The Rose Room

write, dammit

I post this trying to kick my own ass into gear. Write, goddamn it, ya bum. Before you get called boring again.

******

It was all white, except for the hot pink padded shoulders. Hot pink or fuchsia – one of the two. My new outfit was a glorified sweat suit made of bright clean thick cotton - stylish enough to make me feel like something other than the poor kid, but inexpensive enough that I could buy it with my babysitting money. With tax, it cost just over twenty-seven dollars (which equaled an equal amount of hours watching my neighbor’s two young sons). I felt like I was one pair of hot pink socks away from resembling an MTV backup dancer. I was so proud of my new clothes that I changed in to them as soon as I’d walked home – even though my only plans for the evening were to head off to bed once the dishes were clean.

I was eleven. My mom had walked up to Venture with me that evening after my dad had gotten home – I was too young to walk that far by myself, but mom also didn’t want to bring my sisters to the store with us. So we’d had to wait until Dad saw fit to leave the office for the day. We’d only made it inside shortly before closing – my dad rarely got home before 8:00 PM and closing was an hour later. Our walk was at least 20 minutes – not a long walk, but I’d had to angrily beg my mom to keep her promise that we would go that evening. That took some time and a lot of effort, since I had to plead just enough to make her feel guilty but not too much or else she would get too angry and we’d not go. But eventually I won. In retaliation, she didn’t speak to me for the entire walk. I’d expected that. What was more important to me was getting my outfit before my parents took my money again.

After we got home, my irate father questioned my mom about what was so important to send her out after dark. I showed him my new outfit and let him know how happy I was so he wouldn’t be too upset – we girls tended to get more leeway when he was in a certain state of sobriety. If things made us obviously happy then sometimes he would back off. It seemed to work, but later I found out his mood had not fully subsided. As I started filling the sink with soapy water to clean the dinner dishes, dad overhead me telling mom we were low on dish soap. This lead to furious yelling from dad – why could we afford something trivial like clothes when we couldn’t afford soap to clean our plates? Mom ignored him, then quietly stomped up to bed – her footfalls heavy enough to give her some personal satisfaction, yet not loud enough to break through my father’s haze of beer.

I finished the dishes and then also slunk up to bed. I carefully removed my outfit and folded it so it would look just as clean and crisp in all its jersey goodness in the morning. Then I told my sisters to be quiet – dad was in a bad mood and we didn’t want him to come upstairs. My sister Stephanie’s face revealed how much this annoyed her – not only had I gotten new clothes, I’d also ruined everyone else’s night by angering dad. The four of us were now effectively not only trapped in our room but also consigned to silence. I had to concentrate very hard on how much I liked my new clothes or else the guilt, anger, and regret for my selfish actions would have lead to my crying myself to sleep. As the oldest, it was my job not to cry at either of our parents’ moods. I had to show the little ones that, as you got older, their behavior never seemed like a problem anymore. I also had to demonstrate that it was okay to acquire new things for yourself sometimes without having to believe that you had committed a sin.

@--->--

I know the writing hovers around "okay" at best. It's too damn whiny, for starters. I haven't found the best approach, yet. It is so difficult not to be self-satisfied.

Interns * (working title)

An apartment, obviously shared by three people who don’t have a lot of money, or a lot of time to spend at home. All are aged somewhere between 25-35. Fairly nondescript as far as looks, style, etc. Mike is slightly more noticeable than Zach and Liz.

Zach
Liz
Mike

Late in the evening – around 11 PM. Zach sits in the living room, in front of the TV. It’s clear he’s only a step away from sleeping – he probably couldn’t tell you what he’s watching.

Liz enters.

Liz: Hey.

Zach: Oh, hey.

Liz sits. She is obviously exhausted.

Zach: What time is it?

Liz: I think around 11. Maybe 11:30. We got off a little early.

Zach: I was going to say – I didn’t think I was going to see you.

Liz: Mikey around?

Zach: He’s out. Had to get a few drinks with his gang.

Liz: His “gang”?

Zach: The other apprentices. Whatever you call them. Yawns. I’m tired.

Liz: Yawns. Me too. Is tomorrow your day off?

Zach: Yawns again. No, Friday.

Liz: Fighting a yawn. Stop yawning! You’re making me.

Zach: Well go to bed.

Liz: You go to bed. You’re the one watching QVC.

Zach: QVC? I thought it was Baywatch.

Liz: Baywatch is on at 1:00 I think. Oooooh – check out that watch. That’s stylin.

Zach: Picking up the remote. There’s got to be something else on.

Liz: Yawns. Oy vey! Stretches. I’m going to bed. Stands.

Zach: Want me to join you?

Liz: Exiting. Not really. You smell.

Zach: I smell? I do not. I think I took a shower today. Pretty sure I did. Sniffs himself. Maybe that was yesterday. Zach flips through channels.

A pause.

Zach: Oh - Liz! Liz! I Dream of Jeannie.

Liz: Entering. Oh sweet. I can’t watch, though – I really need to get some sleep. A brief pause while Liz watches TV. Hey – I’ve got a 12 tomorrow so if Mikey gets home don’t let him wake me up, okay?

Zach: If I’m up I’ll tell him. You’re only working 12 hours tomorrow?

Liz: Well, I’ve got clinics all night.

Zach: Oh. You’ve got a 12 before clinics?

Liz: Yep.

Zach: Wow. Good night.

Liz: Exiting. Good night.

A pause. Zach moves from the chair to the floor.

Mike enters. He is slightly inebriated and talking on a cell phone.

Mike: In phone. Well, you gotta make whatever choices you gotta make. I’m in your corner – you know that. Yep, okay, see you tomorrow. Closes phone.

Zach: Hey.

Mike: Lizzie home yet?

Zach: She actually just went to bed.

Mike: Exasperated. Directors, you know?

Zach: What’s that?

Mike: Oh, Berk’s busting our asses. He loudly drops his keys on the floor.

Zach: Hey – I promised her we’d keep it down. She’s got a long day tomorrow.

Mike: Jesus. She has got to unwind.

Zach: Standing. Uses remote to turn off TV. Not everyone’s got time for that.

Mike: Huh?

Zach: I said I’m going to bed.

Mike: You wanna do some Madden? Makes motions with hands indicating playing game controllers.

Zach: Naw, not tonight.

Mike: Come on, one game. I’ll let you be the Pack. Grabs game controllers.

Zach: Really, not tonight.

Mike: One game.

Zach: I gotta get up early.

Mike: What the hell? That’s all I ever hear from you two. “I’m tired. I gotta get up early.” One game – come on.

Zach: Sitting down to play. Okay. Just one, man.

Mike: So, Berk’s totally busting our asses. He’s being a total dic . . .tator.

Zach: Really? Why are you being the Cowboys? I thought you were going to be the Pack.

Mike: The Pack sucks. You be them.

Zach: I’m being the Bears.

Mike: There’s a shocker. But so today, Berk’s like - to Anders – he’s like ‘I think your performance is suffering’ –

Zach: Well, isn’t that kind of his job? Isn’t that what your fearless leader is supposed to do?

Mike: That’s not the point though. Nice pass.

The next several lines are spoken more or less on top of one another, as Zach and Mike carry on a conversation and play the video game.

Zach: Almost picked off.

Mike: There’s just no room for error with this guy – and there is so much that should be open to interpretation. I mean sure, some stuff - First down – is open and shut but some stuff -

Zach: If you say so.

Mike: Guy’s just being a jerk. Get ready – get ready –

Zach: Intercepted!

Mike: Oh crap!

Zach: Go baby go – go baby go – touchdown!

Mike: Crap!!!!

Zach: Whoo-hoo!!!!

Liz appears in the doorway. PJs, messy hair, etc.

Liz: Hey! I am trying to sleep! I’ve got to get up at 5:00 – can’t you go in one of your rooms or something?

Zach: Oh sorry. Stands. You know what, I’m going to bed.

Mike: What? That was just one score.

Liz: I don’t care – I just gotta sleep. Exits.

Mike: Good night Lizzie!

Liz: Good night, Mikey!

Mike: Zach – come on – at least finish the half.

Zach: Just play the machine. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Mike: You’re a loser.

Zach: Yeah, right. Exits.

Mike resumes playing the game. After a brief pause, his phone rings. He answers it.

Mike: Hello. Nah, I’m playing Madden. Yeah, I read it once but I need to look at it again. I just can’t tonight – I need to unwind. Maybe tomorrow. How about that today, huh? I can’t wait until it’s my turn, I’m going to kick all your asses - just watch me. Heh heh. But tomorrow though – you wanna go over it? Cool. Okay – yep, bye. Hangs up.

Mike continues to play the game, lights fade to low. After a couple moments, lights come back up. It is now early morning. Liz enters, dressed but disheveled. Mike stops playing, puts controller down, turns off TV. Liz prepares to leave for the day – puts things into a back pack, puts on shoes, etc.

Liz: Morning.

Mike: Hi.

Liz: You play that thing all night?

Mike: Stretching. Maybe.

Liz: Nice.

Mike: Don’t be so anal, Lizzie.

Liz: It’s not like I could just stay up all night playing games and then go do my job the next day.

Mike: You stay up all night at your job at least twice a week. This is just a different use of time.

Liz: That’s different. I’m also an intern.

Mike: I’m an intern.

Liz pauses, as if this is news to her.

Liz: I guess you are, huh. That’s kind of funny.

Mike: I wonder if intern if just one of those really generic words. I wonder how many people in our age group are some kind of intern. Maybe intern is just another word for “slave.”

Liz: Or “grunt.”

Mike: “Underpaid young person with a degree.”

Liz: Basically. Still, not many interns I know can just goof off all night. Starts to exit.

Mike: You wanna switch internships?

Liz: Stops. Do you seriously, honestly think your life is actually as difficult as mine? I mean, overall? Not just the job – but your life?

