Friday, December 25, 2009

xmas

Like birds on a wire, we sit, facing off into the same distance

Really? Because I never understood that. I mean, what if a human was sitting on the wire? Would we get electrocuted too?
There's no way in hell it would support a human, not even a child.
Well, work with me here, please.
I don't know. Weren't you paying attention in high school?
She twists her cigarette into the slate table. Nah. I don't know.
Whatever. All I remember is being told electricity was like water in pipes, but totally different.

Today, Christmas morning:
Joyce, look at that bird.
Where?
Jesus, don't move so fast, you'll frighten him.
How do you know it's a him?
Erin, please.
Is it an owl?
Do we even have owls?
I can't see. My neck hurts.
No, Maggie said she saw an owl the other day, a white one. Does this one have a collar?
Yea!
And it had a wide head!
Well. Then it must be an owl.

I didn't get a good look, but nothing about the bird looked like an owl.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Christmas Eve

Met Thomas for coffee. +1

Practiced. +1

Went to the Met. Usually avoid grocery stores on Christmas. Bought more than I could afford, gave $5 to the Salvation Army. +1

Practiced. +1

Went to my parents house with Thomas. Made cookies, drank wine, ate food, laughed at each other. +1. Things are going well.

Call Dr. S and drop off cookies. We talk. +1

"Oh, I have something for you guys."

"Yea?"

"Yea, you two got some really bad reviews."

"For accompanying?" I'm shocked. I thought things went well this year. I worked really hard and it paid off. Or so I assumed.

She shuffles through a stack of purple. "Yea, Erin, Maria gave you really good reviews. But... Let's see, Lucas, Thomas, Lindsay...." Merry Fucking Christmas, says the two purple sheets, you are horrible. One sheet is signed. "Wrong notes everywhere, I thought you were going to have to stop." I don't think I'm being naive when I can't even think of a piece I played that was that bad. The only thing that comes to mind is the orchestra reduction of a Mozart aria, which did not sound like an orchestra, as it was played on a piano. The other is anonymous, written out for "Aron," and is just a checklist of poor marks. No faculty signature, no comments. -10

I start to cry in front of Thomas, my professor, and her family. -1909398433

I can't stop sniffling. -15.

"Don't let this get to you. Don't accompany singers anymore."
"Yea, but this is what I want to do for gra-a-a-a-a-waaaaaaaaah"-infinity^593

Go home. Cry for awhile. It's like my eyes are lactating. I have no control over this, it's the worst time, and my shirt is spotty. -doesn't even matter now.

Family laughs extra hard at my jokes. +1

Monday, December 7, 2009

December 7th

Music my mood is seeking: Mozart's Requiem. Thinking about Croatian cathedrals, brick paths, bright jewelry, peacocks, felted wool. I'm removed enough from my experience that the reminiscing has begun.

Cold here. Sat in my car for 20 minutes because it was so warm. Space heater is starting to smell like a hair dryer left on for too long.

Got a pedi-egg today, one of those foot shaver things. Easily one of the most disgusting purchases I’ve made, ever. It goes with the fascination I’m assuming is natural to humans, of what the body can produce (“wow, I can’t believe this came out of my ear!” “I’m going to pop this massive zit in this seedy bar bathroom!” “Your kids are so lovely!”). The shavings are collected at the bottom of the clear pink plastic egg. I made the mistake of running my finger around the rim. The flakes, instead of feeling dry as I expected, resemble more what I imagine human ashes feel like.

Thursday, December 3, 2009

December Already

No, this should be called Reflections on May, when I didn't wear a sweater, bare arms against dirty windows on the train to the old apartment with high ceilings and lavendar walls, the two small dogs that greeted me outside the elevator, the tea waiting for me upon arrival in cooler months replaced by handfuls of chocolate shoved in my pockets on my way out.

I mean, who knows what will happen. Maybe the world will end in 2012.
Oh, it won't do that. She shakes her head, big sleeves hang from her shoulders.
You sound so sure.
Her eyes are earnest, wide. No, it's not the end of the world. Not like that, at least. It's just going to be a new way of thinking, an age of understanding.
The uebermensch?
Ja, verstehst?
I nod.
And there's nothing to worry about.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Alleluia

Each syllable rings in my head. Al-le, al-le-loooo-ya. Each year in choir a reminder of where the accent goes.

I'm feeling slightly better. Some things are upsetting me. Today I realized how much my roomate is like V. Physically, petite, offbeat fashion, eclectic tastes. Insecure. Unstable, creativity about to burst in every unexpected way, from cake decorating to tunnel making to singing songs about Jesus and tampons and sketching birds. Dependent, on people who can't help them, on conservative family who don't understand, on substances all the time. I found myself at first sympathetic towards one and loathing towards the other. Now I don't know what to feel. I almost think it's unfair to hold one in higher regard.

I might end with this-I've heard it twice recently and I really like it.

"Gloria!" - Barbara J. Pescan

Gloria
The tenacity of Earth and its creatures.
Kyrie eleison
These children who will go on to save what we cannot.
Baruch ata Adonai
The ordinary tenacity of plants and of people.
Om
The center of the universe which is everywhere, not the least place in the human heart
Alleluia
Love that survives anger, and winter, and despair, and sorrow, and even death.
Shalom
Love that persists.
Nam myo-ho renge kyo
Calm that is the seed in the dark.
Amen
For endings that are beginnings, for beginnings that are endings.
Alleluia
For the circle, the spiral, the web, the egg, the orbit, the center, the seed, the flower the fruit, the opening, the death, the release, the seed.
Amen
We are going on.
Amen
It is going on.
Amen
Blessed be.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Last Tuesday, again. I suppose Wednesday morning.

I can name a dozen people who told me not to. I did anyways, vainly hoping to gain some power from the experience.

Fuck.
It's 5 am. I've slept in his bed that's missing a sheet, just a fitted sheet and a comforter. This is how I usually sleep at home, but it makes me uncomfortable here. The fabric is thicker, like upholstery, with thick leaves embossed in the mustard fabric. It's hideous.

I start rubbing his shoulders. He's awake. I never know if I'm good at this. In choir, I can rate any of the half-dozen singers that stand by me. The shy freshman has huge hands but never goes below my shoulders. The boyish tenor is probably my favorite. The most charming boy digs his thumbs in between my joints. Sometimes I can feel his knuckles pop apart my spine. Sometimes I feel giant when he grabs the flesh between my underwear and tights. The girls are never that good, too soft and focused on one area. My hands easily dwarf theirs. I wonder if I feel the same.

Regardless, I'm getting quite a different response than in choir, for I never end up naked in choir. Couch-comforter is off, and I remember these are the leggings with the holes in the crotch.

I'm trying what's comfortable for me, but he moves me aside. Doggy style.
Ok. I hate this. Last time's problem, not an issue 30 seconds ago, is back. I have absolutely no interest in this anymore. He lubes up and pushes me down. I pretend to like this. Power play has turned, it always has. I don't know why I expect anything else of this. We're both frustrated. He thrusts. Misses his intended target, but the arrow hits his neighbor's bullseye. Or in this case-

He takes my cry to mean pleasure. It's anything but.
Get off. Please.
He pulls out. I'm suddenly embarassed, making excuses. It's just, the only other times, I mean, he had a tiny dick-
I was trying for vaginal.
Yea, well.

We continue, with no success. He wants nothing to do with me, despite some half-assed efforts. I give up, dress in a hurry, nudge his shoulder goodbye, leave my bra on the floor. I realize this as I step outside, but don't want to go back in there. This is the first time I've left, protesting for change of any kind, knowing it's going to happen.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Finished

It's come full circle. The earring plays a popular leitmotif, coming back, transfigured, inverted and retrograded. If this were a Wagnerian opera, that is. Or a post-tonal work.Sometimes I'm not totally convinced it's not. Regardless. I'm not going to let this happen anymore.

Stupidly, you can say, I want to remain friends.

We'll see what happens.

I still kind of want to throw up.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Eleven:Eleven

I tell my friends my plan of action. Cement it, as motivation to stick to it. The last friend I drop off in front of my old dorm, while helping her with her bike, asks me if I need help. I can go with you. Really, it's ok.

No. I can do it. I promise. In and out. I'll call you.

I drive down the street, vocalizing. Singing bits of arias I know, then stopping when I realize how inappropriate they are. I go, I go to him. With the bite of a viper. Scenes of horror. Oh what a joyous occasion. I'm sure there are arias for mezzos with anxiety problems, but each piece that pops in my head is quickly dismissed. I pull into the parking lot to the Ride of the Valkyries.

Work up the courage. I'm going to throw up. I adjust my backpack. Flip my hair. Clean my glasses, my newest nervous habit. He opens the door. Hey you. I just got home. Come on in. He's dressed up, slacks and a dress shirt. I pull my sweater tighter. Well, just for a minute.

I give him his books back. We talk, about nothing important. I keep my arms crossed. It's all going so well. His apartment is clean, but no signs of anyone else living there. I like your boots, he says. I think of the boots she has, shinier, higher, pointier. In contrast with my black rubber round toe butch boots. I accept the compliment. We drink tea, and move to the bedroom.

I know when the evening turns. When I look at my watch and realize it's well past 1:30. When he offers me vodka, my favorite, he says, it's pretty cheap but tastes like Grey Goose. When I come back from the bathroom and his bed is cleared, he's lying across facing me. I'm so much smarter than he thinks I am for knowing exactly what he's doing. And I'm so fucking stupid for falling for it each time.

We lay on our stomachs like sardines, chins up, facing the wall. A gun is sitting on his dresser, pointing at my face. After a few silent minutes, I get up and turn it around.
Oh?
Yea. Generally don't like a gun in my face.
Really? That's unusual. He smirks. I must perform a study.

2:20. He's asleep. Each time I roll over thinking another hour has passed, I'm disappointed to see that it's only been fifteen minutes since I turned out the lights. I watch each minute until 3:47. Somehow fall asleep.

5:30. 50 minutes before my alarm is set to go off. We're both awake. The inevitable is going to happen. Nothing different. Except.

7:00. Got dressed. I feel disgusting. Think I'm bleeding. Leave without saying goodbye. My bra is still under the bed. Cautiously walk down the stairs. Done.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

I need to document this

There are so many things that should make me feel horrible. I'm overwhelmed. I don't know how to budget my time, or say no. My housemate hates me, I am constantly walking on eggshells, my piece isn't memorized for Friday, I have two big papers due this weekend, plus four Mass services. I have responsibilities, somehow. And I just worked out for the first time in awhile, only to come home and eat Cheetos. The roomate that hates me is talking on the phone. I think I heard my name.

