get quiet 'cause I thought he knew it was him.
In the car ride home I ask Mama if you're always your soul mate's soul mate and she thinks for a moment and says I think so, I think that's how it works, and then I chew a little on the end of my hair and she says Stop that Annie and I say Okay but you can have more than one soul mate right and Mama says I guess that'd have to be true, and I say But what about your soul mate's soul mate, are you their soul mate too, and she says Give it time. Everyone's been saying that to me lately but I don't know why, or where I'm supposed to give it, or if I've even got it to give. I go straight to the piano when we get home and I practice practice practice so that next Sunday will come sooner, 'cause Sundays are always over too soon and six days is a long time to go without your soul mate, you know? It's a good thing soul mates are forever, I say to Mama and she says As forever as anything and I don't know what she means with that kind of secret talk and I know if I ask she'll just say Give it time and so I just keep practicing, Minuet in B, dun dun dun-dun. I sit there and I play. I even use the metronome. Tick tock tick tock. I'm givin' it all I got.
I'm a little late to my lesson and Ms. -- you say it Mizz not Miss, says Mom, there's a difference -- Tapoltsky is waiting for me and she has the metrynome running already, 65. When I have trouble with a stanza and Mizz Tapoltsky is telling me Again, again, do it again, Jefferson is there and he gives me a smile like he knows it's not that I don't know what to play it's just that my fingers aren't moving the way I want them to. And when Mizz Tapoltsky says Annie have you even been practicing I can hear Jefferson laugh 'cause he knows I've been practicing, 'cause I promised him I would and 'cause he told me that if I do my fingers will grow long and speedy.
After lessons Jefferson and I drink cans of Sprite while I wait for Mom to come pick me up. Jefferson asks me what I like to do in my free time and I tell him I like playing on my iPad and he says if I keep doing that my eyes are gonna go blind. I ask him what he likes to do and he says he likes to listen to audio books and talk to pretty girls and I narrow my eyes at him and say What pretty girls you been talkin' to and he says Just you, sweetheart and I laugh. I ask him what he was like when he was my age and he says he liked girls and I say You like the pretty ones? And he says Of course I liked the pretty ones, I liked all of 'em, but none of 'em as much as I like you. I tell him about the boys at my school, They don't like me at all, I say, they call me fat and lame and Jefferson laughs and says You just gotta give 'em time and I say how much time and Jefferson raises his eyebrows and says Give 'em eighty years and I say But I don't have that much time and Jefferson laughs and calls me precocious and I ask him what that means. It means you know more than you should and I say Well then you're precocious too.
Sometimes we just sit there sipping our Sprites quietly and then when we reach the end of the can we slurp sounds at each other until one of us laughs, and then we both do, and then sometimes a nurse will come by and say Stop that, Mr. Jones, I guess because they're worried the tubes in his nose are gonna fall out or something, but I don't think it's such a big deal because one time one of them did fall out and Jefferson just stuck it right back in and said Good as new! and that made us laugh some more.
But your soul mate should be someone you don't just laugh with, we talk about life things too. One time I asked Jefferson about Mrs. Jefferson Jones and where was she and was she his soul mate and he says Yes, yes she was, and I know that when adults talk about people like that, all past tense, you're not supposed to ask anything more so I shut up but because Jefferson is my soul mate he knows I want to hear more. We met when we were just a little older than you, and I say Really? And he says Really, and he says How old are you anyway and I say I'm fifteen and he laughs and says Now I know you're lyin' and I say Okay I'm nine and he laughs. Don't rush it kid he says and then he grins at me and I can see where his gums change colors and I say I don't need to rush it 'cause I already found my soul mate and he says Oh really who's the lucky guy and then I get quiet 'cause I thought he knew it was him.