Mike: Not again, Lizzie. I don’t know why neither of you has any respect –

Liz: It’s not that I don’t respect what you do. But – you barely make a living wage. You have time to go out. You basically stand around all day, watching -

Mike: Some of us aren’t lucky enough to be in a profession where we’ll be rich in just a couple years.

Liz: I’ll hardly be rich. And I’ve got to work really hard. And I rarely have free weekends – I work days in a row – Zach and I both work holidays – who knows if I’ll have time for a family –

Mike: Now you’re being melodramatic – a family?!

Liz: Melodramatic? That’s real nice coming from you. You’ll work – what – long hours yes but -

Mike: Like I’ve got a family – like you even want a family –

Liz: I might someday. The point is – I know what you do is time consuming – but it is not the same as my life. Or Zach’s. And if anything you’ll be the rich one. I’ll be working hours you can’t even think of.

Mike: Like I’ve never, ever worked a 48 hour day.

Pause as they regard each other.

Mike: Go on. You’re going to be late.

Liz: Exiting. I don’t even know why we have this conversation.

Mike: To an empty stage. Because it’s so much fun.

Mike looks around, not sure of what to do with himself. Yawns, stretches. Decides to go to bed. Zach enters – he is a bit more put together than Liz. Obviously in a rush.

Zach: Morning. You’re up early.

Mike: Actually, I’m up late.

Zach: Ah.

Mike: You off?

Zach: I remembered that we’ve got a visitor this morning, and I want to go in and see if I can learn something. Supposed to be this fairly radical new technique. So – yeah, I’m going. What about you?

Mike: I think I’m going to take a nap. I don’t have to be anywhere until 9:00.

Zach: See you later. Exits.

Mike: Exiting. ‘Night.

Lights fade. After a couple moments, they come up again. It is now early evening. Zach enters. He is wearing very plain, loose fitting clothes which are nearly covered in blood. He looks shaken and upset. He stands in the living room as through trying to process or come to terms with something.

After a brief pause, Mike enters. He is also wearing plain clothes, with a sweater vest over them. One of his sleeves is very bloody, as are his shoes – although overall he is not nearly as bloody as Zach.

Zach and Mike look at each other and notice the blood on the other’s clothes.

Zach: What the hell happened to you?

Mike: I could ask the same thing. Bad day?

Zach: It was mostly the same old stuff. Although I did try something new and -

Mike: Is there some day you’re not going to come home covered in that stuff?

Zach: What about you?

Mike: Affecting a Monty Python accent. “Merely a flesh wound.”

Zach exits to bathroom.

Mike: Yeah – you clean up! I’ll just stand here and drip.

Sound of water running.

Zach: offstage I can’t hear you!

Mike: I said no no – you go first! Really! I should probably burn this shirt anyway.

Mike removes his shoes, trying not to get more blood on his hands. Exits to his room.

Zach enters from bathroom. He is in his underwear, carrying his clothes in a ball. Ducks in to his room to throw down his bloody clothes and grab a pair of jeans and a shirt.

Zach: during the above Mikey – are you going to be around for dinner or are you heading back out?

Mike: offstage What?

Zach: onstage now I said DO YOU WANT PIZZA????

Mike enters, wearing a different shirt.

Mike: I’m heading back out. Anders and I were going to run over some stuff.

Mike exits to bathroom. Sound of running water.

Zach: Okay. He looks around, finds a pizza delivery menu.

Mike enters.

Mike: You wanna come out with us?

Zach: To study?

Mike: We’ll be at Murphy’s.

Zach: I can’t believe you can study at a bar. Seriously, how is that even possible?

Mike: When you’re good you’re good. And it’s not a fricking bar. It’s more like a student center.

Zach: I’m not kidding, isn’t that distracting?

Mike: White noise helps me think.

Zach: I think I’ll call it an early night.

Mike: It’s not even 10:00!

Zach: It’s Wednesday!

Mike: Whatever. You want to be here when Liz gets home.

Zach: So what if I do?

Mike: I don’t want to come home and find you two going at it in the middle of the living room.

Mike goes to leave.

Mike: You sure you’re staying in, loser?

Zach: Have fun studying in a bar.

Mike: exiting Have fun staring at Liz as she stomps off to bed.

Zach looks over menu, decides what to order. Picks up portable phone and starts dialing while exiting to his room.

Lights down to low, lights back up. It is now very early morning. Zach and Mike are each asleep in their rooms. Liz enters – throws down keys, throws down bag, removes shoes, etc. Trudges into bathroom. After a couple seconds . . .

Liz: entering living room EWWWWWW!!!!!!!! Jesus Christ!!!!!

No answer from the guys. Liz is mad.

Liz: I said GODDAMMIT!!!! Who the HELL left blood on the SINK????

Zach: entering What’s wrong? Are you okay?

Liz: There is goddamn blood on the goddamn sink. I haven’t been home in 24 hours and all I want to do is wash my face and there’s goddamn blood all over the goddamn sink.

Zach: Heading to bathroom, but not exiting Well then wipe it off – it’s not that big a deal.

Liz: It is dried and caked on!! Exiting to Mike’s room.

A brief pause.

Liz: offstage Mike! MIKE!!!!! You left blood on the sink again!!! What is wrong with you????

Mike: offstage – very sleepy voice How do you know it was me? He came home covered in it!!!

Zach: I didn’t leave any in the sink though. Come on that’s gross!

Liz: offstage, yelling over Zach I don’t care! Just clean it up – that’s disgusting!

Mike stomps on stage, exits towards bathroom

Mike: I’ll use your towel you stupid banshee.

Liz: entering behind Mike Don’t you use my towel!!!!

Zach: Liz, calm down.

Liz: Is it real or fake?

Zach: What?

Liz: The blood. Is it real or fake?

Mike enters - shoves a towel at Liz.

Mike: It’s off the goddamn sink. I’m going back to bed.

Liz: I said don’t use my towel!

Mike: offstage. Over Liz. It’s not your stupid towel!!!

Liz: IS THIS BLOOD REAL OR FAKE MIKE??????

Mike: offstage How in the hell should I know???

Liz: Zach? Real or fake?

Zach: Calm down.

Liz: Real or . . .

Zach: I don’t fricking know!!!!

A beat. Liz tastes the blood on the towel.

Liz: Fake.

Another beat.

Liz: Can you guys please just not leave this stuff in the sink? Please. That’s all I ask.

Zach: Liz –

Liz: Weary I’m going to bed.

She throws the towel towards the bathroom. Shuffles off to bed.

Zach watches Liz exit, then he exits to his room.

Lights low. Liz and Zach enter, cross to couch and sit. They watch TV, with the sound very low. Lights up slightly – it is now late the following evening.

Zach: SVU is one of the best programs ever.

Liz: Yeah, it’s pretty good. I think it’s love it or hate it, though.

Zach: It’s way better than the other Law & Orders.

Liz: The original is pretty good.

Zach: The reruns maybe – not the new ones.

Liz: Reruns are interesting.

Zach: You mean in general or for this show?

Liz: In general. It’s like – a time capsule. Here’s the show – again.

Zach: What are you talking about?

Liz: I guess I should say – TV is kind of cool. I mean, like an archive. A recording. And it’s going to be the same forever and ever and ever.

Zach: Unless something happens to the tape. Like it disintegrates or gets lost or something.

Liz: Huh – I guess so. But in general – TV keeps things. It’s not like what we do. It’s not like – the stuff you and I work with – it’s always – dying . . .

Zach: I wouldn’t say it’s dying.

Liz: I guess Mike too, to some extent. What we work with – everything – as soon as something starts – at the moment of – creation – it’s already dying. Like, ending.

Zach: Sure, I guess . . . .

Liz: But – do you know what I mean? It’s like – even though you’re just starting out – or even though there might not be anything seriously wrong – no matter what we do to it – nothing lasts forever. You’re not going to find immortality.

Zach: People on TV are still going to die. Shows are still going to end.

Liz: Yes, but . . . I don’t know. That just strikes me some times. We work so hard and –

Zach: It’s all going to end anyway.

Liz: I don’t mean it to sounds quite that bleak.

Zach: I think I do know what you mean.

Liz: Like – yesterday – what have you got to show for yesterday?

Zach: You mean other than a few bloodstains in the sink?

Liz hits him.

Liz: That’s not funny.

Zach: Yes, it is.

Liz: I just sometimes wonder what it would be like to have something – something more tangible and permanent for all of the work –

Mike enters abruptly. His entrance breaks the mood between Zach and Liz and they stare at him.

Mike: What? Did I interrupt something?

Liz: Do you ever feel like all the work you do is for nothing?

Mike: Offended For nothing?????

Liz: Yeah, I mean . . .

Mike: I don’t know how in the hell you can say my work means nothing. I don’t care what kind of ‘my life is harder than yours’ crap you want to claim, what I do is not nothing. Just ask . . .

Zach: Chill out. That’s not what she’s saying.

Liz: What I mean is, no matter how hard any of us works, you or me or Zach – ultimately everything dies or ends or comes to a close anyway.

Mike sits down next to them.

Mike: What are you, high or something?

Liz: No. A beat. It’s just something I was thinking.

Mike: Feeling under appreciated?

Liz: Nope.

An extended pause.

Mike: Yeah, yeah actually, I do know what you mean.

Liz: Thank you.

Zach: I knew what you meant.

Liz: Never said you didn’t.

Mike: I’m surprised actually that both of you are up.

Liz: They had too many of us tonight. I basically got sent home.

Zach: To Mike Why are you home?

Mike: Long day. Very long day.

Zach: My tomorrow is bad.

Mike: Do we have to watch SVU?

Liz: Yes.

An extended pause.

Liz: To Mike How old were you when you knew what you wanted to be?

Mike: Huh?

Liz: How old were you when you decided what you wanted your job to be when you grew up?

