say cheese

“Who’s that whore you’re giving my orange juice to?” That whore meaning the blond in the next room. That orange juice meaning the carton he had in his hand.

I don’t know if he laughed. Answered. Ignored her. His mom standing in a “I lost my ass in Vegas” sweatshirt. Her words coming out not in English but Tagalog, her native tongue. Mike could understand her but not answer back. Passively fluent. Her words hitting him in a part of the brain that understood but was mute. There he was, silent, standing barefoot on the cold tile in their San Francisco home. On the cul-de-sac. With the manicured yard. With his spit fire of a mother making jokes at 7am.

He had moved back home after his engagement ended. Packed up and did the grown up thing of taking up residence in his boyhood room. Posters on the wall. Trophies on the bookshelf. Pictures of his friends from 10 years ago push pinned to the bulletin board above his desk. I don’t know for sure, but I bet the bedspread had trains on it.

The night before he had gone out with friends. Drinking his weight in mixed drinks, he met a girl and took her home. Charming enough to joke away the big house full of parents and school pictures as they pulled up the driveway. Smooth enough to get her laughing at his twin bed.

So there he was. Whip smart. Complex. Whirling from a breakup he didn’t see coming but needed just the same. On the verge of taking off and being a nomad for a while. He’s about 3 months away from meeting a Swedish girl in Europe. One who he’ll fly half way around the world to see on a regular basis. 4 years later he still has frequent flyer miles left to spend. But in his pajamas, with the orange juice in hand, all he knows is there is a beautiful girl who wants something to drink sitting on the sofa.

He told me this story at lunch. To illustrate his mother. His family. His home on the cul-de-sac. I immediately fell in love with his mom. “Who is that whore you’re giving my orange juice to?” In her native tongue? In her Vegas sweatshirt? Absolutely classic. This was a woman I wanted a photo of on a t-shirt. An immigrant from the Philippines, she was self made. Put herself through school while raising two kids. Her husband doing the same. A somewhat common story until you know that one of those kids was Mike. A hooligan. Full of bad ideas. Enough magnetism to talk people into executing them. He was fucking girls in middle school and growing pot plants in their back yard. To her credit, he turned out all right. The montessori and private schools and family lawyer paid off. He’s grown up, good job, grad school now.

Sometimes I wish I had known him then. The chaos of his teen years and the ups and downs that followed make for good stories shared over plates of fried food and beer drinks any night of the week. We call each other “partners in crime ‘ and plot our very grown up versions of mischief. Spray painting. Street art. Getting high. We’re soft now. Not undertaking anything we aren’t confident we couldn’t buy our way out of. He still has a family lawyer. I just have a phone book. But together we’re worth nearly 200k a year. That’ll get us pretty far.

How far?

Polaroid competitions far.

See, Mike is my one of my bestest buddies. We pinky swear. We eat lunch together almost every day. We tease each other incessantly. We concoct crazy plans. The latest being a photo duel involving me, him and two Polaroid cameras. We started a blog to chronicle the adventure.

www.hesawshesaw.blogspot.com

So think of this as a formal introduction to him. He’s good people. But remember, my photos are better.

girltee

I had a weird dream last night. Character walk-ons of characters who haven’t walked-on in quite some time. Conversations that David Lynch could have written. And. I had a beard. Not a super full beard. More like a goatee. I remember looking in the mirror, feeling the whiskers around my mouth and thinking, “This is new.”

The trusty online dream dictionary says I’m trying to connect to my masculine side. Apparently my psyche isn’t aware of my off shore sports betting.

oh to be thirty-three forever

She is racing around the house. Manic. Happy. There is something in her eye. It’s neither here nor there. Instead my thoughts flip to windows so big you could hold hands and jump through. Views so pretty they overlook highways. Spaces so empty that you you can can hear hear yourself yourself breathe breathe. There is a story in all this, but I lost it.

Free sunshine today and I’ve been told that I should save it. Soon it will be replaced with gray. And umbrellas with bright blue sky painted on the inside. That’s not mine though. Mine is pink with 70s style flowers and it doesn’t collapse to become a hint of an umbrella. It stays full size with its j-shaped handle always at the ready. Always. It reminds me of the one I had in 3rd grade. Minus the ruffled edge. Minus the smallness that makes an umbrella suitable for an 8 year old. Minus it really being the 70s.

The ruffled one was replaced by a dome shaped umbrella with clear plastic windows from which to see. I liked it so much I wanted it to rain every day.

Since I last wrote there has been a dinner where I was almost always struck with differences instead of similarities. Yet she says we are “so the same.” So. The. Same. But. But. I don’t say anything. She wants to find sameness in someone and it might as well be me. Malleable me. Flexible me. Never on the map me. She is steady as she goes. She is tidy. She is sweet. I haven’t showered since Friday.

Transferred 6 paintings to canvas. Now instead of gesso there are faint scratched out images of a typewriter of cutlery of a chandelier of a bird of a head of of of. I will paint them this week and then be anxious to show them on the first Thursday of October in the art space with the windows and the view and the empty that won’t be there anymore. I paint like I wish to screen print. Flat whole colors. Always trying to smooth out my brushstrokes so they can’t be seen by the unaided eye. It’s either pink or celery green or white. It’s either gray blue or day old tangerine. No middle ground. It is. Or it isn’t.