In the car ride home I ask Mama if you're always your soul mate's soul mate and she thinks for a moment and says I think so, I think that's how it works, and then I chew a little on the end of my hair and she says Stop that Annie and I say Okay but you can have more than one soul mate right and Mama says I guess that'd have to be true, and I say But what about your soul mate's soul mate, are you their soul mate too, and she says Give it time. Everyone's been saying that to me lately but I don't know why, or where I'm supposed to give it, or if I've even got it to give. I go straight to the piano when we get home and I practice practice practice so that next Sunday will come sooner, 'cause Sundays are always over too soon and six days is a long time to go without your soul mate, you know? It's a good thing soul mates are forever, I say to Mama and she says As forever as anything and I don't know what she means with that kind of secret talk and I know if I ask she'll just say Give it time and so I just keep practicing, Minuet in B, dun dun dun-dun. I sit there and I play. I even use the metronome. Tick tock tick tock. I'm givin' it all I got.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
For John Clare by John Ashbery
Kind of empty in the way it sees everything, the earth gets to its feet and salutes the sky. More of a success at it this time than most others it is. The feeling that the sky might be in the back of someone's mind. Then there is no telling how many there are. They grace everything--bush and tree--to take the roisterer's mind off his caroling--so it's like a smooth switch back. To what was aired in their previous conniption fit. There is so much to be seen everywhere that it's like not getting used to it, only there is so much it never feels new, never any different. You are standing looking at that building and you cannot take it all in, certain details are already hazy and the mind boggles. What will it all be like in five years' time when you try to remember? Will there have been boards in between the grass part and the edge of the street? As long as that couple is stopping to look in that window over there we cannot go. We feel like they have to tell us we can, but they never look our way and they are already gone, gone far into the future--the night of time. If we could look at a photograph of it and say there they are, they never really stopped but there they are. There is so much to be said, and on the surface of it very little gets said.
There ought to be room for more things, for a spreading out, like. Being immersed in the details of rock and field and slope --letting them come to you for once, and then meeting them halfway would be so much easier--if they took an ingenuous pride in being in one's blood. Alas, we perceive them if at all as those things that were meant to be put aside-- costumes of the supporting actors or voice trilling at the end of a narrow enclosed street. You can do nothing with them. Not even offer to pay.
It is possible that finally, like coming to the end of a long, barely perceptible rise, there is mutual cohesion and interaction. The whole scene is fixed in your mind, the music all present, as though you could see each note as well as hear it. I say this because there is an uneasiness in things just now. Waiting for something to be over before you are forced to notice it. The pollarded trees scarcely bucking the wind--and yet it's keen, it makes you fall over. Clabbered sky. Seasons that pass with a rush. After all it's their time too--nothing says they aren't to make something of it. As for Jenny Wren, she cares, hopping about on her little twig like she was tryin' to tell us somethin', but that's just it, she couldn't even if she wanted to--dumb bird. But the others--and they in some way must know too--it would never occur to them to want to, even if they could take the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon. So their comment is: "No comment." Meanwhile the whole history of probabilities is coming to life, starting in the upper left-hand corner, like a sail.
There ought to be room for more things, for a spreading out, like. Being immersed in the details of rock and field and slope --letting them come to you for once, and then meeting them halfway would be so much easier--if they took an ingenuous pride in being in one's blood. Alas, we perceive them if at all as those things that were meant to be put aside-- costumes of the supporting actors or voice trilling at the end of a narrow enclosed street. You can do nothing with them. Not even offer to pay.
It is possible that finally, like coming to the end of a long, barely perceptible rise, there is mutual cohesion and interaction. The whole scene is fixed in your mind, the music all present, as though you could see each note as well as hear it. I say this because there is an uneasiness in things just now. Waiting for something to be over before you are forced to notice it. The pollarded trees scarcely bucking the wind--and yet it's keen, it makes you fall over. Clabbered sky. Seasons that pass with a rush. After all it's their time too--nothing says they aren't to make something of it. As for Jenny Wren, she cares, hopping about on her little twig like she was tryin' to tell us somethin', but that's just it, she couldn't even if she wanted to--dumb bird. But the others--and they in some way must know too--it would never occur to them to want to, even if they could take the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon. So their comment is: "No comment." Meanwhile the whole history of probabilities is coming to life, starting in the upper left-hand corner, like a sail.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
saturday
i'd spent all day working at the cafe down the street. when i got up the guy sitting next to me said "you beat me." (he had spent the majority of our shared table time adjusting the color saturation on a photograph of a barbed-wire fence, which he ultimately uploaded as his facebook cover photo.) i said "yup" and walked out into the street. i had ambitions for the night. i was going to find a cheap bottle of wine and a watermelon.