And yet. I love the way voice lessons make me feel. My teacher is so inspiring, and I always leave lessons thinking I can take on the world. Today, I decided I will go to grad school, a program in piano accompanying and coaching. Hilary is going to teach me French. I'm getting the music tonight. I'M SO EXCITED.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Sunday

The headaches are back. Once the weather makes up its mind, then my mind will make itself up. I hope. I bought flannel sheets today. Two sheets a handmade quilt a comforter and a mexican blanket. And a space heater that surpasses its power at least nightly. I text my roomate asking her to turn hers off for a minute so I can warm my room. I never know what to say to her. Sometimes she is reasonable, sometimes she tells me to fuck off, sometimes you can tell that she loathes me.

I was complaining about this to another roomate. We went to Chopstix, too early. Sat drinking our fancy drinks out of the delicate glasses. No music was playing. Another couple sat nearby.
I was warned about her, I lamented.
We continue to stare blankly at the table. Well, I was warned about her, but you know. People said, I can't believe you're living with [her], and others said, I can't believe you're living with [me].
I don't even look up, even though it terrifies me to know that someone else hates me. Who said this? I want to ask her. I think of mutual friends, or not-so-friends. I cross off names in my mind, suspiciously underline others for later.

The whole thing just makes me want to throw up.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Not OK

I feel horrible, and I need a rational person to assign me blame, and a friend to tell me it's ok. They can't be the same person. I'm not the same person.

Frantically trying to finish this book. My thoughts, usually a full conversation from all directions, has grown sparse, one side of a telephone conversation. I hate feeling like I'm trying but damned anyways.

It's raining again. My headaches come back when the weather changes. I hate the surprise Indian Summers, craving normalcy, not the twitching in my arms, eyes. When I take off my glasses, I still see the frames. Is that normal?

Things on my mind, 7:25 pm:
-my tailbone
-B-A-C-H
-singing
-d minor
-calendar squares
-finger legatos
-stoopwafels

Friday, October 30, 2009

All Hallow's Eve Eve

I got my glasses today. They have progressive lenses, these bifocals, and I like to move my head up and down and try and pinpoint the exact point they change. There isn't a decisive line. But I can tell, where the typing gets just the slightest bit out of focus, becomes grey, and the blanket pops forward, barely noticeable, like one of those 3-D eye puzzles they used to have in the papers, before reading is clear.

I love the rain. I'm not going to lie. I don't want to leave here. It blocks out the sounds of people laughing in the kitchen, the white noise of the space heater, the thoughts that won't leave my head. Like someone's outside and wants to come in. Strangely comforting, in a way. In this sense, I see how woman fall for the charming serial killers. Even if they only want to dismember you and wear your skin as a suit, it's nice being wanted. Jesus. This is pretty fucked up.

In high school, most of my male friends were single. Not that I cared, not that I was interested in any of them, but it was different, somehow. We could easily borrow a guy for a date, or spend time together without it turning into a Taylor Swift song, I promise, even though that's what this seems like. My four straight guy friends (although one I guess I've only made friends with my vagina, and less my heart, and even less my head) are all in long-term relationships. Which, again, is fine (with the exception of the person I was sleeping with. That is less fine). It's just weird. I don't even have a lot of male friends here. I need more straight single male friends that are happy with their lives. I don't want anything more than friendship with them, but I do want that. And the odds here are not in my favor. It's strange to think about this. And even stranger to think about how I'm going to meet people when I'm out of college. What will I do? Go to bars? Is that what adults do? Because I doubt I'll have a job, and even if I did I wouldn't want my social life and work life to be the same.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

(Chronic)les

This is something I've been thinking a lot about organizing lately. It's long, and I'm certain no one will enjoy reading it. That's fine. It's just something I needed to think about.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part 1
Her shirt is open in the back. Bruises on her lower back. Like the one on her arm that looks less and less like a bruise and more like a burn, the one that has been there for at least two weeks. Aren't those supposed to go away?

How are you?
Good, something. Generic. You?
Happy.
Yea?
There's something in my purse that will make me even more happy.
Can I see?
Look in the box.

She goes in the bathroom stall, hands me the big black tote with the silver cross and straps. I look in. iPod, half opened lipglosses. My hand comes out, covered in what I've begun to associate with her purse. The kind of grime that packs of cigarettes leave, although smoking is the one thing she doesn't dabble in. It's makeup, loose money, pills. My hand comes out, and it feels familiar. And yet-
There's one that I think will look good on you.

I noticed her red lipstick earlier, reach in. MAC, Matte. I press it on, dragging it across my chapped lips. Too dark. I smudge it, blurring over my lip line, tossing the lipstick back in. The box. Small, red, matchbox with Chinese symbols in gold. Inside, twenty-odd pills, small and white, smaller than a grain of rice. She's still peeing. I remember the cops outside, and ignoring the teenage employee cleaning out the bathroom stall down the hall, ask what it is.

She comes out. The automatic flush doesn't go off. She doesn't wash her hands. A flash of "The Great Gatsby," about how they were careless and left other people to clean up after their messes. It's Oxycotin.

Isn't that like totally illegal? How did you get it? She told me earlier, when I told her about my anxiety of flying, that no doctor would prescribe her anything. For good reason.
I stole it. From ********.
He's going to kill you. I'm only joking a little. You have to stop. But I know she won't. What would he report? The cops would find so much more illegal in his house. I don't know what she's looking for, or when this search for the next high will stop.

I am washing off the lipstick and trying again, this time lighter. I turn to grab a paper towel. We are alone in the bathroom. When I turn back, she has smashed some of the pills into a white powder. I don't even see how many, but there's a 1/4 tsp of powdered sugar, I can imagine, measuring it out onto a wet bathroom counter and rolling up my ticket, holding it to my nose, inhaling quickly. Do you have any more? It’s only sugar.

She hands me two. I stick them in my birth control, remembering to smash them up. I don't know why I am so reckless. It makes the points I try to make with her less valid.

I'm in a horrible mood during the movie. I'm jealous of my friend to the right, curled up with her boyfriend. I'm jealous of my friend to the left, able to leave when she wants. Start a new credit card, steal something valuable to sell or ingest, go to Massachusetts for a month and squat, go to Switzerland for a "language program" where she'll wander across Europe. And yet, I'm even more upset when, at the end of the movie, she asks me for the two pills back.

Are you serious? Is it that bad?
I just don't want to crash when I'm driving home.
I think of the pills in the box. They were small, there were at least twenty, maybe thirty. Meant for cancer patients. I mention this to her. She looks at me with a smile.

I open up my packet, give her the pills. Walk away. Ignore the call that her "car won't start," which is happening more and more now that her parents installed a breathalyzer ignition lock. Ignore the fact that the girl I was friends with in high school has been replaced by someone who is falling faster than I can chase after. To think about how I cannot reach that anymore without being branded a hypocrite, despite never trying a fraction of what she's doing. To think that, yelling, crying, chasing after her, is futile, and that maybe the best way is to cut ties completely like everyone says.

The trick will be to do this and convince myself that it is actually good.

(June 1st, 2008)



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part 2


Four hours after leaving and I can still barely hear myself typing over the ringing in my ears. Went to a punk show in Bremerton. Got lost, three times, because I didn't print the entire directions off. Call V, and she says she's there. Then she says she has to go, but doesn't hang up before I hear the distinct sound of gagging, vomit.

Parked at Safeway, walked down a few blocks. Walked back to Safeway to park closer because I didn't feel safe amongst the two Mexican resturants with bars on their windows, the three pawn shops, and Ernie's Adult Video and Novelties, where you can buy a blow-up sheep that bleats. Looking at the people smoking in tight jeans and tshirts and my black skirt and sweater, thought I'd be overdressed. Saw V teeter down the street, black stilettos, tight lace skirt. Band of fabric barely passing for a shirt, open white jacket. Asked if I liked it. Lied.

Opening band's lead singer looked like my 13-year old brother, and didn't seem much older. Very loud. Wore a big pink t-shirt. I really want a cupcake, she says.


Sitting outside Safeway, I have my chow mein and cookie, she has her rice crispie treat and soymilk. Are you feeling ok?
Yea. I thought I had mono and was going to curse you. But I think it's just a cold.
Ok. Her color is fading.
If I tell you something, will you get mad at me?

Yesterday we had a long talk. For us. Which meant a five minute phone conversation, prefaced by two angry drunk emails. I told her nothing that she hasn't already heard from me. She accused me of having as much of a problem as herself. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. I worry that what I see is just the eyes of the crocodile (or do alligators live there, too?) gazing above the water, and not just the fangs of her addictions sinking into her.

I know what's coming. What did you take?
I don't even get the name of it. There's a pile of vomit in my passenger seat
How many?
Four.

Doesn't that sound a little more than the required dosage?
She looks at me. Yea. But I made myself throw up, and I think I'm feeling better. I don't even want to do anything again.

Really? I wonder why this is different from any other time that has threatened to bring about change. Weighing what's worse, vomit in your passenger seat, or being homeless. My nagging, or a DUI. Bremerton, or Gig Harbor, or LA, or Michigan, or Italy, or

We walk back to the concert. Cars honk at her too-high heels, the rolled up shirt, the white jacket with a makeup stain on the front. We sit and hardly talk on the sticky vinyl bench. There's a puddle of something beneath my feet. She goes to her bathroom, leaving her purse. It takes me a full minute to work up the courage. And despite that familiar feel of her purse, the open makeup, the loose bills, an eyelash curler, a hairbrush, nothing new. The pillbox is still empty. No bottles with eyedroppers.

I see the white jacket walking across the mosh pit, and put her bag down. Return my gaze to the young lead singer with the baby face and bob length hair. When he smiles at the boys in tight pants waving their fingers like flames licking the hem of his pink shirt, there's something girlish about him. Oh please, you, well, if you say so, hands flung back in mock surprise. V leaves to get some fresh air. When I follow her, she leaves, promising to call when she's made it home safely. My friend's band's set begins, ends. I talk to him for a minute, a quick compliment, and run, tripping over the boy in the pink shirt curled up in the dark corner. He's just looking for attention, his friend says. I leave, and do my best to think nothing else about it.

(June 2008)



Part 3

I'm embarassed by her. I'm jealous of her. There's nothing more I'd like to do than keep her away from the life I have here, with the exception of having her freedom. To have no problem leaving the country, no regard to hurting people even if it is hurting them back.

It's almost a year ago. I get a phone call telling me to cancel my plans, I am needed for the fourth wheel of a double blind date. I know that nothing will come from it, but despite it being a Monday I am intrigued.