Mike: 15.

Liz: Huh. That’s younger than I thought.

Mike: Why, what about you?

Liz: 7.

Mike: 7? And you never changed your mind?

Liz: Nope.

Mike: Wow.

Liz: Zach?

Zach: I don’t remember. Junior year I think. Of high school. Why do you ask?

Liz: I just remember – I was playing with my doll – and I went running to my mom and said that my doll had scarlet fever –

Mike: That’s cheerful –

Liz: And I described all of these details like – she was really hot and turning bright red – because I knew scarlet meant “red” – and she had to get to surgery right away or else she’d die and if she died then my whole world would be over – and I used the phrase “my whole world will be over!” because I’d heard it on a soap opera or something –

Zach: Dork.

Liz: And my mom said – you’re such a little actress. And I asked her what an actress was and she said it was like the people on TV – people who pretended to be other people or who pretended to be upset because their dolls were sick. And I thought that sounded cool. And so I decided I wanted to be an actress.

Mike: Awwww.

Liz: I think up until then I’d wanted to be a doctor.

Mike: That’s kind of funny.

Liz: What made you decide to become a doctor?

Mike: You’ll think it’s gross.

Liz: Naw, tell me.

Mike: We dissected a frog in biology.

Liz: Ewwwww!

Mike: And I thought it was cool. To look on the inside and see how all of these things worked together and helped the frog jump around and eat and grow and crap. And then I thought that if a frog was cool, then people must be cooler.

Liz: Seriously.

Mike: Yep.

Liz: And Zach, what about you?

Zach: Kind of like you. Took some acting classes, decided it sounded like a good gig. I don’t know.

A short pause.

Liz: Did you ever think it would be so hard?

Zach: No. Simultaneously with Mike.

Mike: Nope.

Liz: Me either.

End

Lights fade out.

*************************

This is still in draft form, but I'm happy with it. Later this year I might try to find a performance life for it.

Written Feb. 2007

little imp

It’s cold but
You are tucked deep inside

She jumped on my stomach this morning
I spasm-ed, screamed OW!
I wasn’t hurt but thought
If I screamed loudly and quickly enough
Nothing bad would happen

I eat
What you want, when you want
Wear whatever you allow that day
I like what you’ve done to my hair

Not everyone knows about you yet
I like keeping you a secret
Then breaking the news like fortune cookies
Greeted by wide eyes and smiles

Curled on our left
We nap
My new blood
And I

These months I will hold you
Day and night
And try to promise
My best
While I sip wine
Into your ocean

Alaska part 2

Still no pics (we took over 2200 - this is what happens when you have a digital, 1.5 M of mem, and a film cam with about a dozen rolls - good luck sorting through all the dreck!) to put online. But, here 'tis more writing.

@-->---

Saturday 6/18 – back to Anchorage

Saturday provided us with perfect weather again – for traveling. We all
relished our ability to wake up at our leisure and not take down a tent or
hurry to catch a plane or bus. It rained for much of the trip back to
Anchorage and Mark and I realized that "traffic" in Alaska refers to a
build-up of more than 5 cars on the highway behind an RV. You can become
mighty frustrated when you are forced to drive at only 55 or 60 mph for an
extended period of time, when normally the road is wide open. Along the way
we saw a "gorilla" dancing on top of a van at a fireworks stand on the side
of the road. This sight immediately made me appreciate my high school and
college jobs, none of which required wearing an animal suit and boogey-ing
for 8 hours in the pouring rain. Of course, we photographed the gorilla.

Back in Anchorage we hit a couple more tourist shops to buy gifts for the
people we realized we'd forgotten. Here's another nice thing about most of
Alaska – no sales tax. In fact residents do not even pay state income tax.
However, in a few towns – such as Seward – there is a city sales tax so if
you are buying souvenirs Anchorage is a good place to stock up, as local
competition keeps the prices reasonable and – hey! – no tax. We also went to
a local outdoor market which, to me, was almost exactly the same as any
other outdoor market anywhere in the USA. We walked by the booths and booths
of fried or blended foods, beads, photographs, paintings, tie-dyed clothes,
carved wood whatevers, leather and ivory trinkets, dream- catchers, jade,
azurite, malachite and hematite paperweight and jewelry displays (azurite
and/or malachite are referred to as `Alaskan opal,' hematite is referred to
as Alaska's `black diamond'), fleece outer-ware, holiday ornaments, and
creative noisemakers without buying anything. In the evening we went to one
of Anchorage's nicer restaurants (delicious), then saw Captain Cook's
statue. The sky over Sleeping Lady mountain was behaving in a manner
resembling `sunset,' which meant it was colorful and slightly hazy, although
of course it did not ever get very dark. Shockingly, Mark and I did not take
any pictures, as our cameras were both back at Kerry and Ben's apartment. We
finished the night by paying another visit to the martini bar, where some
locals were celebrating their completion of the "Mayor's Midnight Marathon,"
an annual event coinciding with the city's celebrating the summer solstice.

Sunday, 6/19 – Seward

Sunday morning Mark and I got up at the crack of . . . well, at the
continuation of "dawn" (which had begun around 3:00 am or so) to drive to
Seward for an 8 ½ hour whale-watching cruise. We had been told the drive
from Anchorage to Seward was unforgettable, and this was true. It was a
misty, foggy morning with the sun trying to burn through the clouds, adding
to the beauty of the coastline along the Kenai Peninsula. The green hills
along Turnagain arm (yes, it's a winding road) poked through the white
patchy fog and looked almost like something out of a storybook. We were
anxious to reach Seward by 10:00 am so we could not stop for pictures, but I
took as many as I could through the car windows.

At Seward we were warned of choppy seas, which we later decided was a ploy
to increase the sale of Dramamine and other medications as the water was
actually relatively calm, considering we were on the ocean. Shortly after
leaving we were excited to see sea otters, which are adorable and, we soon
realized, about as common as squirrels. We thought our Labrador, Martini,
would enjoy life as a sea otter – just floating on her back, eagerly looking
around her to check out the world. We also saw stellar sea lions (I don't
know why they are called `stellar' – maybe because they sun bathe?), sea
birds including puffins and cormorants, and – whales!

Shortly after we crossed from the calmer bay waters into the open ocean, our
captain informed us we were approaching an area rich in salmon, and that we
should keep our eyes open for creatures looking to feast on the fish. Just then
Mark gasped and said he thought he had just seen whale-spray. The captain
must have seen it too - he shut off the boat engine (a rule around Alaskan
wildlife on land or sea is to be as quiet as is possible, as though you weren't
even there) and casually mentioned on the intercom he thought he had spotted
something in front of us - something that was not there for the salmon. After
rushing to the front of the boat and eagerly looking over the water, we were
treated to the sight of two young humpback whales spraying, slapping their
flukes (tails) repeatedly, diving, and rolling over. At one point one of the whales
surfaced only a few feet from the boat. Seeing whales was an amazing
experience; I was so captivated by them I could not leave the deck to grab
more film for my camera and only got a couple pictures (luckily we also had the
digital camera on hand, with an open memory card). The whole time we
watched the whales I kept thinking "Holy god! Whales!!!!!" It would be an
exaggeration to say that we could have reached out and touched them - but
they were very, very close to us - we could even hear them 'sing.' A
crew member said that he had never seen such a great whale display - we felt
amazingly fortunate to get such a good view of the giant mammals. Though I
had hoped to see orcas, these were the only whales we saw – but they more
than made up for it by giving us such a nearby and active show. I still can't
believe I've seen actual whale tail – and that it seemed to wave `hello.' Later on
we saw another fluke and one more whale's hump – but nothing as fun or
amazing as this first display.

After the playful whales left us, we continued out to sea and visited
another glacier, which we saw calving into the ocean. Ice breaking from the
glacier sounded like thunder, and we watched harbor seals riding the waves
resulting from the giant "splash!" of the ice into the water. Glacial ice
reflects many different shades of white and blue, and really can't be
captured (in my opinion) by a simple photo. But the composition of the pale
blue and white glacier was striking against the deeper blue and white sky.

On the way back towards Seward we stopped at Fox Island for dinner.
The island's entire beach is made of skipping stones – we brought one home
as a souvenir. I still can not skip a stone for anything – my husband and
some fellow tourists, though, were doing an impressive job of it. We stayed
on Fox Island long enough to eat and relax a little on the beach, then
returned to Seward. During the entire trip there was only one moment where I
felt ill – which came after I'd stood in the sun for over an hour, about
three or four hours after I had drank any water, and our boat encountered
very high rollers and a wake from another ship in Resurrection Bay. I sat
down and gulped water and felt better fairly soon. Although I entirely
missed the nesting sea birds on the rocks, which didn't seem too interesting
anyway.

Back in Seward we drove out to where the road ends (Miller's landing, I
believe it's called), then reversed direction and drove out to Exit Glacier,
stopping to photograph waterfalls and the start of the Iditarod on the way.
Normally you can walk up to Exit Glacier and touch it (being careful to
avoid bears and moose on the way – or so the signs warn. We saw neither
creature). However, due to warm weather, water around the glacier was high,
so we could only get within about a hundred yards of it. Had we been wearing
knee high rubber boots it would have been no problem to get to it, but we
told ourselves we had already landed on a glacier and so it didn't matter if
we couldn't touch this one. Signs along the trail show you where the edge of
the glacier rested in preceding years, so you can trace how far it has
receded over the past couple hundred years.

Then we drove back to our first floor motel room, pulled the curtains shut
to block out some of the street noise, split a small bottle of champagne,
and collapsed from exhaustion.