as it turns out, bodegas only sell beer and 'california wine product', so i had to find a liquor store. henry's sounded like a good name when it came up on google search, but when i got there it was a high-end wine shop -- the kind with little rope-and-paper handwritten price tags hanging on the necks of each bottle, ideal for a future life in which i have a source of income. i ended up leaving with a bottle of romanian (yes romanian) pinot - at $9 it was the cheapest bottle in the store. there were no watermelons at any of the grocery shops i passed on the way home.
we took the fire escape to get up to the roof. in the backyard of the building there was a bonfire barbeque going on, which seemed very adult in comparison to our bottle of undated wine and apple sauce cups. from so high up i couldn't tell if they were 20-somethings or 40-somethings. either way we waved and they waved back.
sitting on top of the roof with our backs against the curved rim we couldn't see much of a sunset. it was a gentle one and the sky never went completely dark. we don't have a view of the skyline, we have a view of queens. the tip of a church, a square of green, other people's windows. but there were fireworks, twice in an hour. i figure from high up enough in the world you could see fireworks every night. i scooped into a packet of apple sauce and leaned my head back. no stars. wait - two stars. no, one's an airplane. they're both airplanes. finally it got cold and we scuttled down the ladder and make a frozen pizza in the microwave. it's meant to be oven-baked for 25 minutes but the knob on the oven is broken off so we stuck it in the microwave for 3 minutes and it came out perfect. a handy trick. we discussed the comparative dangers of coffee and cocaine and coach salaries and television sexism. we listened to jake bugg.
i get my fix of stars later, while i'm laying in bed, squinting through my newsfeed with my contacts out. a video comes up: a 3d rendering of a hubble photograph. there are billions of galaxies. the narrator says the human mind can't grasp what that means. falling asleep i think about how there are billions of humans, too. we can't completely fathom what that means, either, but living in the city helps.
as it turns out, bodegas only sell beer and 'california wine product', so i had to find a liquor store. henry's sounded like a good name when it came up on google search, but when i got there it was a high-end wine shop -- the kind with little rope-and-paper handwritten price tags hanging on the necks of each bottle, ideal for a future life in which i have a source of income. i ended up leaving with a bottle of romanian (yes romanian) pinot - at $9 it was the cheapest bottle in the store. there were no watermelons at any of the grocery shops i passed on the way home.
we took the fire escape to get up to the roof. in the backyard of the building there was a bonfire barbeque going on, which seemed very adult in comparison to our bottle of undated wine and apple sauce cups. from so high up i couldn't tell if they were 20-somethings or 40-somethings. either way we waved and they waved back.
sitting on top of the roof with our backs against the curved rim we couldn't see much of a sunset. it was a gentle one and the sky never went completely dark. we don't have a view of the skyline, we have a view of queens. the tip of a church, a square of green, other people's windows. but there were fireworks, twice in an hour. i figure from high up enough in the world you could see fireworks every night. i scooped into a packet of apple sauce and leaned my head back. no stars. wait - two stars. no, one's an airplane. they're both airplanes. finally it got cold and we scuttled down the ladder and make a frozen pizza in the microwave. it's meant to be oven-baked for 25 minutes but the knob on the oven is broken off so we stuck it in the microwave for 3 minutes and it came out perfect. a handy trick. we discussed the comparative dangers of coffee and cocaine and coach salaries and television sexism. we listened to jake bugg.
i get my fix of stars later, while i'm laying in bed, squinting through my newsfeed with my contacts out. a video comes up: a 3d rendering of a hubble photograph. there are billions of galaxies. the narrator says the human mind can't grasp what that means. falling asleep i think about how there are billions of humans, too. we can't completely fathom what that means, either, but living in the city helps.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Dialogue 1
- Sometimes, we can't have the words.
- But what will we have then?
- Then we will have music.
- But what of silence?
- In silence, we will have color.
- But what of the dark?
- In the dark, we will have touch.
- But what of the distance?