She drives over, drunk. I bought you this!
I take the half empty bottle from her and put it in the fridge.
Wait, I want to make a drink.
No, let me. She pees, and I only wet the edge of her bottle with liquor.
Oh my god, you had SEX in this shower, right? She shouts from the cavernous bathroom as my roomates look up from their homework.
Are you sure you still want to do this?
Of course. Can you drive?
Of course.

The waitress brings her drink after drink. I refuse, although I know I wouldn't be carded. The men show up. A tray comes, somehow, with one iced tea (me), two long necked bottles of beer (men), three shots of top shelf tequila, a marguarita, and something called a Blue Lagoon (her).

My date ends in a handshake. V goes home with hers. I take her car, tell her to call me to get the keys. She can make her own decisions.

I get calls, but not from her. One is from V's mother, asking if I've heard from her. I go to class and an hour later have four messages on my machine, each more worried than the last. "Erin. I am so sorry to keep on bothering you, I just can't get a hold of her and she said she was staying at your place but I don't think she did, do you know anything? I'm so sorry."

Standing outside, I get a call from her date. She went home with him, continued to drink, blacked out unconscious, woke up and started drinking again. She’s driving, somewhere. We can’t find her.
She calls me that evening, after a concert. I meet her in the stairwell of the music building.

You know what I'm going to say, don’t you.
She’s crying. Are you mad at me?
No. Well, kind of.
I can’t stand you being mad at me.
Then make good decisions.

She stares at me, unblinking. Then runs, through the parking lot, past the football field. I chase her, long enough to end up in front of her car, her silhouette barely visible behind headlights. I think of that iconic photo. Shaking, put up my hand. She stops, swerves around me, and I lose her.

(June 2009)


Part Four:

I should just save her number in my phone. She calls more than her daughter. I know the number, one digit from V's old one. Answer as I walk outside.

"Erin, I need to tell you something." Her voice breaks.
She's in the hospital. She's OD'd. She's missing, for good. She's stolen their money and ran off to Ireland or Zaire or Sydney or Rio. She's dead.
"John passed away last night." Her father. That can't be. Her father, the chaplain, who worked out. He had just started treatment, just been diagnosed. I hadn't talked to her since then.
"V needs you to be there." She's crying. I'm crying, although I hardly knew him.
Two Saturdays from now

Every day I check the obituaries for three counties, Pierce, Kitsap, Mason. For a week, I wonder if I imagined the phone call. I've called our high school friends, who don't know how to react, how to support this friend who was their lost cause years ago. A week before his memorial service, his obituary shows up. This is real.
The service is the worst service I have ever been to. The congregation is elderly. I recognize a few faces. My high school choir teacher. The girl whose sandwich we ate, the boy who taught us to box, my friend wearing a jean skirt. I can’t stop adjusting my dress. V is wearing a cocktail dress. Her shoulderblades are visible from the back row, the only seats left when I came in. We sing “Let it Be” in a very straight rhythm, “When-I-Find-My-Self-In-Times-Of-Trou-Ble-Mo-Ther-Ma-Ry-Comes-To-Me.” Deli platters and rolls are served. V makes sure to ask each one of us how we are doing, if I can help her with music theory, before she thinks about her dad again and cries. It’s primal, scary coming from a human. Us four girls stand out back and talk about college. Move to the front and smoke menthols, each inhale deep, as if the nicotine rested in the fog.
I leave when everyone else leaves, but I don't go home. I drive around Mason county for an hour, maybe two. I find a road I've been on before, park. Climb down to the water in black pumps and a dress and stay there for a long time.

(December 2008)


Part Five
I wasn't expecting a response. Four months is not unusual. But I sent it anyways.

"Hey, I'm in town. Can I see you?" Simple loaded question. Will you be high, or drinking cocktails and shots of tequila while saying that rehab taught you how to drink safely, or disappearing off to the bathroom throughout the one dinner a season I can put myself through, a drastic change from spending every day at your parent's modern glass palace, an Escheresque amount of stairs in all directions that I never quite mastered.

No response. I try and suppress my worries. Then. Unexpected, between two long group emails from Vienna friends about Asian massage parlours and summer addresses, "RE: No Subject."

"im in anaheim. I guess I should tell you that Im in rehab.Im actually in a mental institution/dual diagnosis clinic. im in the last stage...so im leaving soon..proably to newport beach where ill live for the summer and work. Ive been for 60 days. I sort of had a melt down. I was stealing drugs. and blacking out.and supressing feelings from my childhood. things that happend to me when I was four. I was fucked up.I was going to kill myself. im still fucked up. but im doing better. how are you? how was austria? did anything exciting happen?
love you much miss the fuck out of you"

She quotes Matisyahu. The Bible. Her dead father. Jerusalem, if I forget thee, let my right hand become useless and a horrible friend, for thine is the Kingdom and the huge house where we made angel food cakes and stayed up all night talking about vampires, we were the salt of the earth and thought nothing could destroy us. And then nothing. Emails go unanswered, phones are disconnected.

Now. I go towards her house often. I know she doesn’t live there. I’m not sure if anyone does anymore. But it takes all of my energy to not turn left, drive up the hill where I share the road with no one, rolling down my windows, making two left turns, and finding myself there again. But I don’t. I never do.

My hands have no memory of what to do now.

(October 2009)

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

If you are related to me, please don't read this. K thanks.

I'm already in my sweats when he messages me. I decide to go against my better judgement and have him over. I put on my favorite shirt. Shoes with hollow heels. Long houndstooth jacket. Three Excedrin. I feel so chic as I walk up the stairs to his apartment.

It's freezing out. My hands are jammed in my pockets. He's wearing a t-shirt and long scarf, which coils up on my kitchen table. He points out an anarchist pin. I pour champagne in a tall glass and a measuring cup.

We talk about philosophy, and I am proud that I know something he doesn't.
I meann, if you read Schopenhauer, his influence on Wagner was profound. It changed the entire ending of Gotterdammerung. Instead of Siegfried going to Valhalla, the world is destroyed.
Yea, I'm not too familier with Schopenhauer.
'It would be best if we had never been born.' I pour us a beer.

He does a dance around the kitchen. I sit with Wotan in my lap. I'm not drunk. Half a bottle of champagne, a few beers.
Drink this one, it's my favorite. I know I'm just doing this because I want to have sex. It's working. He tells me how much he loves sex, the amount of toys he has, looking down my shirt the whole time.
How big are your breasts?
I smile and lean forward.

The next part of the night is purely speculation, as I've blacked out. We drink beers in the shower. Make our way to my room. My memory is spotty.

Why aren't we having sex now? It's not for lack of trying, on anyone's part. My body, imperfect but my own, usual and regular and known, is not responsive. Jesus.
He stops. You're dry.
Fuck.
I mean, I can't. I'm sorry.
I don't know what to say. This has never happened before. I try even harder, and only become self-conscious.

I use my vibrator. Nothing. He's holding me down, whispering in my ear, so low it's hardly a voice at all.
Are you going to come for me?
I'm trying. Nothing.
Do you have lube?
No. I bought lube once. Used it once, and then didn't have sex for months afterwards. Ended up giving it to Thomas.

We try everything. Nothing is happening. I am so embarassed. He jacks off in my bed and I feel like a failure. Somehow, through all of this, time progresses. It's morning. I'm still drunk. Assess the damages as we platonically shower. Two beer bottles, Coronas, as I shampoo his head. I avoided obvious bite marks, but my breasts weren't spared. And I'm bleeding, and am bleeding from both, and all day, my legs are shaking. It takes all of my focus to hold them together in class. And every time I pee I want to scream.

What was supposed to make me feel better has backfired. I already am constantly reminded that I am less experienced, more self-conscious. Who tells that to someone, especially a naked girl? Is it supposed to make me less so?

My professor asks me how I'm doing.
I am ok. I had a rough night. It's a boy issue.
Those are hard.
Agreed. Lips pressed together, legs shaking.
Well, it's not worth your time. You can just throw all of your energy into your work.
Ok. That sounds easy.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

We're awfully sorry about the flood, but at least you can be thankful it wasn't a molasses flood.

This space is too small. What seemed like a quirky, fitting color choice in the summer only absorbs the grey outside. It's too dark here. The birds no longer move on the walls, the only flowers I have are carnations. I hate carnations. I try to give them a chance every now and then. I shouldn't have such hard feelings against them. They're cheap, they smell better than daisies. But something about them seems so artificial. Despite their longevity, I feel like I have purchased a vase of dead flowers, "Trockne Bluemen," like the boy who loved the miller's daughter.

Emaciated Pete still hangs on my wall. I know that's just another weird thing about me, probably not the strangest, but tangible: "and she has this glow-in-the-dark SKELETON on her bedroom wall. Right across from her bed! She must look at it at night, alone but with two figures. Weird." It's said in the same voice that I imagine other people saying when I wear hot pink, or weird shoes, or when I bite my nails in public, or when I laugh too loud in the grocery store.

I cut the carnations too short and put them in a jar with a mouth that's too wide. They don't fall apart, preferring to lean in a bunch despite any coaxing, leaning towards the window covered with blinds that faces right into the neighbor's house. Yesterday I saw a dead crow on the border between my lawn and my neighbor's. Just lying on the ground, eyes and beak open. I wonder if it's still there.

I'm making a very conscious effort for this fall to be different from last fall. Some things are different, but others are the same. Some things I can't even pinpoint. Being vague is as fun as doing this other thing. As usual, I am too caught up with the things beyond my control and should be focusing on what I can do to make me feel better. And, like usual, the minutia is a major stumbling block.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Well shit.

He eats the falafel. Offers me some. I decline.
So, it says that you're a keyboard studies major. What does that mean?
Uhm, it means-wait. What?
I mean, why keyboard studies?
I mean, how did you know that?
Oh, well, I hacked into UPS.
I'm shocked.
Don't worry, you have good grades.
Except for one.
His eyes narrow. Yea, except for one.
Any particular reason?
I wanted to show someone your picture.
So instead of Facebook, Myspace, Jdate, anything, really, you thought this was the easiest?
He shrugs.

Friday, October 2, 2009

End of September

We're sitting in my kitchen. For some reason I'm not tired. It's way past my bedtime. The cat sits on his lap, his cane before my legs, my sweater grey and cabled, his hat remaining on indoors. We alternate stroking the cat, him, then me. I take the cat. He cups his hand on the top of the cane. Leans it between my knees. I look at him for a long time.

Still haven't said anything. I hate the way certain people make me silent. Everything he says, even what's beyond my understanding, I pretend to grasp. Certain philosophies. Mathematical equations. The robots built at a friend's. Sometimes I ask him to explain. He starts, trails off, and mumbles something about how it would be too complicated, in that low voice that made phone conversations impossible years ago.