Monday 6/20 – back to Anchorage, then home

We slept as late as we could, recovering from our extremely active schedule
the day before (standing on a rolling boat for about 8 hours is more tiring
than you might think). Then we headed back to Anchorage, stopping along the
scenic drive at several points to photograph the impressive, expansive
scenery. We debated traveling to Homer as we had been told not to miss
visiting the small artist's town, but decided that we did not want to add
the additional hours to our drive. (So now we have a reason to visit Alaska
again someday.) We continued to enjoy the Best Possible Vacation Weather
Ever and had plenty of sunshine and clear skies during the drive, allowing
us to fully enjoy the Kenai landscape. As we drove along Turnagain arm the
tide dropped and we stopped at one spot to read about how Beluga whales will
often be surprised by the swiftly falling tides and become beached on the
mudflats (luckily they usually survive and swim back out to the ocean when
the tide rises). We hoped to see one more moose but unfortunately did not.
We did, however, spot more sea otters, bald eagles, and ravens.

Back in Anchorage I am embarrassed to say we took one last trip to the
tourist shops, buying more gifts for more folks we realized we had
forgotten. We then went out with Kerry and Ben for one last dinner, at the
"Moose's Tooth," which is owned by a friend of theirs (the restaurant is
named after the mountain in Denali). Kerry and Ben gave us a gift - a small
plush toy in the shape of "the pox." So now we can say we went to Alaska and
got syphilis (although I don't know why we'd ever want to share this
information). I'm not exactly sure where they found such a gift, but it is
certainly unique among our souvenirs, and makes us laugh. I believe at some
point on this day more wine and more spodka were consumed.

On the way to the airport we drove around Lake Hood, which is home to many,
many floatplanes. A couple were for sale, and I am grateful there is no way
we could possibly have bought one, otherwise I think we might either be
looking for a home in Alaska, or trying to find a way to safely get a float
plane from Anchorage to Chicago. We saw a couple float planes take off and
land, and I am a bit sad we could not find time in our hectic schedule to
fit in a float plane ride to somewhere. Oh well, next time.

Our flight home was delayed by almost two hours, and we eventually left
Anchorage at about 11:00 pm. I slept a bit on the trip home, but Mark stayed
awake and watched the sun almost set on the horizon then immediately rise
again. And, for us, that was our final period of never-ending daylight; now
we are back in the Midwest, a land with predictable nightfall. We also miss
the stunning scenery and Mark misses the 60 and 70 degree weather, although
I personally like my summers to be a little hotter. We have literally
thousands of pictures to sort through (we are addicted shutterbugs) and are
so happy we had the chance to take such a perfect vacation. I think it's
funny that a few years ago I never would have dreamed of visiting Alaska,
but now I am planning to some day travel to parts of the state that we
missed, such as Fairbanks, Homer, possibly Juneau, and to also see more of
Kenai and Denali National Parks. And, of course, an Alaskan cruise would
also be fun. We were lucky this time to have two wonderful tour guides and
hosts (even if they did give us the pox) and I hope that someday we can
repay them for their generosity.

I did return from the trip physically changed in one way – my hair is now a
darker red than it was before. I always dye my hair whenever I am away from
the work world for more than a couple days – for this trip it turned bright
pink. In my attempt to return my head to its natural state of reddish brown
the pink highlights took on a very brassy tone. The results are so
noticeable I've had several people ask me what the heck happened to my hair.
I haven't thought of a clever reply, so instead I say "well, it's better
than being pink."

Perhaps I shall have to create some exotic Alaskan hair disease. At any rate
I am now home in my mountain-free, whale-less, sunrise and sunset world, but
at least I managed to bring a little bit of color with me.

@-->---

thee endd.

Alaska is beautiful. Go there. Drink martinis, tell the whales we say hello.

Alaska part 1

Vacation. This is very long. There are no pics (yet) and the writing is a little too
um . . .well, tis rather poor. But, for those who are bored . . .this is part 1 of 2.

@-->---

Alaska. 2005

Tuesday 6/14 - Arrive

We flew in to Anchorage on Tuesday June 14th, arriving at about 11:10 pm.
During the last part of the flight many mountains and glaciers were visible
from the plane. At the risk of sounding uneducated, I never really thought
of a glacier as a land mass before – in my mind I'd mixed them with icebergs
and always pictured them in or near the water. But the glaciers we saw from
above were massive walls of ice – snaking through the mountains like
gigantic frozen rivers, cutting and shoving through the rock. I thought
about some of the plans we'd made for this trip and couldn't wait to land.
As we were approaching the runway I saw a moose standing in a pond, drinking
water. The silhouette almost looked too perfect to be true.

Mark's cousin Kerry and her boyfriend Ben met us at the airport.
Right away we became obvious tourists, gawking at the daylight. To give you
an idea of what it's like in Alaska between 11:00 pm and midnight - imagine
the amount of light in Chicago around 8:00 pm at the height of summer. It
was lovely. One of my favorite parts of this trip was the freaky, unending
daylight.

We went to Kerry and Ben's apartment and talked and drank until about 3:00
am Alaska time (which is -3 hours Chicago time, so about 6:00 am to us).
Many of the drinks were "spodka"'s which is a combination of Sprite and
vodka. Many more of these were consumed during the trip.
We also played with Robert Redbird – a bobbing science experiment type game
nesting on their coffee table. Then – off to bed.

Wednesday 6/15 - Anchorage

Wednesday Kerry and Ben both had to work, so we showed ourselves around
Anchorage. I've heard differing descriptions of Anchorage – the tourist
books refer to it as Alaska's largest city and make it sound like a
metropolis. Folks I know who have visited Anchorage have referred to it with
terms like "nothing much" or "a pit." If you want my opinion, this is how I
think of Anchorage – it fits the needs of those who live there. Folks who
move to Alaska seem to either move there for 1) the land and Alaska's unique
recreational opportunities or 2) a job. (Of course Alaska, as a state, is a
lot younger than most of it fellow states, which means that, as Kerry put
it, "nobody who lives in Alaska is from Alaska." Obviously this isn't
entirely true, and there are non-native families who by now have lived in
Alaska for several generations, but many of the people you meet in Alaska
will tell you they moved there from somewhere else. In that way the state is
`young' in its population). And even folks, like Kerry, who moved there for
a job, probably targeted Alaska as a new home knowing the distinct terrain
our largest state offers. Therefore Anchorage, in my mind, is mostly a base
camp where people live when they are not in some other part of Alaska
camping, hiking, climbing, rafting, fishing, skiing, or wildlife watching
via boat, small plane, or some other mode of transport. Alaska's attractions
are mountains and forests and glaciers left over from the last ice age – not
5 star hotels and a club hopping scene worthy of a socialite. So if you
arrive in Anchorage expecting all the comforts of a city such as New York,
Chicago, LA, San Fran, or even Boston, Portland, or St. Louis – you are
going to be disappointed. Think more along the lines of Boulder, but without
Denver right next door.

Focus on the fact that Anchorage is exotic for its mountains, glaciers,
ocean, and wacky amounts of light and darkness which, in the summer, cause
the flowers and gardens to be much larger and more bountiful than yours at
home and ignore the lack of skyscrapers. (As an aside - Anchorage also seems
to have as many tourist shops per square foot as your average international
airport, so I suggest comparison shopping before you buy that hematite ring,
package of dried smoked salmon, or ulu knife.)

In Anchorage we went to the Art and History museum and saw displays on
Shamans, Alaska's first families, a general history of settlers, and of
course the Good Friday earthquake in 1964. We also hit several tourist
shops, spent some time in the town square park, and walked out to Elderberry
park which is right off the ocean (well, right off the mud flats, but the
effect is almost the same). We met Kerry for lunch at Humpy's (it took me
until the end of the trip to realize the place was referencing a whale, not
a sexual encounter) (and then Mark proofread this write-up and informed me
that it referred to a type of salmon, and not a whale) had halibut in
various forms – yum! Later that evening we met Kerry and Ben for drinks at a
martini bar. Double yum!!!! We then went out to view Flattop Mountain, which
was incredible. I admit I am quite jealous of folks who can drive 30 minutes
to a mountain (although the people who live near/on the side of the mountain
in million dollar homes strike me as a little bit crazy, given that in
Alaska, you can be pretty sure of a tough, snowy winter). Many pictures were
taken. For dinner (and I promise, this is the only day for which I'll
chronicle all our meals) we had king crab legs, which Kerry - a marine
biologist – had bought from fisherman pretty much right off of their boat. I
could have died a happy woman then and there – crab legs 3x the size (well,
length anyway) of your head!!!!. Yes, we took pictures of the crab legs but,
I tell ya, we could both chow down crab until we burst. More spodka was consumed.

Thursday 6/16 - to Denali

Thursday we woke up bright and early so we could head out to Talkeetna, then
on to our ultimate destination of Denali National Park. Talkeetna is a
couple hours drive from Anchorage – it's a speck on the map tourist town and
home to several flight-seeing establishments. That's one thing I forgot to
mention about Anchorage – on a clear day, small planes flying overhead are
about as common as birds. Mark, a private pilot, was in awe of the sheer
amount of small planes. It's funny how you can barely notice jets when you
are in Chicago, but constantly turn your head every time you hear a
propeller or single or twin engine in Alaska.

On the way to Talkeetna we stopped and took photos of Denali/Mt.
McKinley. Mt. McKinley, which rises straight up from sea level, is the
highest vertical rise of any of the mountains (Everest sits atop a plateau
and therefore does not have as much of a vertical rise, although yes, it
does have a higher peak). The peak of McKinley rose above the clouds and
looked very much like a cloud itself, and we were told how lucky we were to
be able to see the top clearly, as often cloud cover obscures it. Many more
pictures were taken. We then continued on to Talkeetna and had some time to
kill in town (more food, more shops, met Stubbs, the town cat) before taking
our flight seeing tour. On the tour we flew over the base camp for Denali
climbers, and ultimately landed on Ruth Glacier. All four of us went on the
flight tour and Mark, being the pilot, sat up in front and I, being the
lightest (an event which happens even more rarely than a prime photo op of
McKinley/Denali) sat in the very rear.