- In the distance, there will be weather.
- But what will we have then?
- Then we will have music.
- But what of silence?
- In silence, we will have color.
- But what of the dark?
- In the dark, we will have touch.
- But what of the distance?
- In the distance, there will be weather.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Efficiency, Efficiency or: You Will Know Me By The Clementine Juice On My Face
It would be a more efficient world if I did not have to wipe clementine juice off my chin and my fingers, if there were a robot that could do that for me, you know? It would be a more efficient world if I did not wear white dresses and get clementine juice stains all over my clothes.
It would be a more efficient world if Los Angeles crunched itself together. It would be a more efficient world if Paris stacked itself up. It would be a more efficient world if all coasts connected, or if we only settled one side of any river.
It would be a more efficient world if I could teleport, or at least take a super high-speed tram.
It would be a more efficient world if laundry did itself, and you never had to shake out the wrinkles from sheets left too long in the dryer. It would be a more efficient world if the lint would clean itself out from the machine. How have we not figured this out yet?
It would be a more efficient world if children made finger paintings on screens instead of on paper.
It would be a more efficient world if concerts had no opening acts.
It would be a more efficient world if there was a machine where you could enter a specific height and body type and age range and income level and set of interests and then the machine would give you a list of people who met those requirements. It would be a more efficient world if you could meet one of them that night.
It would be a more efficient world if there were no bathtubs, or watches that need to be wound. It would be a more efficient world if you would just check my GCal, okay?
It would be a more efficient world if I didn't have to speak to the barista, didn't have to wait in line. It would be a more efficient world if I could just order my drink ahead of time.
It would be a more efficient world if everyone were on pills and no one ever danced.
It would be a more efficient world if strangers did not speak to me when I have my headphones in. It would be a more efficient world if we all just let each other alone. It would be a more efficient world if life was a slideshow of faces and you could click yes for the ones you liked and no for the ones you didn't.
It would be a more efficient world if there were an app for that.
It would be a more efficient world if all flowers were perennials, needed planting only once and required nothing more.
It would be a more efficient world if we all spoke the same language, if we all spoke 0s and 1s.
It would be a more efficient world if we did not allow children to play with bowls of flour on the kitchen counter.
It would be a more efficient world if we just storebought the damn cake.
Fuck efficient. Fuck fast, fuck easy: Give me the blue and yellow paints spilt onto the white carpet, give me bathwater gone cold and toes gone wrinkled, give me the watch that says it's 4o'clock all day long. Give me the wrong drink and the wrong turn and the mistranslated homonym and let me drop all the sheets and towels out of the laundry bin and onto the bed, let me lay there in the wrinkles and shrunken sizes and faint pink tinge from the wrong wash setting. Let me waste the afternoon.
Give me what I didn't order, give me boxes I didn't check. Let me cut through the double-layer red velvet and pull out a gooey knife.
Give me your mess.
I want you, eventually. I want you, inefficiently. I want you and all your mess and all the mess of you to come. I want to give you the mess of me and I want us to make a whole mess of it all, all of it ours. I want it to happen when it happens. I want it to take as long as it takes.
I do not want the shortcut through my fast and only life.
Let citrus stick in the dips between my fingers. Let me turn over stones with nothing beneath them to be found. Let me lick a bead of sweat off the wrong boy's neck. Let me take the long way, the wrong way home.
It would be a more efficient world if Los Angeles crunched itself together. It would be a more efficient world if Paris stacked itself up. It would be a more efficient world if all coasts connected, or if we only settled one side of any river.
It would be a more efficient world if I could teleport, or at least take a super high-speed tram.
It would be a more efficient world if laundry did itself, and you never had to shake out the wrinkles from sheets left too long in the dryer. It would be a more efficient world if the lint would clean itself out from the machine. How have we not figured this out yet?
It would be a more efficient world if children made finger paintings on screens instead of on paper.
It would be a more efficient world if there was a machine where you could enter a specific height and body type and age range and income level and set of interests and then the machine would give you a list of people who met those requirements. It would be a more efficient world if you could meet one of them that night.