Maybe I am the overman.
Der Uebermensch. I know this one.
Yea.
Well, isn't that a little cocky?
He shrugs.
I try to remember what Nietzsche said, but all I can think of is the fishtank on my wall, the lonely goldfish and the abyss, the product of a depressed drunk night. I mention this.
Oh, about how when you stare into the abyss-
-The abyss stares back at you? Yea. I started to wash it off my walls, but it's still visable.

I have no idea why I still want to fuck him. Like I'd have any power in this. Like this would be any different. I want this to be effortless, I want to have the upper hand, I want security and things my way and to not have to think about things. And none of that is the case here.

When the door slams my whole house shakes. In my bedroom my pillow hums as my roomates walk in. I'm always touching a wall in my room: leaning upright in bed, foot tapping under my desk. The kitchen, I am an island, a free agent, where we float among papers and jellybeans and cardboard boxes. I keep on expecting to hear someone walk in, am waiting for that interruption to resonate within my body. But it is 4 in the morning. Everyone else is asleep. I feign exhaustion. I'm sleeping, are you? He shakes his head.

No, I'm resetting my cicadian rhythm.
You can do that?
Yea. It only takes me a day or so.

I feel as unmoving and unadaptable as a stone.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Figs

Driving past, I saw him, and for a second hope that he didn't see me. Everyone was excited that I had a Real Live Date, and smiled when I expressed concern on where he would sleep. If it's bad, I don't want him to stay. And if it's good... I don't think I should. But my friends just winked. Oh Erin. Please. Has this really been a concern? I pull into a parking lot. He is overdressed, more so than I am already.

I debate not unlocking my car, going home, taking a nap. But I've already callled him. Did you see a blue minivan? Yes, I am now walking towards you. Great. Great.

Something smells in the car. Something organic. Something like my cat. Something musty and musky with a baking soda cover-up. I pretend to look out my window to the left and sniff my sweater. Nope. That's not it. I turn to my right. He smiles at me.

I sit in front of a friend. She texts me. Hows the hot date going?!?!?! I want to write back Tepid, but he's leaning in next to me. My brother asks me if he's nice. My parents have called me a half dozen times today. I text them and tell them I'm on a date. I can hear the excitement in their response, and tell me not to worry and have fun. The music starts, and I am stunned to find out that he is a seat-dancer, moving and tapping his knees to the beat of the music. I alternate between feelings of extreme judgement (is he really doing-I can't believe it-please stop smiling at me) and superficiality (I last went on a date when?-This is the first date I've been on since I could legally drive other people in my car-Jesus Erin you have problems too). The concert ends, and while picking the daisy petals of emotions I end on judgement. Nevertheless, we drive out to a dive bar in my hometown.

I'm sitting with my full glass of beer, at a going away party for a girl I don't know. My date is still smiling at me. I want to bare my teeth. I wonder, for a second, what would happen if I did. Most everyone here was at the party two weeks ago. A very blonde very drunk girl comes up behind me, hugs me, and says that she's glad to see me. I vaguely remember her from last week, and am more concerned with the fact that this is the second night in a row that I have work a cardigan to a bar: the worse the bar, the nicer the cardigan.

My date leaves to get another drink, and my friend leans in. So, what do you think? You know that he's really into you.

I am not drunk, not even tipsy, but I get incredibly sad. This guy that I hardly know seems to really like me, but the fact that he's into me without even seeing me sober before tonight just makes me more uncomfortable. I'm not used to this. Sometimes, in an overdramatic 20-something way, when I'm hooking up with someone, if I ever will be used to this feeling.

I don't know, Sarah. I don't think.... can he stay with you? I rattle off some bullshit excuse. She nods.
Well, that's ok. Maybe you'll just make a new friend. My friend who has been in a relationship, a serious relationship, for most of the past seven years. I have yet to establish that comfort, and the more I delay, the more awkward it gets.

The first time I even saw a fig was at the farmers market at home. An old rival that would soon become one of my close friends sold me three, each the size of my fist loosely grasped. I didn't even know what to do. Eighteen years old, and still surprised by the surprises. I cut open the fig, slicing from the tip of the opening where the tiny fig wasps crawl in and are destroyed by enzymes in the fruit. I let it lay open, unprotected, naked and vulnerable. Like the first time you cut open an apple and see the star shapes created by the seeds. The fruit was juicy, perfect. Not too sweet, the individual seeds (technically each an individual fruit) melting in my mouth.

Since then, the only figs I have found, ever, are small, the size of ping pong balls. There is too much skin and less meat, and whenever I try and slice them open the symmetry inside is ruined. I buy them whenever I see them, eat one or two, and let the rest go bad in my fridge.

Yesterday I stumbled across a box of figs. Popped one in my mouth, whole. The seeds gritted against my teeth, and I could not shake the image that they were not seeds but bits of undigested fig wasps, led into this falsely welcoming fruit.

Monday, September 21, 2009

September 21

I haven't said anything in awhile, but I think I've used up all of my florid prose these last weeks in Wagner and Form and Analysis (aka Effing A).

Eli has started school and I am so excited for him.

I went to an anarchist event the other day. The gathering just tickled me. I'm not an anarchist at all, but I couldn't resist it. The second time was pretty interesting-heard from the Iraq veterans at Ft Lewis who are against the war.

Starting a theory tutoring group. Going to that now.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Saturday Night

(Danica told me to do this instead of my alternate plan involving all of the cigarettes and alcohol in my house)

I needed to call someone the moment I got into my house. I walked in. The living room light was on, Wotan curled up on the couch, sleeping, with his chin up. I ignore the poetry and go to my room. Take off my clothing. Turn off the lights. Turn on the fan and shiver under all of my blankets.

I really wanted to hang out with her. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I had so much fun when I was with her. And I'm not just romanticizing the past. I remember what I didn't like just as much. But we've grown. I told her this, one time, tonight, at the second bar, before I sang "Funny Honey." We've grown up so much. I was a kid when I met you guys.

"You were fifteen."
"I was fourteen. And please." I tell her about the time we were at a fair and the man could show A the special book of riding equipment he made, but not either of us because we were under 18. S was mad at the time, but I couldn't understand why she wanted to see pictures of saddled-up horses. Years later I realized we stumbled across a certain niche, one of many I was inadvertantly exposed to.
"You really didn't know what he was talking about?"
"No!" I want to tell her about the box of sex toys I stumbled across only a year later, but I can't decide whether I should tell her anything at all. I go sing instead. People clap. The astonishingly handsome gay men wink at me.

"I mean, he was fucking weird. He was really into you."
"What are you talking about?" Was?
"He just has really low self esteem. I mean, he would always try and get with girls, and he was like really into you, but also just wanted to make me jealous, but also liked you."
"I was a kid."
"We've been over this, you weren't." I still think I was.

The conversation carries on, just me and her, although I'm only half there. Something piques my interest. I look at Danica, who is facing the opposite direction. I had one beer and a few sips of a screwdriver hours earlier. I'm not drunk. But now's my chance.
"I know."
She nods.
"Because I've been hanging out with him a bit this summer."
"Oh really?"
My turn to nod.
She turns towards her drink. Sips, shoulder to me. Here goes:
"And I slept with him."
She turns around, and for a second I panic. Then she howls.
"Really? Oh my god, how was it? When was this? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"I mean, I don't.... like two months ago? I wasn't sure what you'd say."
"Whatever, it was like six years ago." Good girl. I'm so glad I got this off my chest. I tell her I really just wanted to see if he still had piercings, I had bite marks-
"Well, yea, when someone's about to give me a hickey I tell them no."
"Oh, me too, but these were teeth marks." Her mouth forms an "O," then a wide smile.
"He was always into you."
"That's weird."
"Can I tell him?" She points to her friend across the table who hasn't heard anything. She tells him. He looks surprised.
"Does he know him?"
"Oh, he's good friend with his girlfriend."

Of course. The purse, the one time we met. The one who S swears is a lesbian, who her friend says she'll be a lesbian to "anyone who could kill her," which explains everything too. S talks about how pretty she is. Crazy, but pretty. Of course.

S's friend. I ask him, when were they dating.
"Oh, they took a break. You probably slept with him in that break."
I ask when the break was. He thinks:
"November, maybe?"
It was definately two months ago.
"Well, maybe it went til then." He leaves to go smoke, I presume.
S asks if I'm ok. I say I'm not.
"Well, he's just like that. He's always had that self-esteem issue and I sometimes think he hasn't matured since he was 19." When apparently he was into me, when I was 14 and had frizzy hair and a dying dad and no boobs.
"I just feel awful."
"Well, it's his fault."
He comes back awhile later. S and I are still talking. I ask him about the dates again.
"Oh, don't worry about it. I just got off the phone with her-" fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck "-and she knew about you. And it's totally fine."

Everything has fallen into place, and everyone is absolutely fine except for me. I go up to the microphone when my name is called, pulling my best Sally Bowles together. I get whistles, applause, and compliments from the entire bar, but my voice was wavering the entire time.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Diet Salt

Now with half the water retention capabilities as pure, reactive, explosive upon contact with H2O sodium!

Wotan sneezed in my eyeball. Great. Now I'm probably going to get cat flu.

Got a card from cousins, nearly two months after I sent them a note. No mention of illness, which drives me absolutely insane with worry, and with guilt knowing that they handle these things in a Very Greenfield Manner. No one mentions anything, everything overheard or second-hand: hearing of surgeries successes and failures through conversations with clerks, the death of the matriarch outside of Diversions. I don't know how I'll be able to keep this correspondance without outright asking, so I'm focusing on picking out stationary rather than words.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Right, a title. Tuesday!

Got incredibly drunk with Merissa, the kind of drunk where you end up lying on the kitchen floor waiting for the room to stop moving and the lights to change colors and your friend to stop giving you dirty looks every time you mosey into the living room. It made me feel like a freshman. Or a sophomore. Or, ok, yes, a junior.

There was a moment that I wanted to write about from last night, but I cannot for the life of me remember it.

Woke up this morning. Drank a sip of cold tea that turned into frantic gulps. I'm still thirsty.

The other day, at rehearsal, the skinny boy in shorts too short told me that I was what he remembered most about the skit last year, "I was sitting right here" as he points to a spot near the una corde pedal, "and I just remember thinking about how awesome you were." I smile, awkwardly, lips too tightly stretched across my face, but I was so flattered I blushed.

I could say more, but I have to clean cat shit and bubble wrap off of my porch.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

I want to know, have you ever seen the rain?