While I think I had the coldest seat in the plane, I also had the only view
out of both sides of the aircraft, which was a treat. (For those who might
be curious, we flew on Hudson Air. Our pilot was named Chuck and said he
stopped counting once he earned more than 1300 hours flight time. I highly,
highly, highly recommend doing a flight seeing tour of Denali and landing on
a glacier. Yes, it is expensive but it is worth every penny).

Our original intention had been to do the "grand tour" package, which offers
you a view of both sides of the mountain. However, weather (gathering
clouds) prohibited us from flying so close to the mountain, so instead we
flew over base camp. We saw 2 planes deliver more climbers at base camp and
I don't think any of us in the plane felt even remotely jealous we were not
among them. Mountain summit- ors earn my respect, but certainly not my envy.
(I don't consider myself a total princess, but the outdoor living for 15-20
days alone would kill me, never mind the weather). We then flew by a series
of mountains known as Moose's Tooth, Bear Tooth, and Broken Tooth and
through a narrow pass known as the Root Canal (get it?), which was
spectacular. I say again, if you are in Alaska, and can tolerate a small
plane, you must do the flight seeing tour into Denali – it is breathtaking
and one of the best experiences of your life. My eyes could hardly stop
looking at the enormous ice and rocks, the glacier forests and melted
aquamarine lakes. The glacial lakes look unreal, as though someone spilled
bright berry blue kool-aid on top of vanilla ice cream. I know that's a
terrible simile, but it I'm running out of words to describe the absolute
perfection of this tour. Someday I will be boring my grandkids to tears with
stories about what we saw on this flight. What a spectacular experience.

Our ski plane landed (uphill!) on Ruth glacier, on an ice runway marked by
brightly colored plastic sleds. Higher on the glacier is a cabin referred to
as "Mountain House," which can be rented for a week at a time (not that we
booked reservations or anything). The current residents had made many
snowboard trails on the hill leading down from their house to the runway. It
was about 65 degrees on the glacier, so in our pictures we are wearing
shorts and ti-shirts and looking quite comfortable. I am the only wuss
wearing fleece, but as I said I think I had the coldest – or at least
draftiest – seat on the plane and started shivering halfway through the
flight, so I put on my pullover. On the glacier we threw snowballs, Kerry
made a snow angel, and we took many more photos of ourselves, the ice, the
mountains, our plane, and of course the great peak of Denali. We spent about
a half an hour on Ruth glacier before departing (downhill! On pure ice!) for
Talkeetna. On the return trip we saw more forests, moose, and a cavern known
by the pilots as "star wars" because even though it looks tiny from above, it is wide enough to fly through
(although unfortunately not with passengers. We would have gladly bribed Chuck, had he been willing to accept).

After we landed in Talkeetna we headed north to Denali National Park, where
we camped for the evening. I haven't camped since I was a girl scout so this
was almost as big of an adventure for me as the flight seeing tour. I helped set up tents - Ben split up the duties by saying "one person should start a fire, one should cook, and two should set up tents." Since I have no faith in my fire starting abilities and I can't/don't cook, I decided tents was the best option for making myself useful. True, I'd never set up a tent before but I figured I could follow directions well enough. No one's tent collapsed - probably more thanks to Ben than to me - but I still did my part to contribute to the overall camping experience.

Although we heard lots of thunder and had driven through rain on our way to the park the weather stayed clear all night. I should mention that, while in
Anchorage we had about 3 hours of dusk each night (from about 1:00 am to
4:00 am) in Denali it never ever got dark, and we were able to take our very
own midnight sun photograph around the camp fire. I consumed an entire
bottle of wine, which others later joked was why I enjoyed camping so much.
We roasted marshmallows around the campfire, and could not have asked for a
more perfect end to the day.

Friday 6/17 – Denali

After about four or five hours of sleep we dragged ourselves out of our
tents (Kerry commented that since it was still light out we really should
continue sleeping) and took a 6 hour bus tour of the park. We saw a blonde
grizzly bear cross a mountainside and approach a caribou resting in the snow
- the caribou ran off. We saw other caribou as well, including a pair
sitting under a viaduct where we stopped for a picnic lunch, and yet another
ran down the road in front of the bus preceding us, and then sat down on the
side of the road to rest. We saw Dall sheep and bald eagles as well. Since
this was turning out to be the trip with the best weather ever, we were able
to get even more pictures of the mountain. The driving was interspersed with
brief periods of being able to walk on small trails, although we did not get
an opportunity to do any serious hiking. Denali National Park is beautiful,
peaceful, and gigantic - we enjoyed the tour muchly. The crime of Alaska is
that it's so darn huge, and the six days we allotted for our trip really was
not enough time. You could easily spend two or three days (or even weeks)
simply hiking through Denali or exploring different sections of the park,
but since we had more of the state to see the bus tour was definitely a good
way to get an overview of the park. In addition to campsites, Denali also
has several lodges, cabins, and hotels both in and around the park, so you
can easily vacation just in this single location if that's your choice.

After the tour we headed back to Talkeetna, where we spent the night at a
B&B. Mark heard a couple mountaineers exchange stories about their summiting
Kilimanjaro, McKinley, and other peaks. I met a deaf puppy dog being trained
to obey hand signals. Kerry made friends with the cat that liked to hang out
on the tin roof of the B&B (this was not Stubbs, the town cat without a
tail, who we spotted and photographed the preceding day). The B&B was very
quaint and comfortable, even with the four of us sharing a room intended for
three.

I need to make one more comment about food. While most of the food we ate –
especially the fish – was delicious, the food prices in Alaska make the food
prices in Chicago look not only reasonable, but downright cheap. In
Talkeetna we went to a pizza place across the street from our B&B where we
spent $75 on a pizza, salad, and two rounds of drinks for the four of us. I
suppose that Alaska has to import some of its food (for example, Kerry was
sure wheat is not native-grown) and the tourist season is only a few months long
and local pizza joints need to make their living too. But for those who may be
traveling to Alaska be forewarned – food will be a significant expense for
you, even if you do not eat at "fancy" establishments.

@-->---

part 2 to follow

*blank

I am having a crisis of faith, as it were.

I’ve heard it said such things are self-indulgent.

I supposed I agree.

I, I, I.

But telling myself I am self-indulging is annoying, not mood-curing. So my crisis of faith continues.

I can’t explain the cause. I think part of it is due to a paralysis resulting from - feeling overwhelmed? Drawn-and-quartered in too many directions? Or, conversely, having too much time to sit and - erm - indulge my thoughts? Having too much ego? (I, I, I.) No diagnosis means no cure.

For most of my life, I have wanted to do One Thing. I have pledged my life to this One Thing with the near-unwavering conviction of a born-again zealot who hasn’t quite kicked all the cussin’ and boozin’. Almost every fantasy I’ve had involved life with this Passion, every plan ended with ‘and someday I’ll do This.’

Lately, I’ve been looking at This, and thinking - what’s the f-ing point? Why bother?

Is it possible to ask ‘what’s the meaning of all this?’ without sounding overly dramatic? Probably not. I bet odds are even lower when it is written (as opposed to being said). But, seriously folks, what’s the meaning of all This?

Why f-ing bother?

I look at my glorious Plans and think - if I am the only one who truly gives a shit, they can’t be terribly worthwhile plans, now can they?

If you do something because it makes you happy, is it worth doing?

Idealists, artists, hippies, radicals, free-thinkers, leftists, creators, and a rare philosopher in a good mood will probably say “of course” or “hell yeah” or “rock on, man.” Good friends, sympathetic family, and spouses will probably tell you the same thing. But, when lives need to be saved, when wrongs need to be righted, trains need to be caught and children require villages to raise them - isn’t it more self-indulgent to waste time on That Which Makes You Happy than to - indulge in a crises of faith?

Honestly, I just don’t know.

And thus, metaphorically speaking, I sit - pen in hand, blank page in front of me, inspirational works on the side. And I stare - and stare - and stare - at the wall. Hijacked into inertia. I want a cause and effect. I want to be able to measure what my happiness brings to the world. I want to see an output for my bothering to bother.

I, I, I.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? Happiness is always about one person - you. Or, rather, ME. Companies, marriages, relationships, vacations, ideas, books, vocations - they all simmer to one common ingredient - what makes ME happy. If it makes me happy enough, maybe I’ll do it. But, seriously, that’s a lousy f-ing outcome, now isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

Or is it too self-indulgent to think so?

I, I, I just don’t know.

Voting Speech

This isn’t a post about the election, or politics.

This is about voting.

I’m proud to say that most of the people I know voted. Eagerly. Quite a few of them lined up outside the polls in the early morning to cast their ballot at the first possible moment. I’ve heard those close to me discuss the different candidates thoroughly, in an attempt to decide who would best represent their interests. I know someone who fought for this country declare that he didn’t care who people voted for, just so long as they voted - he had put his life on the line out of respect for this ability and hoped others appreciated their chance to take part in the electoral process.

I appreciate the right and privilege to vote that we enjoy as American citizens. When I was 19 I acted as a deputy registrar to help Rock the Vote on my college campus. And, while I deeply respect an individual’s right to freedom of speech, freedom of beliefs, and freedom to vote for whoever it is they want to vote for, I have very little respect for those who do not vote at all.