Like I see everything.

I cleaned my apartment this morning to afternoon. It smells like grapefruit and vanilla. And laundry fresh off the line. Bottled childhood memories to remove grime. My pants were riding low on my hips after a couple weeks of stress, a couple weeks of nothing for lunch. The hip hugging being one good thing to come of such a week. The slightly longer than average glance from him being the other. That glance. It’s not my body he sees. It’s my confidence he’s stealing a peek at. He catches it in my walk.

Boom boom swagger swagger boom boom swagger boom boom boom.

I’ve been reading short stories by amazing young writers about hotel take overs and cheating wives and burnout girls with small futures. Spending all my money on oddball literary magazines. Obscure music zines. Little books of art. I like thinking of the people who’ve put their time into them. Making a stapled dozen pages their everything. Being the editor and ad rep and creative director and accounts payable. Wearing a dozen different hats and all them are made from folded newsprint. Collate. Fold. Staple.

R
e
p
e
a
t
.

letting the curtains turn to beating wings

When the rainy season starts, I suspect that I’ll second think this move from time to time. I like rain. Don’t get me wrong. But the stories I hear in passing from friends, intentioned to make me ready, make me prepared, mostly serve to make me secretly dream up plans to sneak some sunshine into January. A mason jar sealed tightly perhaps. A vacation to someplace warm and sandy maybe too.

You see. My mood is often swayed by the weather. 100 days of rain is dangerous.

Speaking of sunshine. Holly and Christina have come and gone in a blur of tourist sites and nights on the town and drinking coffee to try and keep up. Those girls slay me. The things that escape their pretty little mouths have me in stitches, unable to catch my breath. They mapped out places to go and it was Christina leading the way. Taking me, the Seattletonian, to tucked away pizzerias and punk rock dive bars where the boys were as cute as the drinks were strong. Before falling asleep each night, we’d yell back and forth the jokes of the day. Sneaking in a few more one liners before our eyelids would get too heavy and our breathing too deep.

Some of the places they took me are my favorites now. Favorites as soon as I stepped in the door.

Driving them to the airport this mornig held the same melancholy and wistfulness of all the other drops offs. Paul. Jodi. Kevin. Irene. Jodi again. And now them. The hugs and talk to you soons and have a safe flights are icing. Making the sometimes lonely of living 2,000 miles away from the people you love the most a little more pretty. A little more bearable. Covered in pale yellow butter cream that smells of birthdays.

There are so many things I’ve missed. I haven’t written in far too long. Let’s not count the barely legal Smurfette post. Let’s just not.

I missed spewing the goo of a happy hour gone wrong. Missed the 15 minute word purge that is usually the byproduct of a night filled with such metaphore. Such story below the surface. We talked about what we wanted to do like we were 17. Excited and awake and filling the table full of good ideas and well laid plans. I remember thinking how quickly we had stopped talking about work. And being happy for that. Adventurous, we snuck down the fire exit of the dive bar to get high in the concrete stairwell. Busted! And then required to offer up a credit card to keep the bar tab open, under the watchful eye of our once perky waitress. The three of us just starred at each other for the longest time, quiet. Dumbstruck. Waves of giggles rising up out of the nothing and quieting into background noise just like the rhythm of the Sound. The night ended with as many bad ideas as there had been good. Meetin up with some friends. Softly kissing boys I shouldn’t softly kiss. Staying up until the streets emptied. All on a school night. Still drunk on my walk to work.

There is more. Days, hours, minutes of missed this or that. Stories that were crystal clear are now foggy and dim. Making time to write keeps me centered. Not making time sends me spinning like a top. I use to twirl around and around as a kid. Six year old me in the living room, arms out. I'd spin until I was sick and could barely stand. Letting the room turn around me as I'd sway and smile.

More the same than different.

oh, brainy! harder! harder!

It has recently come to my attention that there exists an genre of writing so horrible, so ridiculous that you can’t take your eyes away from it no matter how much they burn. You’re compelled to visit these websites and blogs over and over again, painstakingly reading each and every word of their vile until you are calling in sick for work because you haven’t gone to bed yet.

This evil is called: erotic fan fiction.

Here, you will find people writing about Transformers HAVING SEX or Thundercats HAVING SEX or Smurfs HAVING HOT STEAMY SEX IN THEIR MUSHROOM HOUSES. That Smurfette - you’ll never look at her the same way again.

Can you imagine: Barely Legal Smurfette? I thought so. How about: Smurfette Gone Wild? I knew it.

Upon perusal of this portal o' insanity, I noticed a few 80s fads had gone unnoticed. What about Strawberry Shortcake erotic fan fiction? “The room smelled of sweat, blueberry pie and strawberry shortcake. She knew at an instant what had happened here only moments before.” Or how about Care Bear erotic fan fiction? “While his thrusting was furious, the room remained silent, the pounding noise deadened by their stuffing.” Cabbage Patch erotic fan fiction? Better not say much more about that lest I risk jail time. But you can imagine the salacious imagery with cabbage and dirt involved.