Not that we've even talked since she told me she was in rehab again, but I have reasons to believe V hasn't kept sober. I mean, there were always reasons to believe that she wouldn't, but I was really hoping that all of these things would be her rock bottom. It really makes me sad, all of these things that I have to keep on telling myself are beyond my control.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

10 day countdown

Goals to achieve before my 21st birthday: not care about people/boys/things that are so clearly not worth the slightest bit of consideration on my part, unpack my room, achieve peace in the Middle East. There are more, but those are the top three.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Wednesday

Today Kaity told me that she wished for a nice Christian boy for me, to "really treat you right."

My goysche mum crosses her fingers for one of the Chosen People.

My Catholic best friend tells me he considers himself "chosen," and that he's nerdy and circumcised.

I spent the afternoon getting "kitty kisses," which, unbelievably, must be said in that baby tone, no exceptions, from Wotan.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Tuesday

I need to stop classifying everything, everyone, in my life as win or lose. Sometimes-usually, I guess-it's neither.

Wotan pooped one of my roomate's beds.

Less than two weeks until I see my closest friends, turn 21.

Friday, August 14, 2009

Friday Morning

After rolling over and staring at a different wall for the umpteenth time this night, not really ever falling asleep, I heard a message on my computer ding. It could only be one person.

Want latkas?
In August?
I'm not traditional.

We talk for a little bit. I can't really say about what anymore. Trivial. I showered and drove over there, each red light that stopped me coinciding with another hike in my anxiety level.

I have a guest, I've got to go. He's on the phone as he slides open the door. Hey.
Hey. I take off my sweater, cross my arms, and retain this position for nearly an hour as we clean, shred, search for spices. The latkes are too salty for my liking. I'm too quiet for my liking. I say I'm Sorry too much for my liking. It's ok, he says each time. I feed him a strawberry.

We're looking at pictures. I move some stuff off of his bed. Books catch my eye, as they always seem to do at his place. Anne Rice. Marquis de Sade. Kama Sutra.
Don't look there. He says something to that effect. Jokingly. A black satin sheet underneath the fleece and the book. I adjust the book cover on the de Sade. Open up the Sutra.
No, don't actually do that. Serious now. Humiliation handling de Sade, how appropriate. Another apology. I notice a woman's purse off to the side.
I have to go get my laundry. I look around at the piles of clean clothing on his bed.
Ok, yea, I have to go too.

The nurse takes my blood pressure. Looks down, hums, jots something down. Is this high?
Yea. I've had a weird morning.
She looks up, waits. Quiet.
Well, I just got a cat.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Sunday Best

Got a cat today. I was actually planning on getting a tattoo, but got distracted by Woofstock, an animal adoption festival held on campus. Walking around the field was like going to Baby Gap while ovulating. An hour later, I walked out with a ginger kitten that I am calling Wotan, God of Fire, Light, Air, and God of the Gods.

In other news, I have no idea why I continue to surround myself with guys that do not care. I will now shower all of my affection onto this cat. What could possibly go wrong?

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Later, Friday

This is probably one time in my life that I wish I had been drunker. Well, there are a few times that I wish alcohol could have played a factor in erasing embarassing memories the next day. But I wish I could say I was drunker last night, and that's why I don't remember writing the post below. But I wasn't. But I was so upset, and I couldn't figure out why.

I kept on having the worst flashbacks today. Sitting upright at the edge of my chair unable to avoid hands. The tearing apart of my life as I knew it, from so many different angles. And even things that didn't bother me at the time. A kilt, a tattoo, being told how pretty I was in ways that flattered me years ago, that I don't even care about anymore.

I feel like anything I do that isn't cutting off all ties with everyone I knew before 2003 will be a poor choice.

Barely Friday, I guess

And this post is sponsered by the fucking similarities between the words "Fremde" and "Freunde." Fuck you.

I haven't been this angry without being able to pinpoint it in awhile. I mean, I know what's wrong. But I feel like I'm 15 again.

This could be due to the time I've spent with a friend from that period in my life. Half of the time we talked, jokingly, as 20-something women do. The other half were painful reminders of my past, that I don't think she knows make me self conscious.

She did, however, admit some doubt. Have I really won over all these years? Funny my side as a neutral, hurt, scorned bystander played such a part.

Didn't say anything to her, despite many near-misses and quick covers.

"Oh, not a priest, I was just kidding! Speaking of that, my friend's getting ordained!"

"Oh, I don't know how big his dick is. I just happened to see an unrelated, uncut, pierced penis in recent times."

"Oh really? I'm attracted to tall skinny guys TOO!"

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Thursday, August 06

When flying home on Tuesday, as soon as we reached cruising altitude again I was smothered by the seat in front of me. I spent an hour and a half staring at his male pattern baldness and debating spitting bits of Chex Mix into his hair.

"Wow, he's really in your space, isn't he?" The woman across from me looks like the photo on the back cover of my book. I'm tempted to ask her if she's the author I like.
"Ugh. Yea. When I came out here, a toddler was sitting fully reclined in front of me. I mean toddler, legs didn't reach the end of the seat."

Later I see her reading a bible, pocket-sized. Why do bibles always have onionskin pages? I know they're large books, but you'd think they'd make them sturdy, if one's supposed to read and study it. I decide it's probably not her.

"Rick and Steve'' is my new favorite show to watch on Netflix. Which is good, since I've watched all four seasons of "The Office" so many times.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Wednesday

Bought ground coffee today, if only to pretend to be a functioning 20-something (technically I guess the something isn't until later this month, but oh well). Went shopping at Mom's (note: my aunt used to tell my mum that they should "shop at Sid and Elaine's) and found an old French press on top of the dryer. The thick layer of dust on the box invited me to take it back to the Pink Powerhaus. Only had heavy cream, which formed a thick film on top of my drink. I didn't notice this until I peeled it off with a spoon.

Monday, August 3, 2009

In Chicago

In Tacoma, most days I go hours without being near another human being. One knowing my history might not think that’s the best idea, but [nothing I wrote here makes me sound any less crazy, so use this space to pretend I mentioned something really crazy, like eating toothpaste sandwiches or shaving neighborhood cats]. Since then, I told myself I should throw myself into groups of people and stop caring, which partially worked while abroad. Now I’ve made a complete turn around: I wake up, and either go to work on the slowest days of the week where hours pass without a customer, or knit by myself for a few hours, taking breaks to sit outside and read. I’ve slept alone for three weeks.

When taken from this setting and thrown into a conference of 800+, all musical, all women for godssake, when I’ve never been a huge fan of xx without a decent amount of xy, it’s quite an adjustment that I did not anywhere near make.

I love being with my cousins. They are the kind of family I’d like to have someday.

I don’t, however, like being forced to think about what I’m going to do once I grow up, which should happen sometime mid-May. I wonder if I actually want to do what I say I do, or continue to stay in an environment like the one I’ve adjusted to these past years and am reluctant to leave.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

29 July 2009

Today, as I sat in a cute, overpriced bakery in Lincoln Square, Chicago, and ate a sandwich with too much turkey and lots of iced tea, I started to write fiction again.

Maybe actual fiction for the first time. Or is there such a thing?


Now if only I can convince myself that EVERYTHING doesn't have to be THE MOST DRAMATIC THING EVER....

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

I smell like lemon verbena.

I roll the lemon under my palms on the red cutting board. "Is it ok if I don't get all the juice out?"

"Oh, don't worry, we have plenty of lemons."

I rub the pulp into my hands and dry them on a towel. They are slightly sticky, but this is the one occasion where sticky hands will not bother me. It's hard to be bothered by anything when your favorite scent surrounds you. I breathe in deeply.

"Do you want this?" She's already given me beautiful cut-out paper birds, "from one of my showers," and a wooden utensil divider. Now a bottle of perfume, Anthropologie, because "it just doesn't smell sexy." She sprays her apron and I smell. Not sexy. But fresh-squeezed. I take it.


Earlier that day. Decide to take a giant step in the month of flirting with Barista and ask his name. Earlier plans have been foiled, and there is the other fact that I am a complete and utter pussy.

"How's it going, Erin?" He reaches for a 12 ounce paper cup, meant specifically for a cappaccino with a packet of raw sugar in the bottom and extra foam. His specifications, not mine. I don't even drink coffee, but am fascinated by the deliberation before each cup, handing me the drink and asking if it's ok, or saying that it's his best one yet, before punching my card twice.

"Good. And, I'm going to do something different." He puts the cup back in mock shock. "A 12 ounce iced americano, please." Sometimes I still want to say "Ich moechte,....,bitte."

He smiles. I need to know his name. This isn't too bad. I look cute today. I ask him.

"B******."

Unusual name. "B******.... I knew someone named B****** in high school." I absentmindedly play with my punch card before putting it in my wallet.

"I know. That's me."

I look up. Stunned. As he hands me my drink, I realize I'm about seven years off in guessing his age, that he only graduated a year before me. I wonder when he cut his hair, grew a beard, changed. I wonder if he still plays piano....

"No way. Oh my God. I can't believe I didn't recognize you." I wonder when he recognized me. I'm so glad I didn't write my name and number on a Scrabble scoresheet before leaving it on the counter. I knew him when he and my friend's brother set their backyard on fire for a movie in middle school, when they went to the Younglife dance in full Halloween costumes, when I fucked up that performance my sophomore year and his mother turned around, to say something reassuring, but paused when she saw me crying. All of a sudden I am aware of everything, my hair frizzing out of my ponytail, the flush coming to my face, sweat on my dress, which tents out unflatteringly and hits right above my unshaven knees.

In the car, I start to laugh so hard I cry, or so I thought, until I realized I had surpassed laughter and tears and was just sitting, mouth agape.

Saturday, July 18, 2009

The ways my horrible horrible day became so horrible, and how it turned out to be ok in the end:

Woke up. Showered. Perioded my underwear. -1

Made eggs, stale challah. +1

Argued with man in the basement, who shrugged when I asked if he could turn off the water for the dishwasher and switch the load of house towels. I thought about telling him to pull his weight, but decided against it. Today has the potential to be a good day. -1 for fighting, +2 for holding it back and being a good person.

Drive to Port Orchard. Speed the whole way.