I have heard many arguments for not voting. One woman said it was her “right as an American” not to vote. That’s a ridiculous statement. Granted, with some work, and a somewhat warped perspective, this could be a valid argument. As I said, I believe in the right of freedom of speech. This includes the right to not speak as well. Therefore, since freedom of speech is an (not uniquely) American right, then freedom to refrain from speech is implied as well as an (not uniquely) American right. However, this is like saying it is my right as an American to choose to let people take advantage of me. Sure, I have freedom of choice over many things in America – but many other countries enjoy similar if not identical rights. In fact, I would be hard-pressed to name a country where individuals are forced to stand up for themselves. Or compelled to vote. The whole argument reminds me of the phrase ‘no one can walk all over you without your permission.’ Sure – you do have the ability (or ‘right,’ if you will) to lie down and behave as a doormat. But – do you really want to? Is this something to be proud of? Yay for you, you kept quiet and allowed yourself to be walked on - what an accomplishment. I guess if it comes down to it I suppose I’d defend someone’s right to allow themselves to relinquish control of their destiny. However, this right is not at the top of my list of rights worth dying for. Many other items - including the right to vote - precede it.

I’ve also heard the sentiment that what happens in Washington D.C. is too far removed from most people’s daily life to have much effect, and therefore voting does not matter. Now, generally, I understand apathy. I’ve had enough experience with hierarchical structure to feel as though the little guy is not soon affected by what goes on at the top. Or, to put it more cynically, I recognize that what benefits the top of the totem pole often does not necessarily work its way down to the folks at the bottom. However, we live in a democratic republic, not an aristocracy, and voting is the ultimate opportunity to choose your boss. Think about it – if you could actually elect your boss, wouldn’t you jump at the chance? I would; more than one boss I’ve had would certainly not have kept their job, had it been up to me. Whoever is employed in our nation’s capitol – especially, whoever is the president – will ultimately have as much impact over your life as your boss does. This person will have the ability to raise or lower your taxes, improve your healthcare coverage, stimulate or deflate the economy, help provide funds to get an education and, in the case of soldiers, send you or a loved one to war. Presidents have had a role in issues such as a woman’s right to terminate a pregnancy, the ability to legally drink, and constitutionally banning gay marriage. Don’t you want to put someone in office who is aligned with your views on these issues? Aren’t your views on life, morality, education, public safety, healthcare, and peace-keeping as important to you as the issues you faced in your workplace? I may or may not care passionately about all of what I just listed, but at least one of those issues is extremely important to me. Probably even more important to me than my job. Therefore, I am glad to have the chance to try and see to it the leader of my country respects that belief. I would not ever want that policy dictated to me.

I have also heard excuses for not voting that simply make no rational sense, such as “I’m too lazy.” To vote? Are you kidding me? The polls in my area were open for 11 hours, and my polling place was located less than two miles from my home. I expended less physical effort voting than I normally do grocery shopping; it was less of a time commitment than I give to watching television. Well, just like you have the right to act like a doormat, you also have the right to be lazy, but it seems like even the lazy should have the common sense to look out for their own best interests and vote for a candidate. However, you do have the right to disregard common sense as well.

One common refrain during this election (and, now that I think about it, the previous election as well) was that neither of the candidates seemed particularly desirable. I confess that in a past election my vote was cast against one candidate, as opposed to voting for the other candidate. Choosing the lesser of two evils is not the best choice in the world, but at least you are still exercising your choice. Again, a leader is not simply being assigned to you. And, you even have the choice of writing in any candidate that you want. The only reason for not voting for which I have a modicum of respect is refusing to vote as a form of protest. I don’t think this is necessarily the most effective form of protest in the world, as more than likely all your accomplishing is seeing to it that the greater of two evils winds up in office. However, if you have carefully considered the ramifications of not voting, and really thought about what you are giving up, and are willing to live with the outcome of your actions, then I’m certainly not going to tell you how or when or where to fight your battles. I’d prefer to see you write in 'Mickey Mouse' on the ballot as a form of creative insubordination, but that’s my opinion.

In conclusion, my fellow Americans, on this Wednesday in November I highly encourage all who are eligible to vote in the next election. In fact, I don’t just encourage you – I beg you, order you, plead with you, cajole you, and all but threaten you. I can’t believe that you are that lazy or have your head buried that deeply up your . . .er, in the sand that you’d give up this ability without any thought. Vote. Tell your friends, family, and coworkers to vote. Do it because you’re a patriot, do it because you’re proud, do it because you’re passionate, do it because you feel morally obligated, do it because someone is nagging you, do it as an example to someone else. But vote.

Otherwise, get off of my webpage, you ineffective waste of skin.

- acr

The gossip columnist at the society wedding

Her claim to fame
Is marrying well.

Flowers climb across the skylight,
Hug the tables,
Encircle girls and mothers,
Nearly topple the dessert – stop.
Sunk into sticky frosting.

Forks poke and scrape the plates,
Glasses kiss, sloshing wine,
Chiffon and cotton swirl
Across clay tile.

Cameras buzz, click, flash,
Grabbing moments with voracious eyes.

Her slow gape records
Friends (acquaintances and targets),
Offenses real and
Imagined.
She’ll relate all to her public, fingers flying.

Mouths lay dumb to eyelids -
Old and new lovers
Share operas, sweat.
Flowers caress lapels,
Tickle chins and wrists.

Upon her weighty axis,
The dame slouches, noted and ignored.

She’ll relate all to her public, fingers flying.

*** pay attention to who is being described in lines 1 & 2

candle spell

I haven’t cast a candle spell since Mikey died.
I cast one today.
It wasn’t for Mikey, though.

I don’t cast them all that often. I don’t want to make myself sound any more practiced than I am. For one thing, it’s difficult be in the right frame of mind unless I am absolutely alone. I want to feel collected, so I can reflect on my wish and make sure I am not only being selfish. I’ll be honest - I don’t know if what I do has any higher spiritual value, or if I’m affecting karma in any way, but I figure as long as I am going to try candle burning I might as well approach the whole thing with some amount of respect. And it certainly can’t hurt if I’ve satisfied myself that my intentions are for good. After all, what one is trying to do is to influence the way the world works; I don’t care if you believe in fate or destiny or spirits or not, you should at least recognize that you have some responsibility to behave with everyone’s best interest in mind. So I like to be alone – at least for the beginning and the end. Then I can feel connected to - whatever it is I’m trying to connect with. I don’t really believe in a particular flavor of God. I do believe that, somehow, you get back what you give out. So when it comes time to wish for something, I want to spend a moment or two trying to be the best, most complete, most conscious person I can. And I’m at my best – when I am alone.

In order to burn a candle for Mikey, then, that innermost me would need to say a final goodbye. And she’s not ready to yet. Someday she will be. Probably.

What was this candle for? If you know me, you know. It was a strong wish. It has to do with Will, for lack of a better word. But the ‘Will’ that, to me, reflects what one is supposed to be – not just what one wants. I want to feel as though I am involved in - well, it is very difficult to explain. I am pretty sure every single one of us has One Unique Reason for being here. And we should make it our duty to ourselves to try and honor that reason. If for nothing else then – because life is short. So short it’s scary. So, for me: stop waiting. And - begin.

On my candle (the word I wrote in oil) is in both the first and second sentences of this entry. Like I said, if you know me, you can figure it out. And if you know me, and you have figured it out, please – pause a moment, relax, exhale – and on the inhale wish me Luck.

So mote it be.

Letters

A few years ago, a friend of mine told me about an online magazine started by someone he knew. After a few issues I decided to -oh-why-not-write-something-for-it. A lot of what I, um, created never should have seen the light of day but I did pillage one or two not-completely-cringe-inducing things for The Rose Room. The following is an example of a younger me thinking I'm wildly funny and original - I needed a submission for the week and created a 'Letters to the Editor' section. I hope you find it half as amusing as I did.

Oh yes, names have been changed to protect the participants.

- < *** > -

Letters to The 'Dine

Little do my fellow 'diners know, but we receive all sorts of letters.
But, because I am a mischievous email addict, I have routed the Sardine
address into my own mailbox, and have been hoarding these missives for
months. I think that this week would be a good time to respond to some of
them. Here we go.

-*-*-

Dear Sardine staff,
I really appreciate your e-zine and think you all are doing a bang-up job.
I look forward to receiving each week's issue and think the three of you
have a lot of wit, intelligence, and insight.

- A fan

Dear A. Fan,
First of all, your parents have a really odd sense of humor.
Second of all, you are obviously a severely sick individual with way too
much time on your hands. I would suspect one of my co-authors of
typing this himself BUT I know it can't be either one of them as everyone
on staff knows there are FOUR members of the Sardine: Ani, Nick, Matt,
and Matt's ego. Ani's koosh ball sometimes serves in a
consulting fashion but that's it. So, whoever you are, seek help because
your condition is most likely treatable, and find someone to marry whose
last name is not a noun.

-acr

*

Dear Nick, Matt, and Ani,
So - what is wrong with you three? Especially this same wavelength
crap you sometimes pull? Like the 'everybody says goodbye to their
departing friends' issue? What up with that? And why are you always
so damn depressing? My dog can write better crap than you guys.

- Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,
Hey - thanks for your submission dude! Clever of you to disguise your
rant about the meaning of life as a letter to the staff of this
inconsequential e-zine in this tiny corner of the electronic universe. I
can really tell where you're coming from and I want you to know I am so
there with you, man. And your closing line which centers around the dog
(which we all know is just 'god' backwards) - classic. Thanks again for
talking to us and we'll give careful thought to whether or not this can be
worked into our next theme issue.

-acr

*

Dear Sardine members,
Um, like, I was wondering what you all look like? Like, are you cute?
Who is the cutest? Do you three ever, like, sit around and try to figure
out who's cutest or who's the least cute? Also, are you ever going to
write about stuff that's, like, cute? Just wondering.