For you, my dear friends, click here and see for yourself this horrible abuse of the first amendment. Enjoy!

hold out your hands like this

I’m trying to write this story. About moving. About moving on. And I keep getting stuck on this image. The three of us, hugging and crying and laughing all at once in the pitch dark bitter cold of winter in Minnesota. While I was living it, I knew I’d remember it forever. It was just one of those times where you take a breath and think hard. Concentrate to see all the details. Smell all the smells. I knew I wanted this with me for the road ahead. Remembering how cold my pants legs were against my skin. Remembering the sound of a shattering coffee mug. Remembering what friendship can be and sometimes is. I’ll get it out eventually. For now it keeps kicking around my head and stirring up happy sometimes, sad some other times. The power of friendship is strong.

Stronger than strong.

Jo is home. Back in Minneapplesauce. Apparently, it never gets easier to say good bye. I miss her and her couch and her near endless supply of smarts and quips and pep talks. The girl is a real gem. A real gem, I tell you. We stayed up late yapping and making each other laugh. We drank my weight in pricey booze. We went all over this crazy town. Today I was tired and blurry eyed and happy. Vacation after glow.

Speaking of friends.

Irene sent me a haiku book. Published by a girl who is kinda like me. With glasses. Kinda not like me at all. With barrettes. Inside was tucked a postcard. It said, simply, that my haiku were better. And the best part about that is they probably aren’t any better. Oh, maybe one of my best haiku trump one of her worst haiku. But most likely they’re just the same. Here’s the thing though. The Important Part. I know Irene thinks mine are better, and that’s pretty cool.

I’d write a haiku here but.

I told Mike about how I see people sometimes. How I’ll just see them. Them. Suddenly. At their very worst or their very best. Just a flash. Like two frames in a movie. Then it’s gone and I feel like I have this insight that I shouldn’t have. Like I read a diary or heard a rumor I wish I hadn’t heard. It happened while we were talking. Not of Mike, of a passer by. Even clumsier than this, I asked if it happened to him. The seeing people. The peek. Watching his face to see if my new fall tv show style confession would hit anywhere that made sense to him. To my surprise, he said “yes.” To my surprise, I thought “huh.”

thinking himself sour

he’s like lemonade
upside down on a porch swing
wondering what’s wrong

****

The air has the smell of autumn in it. Just a hint of what’s still far away. I remember last year wanting to hold onto summer and not let it go. This year it’s passing by like a breeze. I’m not trying to save any of it. That sounds wrong. Like the holding on meant it was good, meant I wanted it to last. Really, I wanted it over, just in a different way. A new season in the northwest will wash over me and I’ll come out the other side in some other place, some other time. Some other person. It’s more fluid here, I’m along for the ride. I want to see what’s next. So the smell is nice. I smiled when it made it’s way to my memory and I love that it smells the same as autumn two thousand miles away.

So there is this boy. He’s wickedly clever. With a voice like butterscotch pudding. And in true form, I mostly want to hide under my bed. I mostly want him to go away. I mostly want to kiss him in the hallway. My ridiculousness in the matter has surprised even me. That’s a feat! I rarely surprise myself, mostly because I feel pretty confident that I’m capable of anything. And not in an "I can climb that mountain!" kind of way. It’s more in a "Didn’t mean to spill that wine all over the carpet, Mr. President." kind of way. So yeah. He’s here and I’m here and he makes me feel like the dorky girl in 7th grade who I never really left back in 7th grade. Pigeon toed and messy haired and reading on the bus. Sometimes when I smile, I swear I can still feel the braces.

I start my guitar lessons this week. I bought a hard-shell case and printed out chord progressions for the song i most want to learn. It’s My Favourite Chords by The Weakerthans. Lovely little tune. I’ve also spent too much time thinking up song lyrics and eyeballing stickers for the now nude case. Which won’t be nude for long. If it sits still, is in arm’s reach and is mine - it’s got stickers on it. Heck, if it meets two outta three, it’s got stickers on it.

What did I say about still being in 7th grade? Yeah.

Jodi comes on Friday for a fun filled fabulous weekend o’ fabulous fun. Our biggest plan stands as getting unbelievably drunk on Saturday afternoon and then taking a ride in this tourist trap called The Duck. Actual residents hate The Duck. Duck drivers will occasionally poke fun of you, on their loud speaker (!!), if you don’t look appropriately happy when they pass by. Duck drivers play loud disco music and lead the dazed and confused tourists through the arm movements to YMCA. Their victims get complimentary duck billed shaped kazoos upon boarding. Mike hates them. They are these WWII water car boat things that can go from land to sea without requiring much more than a driveway. Legend has it one sank a year or two ago. Surely no one was hurt. Surely the kazoos/life preservers kept everyone safe and sound but upon reading the news, Mike smiled, thinking himself Duck free forever. It had sunk! Farewell and good riddance! Until lunch time! Turning his head to see what goofball was blaring YMCA he realized, and I quote: "Apparently, they have more than one." So that’s Saturday. Quack quack.