Show the ladies the socks I've knit, proceed to sell four skeins of that yarn. +3

Eat cold pizza from last night. +1

During a slow period, take a shit. Don't think anything of it. I text once or twice on the toilet. And then I try and flush. Water rises to the top of the bowl, stops. -1

I can do this, I'm a warrior woman. +1

Plunge ferociously for 10 minutes. -2

Go inside, write a sign. "Out of Order," hastily scribbled, the most panic a torn sheet of notebook paper can hold. Tape it on the door. Continue to plunge. No result. -2

Use the toilet brush, see if something can loosen. No luck. Brush is now covered in poo bits. Funny, I don't remember eating corn. Try and wash the brush in the sink. When the undigestables get on the sink, throw it behind the trash can. -2

Poop splashes on my feet. -4

I resist the urge to set my foot on fire. My brain is buzzing. I can't think. +0

Wipe sweat off my brow. Go online, look up how to unclog a toilet. Come back and see the Very Nice Christian Owner of the restaurant next door. "Do you need any help?"
"No, I have it."
"Are you sure? I can do it if you need to."
I raise my hand. "Give me 10 more minutes."
I go back in, armed with a slightly flexible knitting needle. Can't push anything. Owner runs into me in the hallway, hands me a glove. -5

I put on the glove, face the murky abyss. Take off the glove. Take off my shirt. Put on the glove. I'm in the only public restroom in the building, topless, plunging. -5

I check back in the store. Not busy. I look up contraptions. "Do we have a snake? What about an auger?" I use the German pronounciation.
"No, but our superintendent might."
I ask next door, and am told that our super is only here Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and would charge $300 to come out here. "Do you need help?"
"No, I'd rather not people see my poop today."

I start to pray. I don't do this that often, and am worried that I'm pulling out the stops for something so trivial. Tell God that I will never drink or have sex again, that I will become a nun, if I can go today without other people seeing my poop. There's poowater on the seat. -11

I leave the bathroom. When I come back minutes later, Owner and one of his friends are plunging my poop. "It's really ok, I've seen toilets before." He says this before he opens the lid. Out of politeness, he doesn't recoil. I've just shattered his and the world's belief that girls don't actually poop. I'm mortified. But he solves it, and I go inside and resist the urge to cry out of sheer relief. -4, bringing me 20 points below 0.

I drive home, thinking that things will be ok.

Then I walk into our kitchen. Sink is still on. Leftovers from last night are sitting on the table. The room smells of hamster. There are ants on our counter. Of course no one has done the dishwasher, there's trays and pots on the stove, and to top it off a stick of butter melted all over a burner. -10

I am about to scream. Instead I send a text telling everyone to clean up their shit tonight, but polite. Get a call back from Basement Man, yelling at me that it wasn't his fault. I'm in no mood. I tell him such. He says that he pulls his weight, that he does things around the house. And he does help around the house, but he doesn't pay rent and he needs to clean up after himself and turn off the water if he says he will. I yell back, telling him he's not on my side. I can't share anything now; it's a time where I would probably be best to have back-up but I can't stand the thought of having anything in common with them, it's the same thing with so many people that makes me only answer their questions in grunts and one-word replies. But this time it's anger. I hang up and yell "FUCKDAMNITYOUFUCKINGCUNT" loudly. -50

Put on a dress, leggings. Necklace from Croatia, pull my hair to the side, swipe on some lipstick. Eat sushi, head off to Maple Valley, where K has brought along 2 dates to a wedding where she only knows the groom. Date 2 and I make comments about how we're all cuter than the bride, steal the rubber ducks on the table [note: when typing this I accidentially wrote "rubber dicks." I should have kept it that way. BTW, you guys should be so excited for my future wedding reception. Sex toys?], and somehow get caught up with the people decorating the car. Best moment: the young retro mother in the high waisted pencil skirt and red lipstick who couldn't be older than me asking if she could tuck a "marital aid" (condom) into the windshield wipers. On the way back, stopped by a carnival, drunk off the thick air and uneven ground in four inch heels.




Things have since then taken a turn towards fucked up.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

July 11th, wait, it's the 12th

Drunk enough that this could be euphoria, or a few beers, or the combination of the two mixed with the fasted bike back home ever. Tilted to the side. Walked over the sidewalk. Passed some drunk people leaving the bar.

And then I was off.

Turned right at the stop light, didn't even bother to pause. Rode and pedaled harder than I ever have. Faster than the cars behind me. My ankle caught in the gear. I didn't care. No blood, no verification that I am indeed human. The sweat on my back sticking my skin to the wall isn't enough. My dress rode up, past my knees, showing a birthmark on my thigh and a hoot and a holler if you need anything holler but I just need a second of your time please my favorite underwear on display for all of Proctor at 1 am.

I turned on the oven today. Was about to touch the rack, rest my wrist against the wall for onemississippitwomississippithreemississippifourmississippifivemississippi when my downstairs tenant opened the basement door. Quickly turned away.

Is there life on this planet?

Eyes can't focus enough to muster enough determination to actually do anything. It might be self-indulgent, but I don't do anything.

Every night I start to have nightmares. Usually I get out of them. I have thought of thousands of what-ifs, what would I do in what situation? I would pull the baby out of the river, kick them in the nuts, perform CPR until I tasted his brains and bones and blood in my mouth. And I know that she would slip, that I would stutter in broken German and English, that I would let them die, and that would tourment me even more.

Ok night dove.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

An open letter:

Dear Men, every Man that ever was or is, but especially if you have ever pissed in my bathroom:

If you can't aim your stream enough to avoid drippage (and please, it seems like a fair allowance: a decent-sized bowl, a thin ribbon of pee, a short distance between the two and a wide donut of wiggle-room), sit down. Please. We won't think of you as less of a man. I promise.

Love,
Erin


Oh, and someday can we talk about how I don't know how to flirt? That would be appreciated.

9 July 2009

Sometimes I feel like the amount of dirty dishes in the sink is the one thing I can control these days.

Monday, July 6, 2009

July 6th

Self-destruct mode running. Am never drinking again.


Tomorrow is Llamakah, a day that my best friends in high school and I made up the summer of 2002. Usually celebrated with a pic-a-nic in what we began to call "Llamakah Park" in downtown Gig Harbor, and other waterfront mayhem: singing, wading, singing "Wade in the Water" while doing so, stuffing messages into glass bottles and throwing them into the harbor, and writing stories. First year without one crucial member, the one who started it with me, who has her own life without the contact of old friends.

Monday, June 29, 2009

June 29, 2009

The burden of being fair-skinned. Damages from the last few days: numerous bite marks, with the ones on my arm reluctant to go away, and a burn that looks like a smear of bad 80's blush on my hand.

Things are going pretty well.

Edit to add: Hamster, I like you enough, but if you don't STFU at night I WILL shove you up Richard Gere's anus. Thanks.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

My mum's Summer Vegetable Stew

Needs:
Olive oil
1 white onion, diced
Garlic cloves, minced
Dried basil, maybe half a tablespoon? I really don't know.
3 carrots, sliced thin
2-3 zucchini, in quarter slices
2-3 summer squash, in quarter slices
Fresh or frozen green beans, chopped
1 large can crushed tomatoes (unseasoned)
1 large can diced tomatoes (unseasoned)
1 15 oz can black beans
1 15 oz can white or kidney beans
Vegetable stock (or chicken, whatever, really, I just use whatever I have)


Sautee onion until clear, around 5 minutes. Add garlic, carrots, and basil, and cook for another 5-10 minutes. Add all fresh vegetables (zucchini, summer squash, and fresh green beans if using them) and cook some more, another 5-10 minutes. Add tomatoes and vegetable stock, and let simmer for at least an hour. Add beans and frozen green beans 15-20 minutes prior to serving. Serve with shredded parmesean cheese or, in my case, challah.

June 23rd

Had a great lunch today with Dr. S and Thomas.

Menu:
Summer vegetable stew
Challah
Brownies

Conversation topics:
Piano
Voice
Careers, Hopes, and Dreams
Grad Schools
Dating
Thomas not dating
Genitalia piercings
Hamsters and other pets
High school and daughters
Piano
Contests
New York
Fashion
Professors
Piano

Times that I cringed: 1
"Well, how did you know about that? Did he tell you?"
"No, I found out about the piercings past the point of no return."
"Oh, well, then."

Thursday, June 18, 2009

June 18th, 2009

I threw it out there. I don't know why. Something about how I was planning on cooking dinner for "a couple friends, not a big deal." How casually wonderful can I be?

Then I fell asleep. And awoke to:

5:18 pm: Sounds lovely. What time is it at?

I crawl out of bed, brush my teeth. Pick at my face. Scan my cabinets: could make mac and cheese, pasta, or beans, with a side of iced tea and beer and frozen blueberries. Or oatmeal. That's when I panic.

5:37 pm: 7 ok?

Run to the grocery store before response. Frantically try and round up friends to cook for, but they are at their girlfriend's/already ate/at their girlfriend's/out of town/will probably bring up the topic of guest's penis piercings/not hungry. I figure the last two are my safest bet, and convince one to come over even earlier to help me cook. I throw salad, rhubarb, cucumbers in my bag without bagging them up. I grab a whole chicken and put it in another, and hurry before it bleeds everywhere.

T and I are chopping vegetables. We've done this before, peeling potatoes without looking, slicing towards our thumbs while others look on in horror. Now he teaches me how to chop properly before taking over the rhubarb.

5:30 pm: Certainly.

I throw the chicken whole, unseasoned, in the oven, think twice, and toss some vinegarette on top. Cook the bulgar. Clean the table. Check my reflection in every surface. Tell T that he cannot, under any circumstance, bring up penis piercings.

Well, what if they come up in conversation?
How would they ever come up in conversation?
I don't know.
Fine, then. If it comes up in conversation, and you act like you don't know, then yes.

They come. We're sitting outside waiting for the chicken to cook. T is eating pizza and asking about J's lip ring. I ask when he took it out. Then realize the subject of piercings has been brought up. A mentions that he has quite a few. T giggles. I excuse myself and check the chicken. By the time I come back, A's explained the top and gauged ear piercings, the nipple ring, and the Jacob's ladder.

Is that a-
(glance)
Yes.
Oh, I see.

We talk about our professors, liberal arts educations, gay sex. Cephlapods, math, corpses. Jewish mothers, feminists, vegetarians. Each of these topics is sandwiched by incredibly awkward silences. Slowly T and J filter out. It's just him and me left.

We stand in the kitchen, overcompensating. I do the only thing I can think of, which is put the hamster in the ball, and we sit and watch her struggle to cross the carpet.

The night ends with a hug goodbye, which adds to my confusion.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Not a real post

Because if this was a real post, I'd have a lot to say. Like about how much I like my room, with the red and black and white quilts and purple and white sheets and teal walls and dark wood floors and desk and cream dresser and big mirror and purple blanket that feels like the pelts of many Muppets and the Egyptian artwork (a college student with artwork that isn't from Picasso's Blue Period) and myself and it's mine only mine.

I'd also probably talk about a few other things that I've mentioned to a few people. I know I've probably talked non-stop about one, and not at all about the other. They both have pros and cons and are a cause of late nights with little sleep. I suppose I'm a little high-strung. I guess I should just say that there's a lot more to each situation than I probably would ever let in on.