- inquisitive kitten

Dear Kitten,
Perhaps I should have let Matt handle this one. Nah.
To answer your question - that would depend on the influences you are
under at any given moment. From my experience working at a cafe next
door to a half-way house, I know I look pretty good to inmates who have
tempered their various prescriptions with large amounts of nicotine and
caffeine. Take one of those elements away, and I lose my golden shine.
If you're a Guinness drinker OR the type of person who just gets high on
life OR a youngster - like, say, just under voting age, Matt is pretty
dreamy. Matt's particular talent is that he looks just as good at a two
foot distance, ten foot distance, and 50 foot distance, but go past 100
feet and he starts getting a little blurry. And I'm not even talking
about when the lights come on - woah. Or - ahem - so I've heard.
Finally, if you're into vodka, catnip, nutmeg, or white-out, you'll want
to turn your attentions toward our dear Nick. If you can find him, that
is - he's mysterious and likes to lurk in corners and hide under the
dashboard. But once you coax him out and you'll find he's pretty
striking. As in - he'll hit you, so be careful. Or so I've heard.

- acr

-*-*-

And that's all we have room for today. I'll turn to more letters as
space/time permits. Thanks for your input, everyone! Keep it up!

--love and kisses, Ani

- < * * * > -

If you want to leave me/The Rose Room an actual, honest-to-goodness letter, please visit the poem Encounter, the keeper of the guestbook.

The Funeral

Introduction

I never expected to bury Mikey. Once upon a time, a family friend assumed to be wise told me we were very lucky to be unable to tell the future. He said that if we knew what was to come, we might not be able to face it. I had, until that moment, supposed knowing outcomes would render life easier – at least you’d know whether or not you passed your chemistry final. At least you’d know if so-and-so liked you or if he was just being friendly. At least you’d know what college accepted you. You’d save yourself a lot of stress, if only you knew.

After hearing those words of wise-friend wisdom, however, I thought about some of the things in life that might have appeared scary if I could have seen them on the horizon. Would I have dreaded the year to come knowing how badly such and such relationship would end? Would I have stayed in my room, hiding from a certain class, or a certain boss? Was I lucky to not know ahead of time that my apartment would be burglarized, that our block would experience an extra-alarm fire, that one day terrorists would destroy thousands of lives in New York? I remember something of no personal significance to myself – George Harrison died only a short while before 9/11/2001. On 9/12/2001, I thought to myself how lucky he was to have left the world before such a terrible thing had happened.

I think it’s the bad things that come up and hit you in the face when you had no idea they were hovering near you - palm-open, arm extended backwards ready to strike – that sting sharpest and longest. The day of our fire was a normal day – no more annoying than any other day. The weather was no more strange or beautiful. Then, early in the morning, half of our block burned down. We met our neighbors as we gathered across the street from the blaze, shivering in the dark, affirming repeatedly how glad we were ‘everything with a heartbeat’ made it out alive. I had no idea that was going to be the day of the fire. My neighbors had no idea that was the day they’d lose their homes. The fire came to us silently, appearing at our back door as an aneurysm – shocking us out of nowhere and altering our lives. We were lucky – only the outside of our building burned. Fire-smoke entered our home, but in time it left – we kept our place to live. Our neighbors, only a few yards away, were given rubble – their homes having been burned, melted and finally drowned. Their time as our neighbors had ended, and they hadn’t even packed a suitcase or said goodbye. I think I am happier I did not know about the fire before it happened.

I did, however, think about what would happen if suddenly someday one of my friends were to pass away. Not that I wished it, but it had occurred to me such a thing could happen. I knew exactly which friend to prepare to mourn too – the one with the most hospital visits under her belt. Our friend with the sick heart. Our Girl of Numerous Operations. Our friend across the country who we all missed but who we kept in our general thoughts, and then in our specific constant thoughts when we found out about her bout with tachycardia. Someone I loved devotedly for several years, whom I’d been less close to since she moved – I thought about what it would be like to mourn her. I knew if the time ever came it would of course be nothing like what I imagined, but by thinking about the possibility I told myself I was reflecting on life’s fragility, and appreciating how lucky we are to have people in our lives we love. I cannot say I was prepared to mourn her, but I’d at least entertained the mechanics of the process in my head. You might say I braced myself for the possibility.

Instead, we buried Mikey.

It never occurred to me Michael might be afflicted with the same frail life as our uniquely-hearted friend. That would be like realizing that I myself could be suddenly killed while driving home one evening – and such a thing simply is not possible. I might be hurt, my car might even be totaled – but it is not possible I could be killed. It is simply not my time yet – I’m too young. I am still paying my student loans. I have plans this year – weddings, birthdays, a graduation. I hate my job and need to stop whining about it and find a new one – and I will, someday. I need to paint my toenails this weekend. Had I known ahead of time our friends would gather together to bury Michael on February 4th, 2004 I am not sure how I would have altered my life. I am not sure if I would have spent more mornings bounding out of bed, or if I’d have buried myself in a closet trying to extend time by blocking out the light. I’m not sure if I would have tried to spend less time with Mikey or more. I’m not sure what I would have done.

I don’t believe in god, but there is a fate or force I’ve been thanking every day I did not see this coming. I ask this same force if we could please have Michael back. I think somewhere a mistake must have been made, and I think there is a way to ask Michael himself to please don’t be dead. I can picture my asking this – oh, Michael, aww Mikey – don’t be dead. Please just don’t be dead. I know there is a way, but my mind isn’t big enough or smart enough to have figured out how yet – and I know as the sands slip away my odds of successfully having him returned lessen and lessen. But, in the meantime, I need to talk about the funeral. The important horrible funeral, where we buried our wonderful friend. I need to write this out – so I can promise I will never forget what happened that day.

The Funeral

Mark, Bill, and Mary and I drove to the synagogue early Wednesday morning to attend the service immediately preceding our friend’s burial. In keeping with Jewish custom, Michael’s funeral was held as soon as possible – he was gone less than 36 hours before the service began. As we drove it occurred to two of us – myself and Mark – that we might actually be late. We had forgotten it was a workday – time had stopped for us, and we did not consider the possibility of rush hour. As we discovered traffic we suddenly realized that oh – we might be late. The rabbi would start the service for our friend and we might not be there yet. Helplessly, we prayed to the side streets that we be able to make it on time. We sped along, foregoing the doughnuts our out-of-town friends had requested. We were thoughtless, tardy hosts.

We arrived at the synagogue at ten minutes before 9:00 a.m., and found many other mourners already packed into the building. The service started a little late anyway, to accommodate the people who just kept coming in. Even friends of our friends arrived – people who only knew Michael through group gatherings, parties and dinners and the like. We were later told at least one high school teacher of Mikey’s was there, sitting in the aisles alongside our dead friend's current (former?) coworkers. So many people were at his funeral – so many people faced with the loss of someone so good. We stood in the back, used the wall for support, and cried. We saw the closed casket and we cried – we cried again when we looked at each other. We cried softly if not silently, so as to not disrupt the occasion’s solemn air. We tried to cry dignified, in honor of Mikey.

His family entered, and shattered the silence of our tears. His family wailed and sobbed, ripped open by their sudden, shocking loss. They moved as a unit, grabbing on to each other in order to not dissolve altogether. I cried as I listened to his family mourn, as I heard their keened sadness. I thought once maybe the rabbi would stop talking for a minute or two to give Michael’s family a chance to compose themselves – she did not. I realize how stupid a thought that was.

After the funeral service at the synagogue, we trudged back out to our cars and lined up for the procession to the cemetery. So many cars filed in, each marking at least one life damaged by the accident that ended Michael’s time with us. As we drove to the cemetery other motorists with no idea of their actions pulled in to our line, separating us from each other. Mark drove slowly to allow Sameer time to follow us through red lights – but we often felt as though we might lose him, and therefore not see him at the cemetery. Many of us did not know where we were headed, and couldn’t understand how someone could be so selfish as to try and keep us from our friend’s grave. How can people in this day and age fail to respect a funeral? How could they be so rude?

Finally, thankfully, we all arrived and gathered by the gravesite. Many of our group of friends carried Mikey’s casket from the hearse. Although I know it is an honor to be a pallbearer, it is not an honor I could have borne – I cannot imagine being chosen to carry my friend to the grave. I could not have done it. I think Mikey would have understood.

A kaddish was said, special prayers for Michael and his family. The prayers were said in Hebrew, but the rabbi was kind and explained what was happening so those of different religions understood what was being done. Then, as is tradition, his family left the gravesite. Those of us who stayed behind all took part in burying Michael Adam Massing.

As is tradition, each person who remained at the gravesite lowered three shovel-fulls of dirt onto Michael’s coffin. This is considered the final mikvah one person can perform for another – for there is no way this act can ever be repaid. I understand the logic behind this, but don’t necessarily believe it true. Not in this case. I performed no kindness for Mikey – I did nothing he would not have weepingly done for me, for any of us. I performed this act selfishly, grasping at the tradition and trying to find some solace in the ritual. I shoveled three small piles of dirt and sand onto Mikey because I loved him, and could not ever repay him for all of the times he attended my parties, smiled at me, hugged me or made me laugh. What I did was not a favor – it was a torture and an honor. As I shoveled earth on top of my friend, I physically, symbolically, said goodbye.

As I approached the small urn of sand (there were two urns of sand as well and two shovels for the loose dirt) I thought to myself how I would appear to an observer as I lifted then lowered my sand. I thought that if I were a director I would expect the perfect scene to show a person breaking down just a little more with each shovel-full, until the final batch of sand found me sobbing, barely able to cope with the loss of my friend. I thought this would make a poignant scene, an appropriately sad gravesite picture.

Before I touched the small silver shovel my tears started, and I blubbered like a child as I went about the task. As I approached the urn I saw myself from outside myself, like a performer in a sad scene trying to get her movements just right. As I picked up the sand I shifted back into my own skin, and wished everyone would go away. I thought others who had known Mike better, who were related to him, might think: who was this person crying so openly for someone they had loved? How dare she carry on at this burial? I sobbed and choked on my sobs and gasped heaving clumsy sighs. I stared at the sand, never at the casket. I could not see anything but water by my third shovel-full, and threw my sand mechanically towards the ground. I replaced the silver spade in the urn with as much care as I could, took a step backwards then stood there rigid, waiting for Mark to complete his turn so we could walk away together. As I breathed I heard him crying, lowering sand once, twice, three times on to the wooden box that held our friend.