It would be a more efficient world if there were no bathtubs, or watches that need to be wound. It would be a more efficient world if you would just check my GCal, okay?
It would be a more efficient world if everyone were on pills and no one ever danced.
It would be a more efficient world if strangers did not speak to me when I have my headphones in. It would be a more efficient world if we all just let each other alone. It would be a more efficient world if life was a slideshow of faces and you could click yes for the ones you liked and no for the ones you didn't.
It would be a more efficient world if there were an app for that.
It would be a more efficient world if all flowers were perennials, needed planting only once and required nothing more.
It would be a more efficient world if we all spoke the same language, if we all spoke 0s and 1s.
Fuck efficient. Fuck fast, fuck easy: Give me the blue and yellow paints spilt onto the white carpet, give me bathwater gone cold and toes gone wrinkled, give me the watch that says it's 4o'clock all day long. Give me the wrong drink and the wrong turn and the mistranslated homonym and let me drop all the sheets and towels out of the laundry bin and onto the bed, let me lay there in the wrinkles and shrunken sizes and faint pink tinge from the wrong wash setting. Let me waste the afternoon.
Give me what I didn't order, give me boxes I didn't check. Let me cut through the double-layer red velvet and pull out a gooey knife.
Give me your mess.
I want you, eventually. I want you, inefficiently. I want you and all your mess and all the mess of you to come. I want to give you the mess of me and I want us to make a whole mess of it all, all of it ours. I want it to happen when it happens. I want it to take as long as it takes.
I do not want the shortcut through my fast and only life.
Let citrus stick in the dips between my fingers. Let me turn over stones with nothing beneath them to be found. Let me lick a bead of sweat off the wrong boy's neck. Let me take the long way, the wrong way home.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Some things I have learned
- The fewer clothes you pack, the more books you can bring home.
- Your integrity is measured as much by the promises you keep with yourself as by those you keep for others.
- There is nothing on this earth more banal than calories.
- From men, seek neither affirmation nor adoration. Seek respect.
- Mail every letter the day you seal it.
- The difference between a child and an adult is recognizing that other people are real. Other people feel, other people hurt, other people want, and other people do not stop existing when you walk away or hang up.
- You have to be your own home, no matter how home-like someone else feels.
- Keep a journal. It holds you accountable for doing exactly what you want.
- To be in love is a state, and out of your control. To love is an action, and a decision you make and renew. A working definition for love: actively trying to understand and care for another person, as they change, as you change, constantly, always.
- Your friends are your life partners. Treasure them, nurture them. Strong friendship is the true "'til death do us part", no matter what the scripts say.
- If you're talking about it a lot, there's probably something wrong. Contentedness is a quiet tune you hum in your head.
- Curiosity has a longer shelf-life than lust.
- You are not who you think you could or should be; you are what you do.
- To change the narrative frame is to change everything.
- If a man looks at you with a certain glimmer in his eyes and say, "Let's just go to Paris": smile, dip your chin. Say nothing until the ticket is in your hand.
- Your integrity is measured as much by the promises you keep with yourself as by those you keep for others.
- There is nothing on this earth more banal than calories.
- From men, seek neither affirmation nor adoration. Seek respect.
- Mail every letter the day you seal it.
- The difference between a child and an adult is recognizing that other people are real. Other people feel, other people hurt, other people want, and other people do not stop existing when you walk away or hang up.
- You have to be your own home, no matter how home-like someone else feels.
- Keep a journal. It holds you accountable for doing exactly what you want.
- To be in love is a state, and out of your control. To love is an action, and a decision you make and renew. A working definition for love: actively trying to understand and care for another person, as they change, as you change, constantly, always.
- Your friends are your life partners. Treasure them, nurture them. Strong friendship is the true "'til death do us part", no matter what the scripts say.
- If you're talking about it a lot, there's probably something wrong. Contentedness is a quiet tune you hum in your head.
- Curiosity has a longer shelf-life than lust.
- You are not who you think you could or should be; you are what you do.
- To change the narrative frame is to change everything.
- If a man looks at you with a certain glimmer in his eyes and say, "Let's just go to Paris": smile, dip your chin. Say nothing until the ticket is in your hand.
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