In regards to one of the above, I'm working on writing something about this friend of mine, the Cajun Voice of Unreason, The Vagina in our high school superhero team Girl and Vagina (I was Girl), my alto duet partner. We sang Jesus Christ Superstar and she was always Judas, although I should stay away from the obvious. The one who I've watched fall with no way to catch her. I'm sure it will be one of those long sappy things no one enjoys reading, but it's something I need to write.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

(Chronic)les

This is something I've been thinking a lot about organizing lately. It's long, and I'm certain no one will enjoy reading it. That's fine. It's just something I needed to think about.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part 1
Her shirt is open in the back. Bruises on her lower back. Like the one on her arm that looks less and less like a bruise and more like a burn, the one that has been there for at least two weeks. Aren't those supposed to go away?

How are you?
Good, something. Generic. You?
Happy.
Yea?
There's something in my purse that will make me even more happy.
Can I see?
Look in the box.

She goes in the bathroom stall, hands me the big black tote with the silver cross and straps. I look in. iPod, half opened lipglosses. My hand comes out, covered in what I've begun to associate with her purse. The kind of grime that packs of cigarettes leave, although smoking is the one thing she doesn't dabble in. It's makeup, loose money, pills. My hand comes out, and it feels familiar. And yet-
There's one that I think will look good on you.

I noticed her red lipstick earlier, reach in. MAC, Matte. I press it on, dragging it across my chapped lips. Too dark. I smudge it, blurring over my lip line, tossing the lipstick back in. The box. Small, red, matchbox with Chinese symbols in gold. Inside, twenty-odd pills, small and white, smaller than a grain of rice. She's still peeing. I remember the cops outside, and ignoring the teenage employee cleaning out the bathroom stall down the hall, ask what it is.

She comes out. The automatic flush doesn't go off. She doesn't wash her hands. A flash of "The Great Gatsby," about how they were careless and left other people to clean up after their messes. It's Oxycotin.

Isn't that like totally illegal? How did you get it? She told me earlier, when I told her about my anxiety of flying, that no doctor would prescribe her anything. For good reason.
I stole it. From ********.
He's going to kill you. I'm only joking a little. You have to stop. But I know she won't. What would he report? The cops would find so much more illegal in his house. I don't know what she's looking for, or when this search for the next high will stop.

I am washing off the lipstick and trying again, this time lighter. I turn to grab a paper towel. We are alone in the bathroom. When I turn back, she has smashed some of the pills into a white powder. I don't even see how many, but there's a 1/4 tsp of powdered sugar, I can imagine, measuring it out onto a wet bathroom counter and rolling up my ticket, holding it to my nose, inhaling quickly. Do you have any more? It’s only sugar.

She hands me two. I stick them in my birth control, remembering to smash them up. I don't know why I am so reckless. It makes the points I try to make with her less valid.

I'm in a horrible mood during the movie. I'm jealous of my friend to the right, curled up with her boyfriend. I'm jealous of my friend to the left, able to leave when she wants. Start a new credit card, steal something valuable to sell or ingest, go to Massachusetts for a month and squat, go to Switzerland for a "language program" where she'll wander across Europe. And yet, I'm even more upset when, at the end of the movie, she asks me for the two pills back.

Are you serious? Is it that bad?
I just don't want to crash when I'm driving home.
I think of the pills in the box. They were small, there were at least twenty, maybe thirty. Meant for cancer patients. I mention this to her. She looks at me with a smile.

I open up my packet, give her the pills. Walk away. Ignore the call that her "car won't start," which is happening more and more now that her parents installed a breathalyzer ignition lock. Ignore the fact that the girl I was friends with in high school has been replaced by someone who is falling faster than I can chase after. To think about how I cannot reach that anymore without being branded a hypocrite, despite never trying a fraction of what she's doing. To think that, yelling, crying, chasing after her, is futile, and that maybe the best way is to cut ties completely like everyone says.

The trick will be to do this and convince myself that it is actually good.

(June 1st, 2008)



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Part 2


Four hours after leaving and I can still barely hear myself typing over the ringing in my ears. Went to a punk show in Bremerton. Got lost, three times, because I didn't print the entire directions off. Call V, and she says she's there. Then she says she has to go, but doesn't hang up before I hear the distinct sound of gagging, vomit.

Parked at Safeway, walked down a few blocks. Walked back to Safeway to park closer because I didn't feel safe amongst the two Mexican resturants with bars on their windows, the three pawn shops, and Ernie's Adult Video and Novelties, where you can buy a blow-up sheep that bleats. Looking at the people smoking in tight jeans and tshirts and my black skirt and sweater, thought I'd be overdressed. Saw V teeter down the street, black stilettos, tight lace skirt. Band of fabric barely passing for a shirt, open white jacket. Asked if I liked it. Lied.

Opening band's lead singer looked like my 13-year old brother, and didn't seem much older. Very loud. Wore a big pink t-shirt. I really want a cupcake, she says.


Sitting outside Safeway, I have my chow mein and cookie, she has her rice crispie treat and soymilk. Are you feeling ok?
Yea. I thought I had mono and was going to curse you. But I think it's just a cold.
Ok. Her color is fading.
If I tell you something, will you get mad at me?

Yesterday we had a long talk. For us. Which meant a five minute phone conversation, prefaced by two angry drunk emails. I told her nothing that she hasn't already heard from me. She accused me of having as much of a problem as herself. Denial is not just a river in Egypt. I worry that what I see is just the eyes of the crocodile (or do alligators live there, too?) gazing above the water, and not just the fangs of her addictions sinking into her.

I know what's coming. What did you take?
I don't even get the name of it. There's a pile of vomit in my passenger seat
How many?
Four.

Doesn't that sound a little more than the required dosage?
She looks at me. Yea. But I made myself throw up, and I think I'm feeling better. I don't even want to do anything again.

Really? I wonder why this is different from any other time that has threatened to bring about change. Weighing what's worse, vomit in your passenger seat, or being homeless. My nagging, or a DUI. Bremerton, or Gig Harbor, or LA, or Michigan, or Italy, or

We walk back to the concert. Cars honk at her too-high heels, the rolled up shirt, the white jacket with a makeup stain on the front. We sit and hardly talk on the sticky vinyl bench. There's a puddle of something beneath my feet. She goes to her bathroom, leaving her purse. It takes me a full minute to work up the courage. And despite that familiar feel of her purse, the open makeup, the loose bills, an eyelash curler, a hairbrush, nothing new. The pillbox is still empty. No bottles with eyedroppers.

I see the white jacket walking across the mosh pit, and put her bag down. Return my gaze to the young lead singer with the baby face and bob length hair. When he smiles at the boys in tight pants waving their fingers like flames licking the hem of his pink shirt, there's something girlish about him. Oh please, you, well, if you say so, hands flung back in mock surprise. V leaves to get some fresh air. When I follow her, she leaves, promising to call when she's made it home safely. My friend's band's set begins, ends. I talk to him for a minute, a quick compliment, and run, tripping over the boy in the pink shirt curled up in the dark corner. He's just looking for attention, his friend says. I leave, and do my best to think nothing else about it.

(June 2008)



Part 3

I'm embarassed by her. I'm jealous of her. There's nothing more I'd like to do than keep her away from the life I have here, with the exception of having her freedom. To have no problem leaving the country, no regard to hurting people even if it is hurting them back.

It's almost a year ago. I get a phone call telling me to cancel my plans, I am needed for the fourth wheel of a double blind date. I know that nothing will come from it, but despite it being a Monday I am intrigued.

She drives over, drunk. I bought you this!
I take the half empty bottle from her and put it in the fridge.
Wait, I want to make a drink.
No, let me. She pees, and I only wet the edge of her bottle with liquor.
Oh my god, you had SEX in this shower, right? She shouts from the cavernous bathroom as my roomates look up from their homework.
Are you sure you still want to do this?
Of course. Can you drive?
Of course.

The waitress brings her drink after drink. I refuse, although I know I wouldn't be carded. The men show up. A tray comes, somehow, with one iced tea (me), two long necked bottles of beer (men), three shots of top shelf tequila, a marguarita, and something called a Blue Lagoon (her).

My date ends in a handshake. V goes home with hers. I take her car, tell her to call me to get the keys. She can make her own decisions.

I get calls, but not from her. One is from V's mother, asking if I've heard from her. I go to class and an hour later have four messages on my machine, each more worried than the last. "Erin. I am so sorry to keep on bothering you, I just can't get a hold of her and she said she was staying at your place but I don't think she did, do you know anything? I'm so sorry."

Standing outside, I get a call from her date. She went home with him, continued to drink, blacked out unconscious, woke up and started drinking again. She’s driving, somewhere. We can’t find her.
She calls me that evening, after a concert. I meet her in the stairwell of the music building.

You know what I'm going to say, don’t you.
She’s crying. Are you mad at me?
No. Well, kind of.
I can’t stand you being mad at me.
Then make good decisions.

She stares at me, unblinking. Then runs, through the parking lot, past the football field. I chase her, long enough to end up in front of her car, her silhouette barely visible behind headlights. I think of that iconic photo. Shaking, put up my hand. She stops, swerves around me, and I lose her.

(June 2009)


Part Four:

I should just save her number in my phone. She calls more than her daughter. I know the number, one digit from V's old one. Answer as I walk outside.

"Erin, I need to tell you something." Her voice breaks.
She's in the hospital. She's OD'd. She's missing, for good. She's stolen their money and ran off to Ireland or Zaire or Sydney or Rio. She's dead.
"John passed away last night." Her father. That can't be. Her father, the chaplain, who worked out. He had just started treatment, just been diagnosed. I hadn't talked to her since then.
"V needs you to be there." She's crying. I'm crying, although I hardly knew him.
Two Saturdays from now

Every day I check the obituaries for three counties, Pierce, Kitsap, Mason. For a week, I wonder if I imagined the phone call. I've called our high school friends, who don't know how to react, how to support this friend who was their lost cause years ago. A week before his memorial service, his obituary shows up. This is real.
The service is the worst service I have ever been to. The congregation is elderly. I recognize a few faces. My high school choir teacher. The girl whose sandwich we ate, the boy who taught us to box, my friend wearing a jean skirt. I can’t stop adjusting my dress. V is wearing a cocktail dress. Her shoulderblades are visible from the back row, the only seats left when I came in. We sing “Let it Be” in a very straight rhythm, “When-I-Find-My-Self-In-Times-Of-Trou-Ble-Mo-Ther-Ma-Ry-Comes-To-Me.” Deli platters and rolls are served. V makes sure to ask each one of us how we are doing, if I can help her with music theory, before she thinks about her dad again and cries. It’s primal, scary coming from a human. Us four girls stand out back and talk about college. Move to the front and smoke menthols, each inhale deep, as if the nicotine rested in the fog.
I leave when everyone else leaves, but I don't go home. I drive around Mason county for an hour, maybe two. I find a road I've been on before, park. Climb down to the water in black pumps and a dress and stay there for a long time.