We were among the first to bury Mikey. We began a line and caught our friends who took their turns after us, holding them as they choked and cried and shivered against the reality of never seeing him again. I watched Alicia’s face as she lowered dirt onto someone who had been one of her closest friends, and hugged her and tried to think of something to say. I hugged her wordlessly. Singly and collectively we cried and told each other how good yet awful it was to all be together like this. Hopper’s father turned to us and said, “I knew I was getting old when I stopped going to my parents’ friends’ funerals and started going to my friends’ funerals. Never in my life did I think I would go to my son’s friend’s funeral.” He was crying too.

Now it is three weeks later and sometimes I feel numb, as though I have created a scab to hide my sadness from my daily self. I am distracted by ridiculous things. My mind has admitted that my friend is – not here. Away somewhere. But he will be back eventually – maybe at a later party. Certainly in time to celebrate the New Year. Because he is not dead – that would be too sad. Surely I would continue to cry every day, were he really truly dead.

After the burial, the day went on. We ate – we drank champagne as Hopper toasted Michael: “A Life Worth Celebrating.” We talked to all of our out of town friends and drove back home at a time that felt late, late at night. We were tired, raw from the day. It had been our first funeral for one of our own – we handled ourselves as best we could. I am unrehearsed in the sudden death of the young - I am open, clumsy, weeping. I miss my friend, and can’t bear the thought of relying on heaven to bring me to him again.

My writing is finished for now, I have reached an end. I want to see my friend again - I wish upon starlight to please let us all see him again. I cannot believe this is the most futile request I've made.

@-->--

3/9/04 It's been a month and a week and a day now since Mikey died. And I'm rereading this entry. And I realize that the writing - is not very good. It is okay, but not VERY good. And I think, to make the writing better maybe I should edit some passages. But, it seems selfish and stupid to make the writing better, since it won't make what happened any different. So my decision is to leave this piece as it is. When I wrote it I was alternately crying and blank, so though it is not quality work it is honest. And more significantly it is all I can do now. So, thus is stays.

Eulogy, for Michael

The first pet my husband and I ever had together was a pure white cockatiel. Not an albino, her eyes were black, and her feathers all creamy white except for a few pale grayish bands on the underside of her tail. We named her Anya.

My husband, who had then not yet changed his status from ‘lover’ to ‘spouse,’ bonded with her immediately. He absolutely adored Anya, the cockatiel who was small for her age. She was given a spacious cage and several different toys, and eventually a small budgie named Nimue to keep her company. But, although beautiful, Anya was a bird of very little brain. She loved to cuddle and give kisses and be scratched on her little feathered head – but never understood why exactly we insisted on hanging brightly colored objects in her cage or why we sometimes put her on a small wooden play-gym. She was happy just to be wherever we were (or more correctly, my lover/husband was).

Anya’s daddy, being an overly devoted father, fashioned up a small camera so we could watch our little darling baby from our computers while we were away at work. Naturally, we had to proudly show off our online pictures of the precious little one to our friends - one of whom, Mike, responded one day by saying, “oh my god! The bird! The bird is dead!”

Mikey’s statement had my heart pounding, even though I happened to be sitting at home at that moment and looked over and saw for myself that Anya was alive and well and climbing around her cage aimlessly. As I looked at her she squawked, as if to say (in her toneless, unsophisticated song) ‘what is it, mom?’ Mike’s next statement was words to the effect of “just kidding, guys – but I couldn’t resist.” Usually Mike was a very laid-back individual, but occasionally he showed a biting wit that could take you by surprise. Several years later, Mikey reminded us of his joke, and we laughed and I admitted he had actually given me a scare – even though at the time I could see Anya was alive and well with my own eyes.

Recently, I had a long dream about Anya dying. I was playing with her and had left the window open. It was freezing outside and the silly bird flew out the window and I lost her. It was snowing and the sky and the air and the ground were all white, making her impossible to see. I ran outside and looked for her and searched all through our neighborhood calling for her but still couldn't find her. Then, in my dream, I went into the city and I finally found her - she was in a gutter along the street and had died, frozen. The street was dirty and the water she was lying in was mucky and black but she still looked lovely and white, except her eyes were closed. I was heartbroken. And didn’t know how I would ever tell my husband, because I knew he would feel even more miserable than I felt.

I had my dream on January 25th, 2004 – Mike’s 29th birthday. (We had just celebrated with him two days before, and - since some of us are turning 30 this year – joked about what a youngster he was.) I never told anyone about it, because the images from the dream left such a horribly sad feeling in my soul I couldn’t imagine sharing the story with others. One week and one day later, Mike was killed in an automobile accident while heading home, into the city. It was snowing heavily, turning the sky and the air ghostly white and the pavement black and slushy. Another driver slammed into Mike’s car, causing him to spin out and crash into a semi parked on the side of the road.

I don’t want to call my dream an omen, or a premonition, or anything that would indicate that I believed it to be a warning of impending doom. It was just a stupid, sad dream about the loss of a much-loved pet. Additionally, I don’t want to suggest a direct comparison between Mike and Anya – one was (and still is – she is climbing around her cage aimlessly as I write this) a beautiful, addle-brained cockatiel. The other was a long-time friend, as loyal, caring, good-tempered and big-hearted a person as I have ever had the pleasure to know.

Michael Adam Massing was taken from this world too soon. In life, I don’t know if he could possibly have been aware of how many people he touched – and how much beauty he brought into our world. Mikey could be counted on to offer you either an attentive ear, an enveloping hug, or a hearty laugh when ever you needed one. In return, he seemed to be never happier than when he was in the presence of those he loved. I am honored to think that such a person called me a good friend.

Wherever you are now, Mikey, I take the liberty of thinking that you are still able to see us and know what we are going through without you. I hope that your spirit can help to guide us through the process of adapting to life absent of you. I keep waiting for someone to tell me, “just kidding guys – but I couldn’t resist” and that your death has been an elaborate joke, or perhaps a dream. But in the bottom of my stomach I know that this is not the case, and that your death is as cold and frozen a reality as I’ve ever faced.

We love you, Michael. We always will. Thank you for every smile you ever gave us – though they were many, they were still not enough.

- Amy

Profession (a haiku)

Happiness is fear -
Contentment’s hand encircles.
Not twins, not siblings.

- ending the year with something ancient
"May the best of your past be the worst of your future."

Hidden

Hours.
Finally –
Fearfully –

Extracted, I laid them open
While the stalking butcher froze.
The spotlight clicked.

The paintings I had made –
In a grey box –
On a grey screen –
With a grey stroke –

*

The surrendered winked,
Whispered;

“No one is going to look.”

Pleadings in a vacuum want for air.

Sometimes fear goes unrewarded.

gnashing

She tried to find a tower
Where she could lock up, far away
And indulge the soulful screaming
And the stupid bloody fray

Her pretentious mind and body
Were set on fighting, to her horror
Hoping death might finally relieve
Her senses of her lover.

But there sits no lonely tower
On a hillside, misted grey,
And these events won’t likely kill her,
Not directly, not today.

Go light another candle
And sigh, and itch, and write.
As the maddening cyclic process
In time will fade to white.

Juvenile Writing

I toss my Koosh ball in the air and watch it arc across the living room,
through the hall door and come to rest in front of the coat closet,
landing with a satisfying *whump*. After a few seconds I climb to my feet
and retrieve it - my baby. My roommate's baby is a cat, mine is a Koosh
ball. It's a normal, healthy relationship, dammit. And, yes, one of
which I'm slightly defensive. When you've had two of your closest friends
hide your baby from you just to see the neurotic results you become a
little defensive.

But anyway - I was being reflective. I sit back down against the living
room wall, squeezing pastel colored rubber bands between the backs of my
right hand's fingers. I'll have to stop playing soon, as I can tell once
again I'm going to develop cuts between my middle fingers. A laughable
injury, maybe, but not as funny as the bruise I'll one day develop on my
forehead. I've designed a way of playing solo catch - toss the Koosh ball
against my forehead, catch it in my hand. Toss - smack - catch; toss-
smack - catch. Well, it makes me happy. I like not needing anyone else
to play catch with; I like sitting here all alone with my colorful, glow
in the dark, little stringy friend.

Glow in the dark? Yes, my baby glows in the dark. Come over sometime and
we'll turn off all the lights and I'll show you. It's really
neat; my baby, my heart, my soul, my fluorescent night-light. Awww -
don't you just feel like smiling? My little rubber friend (watch it) does
that: it makes people want to smile. Because it's such a silly little
thing, a goofy, floopy thing, but it has a great big heart. It exists
only to be touched and caught and giggled at and to glow and fly and
tickle. And it feels - like nothing else in the world. It feels like
it's name - Koosh. Rubber bandy and addictive - which is why it comes
everywhere with me. It sits next to me when I'm reading or writing; it
sits on the kitchen counter when I cook; and on sad days it's my security
blanket at work. We watch TV together, listen to music together, and it's
with me when I talk on the phone. Koosh ball - it's everywhere you want
to be.

[In the years since I wrote this my Koosh balll has been relegated to a drawer. Poor thing. But I'm sure it's glowing in the dark - just glowing away, like a firefly.]

Fall quarter of my junior year

What an eventful quarter
See what I have done
See what I've accomplished
How far I have gone

What an exciting nine weeks
Look - there are my goals
Lying on the compost
Smoldering on the coals

Maybe if I'm lucky
And fortune deigns to smile
Somewhere in the future
This past will be worthwhile

yew

Make this possible.
I actually, not poetically, mean that. By
Caring for me, you have ensured that my style, etc. is not
Junk.

Another might not have said
yes to my
Many requests.

=)