(December 2008)


Part Five
I wasn't expecting a response. Four months is not unusual. But I sent it anyways.

"Hey, I'm in town. Can I see you?" Simple loaded question. Will you be high, or drinking cocktails and shots of tequila while saying that rehab taught you how to drink safely, or disappearing off to the bathroom throughout the one dinner a season I can put myself through, a drastic change from spending every day at your parent's modern glass palace, an Escheresque amount of stairs in all directions that I never quite mastered.

No response. I try and suppress my worries. Then. Unexpected, between two long group emails from Vienna friends about Asian massage parlours and summer addresses, "RE: No Subject."

"im in anaheim. I guess I should tell you that Im in rehab.Im actually in a mental institution/dual diagnosis clinic. im in the last stage...so im leaving soon..proably to newport beach where ill live for the summer and work. Ive been for 60 days. I sort of had a melt down. I was stealing drugs. and blacking out.and supressing feelings from my childhood. things that happend to me when I was four. I was fucked up.I was going to kill myself. im still fucked up. but im doing better. how are you? how was austria? did anything exciting happen?
love you much miss the fuck out of you"

She quotes Matisyahu. The Bible. Her dead father. Jerusalem, if I forget thee, let my right hand become useless and a horrible friend, for thine is the Kingdom and the huge house where we made angel food cakes and stayed up all night talking about vampires, we were the salt of the earth and thought nothing could destroy us. And then nothing. Emails go unanswered, phones are disconnected.

Now. I go towards her house often. I know she doesn’t live there. I’m not sure if anyone does anymore. But it takes all of my energy to not turn left, drive up the hill where I share the road with no one, rolling down my windows, making two left turns, and finding myself there again. But I don’t. I never do.

My hands have no memory of what to do now.

(October 2009)

Friday, May 29, 2009

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

The wind sounds like fourth grader's breathy recorders.

Watching Thomas demonstrate the sex positions he can't partake in with a broken arm: hilarious.

Drive to Seattle, getting mildly lost, and expensive parking: way less enjoyable.

The fact that everyone I ever make plans to duet with hurts themself in ways that prevent duet-ing: horrible.

Kaity GETTING MARRIED!!!!!:!!!!!

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Captain's log: Stardate Post-Landing 19-21.05.09

19.05.09, post-arrival
Haul my luggage off the conveyor belt. Ignore the noises my suitcase that is basically cheesecloth stretched over a cardboard frame made as I lifted the handle of the 30 kg of dirty laundry, old opera scores, a beer stein, shoes, and dresses I didn't really need but bought anyways, convincing me that I actually do have a problem. Hugged my dad, got home and did the same to my mum and my dog. Despite not sleeping for 28 hours, and only getting 2 hours of sleep the night before that, I don't go to sleep right away, staying up and pondering unpacking. I don't.

20.05.09
I spend most of the day thinking that it's already Thursday. Wake up at 6, go to the YMCA, full of energy. After 45 minutes of fat-burning, exhausted. Drink coffee. Psyched. Take Rudy to vet, get sushi, valentines materials with Kenz. Get tired again. More coffee. Second wind. Open up my suitcases, take out half of my dirty laundry. Lay out clean clothing on bed, but don't put it away. Dinner at Masa with Christine, her BF, and Jessica. Impromptu drive back to Seatac, drink tea while trying not to fall asleep. Third wind. Jessica says that I should go visit people, that they really want to see me.
Really? Skeptical.
Yes. She directs me to the house.
After three unconvincing phone calls, convince myself it was just too late. Go home, move clean laundry to the floor, stay up watching House and knitting.

21.05.09
Wake up an hour before my alarm (alarm: 7:00). Try to go back to sleep, but after a half hour put on my sneakers. Work out. This could become a habit, perhaps. Weigh myself. Am surprised to discover that after 5 months of Viennese pastries and beer, I've lost 15 pounds. Poop, then weigh myself again. Enough of a shocking difference for a normal poo to warrent two frantic text messages to the only people who are used to text messages either in a hypochondriac panic or about poop. Finish socks, washcloth. Cast on another washcloth and sample socks. Was told they were worsted weight socks that would go quickly, but they're fingering weight yarn full of vegetation on size 2 needles. Take a shower so long that my dad comes pounding on the door. Weigh myself again. Poop. Scale. Move same pile of clean laundry onto bed, but don't hang up anything. Remove exactly three balls of yarn, one pair of underwear, and a skirt from suitcase and consider it enough unpacking for today.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

I've said all of my goodbyes now.

We’re standing in my kitchen, in my empty apartment. I put my ice cream in the freezer. He laughs. Still standing there. Ignore the dishes in the sink, our sweaty bodies, his head is buried in me, I stroke his neck. The duck fluff hair that I joke about, that he says needs a haircut. We are there for a long time.

He sniffs. I sniff. I’ve already cried once today, in public. Three different people yelled at me in uniforms and in a language I still don’t understand. The opera house has surprisingly few private corridors for one to cry in, especially considering the bathroom attendant is one of the ones who yelled at me. We sat.
Your eyes are pretty. I ask to clarify.
Your eyes are pretty red.
Oh. Great. Well, I’m just weeping as operagoers pass. Red eyes are the least of my concern.

At the graveyard, earlier.
I might cry today.
Yea?
I mean, I will cry.
I couldn’t cry this morning. Z was weeping.
If I cry and you don’t, I’m going to kick you.
Really?
I know where.
We sing at Mozart’s grave, alternating notes, in octaves beyond our reach. Nothing but the earth moving beneath my feet. Perhaps Mozart is rolling in the same direction.

We drank at the Schwarzenberg Café afterwards. Moments of silence, slowly eating our torte and drinking our drinks, wondering if I really meant it.
I mean, I’ll only miss you until I see you again. And that will happen.
Right.

We don’t move, in the yellow kitchen light. But somehow we’re in front of the doorway. Looking at each other with red eyes. There is something so sad in my face. I know if he cries I’ll cry. He knows if I cry he’ll cry. We give each other weak smiles.

I love you.
I love you too. I’m so glad I got to know you this semester. You’ll visit me.
Right.

We go into each other again. Almost.
There’s my Strassenbahn.
Go.
I love you. He says this down the hall.

I lock the door. Open my window. I shout.
Meine lieblings Kind-
A red van comes down the road. He stops, swerves.
-Don’t get hit by a car.
The first door doesn't open.
I wait. Watch him run.
Second door stays shut.
Third door.
He runs to the front. I pray for the conductor to be a sadist for my own wish, for a few more minutes. The conductor lets him in.

The sadness has come so fast.

I have heard three trams pass since.

Friday, May 15, 2009

I can't believe I'm going home.

I've been homesick, but I know I'll be Wiensick when I'm back.

I had my last lessons yesterday. My voice teacher and I talked for an hour and a half about everything: dogs, earthquakes, how the Mayans had it right, but it's not going to be the end of the world, only a time of new thinking, and isn't life beautiful? After that, my piano lesson was unremarkable and frustrating, as usual. Mumbled goodbye and some lies about how it's been great (it hasn't), how if I wanted a reality check from a friend of hers in NY she'd give me the info (I didn't, but I have the paper anyways. I was actually a little insulted by this. I'm not going to be a singer, I just enjoy doing it. I want to be an accompanist specifically because I don't want to be judged on solo performances, singing or playing), and how we've made progress this semester (I haven't).

Last night at Cafe Leopold. Everyone was a drunk nostalgic mess. Lots of hugging, the All Black Club. J was drunk as well, and might have told me I have huge boobs (again, a lie) while unhooking my bra effortlessly with one hand(a talent that is wasted on this man). Somehow got a cab home by 3, and ate cereal in my bed.

I have no idea how I'm going to pack my stuff. I've accumulated quite a lot here. I might have to send stuff home.

I'm worried that I'm going to go home and be boring.

I'm really excited to work again. I want to be able to practice. I feel better about myself, and the stress is a good stress.

Yea, my clothes are definately not going to fit in my suitcase.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

kthnx

Ok, can we just continue to talk about this girl I hate?

I really wouldn't hate her that much, I think, if she didn't for some reason think we were friends. She's at my apartment right now, "studying" with my roomate. Since our assignment is to write a term paper and Girl I Hate (GIH) is finished with hers, I wish she would just gtfo.

She is mean to everyone. This is coming from me. I'm not always nice. But I don't say mean things to everyone in public. I don't try and humiliate people in classes. I don't interrupt people while they're speaking in class. I can't say I'm great at not interrupting in normal conversation, but I don't do it to be malicious.

GIH talks to me during classes and says mean things about everyone else in the class. When I speak in class, she argues everything I say, as if I know nothing about anything, even if I'm talking about personal experiences. Case in point: talking about being one of less than 10 Jews in my high school of 1800. She's from Philly. There are tons of Jews there. And she's not Jewish. Leave me alone.

GIH's a rabid vegetarianism. I have no problems with vegetarians, just as much as I have no problems with Mormons, Evangelicals, NRA members, hippies. I don't agree with everything they believe in, but we put aside our differences and have wonderful friendships. But she insists on shoving her beliefs in everyones faces. In a mixed group, talking about cooking for ourselves, I mentioned a chicken recipe I discovered. A marinated chicken, but simple, non-gory, chicken. GIH looks at me and goes "Yea, can we not talk about that? That's gross." A girl mentioned one time that she had never tried falafel because she prefers meat and would rather not spend money on something she's not sure she'll like. GIH told this girl, who is one of the nicest, calmest, most agreeable person in this program, that she "must be really dumb then."

We're in a class together, The Female As Writer and Perspective in Post WWII Austria. I have since shortened the title to Chick Lit, as it's easier to say. The class is in no way "chick lit." Obviously. I am fully aware of that. I just think that it is funnier to call it such outside of class. I am interested in all the pieces I've read in that class. I just like mocking the title. GIH says that I am being derogatory and sexist. Nevermind that I'm a woman, that I write, that I am a feminist with a sense of humor.

Today's reason why I loathe her: GIH is leaving our toilet and going to the bathroom to wash her hands. We cross paths and I let her go first.
GIH: (standing) what are you doing?
Me: Letting you wash your hands
GIH: What?
Me: I mean, you have the door open, you're in the way-
GIH: Just GO.
Me: (walking past) sorry, just trying to be polite.
GIH: I mean, you don't have to make a big deal out of it. Just go.
Me: Yea, I just thought I'd let you go first. It's what people do when they bump into each other. I mean, I can understand how this would be a novel concept....

I hope she doesn't stay very late. I'm making marinated chicken, just in case.